‘Pathologist’s here,’ he said, opening the door of the Mercedes. ‘Just one thing, boss,’ he added. ‘When I dropped Jackie off, she told me something … she’s just been diagnosed with stomach cancer.’
‘I never thought I’d see you again,’ Keira O’Connell, the Home Office pathologist said as she carefully removed what was left of Eddie Daley’s brain from its cranium and carried it with equal care over to the stainless steel dissecting tray on which she laid it. Henry Christie followed her, standing just by her right shoulder like a henchman. They were in the mortuary at Blackburn Royal Infirmary and O’Connell was about an hour into the post-mortem. ‘You’d been given the boot.’
She was clearly referring to the time Henry had been ousted from the murder of the female who had just been featured on Crimewatch, when Dave Anger had ignominiously tossed him off the case and replaced him with DI Carradine.
‘It was a pretty public sacking,’ O’Connell said, looking over her shoulder at him. ‘So how come you’re on this one?’
He gave her a stupid grin. ‘They needed me more than I needed them, only they just didn’t realize it.’
O’Connell wiped her blood-streaked, latex-gloved hands on a paper towel and picked up a digital camera, taking a few choice shots of the damaged brain.
‘Did you catch Crimewatch last night?’ O’Connell asked.
‘Hm,’ Henry affirmed.
‘They phoned me yesterday to ask if there was anything more from my point of view they should say on the programme.’
‘Who phoned? Dave Anger?’
‘Yeah.’ She turned away from the workbench and returned to Daley’s body on the mortuary slab. He was now naked, his clothing having been removed and bagged for forensic examination. His body was overweight and pathetic and sad, and the blood that remained in him had settled although he had lost a lot from the head wound and bled profusely on to the floor of his office. She dropped on to her haunches and peered into Daley’s scooped out cranium.
Henry hovered. ‘Did Mr Anger say anything about the progress of that investigation to you?’ he asked speculatively, trying not to seem too interested.
‘Not much. A bit.’ She poked her finger about and moved Daley’s head.
‘Did he say anything about the necklace that turned up?’
‘Er, yeah, apparently, the guy who found the body came forward with it.’ She stood upright. ‘He’d found it when he tripped over the body and helped himself to it, then at some stage his conscience kicked in … now then …’ She returned to the dissecting table and picked up a hand-held tape recorder and started to speak into it.
Henry stifled a yawn. It was 11.30 a.m. The coroner, whose office did not open until 9 a.m., had been personally contacted by Henry and had allowed Henry’s identification of Daley’s body, though he required it to be backed up by Jackie Kippax’s identification of Daley’s personal effects. This had been a relief to Henry because an ID at any time was stressful and emotional, even more so when the loved one has a bullet hole in the head. He especially didn’t want to put Jackie through that, bearing in mind her mental state and the revelation that she was suffering from cancer. Her future looked bleak enough without the addition of having to see Eddie on a slab.
It was also a relief because the pathologist was ready to roll on the nod of the coroner and Henry knew the value of getting an early PM done. What better than to have the preliminary results ready for the murder squad briefing?
He watched O’Connell working skilfully away at her job, impressed. She did everything meticulously from all the preliminary stuff at the scene, then in the mortuary, all the way through to the point she had just reached, the examination of the remnants of the brain. Henry did miss his old friend Professor Baines who was the Home Office pathologist for this area, but he was away on another conference and Keira O’Connell was a more than able substitute, and much prettier. He doubted whether she would want to go for another drink with him though, after boring the life out of her last time.
She clicked off the tape recorder and walked back to the brain, selecting a brain knife — a straight, finely honed, twelve-inch bladed knife which was used to make long, clean cuts through the brain tissue. She held it up to the light and inspected its sharpness, then turned to Henry. ‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘you missed a very good opportunity when we went for a drink six months ago … unfortunately I’m now in a relationship.’ She gave him a sad look and twizzed the knife around. She turned her attention back to the brain. ‘Shall we?’
Henry raced across the outer rim of Blackburn to make it to the police station for 1 p.m., the time of the first briefing. He had delegated the job of pulling together some staff to get the investigation rolling to an increasingly sleepy and tetchy DC Hall, who had responded to the request with all the enthusiasm of a death row prisoner being asked to take a seat on the electric chair. He was tired, needed his sleep and would have to be back on duty that evening at six whatever, he whined. Henry just told him to get on with it, whilst he attended the autopsy.
There was no way he was expecting a full squad on day one, but he would be happy so long as there were enough bodies to put together a Major Incident Room, get a few roles allocated and get actions underway.
The car park was chocka and Henry eventually abandoned his car, knowing he was blocking someone in. It was par for the course in police station car parks these days not to find a parking spot, so before entering the building proper, he left his mobile number at the front desk so he could be contacted if the ‘blockee’ wanted to get out.
As he pushed the door open into the innards of the station, he immediately spotted Trevor Hall walking towards him, with an anxious expression, which gave Henry instant cause for concern.
‘It’s not my fault, boss,’ were the first words Hall uttered.
‘What isn’t?’ Henry asked darkly.
‘I did my best, honest.’
‘What the hell are you talking about, Trevor?’
‘The murder squad.’
‘What about the murder squad?’ Henry’s words were slow and deliberate.
Hall’s worried eyes rose past Henry’s shoulder whilst at the same time his head seemed to shrink into his shoulders.
‘We need to speak.’
Henry spun round. Angela Cranlow, looking a little shamefaced, had appeared behind him and from the look on her face, Henry knew something wasn’t quite right.
Angela dragged Henry out of the station, bundled him into her car and drove him the short distance to the nearby McDonald’s just off Whitebirk roundabout where they could have a more discreet chat.
She brought him a coffee and sat him down by a window, plonked herself opposite. ‘I’m sorry about this,’ she said quietly.
Henry decided to let her fill in the silence. Inside he was churning as he wondered what could possibly be so bad.
‘I’ve had my knuckles rapped.’ Instinctively they both looked down at her hands, which were laid flat on the Formica tabletop. She gave a short laugh. ‘Metaphorically speaking.’
‘Why?’ he asked, suddenly knowing the answer, but did not want to hear it.
‘Not following procedure.’
‘Oh.’
‘By deciding to allocate Eddie Daley’s murder to you.’
He nodded, understanding, an empty feeling overcoming him. His mouth twisted acerbically. He was going to have this one snatched from him, too, he thought. Another kick in the …‘Bollocks,’ he said, without vehemence. He scratched his head in a gesture of despair. ‘I thought it was too good to be true. But there’s not many people in this organization who can rap your knuckles, ma’am.’
‘It was FB … under immediate pressure from Dave Anger … he was on the phone from London first thing this morning, obviously been briefed by someone.’ She sounded heartily hacked off by the whole affair. ‘Apparently I should have turned out the on-call FMIT DCI who was on cover … I know that,’ she said, wringing her hands. ‘Still, serves me right. Always been my problem, that.’