I’m better off with the dead. Where’s my poking stick?’ He searched around for the car antenna he used for demonstrations. ‘Look at this.’ He wiggled the antenna through the tramp’s gaping jaw and carefully retracted it. ‘See on the end there?’
‘I haven’t got my glasses,’ Bryant admitted. ‘What is it?’
‘Soot. Burning is a common form of accidental death, rare as a method of suicide because it’s far too slow and painful, virtually unheard-of as a means of homicide, despite what you see on the telly. My second question is always, was the victim alive or dead when the fire started? Soot in the air passages suggests he was alive. I ran a blood test, and the presence of carbon monoxide and cyanide from the armchair fabric proves it, not to mention the fact that his blood is fire-engine red, which indicates the presence of poison. So we know he wasn’t fatally injured before the fire.’
‘What about those?’ Bryant pointed to what appeared to be knife wounds on the corpse’s upper arms.
‘Actually, they’re heat ruptures. Third-degree burns, partial destruction of the skin using the old Glaister six- degree methodology. Feet left intact because he fell head-first toward the door with his shoes against the building’s outer wall, which didn’t burn. Hyperaemia, that’s the clustering of leukocytes-white blood cells sent to heal damage-around the ruptures, which suggests to me that he was dead drunk when the blaze started, and blistered while he was still breathing, poor bugger.’
‘Why are his arms up in a boxing pose?’ asked Bryant. ‘He looks like Henry Cooper.’
‘Heat stiffening,’ Finch explained, snapping the plastic sheet back in place. ‘The muscles tend to coagulate on the flexor surface of the limbs.’
‘Did you get a chance to check gut contents?’
‘Of course.’ Finch looked at him as if he was mad. ‘I know how to do my job. He’d hardly eaten in days, but the stomach lining had plenty of alcohol damage. His liver was little more than a meaty lace curtain. You could stick your fingers through it. I presume your lad can set the time of the fire pretty accurately.’
‘So what’s the cause of death?’
‘Well, technically poisoning, but you can say fire.’ Finch swept the cloth back over the body like a magician covering an assistant.
‘Four deaths, four elements.’
‘Kettle’s nearly boiled,’ said Finch. ‘I’m making Madagascan Vanilla Pod.’
‘Do you have any PG Tips?’
‘No, I gave up dairy the year Chris Bonnington climbed Everest. You should too, a man of your age.’
‘I am not a man of my age,’ replied Bryant indignantly. ‘I’m more the age of someone much younger.’
‘You think that,’ Finch morosely dangled his teabag over the mug, ‘but a look at your insides would tell a different story.’
‘Wait a minute. You said confirming whether the victim was dead or alive is always your second question. What’s the first?’
‘Well, am I sure the body is who it’s supposed to be, obviously. Death removes so many human characteristics that identification can be hard even for a close relative, and in this case we have no relations, close or otherwise, only your frankly inadequate description and that of the hostel clerk. Running a height-and-weight match was easy enough-I didn’t have to allow for fat burning or being drawn off because you don’t find much excess baggage on homeless men-and that was consistent enough.’
Bryant glanced at his old sparring partner with suspicion. ‘But what? You were heading for a “but” there, weren’t you?’
‘Well, it was the lack of positive identifiers,’ Finch complained. He suddenly looked uncomfortable, almost embarrassed. ‘We made the mistake with your false teeth after the unit blew up, didn’t we?’
Bryant harrumphed. ‘So what did you look for?’
‘I checked for signs consistent with long-term crippling on the left side of the body, severe bone-wear in the hip-joint, damage to the femur, then I checked the radius and ulna. Nothing unusual, perfectly normal limbs, no ligature damage apparent to the naked eye. Scar tissue doesn’t burn so easily, so I checked all over. Either your fellow was faking his disabilities-and why on earth would he do that? Didn’t you say he limped when trying to get away from you?’
‘Or what?’
‘Or you have the wrong man.’
‘The body definitely came from his room.’
Finch sighed with annoyance. ‘Then he switched rooms with someone else. Use your head. Maybe he even switched clothes and left the building. It means he’s not as daft as you thought. He was on to you, and now he’s got away.’
39. GOING UNDER
Kallie reread what she had written, then highlighted a sentence and deleted it. After three further deletions, there was virtually nothing left of the email, at which point she knew it would not be sent.
She had no way of knowing whether Paul was still checking his hotmail account. Perhaps he had moved on, heading further south to the sun, only to become lost among the travellers who passed lifetimes searching for themselves in shadowless landscapes. She was already starting to forget certain things about him. If he decided to return, she would consider her plan of action, but nothing would ever be the same between them.
At least the house was becoming more presentable. Fresh paint and paper had brightened the rooms, and with the fee from a new modelling contract she would be able to afford a new kitchen in the basement. An electrician had provided plans for a runway of halogen bulbs that would bring much-needed light into the lower- ground floor.
The basement bathroom still needed work, but something stopped her from tackling the job. Dampness lived on in its corners like the shadows of a persistent illness. On some mornings, she could see her breath in the room’s cold spots. The spiders had returned, despite all her efforts to dislodge them, and a patch of parquet remained permanently slick with icy sweat. Until she could bring herself to tackle the problems, she would continue to stay out of the room as much as possible.
The doorbell made her jump. As Kallie opened the front door, Heather pushed past her excitedly. ‘He’s back!’ she called. ‘Look in your garden, I saw him a moment ago.’
‘Who? The old man?’ For once, Kallie was almost glad to see her neighbour. At least she provided a distraction from her own problems.
‘Can you believe it? He’s right where he always stands, inside that bush-you should really cut it down.’ She peered from the back landing window, wiping the glass. ‘Damn, I can’t see him, but he was there. I was trimming shallots over the sink and looked up. Goes to show the police are telling us lies.’
‘What do you mean?’ Kallie asked, searching for signs that Tate had returned to the garden.
‘I immediately rang the Peculiar Crimes Unit and spoke to Sergeant Longbright. She told me the old tramp had died in a fire at his hostel. But if he’s dead he must have a twin-although I do think he’s wearing different clothes now. What could have happened?’
Kallie was taken aback, less by the news than by Heather’s attitude. With little else to focus her energies on, she had lately become the eyes and ears of the street, watching and listening with a hysterical intensity that disturbed Kallie.
‘Either the police know and are lying to us for some reason, or he got out of the building somehow,’ said Heather. ‘This means we can’t rely on them for help, don’t you see? I’m sure that disgusting, sinister old man is behind it all. You could be in danger, and the police aren’t willing to do anything about it. They’ll see you murdered in your bed first, like poor Jake.’
‘We could all be in danger, Heather.’
‘He’s in your garden, don’t you understand? It’s you he wants. Why don’t they do something more to protect us?’
‘How can they unless they know what they’re dealing with?’ asked Kallie. ‘They haven’t a clue. It’s like when
