Deity

ensure it didn’t fall out of the cavity.’

Brook’s brow furrowed. ‘What condition was it in?’

‘Very poor — the same as the brain. If he hadn’t died of alcohol poisoning, I suspect his heart would have failed within the year,’ said Habib.

‘Could someone be farming these bodies for profit?’ asked Noble.

‘And put back the heart because it was diseased and unusable?’ said Petty. ‘No chance. Given the condition of both the heart and the brain, I’d say none of the other internal organs would have been suitable for transplant.’

‘I see.’ Brook prepared to leave.

‘There’s one more interesting thing, Inspector.’ Habib walked over to a stainless-steel sink and picked up a small steel bowl to show Brook and Noble the two small pinkish-grey objects slithering inside. ‘This is what’s left of the brain. It’s in two parts because it’s going to be sectioned for analysis. As you can see, it’s fatally compressed.’

‘Unmistakable,’ agreed Brook, glancing sideways at Noble — but for once his Sergeant didn’t respond, preferring to stare steadfastly at the white wall behind Habib’s head. Now Brook could detect the sheen of sweat on his brow and upper lip. Once, Brook would’ve felt the same. He looked at his watch. ‘John, go and find us both a cup of tea and wait for me in the gallery,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘I’ll finish up here.’

Without speaking, Noble darted a glance at Brook and hurried out of the suite.

Brook turned back to the two doctors, both oblivious to Noble’s discomfort. ‘Go on.’

‘You’ll observe the necrosis affecting the brain’s tissue. Very damaged and typical of the alcoholic. But look at this.’ Habib held the bowl out to Dr Petty and she picked up the two pieces of brain in both hands and turned them over. Habib indicated a series of cuts in the underside. ‘If we examine the underside of the brain, we can see the membrane has been punctured several times. Indeed, there has been some slicing of the brain into smaller pieces, some of which are missing.’

‘Missing!’ exclaimed Brook.

‘Now why this was done we can’t be sure,’ continued Habib.

Brook narrowed his eyes. ‘Wait a minute. Pieces of the brain have been removed?’

‘Yes.’

‘But when we found the body, the skull was intact.’

‘It was.’

‘Then never mind why. How could someone do that to the brain with the skull intact?’

‘Good question, Inspector.’ Habib and Petty walked Brook back over to the ice-white corpse and pointed to the scarring below the deceased’s nostrils. ‘We’re not sure but we think someone has fashioned a tool, a kind of thin sharp probe a bit like a scalpel only longer and more robust, possibly hooked at the end. When placed inside the nostril at the correct angle, it can be forced up into the brain to puncture the membrane and allow the CSF to drain away.’

‘CSF?’

‘Cerebrospinal fluid,’ chipped in Petty, moving to the far side of the cadaver.

‘Sounds painful.’

‘Not if you’re already dead,’ she said, unsure if Brook was being serious. She pointed to the incisions on the upper lip. ‘The tool was pushed into the nostrils, causing these cuts as well as invisible scarring inside the nostrils. It would’ve been pushed up the nose, and forced through the cartilage and finally into the brain propelled by a heavy object such as a hammer. .’

Brook grimaced and looked around for Noble. He spotted him upstairs in the gallery holding two plastic cups and smoking a cigarette. Despite the reinforced glass screen between the gallery and the lab, Brook felt sure he could smell tobacco smoke.

‘. . and cut into the brain. Then the detached pieces must have been pulled back down through the nose — hence the hook.’

‘Nice. And you don’t know why, Doctors?’

Petty shrugged. ‘If I were starting out in anatomy back in the Dark Ages, I might puncture the brain like this to see what happened. Otherwise, your guess is as good as mine.’

‘And when you say a tool was fashioned, does that mean that such a tool doesn’t exist?’ asked Brook.

‘Why would it?’ said Habib. ‘We don’t need to get to the brain through the nose these days.’

‘These days? So such a tool may once have been used?’

Dr Petty nodded. ‘Hundreds of years ago. Longer even. Ancient anatomy isn’t my field. But if someone wanted to spend hours removing the brain without disturbing the skull, they’d certainly have to create one.’ She paused then smiled at him. ‘I’ll be happy to look into it,’ she added.

Brook nodded his thanks and left.

The front gate clattered outside and Becky jumped out of bed, pulling aside the shade on her bedroom window. The postman strode towards the house with a bundle of letters. This was it. She strained to listen and heard her father jump up to collect the mail. She held her breath and continued to listen for any reaction and heard first voices, then footsteps scuffling hurriedly up the stairs. She jumped back into bed. When the knock came on her bedroom door, she pulled the duvet back over her head. Another knock and a muffled conversation followed. Finally the handle turned and her father stuck his head into the gap.

‘Becks,’ he said softly.

Even without a word said, Becky knew her stepmother, Christy, was with him because the stench of stale tobacco hung in the still air — it followed her everywhere like her own toxic cloud.

Becky tried to affect the noise of sleep and her father made to close the door but his wife’s voice stayed his hand. ‘It’s ten o’clock, for Christ’s sake. Wake her up. It’s important.’ Her father must have hesitated. ‘I’m telling you, Fred. She should have been up hours ago.’

‘She’s tired,’ he whispered.

‘From what?’ replied Christy, raising her voice. ‘Opening all the gifts you give her? You spoil that girl, Fred, now wake her up.’

‘I’m awake,’ said Becky from under the duvet. She sat up, flinging the duvet from her head and glaring at her stepmother with undisguised hatred. ‘Happy now? Not that I could sleep with that stale fag ash polluting the air,’ she added.

‘Watch your tongue in my house, lady,’ retorted Christy.

‘Your house?’ snarled Becky, an ugly frown distorting her doll-like features. ‘Since when-’

‘Stop it, you two.’ Her father laughed in the light-hearted manner he affected to bridge the gulf between the two women in his life. He came and sat beside his daughter on the bed. He had an envelope in his hand. He placed it on the bed in front of her, looked expectantly into her eyes then lifted his hand to stroke her hair. ‘Aren’t you excited, darling? It’s finally here.’

Becky flicked a glance towards her stepmother’s sour gaze then smiled warmly at her father. She kissed his neck and played with the curl of hair around his ear to further stick it to Christy. ‘Course I’m excited, Dad.’

‘Open it then, princess. Put us out of our misery.’

Becky thumbed the envelope open and unfolded the letter. Without emotion she handed the letter to her father who read greedily. He stopped, took a deep breath and looked at his daughter.

‘Are you going to read it, or what?’ asked Christy.

Fred Blake smiled. ‘Dear Becky, I am pleased to tell you that we are able to offer you a place at our modelling agency, and would be grateful if you could contact us to arrange a meeting as soon as possible.

‘You did it, princess!’ he shouted. ‘You did it!’ He flung his arms around his daughter and she buried her head in his chest, unable to hold back a tear. ‘You’re going to be famous, Becks. Can you believe it? My daughter, a fashion model. Rebecca Blake, Supermodel,’ he announced, with a portentous wave of the arm. ‘You’ll be on the telly, maybe in films. You’ll meet famous people. You’ll go to New York, Paris, Rome. .’

‘I’ll be based in London, Dad,’ Becky reminded him, grinning.