the necessary circulations made. Pacifying the media, which had descended on Blackpool en masse. What really bugged him was that they were more interested in a wounded gorilla than a policewoman on her deathbed, or a young female on a mortuary slab. He didn’t allow his annoyance to show.
Basically he did all the things that went along with being a police manager — a million miles away from a car chase with crashes, flying bodies, helicopters, Stingers and shotguns.
He would rather have had his head down, getting into the ribs of that bastard down in the cells, making him talk by using his interview skills. But that was not his job any more. His was to manage, to delegate, to empower. Perhaps he was safer sitting behind a desk. At least it stopped him from getting into trouble.
The ride into Funchal, Madeira’s capital, took thirty minutes. At his request, Donaldson was driven directly to the morgue so he could get the worst part over with soonest: identifying the body of a friend and colleague.
The morgue was bare and functional, but clean. Donaldson was glad about that. It could have been much worse.
The body was on a drawer in the huge fridge.
Santana pulled it out and drew back the harsh white sheet.
Donaldson suppressed a gasp. Not because of any marks of violence or because it had been mashed to a pulp. Neither of those things applied to this body. Rather because he was looking at the face of someone who had been young, vibrant, very much alive not many days before. Someone he and his wife had grown very close to over the last few months.
He sighed, nodded, looked up at Santana. ‘Yes. That’s her.’
It was like a violation of sorts but it had to be done.
Donaldson took hold of the sheet, drew it back and exposed the naked corpse, closing his eyes for a moment to halt the sensation of dizziness.
He had never seen her without clothes before. He never thought he would. He could not deny that, even though she had been a good friend and work colleague, he had occasionally allowed his eyes to drift across her breasts, or down her long slim legs — and speculate. Special Agent Sam Dawber had been beautiful; she also had the personality and brains to go with it. But Donaldson’s admiring looks were only sporadic. He was deeply in love with his wife and other women did not enter the equation.
‘ Sorry, Sam,’ he said softly to her now. ‘Please forgive me.’
He folded the sheet at her ankles.
She looked peaceful in death. Serene. Her skin was more tanned than when alive, but she’d been on Madeira for almost a week and the weather had been exceptionally good. Her back, bottom and backs of her legs were red and mottled where the blood had settled. There was a tinge of blue around her mouth, which was slightly parted.
‘ You say she was found dead in her bath in the hotel room?’ he said to Santana. For some reason the act of speaking made him feel better able to examine her, detaching him from the task. He peered closely at both sides of her neck.
‘ Yes, apparently drowned. She may have been drinking heavily and fallen asleep in a stupor. There were many bottles of spirits in the room. Much of it drunk. Maybe she took her own life?’
Donaldson stopped himself from giving Santana a withering look. At the same time alarm bells sounded in his head.
He nodded and continued the minute examination. He picked up her left hand, opened it out and looked at her nails.
‘ Who found her?’
‘ A chambermaid.’
‘ I want to speak to her.’
He was now peering at a cut and bruise on the hairline on Sam’s left temple, which was only visible when her hair was pulled back.
Santana said, ‘Sure, can be arranged today. Why?’
‘ Routine,’ Donaldson answered with a shrug. ‘All sudden deaths of FBI agents are fully investigated.’
‘ But there are no suspicious circumstances,’ Santana said defensively.
‘ To you, maybe not.’
‘ To any detective.’
‘ Look, George, I don’t mean this as a slur to your professionalism, but I know — knew — this woman: Donaldson bent down and inspected her inner thighs. ‘For a start, she didn’t drink,’ he said, standing up again. ‘When will the autopsy be carried out?’
‘ This afternoon, four o’clock.’
Initially Donaldson had had no intention of staying for it. He changed his mind. ‘I want to be here.’
‘ Why, do you not trust our doctors now?’
‘ She was a friend and colleague, George. I owe her that much, don’t you think?’ He was extremely puzzled and worried by Santana’s frosty reaction.
Santana nodded formally. ‘I apologise.’
‘ Forget it. When did you say she was found?’
‘ Ten, yesterday morning.’
‘ So there’s a good chance her hotel room will still be vacant,’ Donaldson said. ‘Can we go and have a look round it? And could you give me her belongings? I need to take them back.’
Santana nodded. ‘No problem.’ But behind those two words Donaldson detected there was — and that he, Donaldson, was becoming a pain in the ass all of a sudden.
Well, so be it.
The hotel room had been cleaned from top to bottom. New guests were arriving in the morning. From the crime-scene point of view, therefore, it had nothing to offer.
Donaldson was very annoyed. ‘This should have been left untouched until I had the chance to go through it,’ he said.
‘ It was checked by my people and there was nothing of interest, and certainly nothing to support your obvious belief that a crime has been committed here.’ Santana was abrupt. Then his voice softened. ‘She died by accident and there’s nothing more to it. No one to blame, no one to arrest. You should accept that, my friend. Maybe you didn’t know her as well as you thought.’
Donaldson gave that short shrift.
‘ Can I see your scenes-of-crime photographs?’
Santana’s mouth drew to a tight line.
‘ You haven’t taken any, have you?’ Donaldson said with disbelief.
A short shake of Santana’s head confirmed this.
Donaldson’s eyes closed despairingly. He demanded to speak to the chambermaid.
She understood English well. And had little to offer. Yes, she had found the body in the bath. It had frightened her. She had called the manager who had taken over and informed the police. The brooding presence of Santana hovering over her shoulder did little to help matters. He seemed to intimidate her. Donaldson would have preferred to talk to her alone, but there was little chance of that happening.
The autopsy did not help much either.
Donaldson prepared himself for this stage by buying a compact 35mm camera and two colour films from a shop in Funchal. Hardly ideal, but the best he could do under the circumstances.
While the pathologist waited impatiently, he took photographs of Sam’s body before the knife went in. Once again he felt like an intruder and whilst he did it, his mouth twisted into a grimace of distaste. Had there been another way, or another person to do it, he would happily have handed the task over.
He took several shots of her head, trying to get a good close one of the cuts on the hairline. And shots of her shoulders and thighs, just above the knees where he had seen some slight bruising.
When he was satisfied, the pathologist moved in.
The procedure was carried out competently enough by the doctor who was from the new hospital, Cruz de
