A door opened halfway along the corridor and a familiar-looking, shaved head appeared around it. ‘In your own time,’ Hendricks said.
Thorne nodded and loosened the tie he’d put on for the identification.
Holland wasn’t looking quite so chirpy as they walked towards the open door.
Other places had different arrangements, but at Finchley Coroner’s Mortuary a narrow corridor ran between the Viewing Suite and the Post-Mortem Room, so the bodies could be moved quickly and privately from one to the other. From soft furnishings and a comforting colour scheme to a white-tiled room with stainless-steel units where comfort of any description was in short supply.
However much its occupants could have done with some.
Hendricks and Holland caught up a little, having been too busy for chit-chat the night before. Hendricks asked after Holland ’s daughter, Chloe, about whom he seemed to know more than Thorne did. Thorne found this rather depressing. He hadn’t exactly been holding his breath when it came to Holland and his girlfriend choosing a god- father, but there had been a time when he’d sent presents and cards on birthdays and at Christmas.
Thorne listened to the pair of them rattling on – Holland telling Hendricks how big his daughter was getting, still only pushing four, and Hendricks saying what a fantastic age that was, while he moved the scissors and skull-key to within easy reach – and it niggled him. He was still trying to remember the date of the girl’s birthday when Hendricks began removing Emily Walker’s clothing.
Middle of September?
While Hendricks worked, he related his findings into the microphone hanging above his head. Holland made notes. This precis would be all the investigation had to go on until the full report arrived, but often it would be more than enough for the likes of Tom Thorne, until and if the likes of Phil Hendricks were given their chance to go through the details in court.
The science and the Latin…
‘Major laceration to back of head, but no fracture to the skull or sign of significant brain injury.’
When Thorne was not being called upon to concentrate, when it was just about observing medical procedures he’d seen far too many times before, he did his best to zone out. To block out the noise. He’d long since got used to the smell – meaty and sickly sweet – but the sounds always unnerved him.
‘Damage to thyroid and cricoid cartilages… Major petechial haemorrhaging… Bloody froth caked around victim’s mouth.’
So, Thorne sang in his head. Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, whatever came to him. Just a chorus or two to take the edge off the bone-saw’s whine and the solid snap of the rib-cutters. The gurgle in the windpipe and the sucking as the heart and lungs were removed from the chest as one single, dripping unit.
Ray Price today: ‘My Shoes Keep Walking Back to You’.
‘No indication of pregnancy… No signs of recent termination… Death due to manual asphyxia.’
There’s people worse off than I am.
Towards the end, with organs weighed and fluids collected, Thorne asked about time of death. When it came to finding a prime suspect, it often turned out to be the most important factor.
‘Late afternoon,’ Hendricks said. ‘Best I can do.’
‘Before five?’ Holland asked.
‘Between three and four probably, but I’m not swearing to it right now.’
‘That fits.’ Holland scribbled something down. ‘Husband claims to have arrived home a little after five o’clock.’
‘He out of the picture, then?’
‘Nobody’s out of the picture,’ Thorne said.
‘OK.’
Thorne saw the expression on Hendricks’ face, and on Holland ’s as he looked up from his notebook. ‘Sorry…’
He’d been looking at the stainless-steel dishes that now contained Emily Walker’s major organs and thinking that she’d finally shifted those few extra pounds she’d been so worried about. His eyes had come to rest on her feet, bloated and pale; on the red nail varnish and the star above her ankle. When he’d spoken, he’d snapped without meaning to, the words sounding snide and spiky.
Holland looked at Hendricks, stage-whispered conspiratorially: ‘Wrong side of the bed.’
Thorne could feel himself growing edgier by the minute. He told himself to calm down, but it didn’t work, and walking out with Holland ten minutes later, he found it hard to control his breathing and the flush of it in his face. Sometimes, he felt fired-up coming out of a post-mortem, confused or just depressed more often than not, but he could not remember the last time he’d felt quite so bloody angry.
He had been turning his phone back on before he was out of the post-mortem room and by the time he emerged through the mortuary’s main entrance on to Avondale Road, he could see that he had three missed calls from Louise. He told Holland he’d catch him up.
It was the voice she used when she’d been crying. ‘They’ve still not done it.’
‘Christ, you’re kidding!’
‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said.
He turned away, looking across the North Circular and avoiding the stares from a couple at the bus-stop who had heard him shout. ‘What did they say to you?’
‘I can’t find anyone who can tell me what’s going on.’
‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,’ Thorne said.
She burst into tears as soon as she caught sight of him, pushing through the doors at the far end of the ward. He shushed her gently, drew the curtains around the bed and sat down to hold her.
‘I just want it… out of me,’ she said. ‘Do you understand?’
‘I know.’
They heard the voice of the woman in the bed opposite coming from the other side of the curtain. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘It’s fine,’ Thorne said.
‘Do you want me to get someone?’
Thorne leaned closer to Louise. ‘I’m going to get someone.’
He prowled the corridors for five minutes until he found a doctor on the next floor up and told him that something needed to be done. After shouting for a minute or so then refusing to budge while the doctor made a couple of calls, Thorne was back at Louise’s bedside with a soft-spoken, Scottish nurse. She made all the right noises, then admitted there was nothing she could do.
‘Not good enough,’ Thorne said.
‘I’m sorry, but this is standard practice.’
‘What is?’
‘Your partner’s just been unlucky, I’m afraid.’ The nurse was flicking through the paperwork she’d brought with her. She waved it in Thorne’s direction. ‘Each time the procedure has been scheduled, another case has taken priority at the last minute. Just unlucky…’
‘She was promised it would be done last night,’ Thorne said. ‘Then first thing this morning.’
Louise lay back on the pillow with her eyes closed. She looked exhausted. ‘Two hours ago they said I was next in.’
‘It’s bloody ridiculous,’ Thorne said.
The nurse consulted her paperwork again, nodding when she found an explanation. ‘Yes, well, we had someone come in with a badly broken arm, I’m afraid, so-’
‘A broken arm?’
The nurse looked at Thorne as though he were simple. ‘He was in a considerable amount of pain.’
Thorne returned the look, then pointed at Louise. ‘You think she’s enjoying herself?’
Alex was stuffing a last piece of toast into her mouth when Greg came into the kitchen. He nodded, still tucking in his shirt. She grunted, waved, and went back to the story she’d been reading in the Guardian.
‘Hope you’ve left some bread,’ Greg said, flicking on the kettle. He heard another grunt as he walked to the
