Author: Simon Beckett
Category: Thriller
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/simon-beckett/page,20,50621-the_restless_dead.html
The tension was snuffed out as though a switch had been thrown. Lundy’s sigh could have been disappointment or relief. ‘Right, well, let’s have a look at the rest of it. And make sure there’s nothing hidden underneath. I’ve known some crafty buggers try to pull that before now.’
So had I. The DI motioned with his head for me to go over. Pulling off my mask, I went and stood with him a few paces away from the grave.
‘Villiers’ beagle,’ he said, looking back at the dirty coat of tan and white fur the CSIs were uncovering. ‘He had it put down just before he disappeared.’
I nodded, remembering him telling me that the vet had been the last person to see Leo Villiers. At least that we knew of.
‘He must have been fond of the dog if he buried it himself,’ I said. Most people let the vet dispose of their pet’s remains.
‘He’d had it since he was a teenager, by all accounts. The vet said he was “visibly distressed” when it was destroyed. Even she was surprised, but it seemed to fit in with the suicide theory. Final straw, sort of thing.’ Lundy looked back at the grave again, his moustache turning down in disapproval. ‘That’s one death he didn’t fake, at least.’
‘Do you want me to stick around until they’ve made sure there’s nothing else buried in there?’
He shook his head. ‘No, I think we’ve found all we’re going to. Sorry for the false alarm. You might as well get back to the mortuary. The sooner we know who we fished out of the estuary, the better idea we’ll have of what’s going on.’
I pulled off my gloves, careful not to strip the sticking plasters off with them. I’d got changed for nothing, but that was how it went sometimes. ‘Could it be someone else local?’
‘Not that we’re aware of. The only two people reported missing from round here are Emma Derby and Leo Villiers, and we know it’s neither of them.’
‘Whoever he was, he was probably still in his twenties,’ I said. ‘The hammertoes on the foot are misleading. Whatever caused them wasn’t age related. He was an adult, but from the condition of the bones I’ve seen so far I’d say he was almost certainly under thirty.’
I’d been deliberately selective in which bones I’d taken from the detergent, concentrating first on those I thought would yield the most information. The ends of the sternal ribs change with age and so does the auricular surface of the ilium on the pelvis, both becoming rougher and more porous over time. I’d found some coarsening but no porosity in any of the bones I’d seen, and while I’d still need to carry out a much more thorough examination, I was confident my estimate wasn’t far out.
‘A fair bit younger than Leo Villiers, then,’ Lundy said. ‘That helps, but have you got anything else? As things stand we don’t even know if who we’re looking for was white or black.’
I’d been trying to determine that myself, without much success. People are every bit as complicated in death as they are in life, and determining ancestry was notoriously tricky even in intact remains.
Skin colour can be misleading, and changes anyway once a body begins to decompose. Death is the great leveller, turning pale skin darker and vice versa. There are some skeletal characteristics that point to one genetic background or another, but even these can’t always be relied on.
These remains were a case in point. When everyone thought the body was that of Leo Villiers, the assumption was that it must be white. Now even that couldn’t be taken for granted. There was also another problem. Most ancestral characteristics are found in the skull, but the one belonging to the body recovered from the Barrows had been damaged by the shotgun blast. Not only was the mandible missing, but the upper jaw bone below the nasal cavity, which would once have housed the front teeth, had been broken off in a splintered arch. Only broken stumps of back molars and empty sockets remained, not enough for even a forensic dentist to help with.
‘What’s left of the nasal bridge doesn’t project very far, which suggests possible black or Asian ancestry,’ I told Lundy. ‘But the eye orbits are more angular than rectangular or rounded, which is more of a white characteristic.’
‘So he could be mixed race?’
‘Possibly. Or he might just have had distinctive facial features.’ I shrugged. ‘Sorry I can’t be more help.’
Lundy puffed out his cheeks. ‘Well, it gives us a bit more to go on. Although if he was mixed race …’
‘What?’ I prompted.
But he shook his head. ‘Just thinking out loud. Come on, I’ll see you back to your car.’
We’d only gone a few steps when Lundy’s phone rang. He stopped to answer it, and I saw his expression change.
‘Here now, you mean?’ Whatever was said at the other end didn’t reassure him. The heavy shoulders slumped. ‘Christ. OK, then.’
He put his phone away.
‘We’ve got company.’
Sir Stephen Villiers wasn’t on his own. There was no senior policeman with him this time, but to make up for it he was accompanied by three lawyers, two of them middle-aged men in expensive but conservative suits and the third a woman whose matt-black hair betrayed a bad attempt to dye it. All three walked slightly behind him in unconscious order of deference, the eldest lawyer just by his shoulder, with the other man and the woman each a half-step further back. As they advanced towards us over the lawn the effect was like watching a mother duck trailed by her brood. Albeit much more predatory.
I’d told Lundy I’d go back to the mortuary, expecting he’d want to speak to Leo Villiers’ father by himself. The DI nodded, distracted, but then called me back.
‘On second thoughts, Dr Hunter, can you stick around for a bit? If you don’t mind, it might help to have you here.’ He arranged his features into an affable smile as the group bore down on us. ‘Can I help you, Sir Stephen?’
‘Where’s your senior officer?’
The voice was like ice. Leo Villiers’ father was dressed as impeccably as before, a mid-grey cashmere coat over a darker grey suit. Everything about him was precise, from the closely trimmed fingernails to the parting in the slightly thinning hair. But the hair was already being ruffled by the stiff breeze blowing from the sea, and underneath the controlled demeanour was a sense of fury barely held in check.
‘Not here at the moment,’ Lundy told him. ‘Was she expecting you? If she knew you were coming, I’m sure she’d have—’
‘I want you off my property.’
Lundy’s eyebrows went up. ‘I was under the impression that this was your son’s house. Have I got that wrong?’
The most senior lawyer hurriedly cut in. ‘The house and its grounds are part of the Villiers estate. I suggest you leave straight away or you’ll be facing charges of harassment and illegal damage.’
‘Well, we wouldn’t want that,’ Lundy said equably. ‘We do have a warrant to search the property, though. I thought you’d seen it, but if you like I can—’
‘We don’t recognize the warrant’s validity. It’s been issued on entirely spurious grounds, for no other reason that I can see but to cause unnecessary emotional suffering to a bereaved father.’
The lawyer spoke with considerably more bluster than his employer, who continued to regard Lundy coldly. Lundy seemed unperturbed.
‘Well, I don’t know about “spurious”. I’d have thought finding a body with half its face blown away was grounds enough. What with it wearing Leo Villiers’ clothes and all.’ The DI raised his eyebrows at Sir Stephen. ‘You remember, the ones you identified?’
Sir Stephen stared at him. ‘Are you accusing me of lying?’
‘Perish the thought.’ From anyone else it might have sounded insincere. ‘We’re not disputing that the clothes were your son’s, just the body. As his father I’d have thought you’d be keen to find out what’s going on.’
‘There’s nothing to find. My son died in a tragic accident, and his body was discovered three days ago. I saw it for myself, and until now the police seemed convinced as well. Now I’m to believe your earlier assertio
ns were wrong? That smacks of incompetence.’
‘No, it’s just allowing for new facts. Dr Hunter here’s a forensic anthropologist. He expressed doubts at the time that the body had been in the water long enough to be your son, as I believe DCI Clarke informed you. Now we’ve found more evidence that suggests it wasn’t.’
Sir Stephen’s head turned so the frosty eyes were fixed on me. All three of his lawyers did the same. Thanks, Lundy, I thought.
‘What evidence?’
I glanced at Lundy but he kept his expression bland. All right, then. ‘As far as we can tell, the right foot found in the creek belongs to the body from the estuary. But your son broke his foot playing rugby, so if this was his it would still have the healed breaks. It doesn’t. And if the foot isn’t his, the body can’t be either.’
Sir Stephen considered me. His expression didn’t quite change, but somehow his disdain was made plain. ‘You say this foot was found in the creek.’
‘Yes, that’s—’
‘So it wasn’t anywhere near where my son was found. It wasn’t even in the estuary.’
‘No, but—’
‘Then why would you think it was his? I assume there must be DNA evidence to support your theory?’
He knew full well there wasn’t: Clarke would have told him we were still waiting for the test results. ‘Not yet, but the measurements I took showed—’
‘Measurements.’ The word dripped with scorn. Sir Stephen turned back to Lundy. ‘And this is your evidence?’
‘Once we get the DNA results—’
‘I’m confident they’ll confirm my son is dead. But you don’t have them, do you? So all this …’ A hand gestured contemptuously at the house. ‘… is based on the opinion of a disgraced forensic expert with a reputation as a troublemaker.’
I wasn’t sure if I was stunned more by the insult or that he’d gone to the effort of finding out who I was. He’d barely seemed to notice me at the body recovery. Blood rushed to my face as I started to respond, but Lundy beat me to it.
‘Dr Hunter’s reputation isn’t the issue here, Sir Stephen. He didn’t invent your son’s broken foot, he just confirmed discrepancies between the remains and the X-rays you yourself provided. Of course, if you really want to move the identification along you could always let us see the rest of his medical records. That’d help no end.’
Lundy sounded as amiable as ever, but no one there could have been fooled. The senior lawyer hurried to fill the silence.
‘Sir Stephen has already made his position very clear. Medical records are, and should remain, private. In the interests of cooperation an exception was made for the X-rays, but—’
‘There is nothing in my son’s medical records that would help this investigation.’ Sir Stephen spoke over his lawyer as though the man weren’t there. ‘If you have grounds to believe otherwise, then please share them. If not then I’m sure there are more productive ways of spending police time than wasting it here. As I’ll be sure to mention to your superiors.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ Lundy said pleasantly. ‘In fact, here’s one of them now.’
DCI Clarke was hurrying across the lawn past the house, face set and mackintosh slapping around her legs. Lundy pursed his lips when he saw her expression.
‘You might as well head on back,’ he murmured to me as Sir Stephen and his entourage turned towards Clarke. ‘I’ll call you later.’
The DCI didn’t acknowledge me as we passed each other, but I wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries either. My face was still burning as I followed the path round to the rear of the house to where the cars were parked, still fuming over the run-in with Sir Stephen. Of all the smug, arrogant … Christ, what sort of man didn’t even bother to ask who the police thought the body might belong to?
Or why it had been found in his son’s clothes?
At the plastic bins set out for the used protective clothing, I yanked at the zipper on my coveralls so hard it jammed. I wrenched at it bad-temperedly, swearing under my breath when the paper fabric ripped.
‘Bad day at the office?’
I hadn’t noticed anyone nearby. The man who’d spoken was leaning against a sleek black Daimler, and it was more the car than his face that jogged my memory. Then I took in the pockmarked cheeks and recognized Sir Stephen’s driver from the oyster factory.
He was smoking again, a thin plume rising from the half-smoked cigarette he held by his side. From where he stood he had a good view of the path at the side of the house, and he flicked another glance towards it now.
‘You’re OK, they’re still talking,’ I said, still struggling with the partially zipped coveralls.
He smiled, giving a nod of acknowledgement as he took another drag on the cigarette. He looked older than I’d thought, definitely closer to fifty than forty. If he hadn’t been standing by the car again I doubt I’d have remembered him. Even with the acne scarring, he wasn’t the sort of man who would stand out in a crowd. His features were pleasant but nondescript, and the neatly trimmed hair was the sort of non-colour that lightened rather than greyed with age. Now I looked at him I saw a compactness about his slim build that belied his sedentary job, but it wasn’t immediately obvious. In his navy-blue suit – a durable synthetic blend – he could have been an accountant or a civil servant. He could have been anything.
‘Not another one, is it?’ he asked, lifting his chin towards the activity at the house.
‘Another what?’
He smiled, acknowledging the evasion. ‘A body. First the one in the estuary, then one yesterday. Seems like there’s quite a glut of them.’
‘If you say so.’
As far as I knew, the police hadn’t announced that a second body had been found. Word was bound to get out, but the remoteness of the Backwaters had worked better than any attempt to restrict publicity.
But Sir Stephen’s driver clearly knew something. He shrugged and took a drag of his cigarette. ‘Suit yourself. I’m not asking you to tell me anything, just saying what I’ve heard.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Well, if you’re not going to tell me why should I tell you?’
He smiled, as though we were sharing a private joke. But his eyes remained watchful and shrewd in their nest of laughter lines. He blew a stream of smoke off to one side, away from me.
‘Only kidding. All I know is another body turned up yesterday. One of the perks of a job like mine. People think you’re part of the furniture and forget you’ve got a pair of ears.’
So someone had told his employer, and he had overheard. I wondered if the information had come officially or courtesy of Sir Stephen’s friends in high places. I didn’t respond, busying myself shucking out of the ruined coveralls.
‘He’s never been any different.’
I looked up, not sure what that was supposed to mean. The driver took another pull on the cigarette.
‘The old man’s son,’ he said, smiling through the smoke. ‘Always was a wanker. Some people don’t know when they’re well off.’
I was saved from having to answer. I nodded towards the house as I wadded up the coveralls and dumped them in a bin.
‘I think your boss has finished.’
His head snapped round as Sir Stephen and his lawyers appeared from around the front of the house. Evidently the discussion with Clarke had been a short one. Without seeming to hurry, the driver came to attention, the cigarette vanishing as though by sleight of hand.
Not wanting anything more to do with any of them, I turned and walked away.
18
I WORKED AT the mortuary until after six. I would have stayed later but I was mindful of Trask’s dinner invitation and wanted to get back to the boathouse to change. There wasn’t much more I could have done by then anyway.
I’d spent the afternoon taking the rest of the cleaned bones of the estuary body out of the stew formed by the detergent, rinsing them off before setting them out in their correct position on a table to air dry.
Cleaned of any soft tissue, the individual bones were creamy-white and smooth, from the elegant curve of the ribs to the intricate discs of the vertebrae. This was a human being reduced to its most basic mechanical components, biological sculptures that gave no sense of the person they’d once been. It was a final indignity imposed on what had not so long ago been a living individual. But it was a necessary one, and to my mind far less of an affront than the act that had ended this man’s life.
With luck it would tell us more about who he was.
Reassembling a skeleton becomes easier with practice. Essentially, it’s repeating variations on the same jigsaw puzzle, where the pieces are familiar yet different each time. With the obvious exception of the cranium, the skeleton was in good condition. Not only was there an absence of any other violent trauma, but there were no old injuries, deformations or signs of degradation due to disease or age. The most remarkable thing about it was how unremarkable it was.
If time wasn’t such an issue I’d have waited until the skeleton was fully reassembled before examining it. I would do that again anyway before I wrote my report. But I’d been able to get a good idea of the condition and characteristics of the bones as I’d been handling them, and a picture was already beginning to form. With the quiet hum of the fume hood as accompaniment, I let the lingering anger over Sir Stephen slough away and lost myself in what I was doing. It was straightforward, repetitive work, the sort of thing I’d done so many times before that it had acquired a meditative quality. When an APT came to tell me Lundy was on the phone, I was surprised by how quickly the afternoon had gone.
Leaving the chemical and cooked-meat smell of the examination room, I went to take the call. Lundy began by apologizing.
‘I shouldn’t have put you in that position with Sir Stephen,’ he said. ‘I thought it might help to hear it from the horse’s mouth, but I should have realized he’d take aim at you as well.’
‘I’ve had worse,’ I told him. ‘I was just surprised he’d bothered to do a background check.’