‘We’ve still only his mother’s word for how long Lennox has been ill and, given what we know about her, I’d put as much faith in that as a fart in a thunderstorm. And you said yourself the age and height were only estimates. No offence, but how much can you tell from a shin bone and a kneecap?’
It was a fair point. I liked to think my estimates were reasonably accurate, but I wasn’t going to let my pride get in the way if the facts said otherwise.
Still, I wasn’t entirely convinced. ‘What else do you know about him?’
Whelan grinned. ‘That’s the good bit. After he was laid off as a porter when the hospital shut down he got a job as a security guard. Guess where?’
‘You’re joking. At St Jude’s?’
‘Night-watchman, believe it or not. Didn’t last long, because it was only a few months later they decided it didn’t need actual guards and made do with the dummy CCTV cameras instead. But I’d say Booth’s the odds-on favourite to be who we found in that boiler.’
‘Did he have a dental palate?’ I asked, thinking about the crisped piece of wire and plastic with the attached porcelain teeth we’d uncovered from the ashes.
Whelan gave a frustrated shake of his head. ‘The description we have of him doesn’t say. We’re checking to see if he went to any dentists in the area, but if he did we haven’t found them yet.’
That wasn’t unusual. There was no national database for dental records, so it was a case of trawling around dentists’ surgeries hoping to find the right one. I’d worked on investigations before now where the police had to resort to placing adverts in dentistry magazines.
Even so, this was a potentially important lead. Darren Crossly had already been positively identified as one of the interred victims, and it was looking likely that his sometimes-girlfriend, Maria de Souza, could be the woman found with him. And despite my reservations about his age and height, this missing Wayne Booth — not only a former porter at St Jude’s but also a night-watchman after its closure — seemed likely to be the last victim.
It was tempting to tie all these strands up into a neat parcel, to assume that Lennox had been involved in stealing and selling hospital drugs with the other three, before turning on them and concealing their bodies in the old hospital. Even Christine Gorski could fit into that scenario: given money for one last fix by her brother, she could have gone to St Jude’s intending to buy and blundered into a situation that led to her being killed as well.
Yet, tempting as it was, the theory was still pure supposition. And if the case against Gary Lennox fell apart, the rest of it would come crashing down as well.
I worked until lunchtime. Whelan had left long before, and so had Parekh. Strictly speaking, I could have finished sooner myself. I’d already had a good look at the burnt bones during the post-mortem. Unlike fleshed remains, these were too delicate to risk soaking, but beyond a gentle brushing down they didn’t need cleaning anyway. Most of the joint surfaces were already visible and the few crisped scraps of tissue that remained either came away with the soot or were too small to worry about.
But I was still bothered by what Whelan had said about Wayne Booth. The former porter and security guard from St Jude’s seemed a likely candidate for the bones that had been burned in the boiler, yet I was uneasy about the discrepancies between his age and height and my own estimates. I’d be the first to admit this wasn’t an exact science. Genes and lifestyle could play a part, causing some people’s joints to age sooner than others. And not everyone’s limbs were in exact proportion to the rest of their body.
Still, I didn’t like the idea of being so far out. So I spent a fruitless couple of hours poring over the bones again, checking and re-checking my calculations to see if there was anything I’d overlooked first time round.
There wasn’t.
Finally, accepting I’d done all I could, I stopped for lunch. A late one, I amended, seeing the time. The bones still had to be cleaned before they were boxed away, and I hadn’t got around to the partial palate we’d recovered. A forensic dentist would be examining it at some point, but I wanted to take another look myself.
It could wait till after I’d had lunch, though. Since I hadn’t brought anything with me and there were no facilities at the mortuary, I went out to find somewhere to eat. There were no shops nearby, but there was a pub I’d been to before. It was only a five-minute walk away, so I set off for that.
The day hadn’t improved while I’d been inside. It was still gloomy, and the mist-like drizzle penetrated and chilled. The pub was two streets away, done over in a kitsch London theme. It was crowded, the smell of damp coats mingling with beer and hot food. There were law courts nearby and the clientele was mainly lawyers and barristers, their confident, plummy tones forming a noisy backdrop. I ordered a sandwich and coffee at the bar, then looked around for a table. Most were full, but there was an empty chair at one over in a corner. Careful not to spill my coffee, I made my way across. There was already someone sitting there, but it wasn’t until I was closer that I saw who it was.
Mears.
The forensic taphonomist was the last person I wanted to eat lunch with. But there was nowhere else, and even as I hesitated he looked up and saw me. From his expression he was as enthusiastic about sharing a table as I was, but by then there wasn’t much choice.
‘Anyone sitting here?’ I asked, indicating the empty seat.
He took a second to answer, as though considering lying, before giving a listless shrug. ‘No.’
A half-eaten sandwich and a pint of beer were on the table in front of him. There was another empty glass next to it, and as I sat down he furtively moved it further away, as though to disclaim it.
‘How’s it going?’ I asked, to break the silence.
‘OK.’ Another shrug. ‘You know. Good.’
He seemed ill at ease, staring at his hands as he rotated his beer glass on the table. I had the feeling he’d like to have emptied it. I glanced around the press of bodies to make sure no one could overhear what we were saying. But the hubbub of conversation made it hard enough to hear ourselves.
‘Has Ward got you working on the identification?’ I asked, keeping my voice down anyway. I didn’t say whose: he’d know I meant Maria de Souza.
‘Who told you that?’
‘No one. I just assumed you would be.’ God, he really was jumpy. I hoped my sandwich wouldn’t take long to arrive.
‘Oh. Right. Yes, I’m, er, I’m working on it now.’
He took a drink of beer, almost gulping it down. Ward had touched on him having problems, and so had Parekh’s thinly veiled hint earlier. Watching him now it was obvious there was something going on, but Mears’s troubles were none of my business. It wasn’t my job to nursemaid him. Telling myself that, I looked at the absurdly young face and tried not to sigh.
‘Is everything all right?’ I asked.
‘Why shouldn’t it be?’
‘I just wanted to make sure. The last time I saw you—’
‘Everything’s fine! There’s just a lot to do. Maybe if Ward gave me a chance to finish one job before springing another on me I might—’
He stopped himself, his cheeks flaming red. Here we go again, I thought, resigned.
‘Is there something you’d like a second opinion on?’ I asked quietly.
He bit his lip, blinking furiously as he stared at his glass. ‘I can’t seem to—’
‘Cheese sandwich?’
A young woman stood by the table, holding a plate. I managed a quick smile. ‘Thanks.’
Mears stared furiously at his lap as she set it down. I waited till she’d gone.
‘Go on.’
But the moment had passed. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he mumbled.