The Murder House (16 page)

‘Neel!' cried Grossman, eyes crinkling in a grin that was hidden behind his mask. ‘And Mark Butterworth, is it?'

‘Graham Evans,' corrected Oakley, uncomfortably aware that Grossman had performed the post mortem on his friend. How could he have forgotten? Or had he just seen so many bodies that one blurred into another?

‘Welcome, welcome,' said Grossman genially. He switched on the spotlights and rubbed his gloved hands together. ‘This isn't going to be pleasant, so don't feel obliged to stay. Most will be irrelevant to you, and you can watch the DVD later if necessary. I'll do the head first. That's presumably what you're most interested in. Do you have a name yet?'

‘No,' replied Oakley, still discomfited by the mention of Mark.

‘He's probably Marko Kovac,' countered Evans. ‘He was a visiting scholar at the university.'

‘Marko Kovac?' asked Grossman, startled. ‘Not the Albanian particle physicist?'

Oakley frowned. ‘You know him?'

‘I met him, certainly. I teach anatomy at the university, as you know, and attend the occasional science faculty bash. I met him at one last year.'

‘Last year?' asked Oakley. ‘Not more recently?'

‘Christmas. I remember, because I'd never met an Albanian before and I asked how they celebrate the holidays. He was Catholic, and I couldn't decide which of the traditions he described were basic Christian and which were specifically Albanian. That's what happens when a Jew asks questions about Christmas! I should stick to things I know.'

‘He was religious then?'

‘Not overtly. That was our only discussion, although he told me he visited the physics department a couple of times a year. Dear, oh, dear. Is this him?' He cocked his head and looked long and hard at the body.

‘We don't know,' said Oakley. ‘Is it?'

‘Grossman shrugged apologetically. ‘I'm not very good with faces, and you'll appreciate that this one is somewhat changed. You'll have to get me a photo to match to his skull. It could be him: it's the right sort of build, age, hair colour. Eyes have gone, of course, so they won't help.'

‘What was he like?'

Grossman considered, pulling absently on the mask that covered his mouth. ‘A little arrogant, but that happens when you're good at what you do. Good looking, long eyelashes. I remember those.' He peered at the body. ‘I'll have a dig around later, once I've cleared the maggots out, and see if I can find any.'

Evans left the room.

‘Was he popular with his colleagues?'

‘He seemed a pretty normal sort of fellow to me. Talked about his wife and children, and went on about his work at the university in Tirana and how the Balkan conflicts had affected it. But people at the university will tell you this. I should be telling you about his injuries.'

There was only one: a savage blow to the top of the head that had severely compressed the brain. Grossman peeled back the skin to reveal radiating cracks from a central dent, like craters created by asteroids in deserts. Fragments of bone had been driven into the brain, further compounding the damage. Everything else seemed normal, and Grossman could detect no sign of a struggle.

‘Can you tell whether the blow was administered left-handed or right-handed?' asked Oakley.

‘Haven't a clue. It might have been done
two
-handed for all I know. However, there was a lot of anger or power behind it. Death would've come fairly quickly.'

‘You mean he lived for a while afterwards?'

‘Oh, yes. In fact, had he been taken straight to a hospital he might even still be with us. He would never have walked or talked again, of course, but he might still be breathing.'

‘Can you describe the murder weapon?'

‘Something large and fairly heavy. Not a metal bar or a baseball bat. Something wider and with a flatter surface.'

‘Such as what?' Oakley racked his brain for something that matched that description in the house. ‘A saucepan? He appears to have died in the kitchen.'

‘Possibly, but the bruising is deeper in some places than in others. A very
dented
saucepan would fit the description. I've taken swabs, so we can see if there's any residue from the weapon, but don't hold your breath. If it was metal we won't find anything.'

‘A blow of such force raises two questions in my mind,' mused Oakley. ‘First, does it suggest a man rather than a woman? And second, why wasn't there any bleeding? I thought scalps bled easily.'

‘They do. However, it's not unusual for the first blow in a bludgeoning to break bones but not skin. I often say the first strike is free, and it's the rest that cause the spatter that gives us our clues. But our killer was happy with one. Perhaps it was an accident.'

‘An accident?' asked Oakley warily. ‘How?'

‘He got in the way of some strange sport with dented skillets?' suggested Grossman flippantly. ‘Regardless, that's for you to find out.'

‘And the force of the blow?' asked Oakley, unamused. ‘You said there was a lot of anger or power behind it.'

‘Considerable force was used. But there are some very powerful ladies around these days, so I wouldn't like to speculate whether you're looking for a male or a female culprit.'

‘But if you
had
to choose?'

‘A man, but I'll deny it if you bring it up in court. It's based on good old-fashioned prejudice that men commit more violent crimes than the fairer sex. But look at the victim's skull. It's quite delicate for a man – not abnormal, but it's certainly thinner than yours would be. If the killer had delivered this sort of blow to you, he'd need to follow it up with another to make sure you were dead.'

‘Would the culprit know this?' wondered Oakley.

‘I doubt it. Most killers don't give their victims a physical examination before launching murderous attacks. It was probably luck – for the killer, I mean. Certainly not for the victim.'

‘Lord!' muttered Oakley. The post mortem was throwing out more questions than solutions.

‘When you bring me a body in this state, you reduce the chance of getting definitive answers,' said Grossman. ‘For example, I can't tell whether it was bundled up in the plastic straight away or later. I'll need to call in an insect specialist, too. He might be able to give you a more accurate time of death. My guess – which won't go in my report – is the week between Saturday the twenty-eighth of July and Saturday the fourth of August.'

‘Kovac was alive on the thirtieth of July because he spoke to his neighbour. That was two weeks ago.' Oakley sighed. ‘Of course, this may not be him. Kovac might be the killer.'

‘Unfortunately for you, DNA will only give you a name if you've got a sample to match it to. Kovac almost certainly won't be in the criminal database here, and I doubt the Albanian police have access to such modern technology. You'll have to resort to old-fashion identification methods, like dental records. Or perhaps they'll have his fingerprints on file – academics are still regarded with suspicion there, so you may be in luck.'

‘Are his clothes Albanian?'

‘No, they all have British labels. But lots of Eastern Europeans treat themselves to Western clothes, so you can't read anything into that.'

‘Perhaps that's why we didn't find a suitcase in the house,' said Oakley gloomily. ‘The culprit wanted his fashionable clothes.'

‘Last year we had a woman who was killed for the four pounds in her handbag,' Grossman pointed out sombrely. ‘A suitcase of clothes is an improvement on that.'

When he had finished at the mortuary, Oakley drove to the university. A technician there had phoned New Bridewell to say that he was the one who worked more with Kovac than anyone else, and Oakley wanted to interview him personally. Ron Yates, a tall, cadaverous man in his forties, took him to a spotlessly clean chamber and laid his hand lovingly on a console. Thick cables trailed from it and it looked expensive.

‘An SEM with an attached ICPMS,' he said fondly.

‘Very nice,' said Oakley. He'd been good at physics at school, and read popular science books, but the humming monstrosity that stood before him looked altogether too complex for his meagre level of understanding.

‘It's a powerful microscope that can analyse materials at the molecular level,' explained Yates. ‘I've made modifications that make this one the best in the country – perhaps in the world. Doctor Kovac comes here to use it – always in the vacations, as it tends to be less busy then. He's been doing some pretty interesting work.'

‘What kind of work?'

‘Looking at the chemical structures of the particles comprising specific agents.' Yates sounded impressed. ‘Some of his findings are revolutionary, and may have a major impact on nanotechnology.'

‘What's Kovac like?' asked Oakley, changing the subject before he became too lost.

‘Nice,' replied Yates, ‘but edgy. He was in Skopje when the war broke out in Macedonia a decade ago, and the experience shook him. He worries about his family when he's here. He's always showing me pictures of them.'

‘Could he be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder?' asked Oakley, thinking that Kovac wouldn't be the first person so scarred by war that he perpetrated his own horrors to compensate.

‘He might – his stories certainly scared the shit out of me. But he's not violent.' Yates gave a sad smile. ‘He'd never hurt anyone, and I really hope it's not his body you found.'

Oakley left the university to give evidence for the remand hearing of the louts who'd set the M Shed alight. The prosecution wanted them imprisoned until the trial, and the defence was making a routine objection. Oakley fretted while he waited, aware that he had far more important things to be doing. But the ponderous wheel of justice hurried for no man, not even on a Saturday, and he could do nothing except pace with increasing exasperation.

As expected, it was decided that Nick King and his mates should be kept in the juvenile detention centre until their case could be heard. Oakley was just leaving when someone stepped out to intercept him. It was Michael Yorke.

‘I'd have thought you'd stay away from places like this,' remarked Oakley.

‘I was hoping to catch Robert Brotherton,' replied Yorke. ‘He's looking after Billy while Paxton's on holiday.'

‘I don't suppose you know where?' asked Oakley. ‘His mother's concerned about him.'

‘I was going to ask you the same thing,' said Michael. ‘His disappearance when my brother needs him is inconvenient. I don't suppose the police persuaded him to take off, did they?'

‘I only wish we had that kind of power,' sighed Oakley. ‘Perhaps he realized that the case isn't as straightforward as he hoped, and buggered off before he could make a fool of himself.' Or before he could make an enemy of Yorke, he thought.

Michael still smiled, but his eyes were hostile. ‘I wouldn't like to learn that the police had anything to do with it. Neither would my brother.'

Oakley met his gaze. ‘I think we'd better end this conversation now, before I feel obliged to arrest you for threatening behaviour.'

Michael backed away, raising his hands in the air. ‘See you in court.'

Oakley stared after him thoughtfully. It was the second time the Yorkes had suggested the police had something to do with Paxton's odd disappearance. What was going on?

It was a scorching hot day, the sort when everyone should be at the beach or relaxing with friends. I certainly shouldn't have been standing guard at the house where James had died, trying to find a spot that was in the shade so I wouldn't fry.

DI Davis had left when the SOCO had finished his lecture, and the forensics team had gone shortly after that, locking the door behind them. They had really known their business, and it showed that it's getting harder and harder to get away with murder these days. But I was going to be the exception. There were certainly some unsolved murders and James' was going to be one of them. They didn't even know who he was, and the Kovac thing would lead them off in entirely the wrong direction.

But what about the black plastic? I'd been confused and frightened after the murder. Could my horror really have caused me to blank out what I'd done? I closed my eyes and replayed it yet again. I recalled staring at James for some time, watching him breathe. Then I'd started for the door, but had gone back to make sure there were no witnesses. I shuddered. I don't know what I'd have done if I had found someone.

‘Are you all right?' Inspector Oakley's voice pulled me so suddenly from my musings that I must have looked like a deer in the headlights. ‘I thought you might like this. It's hot out here.'

He gave me an ice cream, chocolate-covered with nuts on the outside. I grinned weakly, trying to look grateful, while wondering how I was going to eat the thing without throwing up. Part of what was making me feel sick was the smell of Oakley himself. I'd been a police officer long enough to recognize the rank stench that clung to him. He'd been at James' post mortem.

‘Nothing's happening here,' I said, pulling off the wrapper and trying to think of something other than James lying naked on a steel table. I could throw the lolly away when Oakley had gone. It would melt, and no one would know. I didn't want to hurt his feelings by telling him I didn't want it, but I certainly couldn't eat the thing. ‘SOCO left a couple hours ago.'

‘And you drew the short straw and got to stand guard. I wondered who'd land that job. I should've known. How long are you here for?'

‘Rest of the shift, as far as I know. I don't mind.'

‘Well, I do,' Oakley said irritably. ‘I don't want dehydrated officers fainting and letting the murderer get into the house. Or the press. I'll make sure you have a break, even if I can't get you out of a second stint.'