The Silent Sleep of the Dying (Eisenmenger-Flemming Forensic Mysteries) (2 page)

"Bit of an odd one, this," said Cowper, apparently happy that the introductions were formally complete. He laughed, because he always laughed and not because there was anything amusing. The fact that neither Lambert nor Wharton said anything at all to this was as eloquent as a fifteen-minute diatribe on Cowper's incompetence, laziness, venality and enormous, jocular stupidity.

A uniformed constable stood just inside the doorway out of the gusts of drizzle. There were no inquisitive onlookers, chattering and gawping, to keep away from the scene, testimony to the apathetic state of most of those who lived in the surrounding houses. He looked exceedingly bored.

"I didn't go in because I didn't want to disturb anything."

Cowper's words were an itch, nothing more.

The two of them moved inside, Cowper following and still grinning.

They saw the flashes of the camera light bouncing faintly in the decayed hall. That the temperature was no greater in the house than outside was because the front door had been kept open, but no amount of heating could have warmed its atmosphere; certainly not now, but probably not ever.

Within the flat, a young constable stood with a notebook in his hand for no obvious reason, his fair hair tinged with red. He straightened slightly as the party entered. The Scenes of Crime Officer, a fat man with a long-dead tailor, looked up only briefly before continuing with his artful depiction of the body.

Lambert looked around him. He saw that the room they were in, the back room, contained a bed, a bedside table, a wardrobe and a curtained-off kitchen area. It appeared neat and tidy but relatively poorly decorated. He glanced through to the front room, which was separated by louvre doors, and saw that there were a sofa, an easy chair and a dining table with three, ill-matched chairs within it; all of the furniture had almost certainly come from a second-hand warehouse. A small, black-and-white portable television was the only concession to luxury. The thick, dirty-looking curtains were drawn across the bay window in which was a heavy wooden dining table. On this were piles of papers, notebooks and a coffee mug. He nodded to Wharton who moved to the table and began to look through the papers.

He looked down at the sheeted shape on the floor, almost a caricature, a theatrical corpse, though this one finding it easy to take no breath. A brief assessment and then he bent down to pluck the sheet away.

"I think I should warn you … "

The SOCO's voice was normally so overweighed with world-weary cynicism that the novel note of edginess lent it a curious, unexpected tone, and one that was therefore shocking. Lambert paused at once, his head jerking up to look at the fat photographer and, although he said nothing, there was a quizzical look on his face. When he turned back to the body, there was noticeably more caution about the act.

Wharton's gasp from across the room was part of a general, sharp increase in tension, as they were all drawn into the terrible thing that had befallen the girl; no one was looking elsewhere — even those not newly arrived, who had seen it before, were drawn into its horror again.

"Fucking hell." Lambert, who had seen faces blown apart by shotgun blasts, a young woman slashed through the eyes from temple to chin, an elderly man doused in burning oil, seemed to allow the imprecation to slip past his lips unheard, as if the awfulness of what he had uncovered numbed him.

And there he remained for long minutes, frozen into his contemplation of whatever had been done to this girl. When at last he spoke again, it was from a place of deep emotion.

"Name?" His eyes didn't move from the body, the question asked of the room in general.

The uniformed constable moved as if suddenly awoken. He looked down at the notebook, found it was still there and said, "Millicent Sweet. She's twenty-two. Works at the hospital."

"Who found her?"

"A Miss Susan Warthin. She's a friend of the deceased."

Lambert might not have heard for he didn't react and, abhorrent of this vacuum in the exchange, the constable added more information. "She received a phone call from Professor Turner, their supervisor. The deceased had gone home early from work on the fifth, complaining of flu. He hadn't heard any more from her and, when he'd telephoned, there had been no reply. Worried, he'd then contacted Susan Warthin, who was also off work with flu."

Still Lambert made no response. The fat man clicked and flashed away from every angle, while the corpse, unregarding, remained at the centre of it all. Wharton had finished looking through the papers on the table and was drawing back the curtains carefully. She began to examine the windows behind. These were thick with grimed debris, the paintwork ragged and splintered.

Cowper gave a laugh before saying, "You can see why the doctor was worried." Another laugh.

Lambert asked, "Where is she now?"

"She's been taken back to the station. We didn't think it was a good idea to have her hang around here. She was screaming and crying."

A short nod, economical of movement, was Lambert's first concession to approval. It persuaded the constable to continue. "She made her way round the back when there was no answer from the doorbell. She looked in through the window and could only see her head. She almost had a nervous breakdown on the spot."

Cowper's snort of laughter was a lonely thing in the cold of the room.

"Who lives upstairs?"

Again the nervous glance down at the notebook before replying. "A medical student, Melvyn Pick."

Lambert moved to door out into the hall. While he was looking at the wood of the frame he asked, "Have you spoken to him?"

"He's out."

Presumably learning doctoring. The doorframe was freshly splintered, the pristine wood contrasting with the dirty painted surface around. It looked as though someone had put primer on the wood but never quite got around to the undercoat. From the door itself hung a chain at the end of which was a small piece of the frame.

"Did you do this?"

Lambert's question was not asked in an accusatory manner, but the constable could only manage a guilty nod.

Wharton had finished her investigations. "Scientific stuff on the table. Nothing personal."

"What about the windows?"

"Haven't been opened for years. Haven't been cleaned for as long, either. Nothing to suggest anybody got in that way."

The fat man finished his picture taking. He knelt down on the tatty carpet to open the metal case in which he carried his camera. When it was safely stowed and the case shut he stood and said only, "I'll be off then."

He was ignored by everybody except Cowper who said, "Right-oh. Thanks for coming," and laughed.

Lambert turned back to the body, crouching down beside it. There was no smell but that which his mind told him was there.

She wore a cotton nightie over which was a towelling dressing gown. The dressing gown was open and the nightie had ridden up slightly, exposing no more than her knees. What remained of her face pointed to the ceiling, stretched out and half in the front room, half in the back. Very, very gingerly, he reached out and gently touched her on the arm. He pulled back almost at once and, although he did not show it, he felt deep, deep nausea. Cowper said, "The doctor wondered if it might be an acid. Didn't think it was fire."

Standing up, expelling air and wiping his fingers on his handkerchief, Lambert observed, "There's no sign of fire or acid anywhere around here, and her clothes aren't marked." Then he asked, "Who was the doctor?"

"Dr Caplan."

Cowper's information made Lambert momentarily close his eyes and sigh; there was a small smile on his face for the first time that morning, but there was precious little of amusement in it. Wharton, too, reacted, similarly unimpressed, it appeared.

"Was he drunk?" enquired Lambert.

Cowper laughed before he realized that jocularity was missing from the question. "Oh, no," he hastened to reassure.

"She was found … when?"

The constable read dutifully from his notes. "I broke in at nine fifty-six, sir."

Two and a half hours ago.

"And did Caplan grace us with his wisdom as regards an approximate time of death?"

It was Cowper who supplied his answer. "No more than six hours, possibly as few as three."

Lambert wandered over to the dining table, picking up papers at random in an uninterested manner. He looked around the room before saying to Wharton, "Have you found her handbag?"

Wharton produced it immediately from down by the bed. She opened it and picked out the keys. She did not use gloves.

Lambert seemed to come to a decision.

"Right. So the scenario is this, is it? Millicent Sweet lets someone in; she has to let them in because no one has broken in. This person overpowers her by means as yet undetermined and then takes her out of here to some other place. There, if we are to believe Dr Caplan, he undresses her and either sets fire to her or covers her in some sort of acid … "

"Or alkali," put in the constable, eager to show off his forensic knowledge.

"Presumably he then neutralizes said acid in alkali … "

"Or, if it was an alkali, in acid," the constable reminded him, apparently retaining a large part of the chemistry he had learned in early secondary school. Wharton allowed a small smile to stretch the corners of her mouth as Lambert glared at him.

" … and returns the girl to the flat. He dresses her either in the clothes in which he found her, or possibly some fresh ones, and lays her here on the floor. To complete the act he exits the flat, the final flourish being that he passes through the front door and leaves the chain up."

He looked enquiringly of Cowper who giggled. "I know," he said. "I thought it was absurd, but after the doctor said that we thought we'd better let you guys have a look round."

Lambert looked down at the girl again. "That's not acid, or fire." He broke off to glare at the constable, daring him to shine brightly with his chemistry knowledge. Then he resumed, "In fact, it's no means of death that I've ever seen before." He let out a long, long breath before turning to Cowper. "Suicide? Disease?" Another, more nervous giggle from Cowper before he suggested, "Spontaneous human combustion?"

Lambert missed the joke. He asked, "Who's going to do the post-mortem?"

This was delicate. Handled the wrong way, Cowper could cost the Coroner nearly a thousand pounds. "Well, I know the circumstances are odd, but if you're happy that it isn't murder, I should think we could just opt for an ordinary autopsy. No need to call in the forensic boys."

He tried not to let the last mutate into a question. There was a pause, perhaps the malicious might suggest that it was longer than it need have been, before Lambert agreed.

He walked out into the hall followed by Wharton. From behind them the Constable asked, "What about talking to the neighbours, sir?'

Lambert almost smiled. "I'm not sure it would be wise to disturb them from their reading, Son." To Cowper "When's it being done?"

"Tomorrow, if that's all right."

Lambert nodded condescending permission. "I might drop in and have a look-see."

"Of course, of course." Cowper laughed and now didn't mind that the world did not laugh with him. "Thanks for coming."

They climbed back into their car.

"See you, Frank."

"Bye."

They drove away and Frank thought that it had all gone rather well.

In the front passenger seat, his eyes closed and his head resting against the headrest, Lambert enquired of no one in particular, "Why is that guy such a stupid cunt?"

It was Wharton who voiced what he had been thinking. "Even if it was natural, I wouldn't want to die like that."

*

Susan Warthin returned to her flat after giving her statement, taken there by police car. She was still feeling deeply shocked and severely weakened by the effects of influenza. The policewoman who escorted her made unilateral conversation whilst in the back of the car but Susan's mind was stuck in the scene of Millicent's death and her answers were connected neither with the present nor with comprehension.

"My husband's got the flu as well. It's dreadful, isn't it? He's been laid up in bed for four days now and it doesn't look as though he'll be getting up for another four."

"Mmm."

"There's a real epidemic this year, isn't there?"

"Mmm." Susan wanted to close her eyes but that only left a blankness into which the horror of what she had seen seeped like black oil. She kept her head low and tried to concentrate on how physically awful she felt.

"We're really stretched at the station. Still, plenty of overtime for those of us who are still on our feet."

The policewoman's face, its plainness not helped by a lack of make-up, betrayed a moment's concern at the lack of reaction. "Are you sure you're all right?" she asked and from somewhere Susan found the strength to nod.

"It must have been a terrible shock for you," she continued. "Finding her like that."

Susan was feeling sick. Her stomach felt as if it were distended to bursting point by thick, creamy mucus and her eyes were sore; her throat felt corroded and her head was pulsing to a pain-filled beat. She forced her eyelids to rasp down over her eyes and tried not to see the picture of Millie dead on the floor.