CHAPTER 14
The police pathologist is young and exhaustingly enthusiastic. He is called Chris Stevenson and Ruth knows him only by sight. She knew the previous pathologist better; a charming old-world type who always wore a bow tie and velvet slippers. Stevenson bounds into the autopsy room on puffy American sneakers, his white coat flapping behind him. The old world is obviously gone for ever.
‘Dr Galloway! Come to give us your expert opinions?’
‘I’ll try,’ says Ruth tightly.
She knows that today’s post-mortem will be a battle. In a normal autopsy, Stevenson would be the expert. He is a flamboyant practitioner who likes, for example, to remove the internal organs in one block rather than in four groups, as is usual. Nelson describes a previous autopsy where Stevenson gestured so theatrically with his scalpel that two police probationers fainted. Stevenson also likes to talk all the time, a constant stream of information, observation and free-association chat in the manner of a Sunday morning DJ – albeit a DJ primarily concerned with blood, guts and medical incisions. Nelson loathes him, Ruth knows.
But, today, there are only bones – dry, academic bones. There is no need for any cutting or sawing or dramatic flourishes. And Ruth will be the expert. Stevenson will conduct the examination but he will be forced to defer to Ruth at every turn. No wonder his flow of humorous commentary has a slightly brittle edge this morning. Ruth says nothing. She is looking at the bones already laid out on the dissection table. Such a small skeleton. Such a little life.
Nelson arrives late, earning him a jokey ‘nice of you to join us’ from Stevenson.
‘Just get on with it,’ growls Nelson. He looks unfamiliar in his surgical scrubs, a plastic hat over his dark hair. Probably the most unflattering garments in the world, thinks Ruth, aware that she looks like a large green barrage balloon.
A technologist photographs the bones which have been laid out in an anatomically correct position. Then Stevenson begins his examination, barking his comments into a handheld recorder. Ruth stands at the opposite side of the stainless steel table, taking each bone from Stevenson as he finishes with it and occasionally adding her own comments. Nelson stands behind Ruth, shifting from foot to foot like a restive horse.
‘… epiphyses still detached… cartilaginous plate not yet ossified… size of the long bones indicates a child… would you say that it’s male or female, Dr Galloway?’
Ruth is looking at the pelvic bones. The female pelvis is shallower and broader than the male but this is not yet obvious in a pre-pubescent skeleton. She examines the sciatic notch, which is shorter and deeper in males. Again, this is barely detectable in a child.
‘Female, I’d say.’
‘Would you? That’s interesting.’ From this, Ruth concludes that Stevenson disagrees.
‘… trauma on sternum and third rib… what would you say that was, Dr Galloway?’
‘Looks like a knife mark.’
‘A knife mark the lady says, we’ll see…’
Stevenson turns to the skull. ‘External trauma to the cervical vertebrae…’
An axe, thinks Ruth. The head was cut off with an instrument like an axe and, like the cat, it was done by cutting from the front.
‘Cause of death – decapitation?’ suggests Stevenson.
‘Poena post-mortem,’ says Ruth shortly, turning to Nelson.
‘Mutilation after death. The head was cut off later. It was cut from the front, death by decapitation is nearly always achieved by cutting from the back.’
Stevenson grunts. ‘Interesting theory. What do you think Detective Chief Inspector?’
‘Stabbed in the chest, beheaded. One thing’s certain; it sure as hell wasn’t suicide.’
Stevenson laughs, turning back to the skull. ‘No eruption of permanent teeth…’ Ruth looks round at Nelson. No adult teeth – this means the skull is almost definitely less than six years old. ‘Filling on lower left first molar occlusal…’
This is interesting. It proves for one thing that the body is relatively modern (although fillings apparently existed in ancient China, it is only in the last hundred years that they have been in common use). Also, fillings are rare in such a young child. The composition will give valuable clues about dating.
Ruth leans forward.
‘Thoughts about the filling, Dr Galloway?’
‘I’d like a forensic dentistry expert to look at it.’
‘Anyone in mind?’
‘Yes.’
The examination is almost over. Stevenson takes samples for carbon-14 dating and Ruth fills in her skeleton sheets: post-cranial non-metrics, pathology, conclusions… Her back aches from standing up so long but she doesn’t want to ask for a seat and risk Stevenson’s contempt and Nelson’s suspicion. Does he suspect? She can’t allow herself to think so.
‘Do you want a bet on the dating,’ asks Stevenson, ‘five years each way?’
‘No.’
‘Suit yourself. I’ll take some samples for DNA testing as well.’
‘Will you get any DNA?’ asks Nelson sceptically, looking at the dry bones.
‘Maybe,’ says Ruth, ‘but DNA can be damaged by immersion in earth. We may not get a good enough sample.’
‘We will,’ says Stevenson. ‘Well, show’s over, folks.’
In the ante-room, Ruth changes out of her scrubs and washes her hands thoroughly. Although there was no blood in this post-mortem she still feels grubby and slightly sordid. Maybe it’s just overexposure to Chris Stevenson.
Nelson’s head appears round the door. ‘Christ, thank God that’s over. Bloke’s a complete tosser. Fancy a coffee?’
Ruth hesitates. Though the thought of coffee makes her feel sick, she would like, very much to go to a cosy cafe with Nelson but she has something else she has to do this morning.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, ‘I’ve got an appointment.’
CHAPTER 15
‘Are you on your own?’
This is a question with so many layers that Ruth is momentarily struck dumb. She is manifestly on her own as she has presented herself at the hospital without anyone accompanying her. But she is doubly on her own as the father of her child does not even know she is pregnant. She thinks of Nelson as she saw him that morning, at the post-mortem, and tries to imagine him at her side, doting and supportive. No, it just doesn’t work. Even if Nelson did know, even if they were, in some unimaginable way, together, he would still spend his time looking at his watch and longing to be back at the station. What about her mum? She tries to picture her mother, cosy and smiling, offering advice and encouragement, telling her not to do too much and to eat ginger biscuits if she feels sick. No, even less likely. Shona? She would spend all her time flicking her hair about and making eyes at the doctors. Funnily enough, the only person she can actually imagine at her side is Cathbad. At least he’d be kind, although the purple cloak might prove a trifle embarrassing.
‘Yes. I’m on my own.’
