‘Looks like a big individual,’ I said. ‘Have you any idea of stature?’
‘I’ve estimated the height at a hundred and seventy-eight centimetres,’ he said sullenly.
So, about five eleven. A little over average height for a male, but no giant. ‘Any thoughts on gender?’
Determining if a badly decayed body was male or female wasn’t always straightforward. If the genitals had decomposed beyond recognition then the only way to attribute gender was by examining the bones themselves. Even then it wasn’t always easy, so it was unfair to put Mears on the spot.
But enough soft tissue had been stripped from these remains to reveal some skeletal characteristics, and I wasn’t asking for a definitive verdict. He sighed, as though this was all rather tiresome.
‘Well, obviously, I can’t say for certain at this stage. But the brow ridges are pronounced and the mastoid is large and clearly projects. Taken with the overall stature and heaviness of the bones, I don’t think there’s much doubt he’s male.’
I noticed that ‘he’s male’, suggesting that Mears had already made up his mind. That could be dangerous, though it was hard to disagree. The eyebrow ridges and bony protuberance of the mastoid process below the ear were usually reliable sex indicators. Although it doesn’t always follow, sometimes things are exactly as they seem. We already knew that the smaller victim who’d been tortured and interred behind the false wall was a woman. It was reasonably safe to say that the person who’d died with her was a man.
Mears was beginning to work more fluidly, I noticed, wielding the scalpel and saws with more assurance. An abrasive manner and confidence seemed to go hand in hand for him, but that was OK. I’d rather him be obnoxious and functional than an affable liability.
I began to cut through the connective tissue around the left hip. ‘What about age?’
He gave a listless shrug. ‘Thirty-five to fifty, judging by wear to the teeth.’
‘What sort of condition are they in?’
‘Why don’t you see for yourself?’ he said truculently.
I didn’t look up from what I was doing. ‘Because I don’t want to waste time checking something that’s already been done. I’m assuming you have done it?’
‘Of course I have! There’s staining that suggests he was a smoker who liked coffee, and enough fillings to say he didn’t look after his teeth but at least went to a dentist. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m trying to concentrate here.’
I smiled under my mask.
Mears’s confidence grew after that. He handled the physical aspects of the work with all the delicacy of a surgeon, and I could see why he’d come with such a glowing recommendation. Soon it was as though the panic attack had never happened. It wasn’t long before his innate sense of superiority reasserted itself.
‘You macerate at a higher temperature than I like,’ he sniffed, as we placed disconnected bones to soak in vats of warm detergent solution.
‘That’s fine when there’s time. You don’t always have that luxury during an investigation.’
‘Mm,’ he said blandly. ‘Each to their own, I suppose.’
Telling myself not to let him get to me, I flicked on the switch for the fume hood, letting the drone of the airflow drown him out.
But, ego restored, Mears had one last salvo to fire. We were in the changing room. The last of the victim’s bones had been left to soak overnight, ready to be rinsed and examined by lunchtime the following day. Make that later today, I amended, seeing the time. I’d changed back into my own clothes, dropping the scrubs into the laundry basket before I left. Neither of us had said anything since we’d left the examination suite, and I’d wondered if Mears would want any help with the reassembly. It should be straightforward enough now but, given the chance, I’d like to examine the burn marks on the victims’ bones more closely.
Mears showed no sign of offering, though. The silence stretched on between us. The forensic taphonomist didn’t so much as look my way as he packed his things away in his flight case, as though ignoring me might wipe out his loss of face. It was only when I was putting on my coat to leave that he finally spoke.
‘Well, thanks for the assist, Hunter.’ He had his back to me and addressed me without looking round. ‘I’ll be sure to tell DCI Ward you helped out. Let me know if I can return the favour.’
I stared at him. Thanks for the assist? Mears still didn’t look around, apparently preoccupied with fastening his shoes. I waited a moment, but that was obviously all he had to say. Unbelievable, I thought, letting the door swing shut behind me as I walked out.
It was after two in the morning and the streets were empty. I was fuming as I drove away. I should have let Mears sort out his own mess, I told myself, angrily crunching the gears. I didn’t want gratitude but I hadn’t expected him to revert to form so soon either. He was already rewriting what had happened, revising events into a more palatable version. By the time he told Ward — and I’d make damn sure now that he did — it’d probably sound like he’d done me a favour.
Still seething, I turned on to the cul-de-sac that housed Ballard Court and saw flashing blue lights outside. A fire engine was parked by the apartment block, its bulk out of place in the peaceful setting. The building itself seemed normaclass="underline" there were no flames, and lights still shone in many of the windows. A few people were gathered in the grounds, some of them in nightclothes and dressing gowns, but they were already filing back inside.
No one tried to stop me as I went through the gates, which I took to be a good sign. I couldn’t see anyone I knew in the straggle of residents filing back through the doors, so I pulled over by the barrier to the underground car park and got out of my car. The cool night air was fouled by a stink of burning plastic. I went over to where fire officers were gathered by the big tender. Two of them were rolling up a hose with a distinct lack of urgency, while the rest stood around chatting.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked one of them, a woman whose curly hair crept out from beneath her helmet.
She gave me a wary look. ‘Do you live here?’
‘On the fifth floor.’
‘You sure?’
‘I can show you my keys, if you like. I’ve been working.’
‘No rest for the wicked, eh?’ But she relaxed. ‘Sorry, nothing personal but we’ve already had to escort one of your neighbours away for being too nosy. She wasn’t best pleased, but fires always bring out the weirdos.’
Thanks. ‘What happened?’
She gestured towards the apartments. ‘Some idiot tried to set fire to the bins. Not much damage, but the smoke carried up the chutes. Didn’t trigger the sprinklers but it set off the alarm.’
There were discreetly hidden refuse chutes on every floor in Ballard Court, where residents could drop their bags of rubbish into the bins below. They would have acted like chimneys, funnelling smoke up to the residential levels.
‘Who did it?’
‘Kids, more than likely. Bloody stupid, whoever it was. At least a place like this has proper safeguards, but these days you’d think people would have more sense.’
You would, but they rarely did. Still, Ballard Court was lucky. As well as security that included electrically operated doors and a twenty-four-hour concierge, it had a state-of-the-art fire-safety system as well. The same couldn’t be said for every block of flats.
‘Can I go in?’ I asked.
‘No reason why not. The fire’s out but we’ll be here a while yet. And seeing as you’re already up, there is one thing you could do.’
‘What’s that?’
She grinned. ‘You couldn’t stick the kettle on, could you?’