Rubbernecker (30 page)

‘Head,’ said Jarvis impatiently as he went down the row. ‘Head. Head. Head. Shit.’

‘No head?’ enquired Williams, and Jarvis nodded.

Jarvis called the chair of the medical school to report the theft, and then made them both a cup of strong tea.

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Jarvis. ‘That kid was always weird. He broke in twice before, you know?’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Found him in
here
once, going through confidential files. Then one night he threw a shoe at me in the dissecting room. Biscuit?’

Williams took a HobNob. ‘How does one break into a place like this?’

‘Well, the first time he used his own entry code, but at a time when he was not allowed to be here. But that code was suspended once he was expelled.’

‘So how did he get in last night?’

‘Let’s see,’ said Jarvis, and fired up the computer. He stared at the screen, while making annoying little half-sounds that he seemed to imagine were keeping Williams informed.

‘That’s there. Here we … There. Now we’ll see … OK, I get it … Cheeky little bastard!’

‘What?’

‘He must have used another student’s code. Belongs to a girl called Megan Jones. Here, you see? At a quarter past midnight.’

Williams nodded slowly. He had a thousand questions, but as he dunked, he asked the one he felt was most pertinent. ‘This sounds like a silly question, Mr Jarvis, but I’ll ask it anyway. Is it at all possible that Number 19 was a murder victim?’

Jarvis laughed. It was a strange sound in a strange place and from a strange-looking man. ‘Absolutely not. Our donors have generally died from age-related heart conditions or cancers, or
complications
like pneumonia. Every death is properly certified by an attending doctor. Even then, we can only accept donations if the body has not been too badly damaged by an illness or injury. We need them to be in reasonable shape so that students know what a standard body looks like. There’s no point training students on bodies with broken limbs or with severe internal degradations.

‘For the same reason we can’t accept autopsied bodies, so the donors will have been expected to die from their disease or injuries. Autopsies are
always
performed on murder victims.’

‘If you know they’ve been murdered,’ mused Williams.

‘True,’ nodded Jarvis and took another biscuit, so Williams did the same. He’d missed breakfast because of all this.

‘Would it be possible to see the paperwork relating to Number 19?’

‘Of course.’ Using a key that was poorly hidden under a saucer, Jarvis opened one of the two filing cabinets and withdrew a slim folder.

Emrys Williams studied the records. The first form was a donor application in the name of Samuel Galen.

‘This is dated almost ten years ago!’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Jarvis. ‘People can make a donor application at any time. If they change their minds, they only have to let us know and we destroy the documentation.’

Williams ran his eye down the form. He noticed that Samuel Galen and he shared a birthday. Same day, same year. Emrys and Sam. He wondered whether Sam had celebrated his birthdays the same way he did – with a few pints down the Three Tuns and a phone call from his aged mother, who never forgot.

It gave him an uncomfortable sense of his own existence being on temporary loan, and he had to brush the idea aside to concentrate on the matter at hand.

The donation form was short and contained questions that left no room for sentiment.

I consent to my body parts being retained by the nominated establishment
.

I consent to unidentifiable photographs of my body parts being taken and retained for training, education and research
.

Burial/cremation

All the donor had to do was tick boxes. Mr Galen had ticked burial, then apparently changed his mind and gone for cremation.

In a different pen.

Williams pointed it out to Jarvis, who frowned.

‘I don’t know how I missed that. Any changes should be signed at the point of the change, or a new form must be filled in. They can’t just cross things out!’

Williams flicked to the back of the thin sheaf. Attached to the rear of the form was a largely blank page headed PERSONAL DECLARATION (OPTIONAL).

Samuel Galen had exercised the option.

My daughter, Alexandra, is an alcoholic. I am donating my body to help to train doctors who may one day find a solution to this heartbreaking disease
.

Emrys Williams was caught off-guard. The declaration was an oddly moving thing to hold in his hands when just this morning he had found the man’s head in a fridge, crammed between the best and the worst of student cuisine.

‘Most applicants attach a personal statement,’ said Jarvis. ‘
Why
they choose to donate is important to them.’

Williams went through the rest of the file more quickly. There were next-of-kin consent forms, signed by a Mrs Jackie Galen one day after the date of death, transfer documentation from the local hospital to the university, undertakers’ permissions, and a copy of
the
death certificate, which gave the cause of death as ‘heart failure due to complications of coma’.

‘Another HobNob?’ said Jarvis, shaking the packet at him.

Williams didn’t hear him.

The death certificate had been signed by a Dr D. Spicer.

51

JUST BEFORE THREE
p.m., Emrys Williams opened the double doors and said, ‘Thank you for coming back down so quickly, Dr Spicer.’

‘No problem.’

Williams stood aside for Dr Spicer to pass him, then lingered for a moment to listen to the national anthem swell out of the stadium and float across the city – a sound that never failed to take hold of his heart and give it a patriotic squeeze. The city would be loud tonight and filled with Welshmen dressed as daffodils with their arms around the shoulders of Frenchmen in berets, all celebrating the result in the common language of not being English.

Williams sighed and closed the door.

They talked while they walked. ‘There are just a few things we hope you can help us with. About Patrick Fort, mostly.’

‘Of course,’ said Spicer. ‘Is he OK?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Good,’ said Spicer. ‘Because he’s quite vulnerable, I think.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. You know he was at the university on a disability quota?’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Yes. He’s autistic.’

‘I thought he had Asperger’s?’

‘Well, it’s all on the spectrum. He can be quite detached from reality at times. Paranoid. Confused. That kind of thing.’

‘Sounds like my ex-wife.’

Spicer laughed.

Williams opened the door to Interview Room Three and ushered him inside.

‘Dr Spicer, this is DCI White, who is in charge of the case,’ he said. ‘And you already know Mr Galen.’

The head was on the table in a clear plastic evidence bag.

There was a long silence.

Spicer finally looked at White and said, ‘Hi.’

‘Thanks for coming, Dr Spicer.’

‘No problem.’

‘We’ll try not to keep you long,’ said White. ‘DS Williams is a long way past the end of his shift, and I’m supposed to be at the match.’ He smiled ruefully. Spicer only nodded.

They all sat down, the head between them. Williams and White never glanced at it; Spicer could look at little else. The head was a magnet for his eyes, dragging his gaze back to it whenever it strayed. A fold in the plastic touched the remaining eyeball, making it stand out as if peering directly at Spicer through a peephole to another dimension.

DCI White opened a folder. ‘Patrick Fort has told us
some
story, Dr Spicer.’

‘I’m not surprised. World of his own. He needs help really.’

‘I agree. But maybe together we can separate fact from fiction.’

‘Yes.’

‘Good,’ said White. ‘Patrick says that you tried to kill him last night.’

‘Does he? That’s ridiculous.’

DCI White flicked through the folder in a show of not knowing what it contained. ‘He says you knocked him off his bicycle on Dumballs Road and then tried to run him down in a car park.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘But he
was
injured.’

‘How would I know?’ said Spicer. ‘Look, Patrick came to a party at my flat last night. He got very drunk. He left early. If he fell off his bike or got knocked off it, I wouldn’t be surprised.’

DCI White nodded and flicked through the paperwork again. ‘This morning he had a blood alcohol level of zero.’

‘I’m surprised,’ said Spicer, and folded his arms across his chest.

‘Did you leave the party at all?’

‘Yes,’ said Spicer. ‘I went out to get more beer.’

‘Bad planning?’ said White.

‘Students. Free booze. You know?’

‘But not Patrick Fort.’

‘Not if you say so.’ Spicer shrugged. ‘He appeared a little irrational. I assumed he was drunk.’

‘What time did you go out?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Guess.’

‘About eleven.’

‘And what time did you get back?’

‘About half past, I should think.’

‘Get a receipt for the beer?’

‘I’d have to check.’

‘Which shop did you go to?’

‘Asda. In the Bay. What has this got to do with Patrick Fort?’

‘I’m getting there. You didn’t go out again?’

‘No.’

‘You have witnesses?’

‘Yes! Everyone. My fiancée, other students. Anyone can tell you where I was.’

‘Patrick tells us you were trying to run him over at the time.’

‘Well, he’s wrong.’

‘We found his bicycle. Someone threw it over a fence. Certainly
looks
mangled. Forensics are taking prints from it now.’

‘Good. I hope you catch whoever did it.
If
someone did it.’

‘DS Williams here also found paint and headlight debris from a car that hit a nearby car park wall at speed. What kind of car do you have, Dr Spicer?’

Spicer paused. ‘A Citroën.’

‘Colour?’

‘Grey.’

‘Silver grey?’

‘Sort of.’

‘In good nick, is it?’

‘I’ve had a few bumps. Nothing major. My fiancée drives it too.’

‘That’s nice.’

Spicer shrugged and looked at his watch. ‘Is this going to take much longer?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said DCI White. ‘But you appreciate we have to check out Patrick’s story, Dr Spicer. We wouldn’t be doing our jobs otherwise.’

‘Of course,’ said Spicer.

‘Thanks for your forbearance,’ smiled DCI White.

‘No problem.’

‘Can we get you a cup of coffee or anything?’

‘No. I’m fine.’

‘Good. Patrick admits that after he escaped from you, he went—’

‘He didn’t
escape from me
,’ said Spicer with air-quotes. ‘I wasn’t there.’

‘After he was knocked off his bike,’ amended White, ‘he went to the dissecting room, where he removed the head of poor Mr Galen here.’

‘That’s appalling.’

‘Indeed. Although
he
says he removed the head to preserve the evidence that shows that Mr Galen was in fact a murder victim. And that you followed him there to try to stop him doing just that.’

White raised his eyebrows at Spicer, who gave an expansive shrug.

‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but you can’t expect me to comment on paranoid delusions.’

‘I don’t,’ said White. ‘And it’s Detective
Chief
Inspector.’

‘Sorry,’ said Spicer. ‘I’m just getting a little bit fed up with you seeming to believe everything this clearly delusional student has told you, however bizarre.’

‘Oh, we didn’t believe it!’ said White. ‘Not one little bit!’

Spicer looked surprised for the second time and White went on, ‘That’s why DS Williams here took it upon himself to see if his story was supported by any physical evidence.’

DCI White waited for Spicer, but when the young doctor said nothing, he continued. ‘And it was. Apart from the bicycle and the evidence in the car park, DS Williams discovered that you used your dissecting-room code twice last night – once at 11.45 and again at 11.57.’

Spicer stared at White for a long moment. ‘That’s not true. Someone else must have stolen it. Patrick no longer had a code; it was suspended when he was expelled. He had to get in somehow. Why don’t we ask him? Why don’t we get
him
in here and ask
him
a few questions? I don’t see why I should have to sit here and listen to all these accusations and insinuations without my accuser being present.’

‘Patrick Fort is no longer in our custody,’ said DCI White.

‘Well, whose custody
is
he in?’

‘Nobody’s.’

Spicer looked stunned.

‘
What?
He cut off a man’s
head
and you let him go?’

‘Wasn’t that what you wanted?’ said Williams.

‘No! I mean, not now I hear all this other stuff. Now it seems he’s more crazy than I thought.’

‘Well, you’re the doctor, of course,’ said White. ‘But, all things
considered
, we felt there was no need for anything stronger than a caution.’

‘That strikes me as very odd.’

‘Well, we’re all capable of odd things at times, Dr Spicer, wouldn’t you agree?’

Spicer frowned. ‘I’m not sure I would.’

‘Anyway,’ continued White, ‘before he left, Patrick told us that he thought it was possible that Mr Galen here died after being force-fed a peanut, to which he was dangerously allergic.’

Spicer made a sound that was a cross between a bark and a laugh. ‘That’s ridiculous! Look, Detective Chief Inspector, this is a mentally disturbed student who spent two days a week for six months doing a pretty poor job of learning anatomy. He wasn’t even doing medicine!
And
he was expelled for discreditable behaviour. Now you’re relying on his diagnostic expertise?’

‘Mr Galen’s allergy was clearly stated on his hospital notes. To which you had access.’

‘Along with many other people,’ said Spicer.

‘I’m told – and I’m sure you’ll correct me if I’m wrong – that anaphylactic shock can cause death by the swelling shut of the airways. And that such swelling would subside to the point of being almost undetectable after death.’