Author: Peter Robinson
Category: Other
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Dr Galway’s face sported a healthy glow from the run, and she had most of her slightly greying hair tucked under a cap. She was an attractive woman, but perhaps better described as handsome rather than pretty or beautiful, Banks thought, pondering on what the differences and distinctions were. She had serious green eyes, in which her intelligence was clear to see, strong features, a rather large nose, thin, tight lips, and a high, domed forehead. Her fingers were long and tapered, her hands smooth and flawless as a young girl’s. As far as Banks knew, she was in her mid-forties, married with two daughters approaching university age, and she clearly kept herself in good shape.
She turned to the boy’s naked body on the slab, his head supported by a padded block. ‘It’s odd,’ she said, ‘but the stab wounds hardly look lethal now, do they? Nothing more than the sort of minor cuts any young lad might get climbing a tree or whatever they do these days.’
‘But?’
‘Narrow, very sharp, pointed, four-inch, one-edged blade. Maybe a kitchen knife of some sort. Upward thrusts.’ She made a gesture in demonstration.
‘Four inches isn’t very long.’
‘It’s long enough to kill, believe me.’
‘Any other injuries?’
‘None. No defence wounds, if that’s what you’re wondering. I’d say the attack took him by surprise. But look at that.’ She pointed to a puckered area on the boy’s upper right thigh.
‘What is it?’ Banks asked.
‘Scar tissue. I’ll need a closer examination to tell you more.’
‘What about time of death? Any idea?’
Dr Galway turned the body over. Gently, Banks thought. ‘I’ve done all the requisite tests, and I can’t tell you much more than you know already. Rigor’s been and gone, and hypostasis is established in the lower extremities, which agrees with the position in which he was discovered. Death probably occurred sometime between nine and eleven o’clock on Sunday evening.’
‘And he’d been in the bin all night?’
‘Ten to twelve hours. That’s only a rough estimate, mind you.’
‘How long had he been dead before he was dumped?’
‘Now, that’s interesting. I can’t give you an exact time, but I can tell you that some time passed between death and the final positioning of the body.’
‘Can’t you narrow it down a bit?’
Dr Galway smiled. ‘Sorry I can’t be any more exact than that. Hypostasis starts – that means the blood begins to obey gravity and descend to the body’s lowest parts – some twenty minutes to half an hour after the heart has stopped. I can’t say how long he survived after the stabbing, but as I have suggested, it wasn’t very long. Minutes rather than hours. Anyway, the hypostasis isn’t usually visible to the naked eye until around two hours after death. It’s also a lot harder to see on darker skin tones. You can tell, however, by the lighter bands – where the body was touching a hard surface, the shoulders, lower back and so on – that the process had started while he was still on his back.’
‘How long was he on his back?’
‘I can’t say for certain. I may get a better idea once I open him up, but right now the best I can do is between one and two hours. You must understand, that does not mean I’m concluding that he was on his back for two hours after death.’
‘Got it,’ said Banks. ‘But he was on his back for a short period of time, perhaps being transported?’
‘He was on his back for a while. I can’t say where or why.’
‘OK. We have good reason to believe that he was dumped in the bin between eleven and half past, and you’re saying he died maybe two hours before then?’ If the boy had been dead for two hours before being dumped in the bin, then he would have died between nine and half past. If he had only been dead one hour, then it had happened between ten and half past. It could make a lot of difference down the line, depending on where the investigation took them.
Dr Galway sighed. ‘I said between one and two hours. I don’t think it was any longer. I understand your frustration, Superintendent, I really do, but I can only be as exact as science allows me. Shall I continue?’
‘Sorry. Any leads on where he’s from?’
‘I’ve sent samples to Ms Singh in the lab, so DNA analysis might tell us something. At a guess, though, from experience, I’d say he’s probably from Syria, Iraq or Saudi Arabia. Those would be the most obvious choices. But as for how long he’s been over here, I can’t tell you. There might be some indications from the samples at the lab. Certain chemicals or elements found in the teeth, bones and hair, that sort of thing.’
‘What about his age?’
‘Again, it’s an estimate, but I’d say no younger than twelve and no older than fourteen. He’s definitely in early adolescence. There’s pubic hair, hints of facial hair, and you can see the testicles have grown already. I’ll know better when I’ve had a good look around inside. Shall I get started?’
‘I’ll robe up,’ said Banks.
‘Vicks?’
‘For sissies.’
Dr Galway laughed as she applied a little of the vapour rub under her nostrils. ‘Call me a sissy then, but you can give me Vicks over a perforated bowel any day.’
‘You know it’s not good for you to do that?’ Banks said. ‘Rub it right under your nostrils.’
‘I know. Camphor’s toxic and shouldn’t be swallowed or absorbed.’
‘So?’
Dr Galway made a face. ‘So bite me.’
‘You’re the doctor.’ Banks put on his gown and cap and took his position far enough away from the slab so Dr Galway and her two assistants had room to manoeuvre. First the doctor carried out a close examination of the body’s exterior and spoke her comments to the microphone that hung above the table. There wasn’t really anything new. Not that Banks had expected much. The boy had no tattoos or piercings, only the mysterious scar; his pale brown skin was otherwise smooth and unblemished, apart from the stab marks.
‘One thing I can tell you before going any further,’ said Dr Galway, ‘is that there are no signs of sexual activity or abuse, and no recent physical abuse, other than the stab wounds, of course.’
‘That’s good to know,’ said Banks.
When Dr Galway began making the Y incision and removing the boy’s inner organs, Banks noticed that she worked slowly and methodically, pausing occasionally to share a thought with her assistants, who looked fresh out of medical school, or to make a comment for the audio record. Dr Glendenning, her predecessor, had been far more cavalier. Brilliant, certainly, but his post-mortems had taken place at a faster pace, a flurry of organs flying here and there – or so it seemed – and, in the early days at least, surrounded by a fug of cigarette smoke. But Dr Glendenning, despite his speed and impatience, had also been thorough.
The organs had to be examined and weighed before being sent for further toxicological analysis to determine the presence of drugs, poisons and malnutrition. Unlikely as it was, there was always a distant chance that the boy had been poisoned before he’d been stabbed.
When she had finished, Dr Galway left her assistants to sew up, removed her surgical gown and gloves, washed and invited Banks into her office. A family photograph was the only personal item on her tidy desk, and on the wall opposite hung a framed print of Rembrandt’s ‘The Anatomy Lesson of Dr Nicolaes Tulp’.
She must have seen him staring at the picture because she said, ‘Some people think it’s a bit gruesome, but I could stare at it for hours. I once went to The Hague for a weekend specially to see the original canvas.’ She crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair. ‘Anatomy lessons were real social events back in the seventeenth century, you know. Even the general public were allowed in if they paid an entrance fee.’
‘Executions were public back then, too,’ said Banks.
Dr Galway nodded. ‘Yes. I sometimes get the impression there’s quite a few people around who wouldn’t mind watching them on television these days. But enough of that. What c
an I tell you from the post-mortem? Well, there’ll be a full report in due time, of course, and I don’t like preliminary reports, but I’ll tell you what I know. Externally, at any rate, the boy’s organs were in excellent shape. His aorta and pancreas were punctured by a four-inch knife blade, and the bleeding from the aorta was, I’d say, the immediate cause of death.’
‘Dr Burns said at the scene that one of the thrusts might have pierced or punctured his right ventricle.’
Dr Galway shook her head. ‘I can see how he might have thought that at the scene,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen the photographs, and the body was in a very awkward position to examine. But it was definitely the punctured aorta that caused death.’
‘What about that hypostasis you suspected earlier?’
‘It is present, to a small degree, exactly where you would expect it to be if he’d been lying on his back.’
‘Can you give me a better idea of how long, now that you’ve opened him up?’
Dr Galway tilted her head. ‘You don’t give up easily, do you.’
Banks smiled. ‘Not in my job description.’
‘From what I could see – in my judgement, and based on previous experience – I’d narrow it to an hour, an hour and a half at the most.’
That meant the boy had probably died between half past nine and ten o’clock. Banks would have guessed at a later time simply because it was darker then, but if he had been killed inside, the darkness wouldn’t matter. ‘Thank you, doctor. So whoever killed him had maybe an hour to an hour and a half to get him from wherever he died to the spot where he was found. How long would it have taken for death to occur after his injuries?’
‘Hard to say. Almost anything can happen with stab wounds. You’d be surprised how often they’re not even fatal. In this case, though, he would probably have survived long enough to feel the life ebbing out of him, poor lad. There was quite a lot of blood, as you saw, and there would have been plenty at the scene, too, but even so, a lot of the bleeding was internal. It often is. The wound closes when the knife is pulled out. Unless you hit a lung, of course, then there’s usually bloody spray from the mouth. Whether he could have been saved is a moot point. Personally, I doubt it. A pierced aorta is about as serious a wound as it gets, and even if a good doctor had opened him up immediately, survival would have been doubtful, at best. Whether the intent was to kill or not, I’m afraid that’s for the courts to decide. I have no idea what happened, what the killer had in mind. It’s rare that anyone knows how to use a knife properly, the way a commando might, for example, or someone skilled in close hand-to-hand combat.’ She gestured with a pencil. ‘Most people just thrust away and hope for the best. It looks like that’s what happened in this case.’
‘You mentioned earlier that there are no defensive wounds.’
‘That’s right. There’s no evidence of a fight, as such. I’d guess the poor lad was terrified and backed away from whoever was attacking him.’
‘But one of the thrusts struck the aorta.’
‘Yes.’ Dr Galway paused. ‘Apart from the stab wounds, he was in excellent shape. Fit as the proverbial fiddle, though there are indications of malnutrition in the recent past.’
‘Malnutrition?’
‘Yes. Of course, we’ll need close analysis of liver, bones, immune system, amino acids and pancreas, among other things, to determine protein deficiencies and vitamin markers, and to find out just how severe and long-lasting the condition was, but you could see even before I opened him up that he was painfully thin. It’s not the cause of death, but it may have played a part, weakened his system. One of the problems with malnutrition is that it’s hard to measure, especially if it occurred some time ago and the subject is deceased. It’s something a doctor would want to diagnose while the patient is still alive, as it can usually be reversed. The stomach contents showed he’d eaten a burger and chips shortly before death. So at least he was eating recently.’
‘What kind of burger?’
‘A Big Mac.’ Dr Galway laughed. ‘Only joking. Autopsy humour. Really, Superintendent. Your guess is as good as mine. I’ll get it analysed, if you like. Obviously if certain ingredients are present, that would help us identify its source. I’m afraid we don’t have a burger database yet.’
‘It might be something worth working on,’ Banks joked. ‘Pizzas, too. How long before he died did he eat?’
‘Not long. The food wasn’t digested. Maybe an hour or two.’
That meant Banks could send his team to question all the local burger joints and perhaps find out where the boy had been eating just before he was killed.
‘But you can’t say how long ago the malnutrition took place?’
‘No. Not very recently is my guess right now. Not days. More likely weeks or months ago. Perhaps with the analysis I could give a better estimate. Does it matter?’
‘I’m just wondering if he could have arrived in this country recently from somewhere children don’t get enough to eat. Maybe by boat or some other means.’
‘You mean smuggled in?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t possibly answer that. There are children – far too many, in my opinion – living in this country who suffer from malnutrition. I can see where you’re going with this, though, and I can see why you’re going there, but I’d still advise caution before you come to any conclusions.’
‘Of course,’ said Banks. ‘We’d certainly require corroborating evidence, no matter what your findings. Lacking any evidence of parents or other relatives nearby, I’m just trying to work out where to start searching. If he’s a recent immigrant or an asylum seeker, he’ll be registered somewhere, and there are checks we can do. If he’s illegal, we’ll probably be out of luck. It’s a start. Any signs of drug abuse? We did find cocaine in his pocket, as you know.’
‘None at all. Again, we’ll have to wait for a complete analysis of samples to confirm it, but none of the common signs of cocaine use are present.’
‘Anything else?’
‘There is that scar.’
‘What about it?’
Dr Galway paused and glanced at the painting on her wall, as if for inspiration. ‘Again, I hesitate to draw conclusions, but it’s too broad to have been caused by a knife blade, and it went deep. It also went largely untreated. You just have to look at the scar tissue to see that.’
‘So what do you suggest?’
‘I have some experience of these types of wounds from my misspent youth, and I’d say it’s an old gunshot wound – what you might call a flesh wound, painful but not life-threatening – or perhaps caused by a piece of shrapnel.’
‘Where on earth did you get such experience?’
Dr Galway paused before answering, then said, ‘Iraq. Courtesy of Mr Blair.’
‘Good Lord. How old is it?’
Dr Galway shrugged. ‘Hard to say. It’s healed. Badly. But it’s healed. The tissue is no longer inflamed, and there’s no infection. It’s a clean scar. Again, perhaps months, maybe a year. He was still growing, so it’s hard to know how much it has already been distorted by that process. And malnutrition slows down growth, so that might have had an effect, too.’
‘Even so . . . If he suffered from malnutrition, and perhaps bore the effects of a bullet or shrapnel wound, and he came from the Middle East, I think that narrows down our search quite a lot. At least it gives us some idea as to what he was doing here.’
‘Escaping a war? Looking for a better life? Don’t forget, Superintendent, a fair bit of the Middle East is a war zone at any given time.’
Banks stood up. ‘Thanks very much, doctor,’ he said. ‘You’ve been a great help.’
Dr Galway smiled. ‘It’s kind of you to say so. But probably not true. I’ll be in touch if I get any further in proving my theories.’
‘Please do,’ said Banks, and left.
‘Coffee?’ said Banks when he bumped into Annie in the corridor back at the station.
Annie held up the folder she
was carrying. ‘Just let me dump this on my desk. I’m on my way back from the lab. See you downstairs in a couple of minutes?’
Banks idled away the time chatting with the desk officer, who had been fending off reporters for most of the morning. When Annie came down, her jacket slung over her shoulder, they headed out for the Costa on Market Street. One or two members of the press shouted questions, but Banks and Annie ignored them. It was another fine spring morning, and a couple of tourist coaches were disgorging their elderly passengers in the cobbled market square. The Costa wasn’t too crowded, and they found a table easily enough. Fortunately, none of the reporters followed them in. Banks inhaled the fresh-ground coffee smell as he stood in the short queue and ordered two lattes.
‘How’s it going?’ he asked after he sat down.
‘Fine,’ said Annie.
‘How’s Ray doing?’
‘Good, as far as I know. He’s over in America at the moment wheeling and dealing.’
‘And Zelda?’
‘I’m sure she’s just fine,’ Annie said, a slight chill in her voice. ‘I haven’t seen her for a while.’
‘Did she ever tell you anything more about her search for Phil Keane?’
‘No,’ said Annie. ‘I just assumed it had fizzled out. Why?’
‘I don’t know. I just got the impression she was holding something back, that’s all. She was pretty quiet the last time we were over there for dinner.’
‘Can’t say as I noticed.’ Annie sipped some latte and wiped away the moustache with her napkin. ‘Anyway, tell me what you’ve got from the post-mortem.’
Banks told her, especially about the evidence of previous malnutrition and the scar that Dr Galway thought might have been caused by a bullet or a piece of shrapnel.
Annie whistled through her teeth. ‘So the thinking now is that he might have been a migrant?’
‘It looks that way. Dr Galway says he was no older than fourteen, maybe even as young as twelve, and we’ve had no reports of anyone matching his description gone missing, and no hint of worried parents, despite all our appeals. That would seem to indicate that he came over alone and hasn’t been processed in any way.’