Carvalho, in Funchal. He was accompanied by an assistant who recorded his observations in writing. The doctor spoke in Portuguese and then translated for Donaldson’s benefit.
Sam’s head injury and the bruising on her body was duly noted and recorded.
At the FBI agent’s insistence the doctor took scrapings from under Sam’s fingernails and bagged them.
Then he placed the dissecting knife in the soft flesh at her throat and sliced easily into the skin. Donaldson turned away. Within moments there was a perfectly straight incision right the way down the middle of her slim body to the pubis.
Donaldson forced himself to watch. He was aware that, if not careful, the last memory he would have of her would be as a hollow cadaver, all organs removed, skull hacked off, brain sliced up on a table.
Eventually the chest cavity was opened, the ribcage removed, the heart and lungs cut out. The lungs were heavy and needed two hands to lift them across to the dissecting table. Here they were sliced open, revealing the foam consistent with drowning. Typical post mortem appearance.
Water was also found in the stomach and trachea.
After two and a half hours’ work the doctor had finished.
He washed off after he’d sewn her roughly back up. Donaldson pestered him with questions.
‘ She drowned,’ the doctor insisted. ‘The head injury you talk about is consistent with banging her head on the edge of a door. It did not kill her, but may possibly have stunned her for a few moments.’
‘ But what about those bruises on her shoulder and legs? Are they consistent with someone grabbing her and holding her down?’
The doctor, ‘Ummed…’ and considered it. He dried his hands. ‘There is that argument, I suppose,’ he concluded, ‘but without supporting evidence…’ He shrugged. ‘She was here on a walking holiday, I believe,’ he continued. ‘These are bruises she could easily have got doing that.’
‘ So what’s your theory?’ Donaldson pumped him.
‘ If she had been drinking’ — here he held up a blood sample taken from her — ‘and this will tell us for sure, then I think she got drunk, staggered into a door, banged her head. This may have sent her dizzy. She had filled a hot bath and when she climbed in, the combination of alcohol, the blow to the head and the hot water made her pass out. She drowned. Misadventure. Accident. Whatever you want to call it.’
‘ But not murder?’
The doctor shook his head.
Santana, who had watched the autopsy and listened to the conversation, cut in at that point. ‘An unfortunate set of circumstances. No mystery as you imply, Karl. No one to blame. Very sad.’
Henry had eaten a rather large meal and was glaring accusingly at his empty plate when a file of papers dropped onto the canteen table in front of him.
The harassed, overweight form of Dave Seymour stood there. Tie askew, top shirt- button open, jacket flapping untidily. His eyes were red raw. He had spent the day interviewing Dundaven. It was 6.30 p.m.
‘ He’s now got some smart-assed solicitor from Manchester acting for him,’ were the first words he said to Henry. ‘Some guy named Pratt of all things. But he isn’t.’
‘ What d’you know about him?’
‘ I phoned the RCS in Bolton and asked them. Just a sec…’ Seymour left Henry and went to the serving hatch where he selected a meal and returned to the table. He sat down opposite. ‘Seems him and his firm are known for representing shite, from criminal dealings to property stuff. Very fuckin’ seedy by all accounts.’ He shovelled a large load of potato pie into his mouth. This didn’t prevent him from continuing to talk. ‘At least he got his client to tell us his name and date of birth.’ Seymour pointed with his knife to the name written on the file.
‘ And what do we know about him?’
‘ Not much yet. We think he’s involved in the drugs scene over in East Lancs, but not much more than that.’ A forkload of mushy peas disappeared down his throat. ‘Think he’s a pretty big player.’
‘ Any pre-cons?’ Henry asked.
‘ Yep, but they don’t tell us much. Petty stuff.’
‘ Terrorist connections? Organised crime?’
‘ Organised maybe. Nothing terrorist.’
‘ And the passenger in the Range Rover — the flying man?’
‘ A lowlife shitbag called McCrory. Junkie. Petty thief. Good shoplifter, as most druggies tend to be. On the periphery ofDundaven’s scene. Bit of a gofer, I’d say.’
‘ And what’s Dundaven’s story?’
Seymour closed his eyes in despair. ‘You wouldn’t fucking believe it. The shitehawk’s trying to wrangle out of it and dump everything on his dead buddy. He says McCrory asked him to drive to Blackpool yesterday, cos he wanted to pick something up. Turns out to be guns — from a man in a pub, would ya credit?’
Henry sniggered. ‘Oh, the ubiquitous man in a pub; we’ll catch the bastard one day.’
‘ Yeah, well, they pick up the guns, so the fairy tale goes… don’t know which pub it was, by the way… and Dundaven is horrified, bless his soul. He says he’s too frightened of McCrory to say anything — him being a real hard case, as he put it. Says McCrory produced two shotguns and blasted Nina and dinged one off at Rik Dean’s car.’
‘ McCrory did the shooting?’
‘ That’s what Dundaven says. Next thing, McCrory’s holding a gun to Dundaven’s belly saying, “Let’s go”. Poor ole Dundaven has to do whatever he’s told, but being a law-abiding citizen, what he really wanted to do is hand himself over to us.’
‘ So why did he ram us and shoot at us?’
‘ Duress. Fear.’ Seymour shrugged. He swallowed more pie with a forkful of peas.
‘ Bullshit,’ said Henry. ‘And the next bit? This should be worth hearing.’
‘ It is,’ laughed Seymour, and recited: ‘So overcome with emotion and grief is McCrory that he puts a gun to his own head, opens the door and tops himself.’
Henry laughed out loud. ‘He expects us to believe that?’
‘ Deadly serious about it.’
Henry stopped laughing. ‘And then?’
‘ Fear makes him continue the chase, ram the traffic car and take a pot shot at the helicopter.’
‘ So where do we stand with all this? What can we prove?’
Seymour had devoured his meal. He went and bought a pot of tea and two cups. He poured one for Henry.
‘ There are no direct witnesses to refute what he says, unless Nina pulls through. Rik Dean was sat in his car and couldn’t truthfully say who shot her, because the car is much lower than the Range Rover, and his view was obstructed by the spare tyre on the back. Same for us. We couldn’t actually see him waste McCrory, could we?’
Henry considered it for a few seconds. It wouldn’t be long before the first twenty-four-hours’ detention would be up. Then for an extra twelve he’d need the authority of a Superintendent to carry on questioning Dundaven without charge. He decided he would seek that authorisation and keep the pressure on Dundaven.
He told this to Seymour and added, ‘Even if you haven’t got any admissions from him, keep pushing him and then, as late as possible, charge him. Throw the book at him. Charge him with everything you can possibly think of, including the driving offences. If there’s enough shit, some of it’ll stick.’
Donaldson was booked into the Quinta da Penha de Franca. He had been allocated one of the sea view rooms in the new annexe. Very nice and comfortable, with a balcony overlooking the pool and the ocean beyond. The night was dark, tranquil and quite chilly.
He shivered, walked back into the room from the balcony, closed the door and drew the curtains. He stretched out on the bed, clasping his hands behind his head and mulled over his thoughts on Samantha Jane Dawber, whose devastated body was lying in a fridge with all its vital organs including the brain — thrown loosely into the torso and sewn up. Her cranium had been packed with newspaper and her facial skin stretched back into place and stitched so tightly that her features were stretched and distorted.
There was no respect in a morgue. Death was simply a business. A sausage factory.
