‘It looks like murder to me,’ the pathologist, a tall, thin man, said. Isaac judged him to be in his late fifties, maybe early sixties. He had met him before and had found him to be an unusually unsociable man.
‘Why do you say that?’ Gordon Windsor asked. Both he and Isaac were standing close to the body: internal organs, or at least what remained of them, clearly visible. It was not a sight that Isaac appreciated, and if he was being totally honest, he would have to admit that he could be squeamish, but this was important, and people, senior people, were looking for answers and a resolution to the case.
‘Clear sign of trauma around the head, and if I’m not mistaken, evidence of suffocation.’
‘Enough to stand up in a court of law?’ Isaac asked.
‘Not yet. I’ve just given you my professional opinion.’
‘How long before you’re sure?’
‘Could be weeks. I’ll need to get Forensics to run tests.’
‘What can they find?’
‘Why are you asking me? You are the detective chief inspector. Didn’t they teach you anything at the police college?’
Isaac had seen that he was making polite conversation; the pathologist saw it as wasted time. ‘Of course, DNA, fingerprints, drugs in the system,’ he replied. Isaac realised it was a flippant response, but did not appreciate the pathologist’s lecture. Maybe the friction with Jess is getting to me, he thought.
‘There’s trauma around the head, but not the level of bleeding that I would normally expect. Mind you, after so many years, I can’t be sure.’
‘You are confirming murder?’ Isaac needed clarity on that one piece of information.
‘Tied up, bag over head, trauma around the cranial regions. It seems conclusive.’
‘Any chance of identification?’ Isaac asked.
‘Not from me. Forensics may have better luck.’
‘What can you tell us with some degree of certainty?’
‘Male, aged in his late thirties, early forties. Caucasian, height close to six feet. Apart from that, it is hard to tell any more. There is a clear sign of a broken right leg and a dislocated thumb. Apart from that, the body indicates that the man had been in good physical shape.’
‘Hair colour, skin colour?’ Gordon Windsor asked.
‘Dark hair. Skin colour almost certainly white, but that’s only because I’m classifying the body as Caucasian.’
‘English?’ Isaac asked.
‘Hard to tell. We live in a multicultural society. Not sure that can be confirmed, although DNA analysis may help.’
‘Any indication from his clothing?’
‘Bought in England. We found a few labels so it may be possible to localise where it was bought. Some of the clothes looked as though they were made to measure, not out of a high-street store.’
‘If it’s murder, it hardly seems clever to conceal the body fully clothed,’ Gordon Windsor said.
‘Or hide it in a fireplace in an empty house,’ Isaac said. ‘But then, we don’t know the state of mind of the person who placed him there, do we?’
‘Must have been someone handy with wood to have built the fireplace covering.’
‘If you two have finished postulating, I’m off home,’ the pathologist said. ‘I’ve spent too many hours here today for you.’
‘We’re finished,’ Isaac replied. ‘Many thanks.’
‘Don’t thank me. Just sign for my expenses when you receive the bill.’
***
Larry Hill and Wendy Gladstone, as agreed with their DCI, visited Gertrude Richardson. It was his first visit, her second. The welcome at the door, the same as before. ‘What do you want?’ the elderly woman asked.
‘We have some more questions,’ Wendy replied.
‘I told you last time that I sold the place. Why bother me?’
‘We’ve spoken to your sister,’ Larry said.
‘And who are you? I don’t like men coming here.’
‘Detective Inspector Larry Hill. I work with Constable Gladstone.’
‘That may be, but you’re not welcome here, and neither is she.’
‘I could make this official,’ Wendy said.
‘Maybe you could, and then it will be in the newspapers. How you took a prominent member of society, eighty-five and infirm, and carted her off down to the police station.’
‘Prominent?’ Wendy asked.
‘Once I was. Always in the society pages. Even met the King on a couple of occasions.’
‘That’s a long time ago to be claiming prominence, don’t you think?’
‘My name still counts for something.’
Both Wendy and Larry were intrigued, although neither said anything, other than to look at each other with a momentary glance and an imperceptible shake of the head.
‘Can we come in?’ Wendy asked.
‘I don’t want him near my cats. They don’t like men, neither do I.’
‘You did once.’
‘Long time ago, maybe. Naïve then, not now.’
‘Can we use another room?’ Wendy asked. The old woman was correct in that they would not be taking her in handcuffs down to the police station, nor would they be forcing her to do or say anything other than
