‘Just over four weeks,’ Kathy said. ‘He’d been inside for six years.’
The pathologist grunted. ‘I count five recent puncture marks, but the only way to be sure is to take his skin off and hold it up to the light. What’s your thinking?’
‘We’d like to establish his recent drug history. Get an idea how an experienced drug taker like him could have OD’d.’
‘Happens all the time, especially after a spell of abstinence in gaol. His hair will give us his drug history, but the analysis will take time.’
‘What about time of death?’ Brock said. Kathy glanced at him. It was the first time he’d spoken, and his voice sounded slurred. The very first time she had met him had been at an autopsy like this, with Sundeep Mehta presiding. There had been many since then. That first time she’d felt queasy, but now it was Brock who was looking grey.
‘Give me a chance, Brock!’ Sundeep protested. ‘I’ve hardly begun. But by the look of him…’ he gazed appraisingly at the corpse, ‘six days, seven?’
‘No, no,’ Brock growled. ‘He killed someone on Sunday night, three and a half days ago. The room he was in was very hot.’
‘I know that.’ Sundeep consulted his notes. ‘Forty-two Centigrade. But still, bacterial action is very extensive. No flies in the room unfortunately. A few maggots would have helped.’ He reached for his scalpel.
Brock cleared his throat, and Sundeep looked up. ‘You feeling all right, Brock? You’re looking…’
‘Fine.’ Brock roused himself. ‘Had a touch of flu. Getting over it.’
‘Not swine flu, I hope.’ Sundeep looked at him severely over his face mask.
‘Don’t worry.’
‘Have you seen a doctor?’
‘Mm.’
‘What did he give you?’
‘Tamiflu.’
Sundeep put down the scalpel and peered more closely at Brock. ‘How long have you had that rash?’
Brock touched his throat. ‘Just came up last night. Can we get on with the PM, please?’
But Sundeep wasn’t to be diverted. He peeled off his gloves, put on a fresh pair and advanced on Brock. They looked a slightly comical pair, Kathy thought affectionately, old friends, the pathologist small and nut-brown against the larger, greyer bulk of the detective. Except that the expression on Sundeep’s face wasn’t comical as he unbuttoned the front of Brock’s shirt, despite the other man’s protests, and examined the scarlet blaze across his chest.
‘Macula,’ he muttered. ‘Papular.’
‘What’s that mean in English?’ Brock grunted, brushing him off.
‘It means…’ Sundeep began, then shook his head and turned away to the phone on the wall. He consulted the hospital directory hanging beside it and made a call while the rest of them-Brock, Kathy and what could be seen of Sundeep’s assistant beneath her plastic helmet and thick rubber gloves and apron-stood motionless, waiting.
‘All right.’ Sundeep hung up. ‘It means that you’re going upstairs to the fourth floor to see a friend of mine.’
‘No,’ Brock said. ‘This is…’ He stopped, gave a grunt and slumped to the floor.
It was almost an hour before Dr Mehta emerged from the isolation ward. He looked worried and preoccupied.
‘What is it, Sundeep?’ Kathy demanded. ‘What’s the matter with him?’
‘Well, it’s not swine flu, Kathy.’
‘So?’
Sundeep looked at her and his face formed an encouraging smile, which Kathy didn’t find very convincing. ‘We aren’t sure yet. There are many causes of maculopapular rash.’
‘Like what?’
‘Oh, measles, rubella, typhoid…’
‘Typhoid?’
‘Has he been abroad lately?’
‘No.’
‘In contact with foreigners?’
Kathy thought. ‘This started on Sunday night. We attended the murder scene of that Russian, Mikhail Moszynski, and Brock suddenly felt faint.’
‘Did he touch the body?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Sundeep disappeared abruptly back into the ward, and Kathy watched him through the glass panel, gesticulating to the doctor who was at Brock’s bedside. As she watched them, Kathy guessed what they were discussing, and a chill formed inside her. After a few minutes Sundeep returned.
‘You’re thinking about Litvinenko,’ Kathy said.
He nodded. ‘Four years ago, Alexander Litvinenko fell suddenly ill in a sushi restaurant in London. It took a little while to establish that he had been poisoned with a radioactive isotope, polonium-210, in his tea. Polonium is invisible to normal radiation detectors, because it doesn’t emit gamma rays, only alpha rays. It is highly toxic if swallowed- or inhaled.’
‘But… Moszynski was stabbed to death. You did the autopsy yourself.’
‘Yes.’ Sundeep was shaking his head.
‘You think the stabbing was to disguise the real cause of death?’
‘I don’t know, Kathy. They’re doing lots of tests. They want us both to give samples. When you’ve done that, go back to work and don’t worry.’
Easier said than done. When Kathy got into her car she rang the number of the antiques shop down in Sussex owned by Brock’s partner, Suzanne Chambers. Suzanne’s assistant, Ginny, said that she was still on her tour of the West Country, attending auctions and sales, and gave Kathy the number of her mobile. Suzanne was devastated when Kathy told her what had happened.
‘In hospital? He was feeling rotten when I phoned him on Saturday, before I left, but of course he said it was nothing.’
‘Saturday?’
‘Yes. He thought it was just a cold.’
Suzanne said she’d come straight back to London. She took down the address of the hospital and asked Kathy to ring again if there was further news.
Bren and his team had returned from a further search of the Hackney house when Kathy got back to Queen Anne’s Gate and told them what had happened. She was still feeling stunned. ‘They can’t say what’s wrong with him, but it’s not flu. They’re doing tests.’
‘Like what? His heart?’
‘I don’t think so. They’ve put him in isolation, as if he’s picked up something infectious. I had to give them a blood sample, and so did Sundeep.’
Mickey Schaeffer gave a frown. ‘Do you think it could have something to do with the Ugandan kid in Danny Yilmaz’s flat? He covered Brock with his nose bleed.’
‘I forgot about him. Where is he now?’
‘They handed him over to Immigration.’
‘Get on to them, Mickey. Find out what happened to him. See if he’s sick.’
It was hard to concentrate on anything else, but while they waited Kathy asked Bren about Ferncroft Close.
‘Neighbours can’t remember seeing any visitors to number thirteen apart from Peebles. His are the only prints on the syringe and the foil of heroin. No indication where he got it from. Only his prints on the cash. Variety of prints elsewhere in the house, some probably the owner’s, Angela Storey. We’ll have to interview her in Holloway and get names of visitors we can eliminate.’
‘Nothing then?’
‘Wouldn’t say that.’ Bren gave his quiet smile, keeping the best for last. ‘The mobile phone. It’s a prepaid job,
