Chapter Fifteen
Fifteen
The morgue wasn’t far from Highgate Cemetery. “Convenient,” said Geoffrey. “Town planning. You see, there was a time when this country knew what it was doing.”
They took the bus there, which was a novelty for Margaret.
Her working life had been all black cabs and ministerial cars.
After Parliament, she’d owned a series of VW Golfs she’d been too scared to drive any farther than the big Sainsbury’s.
Thatcher had said that anyone over the age of thirty who found themselves on a bus was a failure.
This Margaret wouldn’t have put it like that.
It was quite exciting, actually, sitting on a bus, surrounded by people from different walks of life, none of them knowing that she was on her way to her first autopsy.
A younger woman offered Geoffrey her seat but he insisted on not taking it. Silly, really. Watching him sway around on his eighty-year-old legs, out of pride.
One young man was playing music from his phone.
No headphones, just out loud, to the whole bus.
A kind thought, but Margaret would have appreciated a say in the choice of song.
His tune seemed to be mostly about licking a pussy.
Didn’t pussies lick themselves? I suppose that’s one way of giving your cat a bath, thought Margaret.
Margaret was very impressed with the way Catherine directed them to the right place.
They were the blue dot on her phone, and as long as the blue dot was going toward the right address, then they were fine.
Geoffrey explained that it was all done with satellites, and Margaret explained that as a former minister for science, who’d been responsible for funding half of them, she knew that very well.
“Are you sure they’re expecting us?” said Margaret. “All three of us?”
“Don’t worry,” said Catherine. “It’s all arranged.”
“And they don’t mind us being there?”
“Don’t worry.”
They must have been a funny sight, the three of them, shuffling through the car park, looking for the entrance.
A middle-aged man in a crumpled suit was hunched over, working his way through a cigarette. A younger, tidier lady stood beside him, her blond hair neatly tied back. Margaret recognized them as the police officers who’d come to speak to them in the ballroom the night before.
DCI Bob Beattie stubbed out his cigarette and squinted at the trio of retirees. “Are you lost?”
“We’re looking for the dead bodies,” said Margaret.
“Unless they’ve moved things around since I worked here, I think we should be fine,” said Catherine. “Chief Inspector Beattie, yes? And DS Laura…Sorry, what was it?” Catherine extended her hand.
“Welsh,” said Laura, shaking it.
“Oh, yes. Welsh. You made that terrible joke, didn’t you, Bob? What is that? Is it a nerves thing?”
“Sorry, what’s going on?” said Bob, agitated.
“My name is Catherine. This is Margaret, and this is Geoffrey. We’re residents at Sheldon Oaks and we’re here for Desmond’s autopsy.”
“Hold up,” said Bob. “That’s not…No. I’m sorry, no. That’s not going to happen. This isn’t a public event.”
“The pathologist is Dr. Stephen Turnham, yes? I know Stephen very well. He used to work for me,” said Catherine.
“Okay, but why are you here?” asked Laura. “Isn’t it traditional to wait for the funeral to pay your respects?”
“Well, we’re rather worried,” said Catherine. “There appears to be a murderer on the loose in our home, and we think we have something to offer your investigation. I’m a former pathologist. Margaret here is in the House of Lords and used to run the Home Office.”
“And I used to be a copper, which I tried to tell you the other day, but you weren’t interested,” said Geoffrey.
Bob let out a sigh, appearing to take a second to adjust to the unusual situation in which he found himself. Flummoxed, he turned to Laura. “Help me out here, Welsh.”
Laura adopted a professional tone. “Thank you all for your offers of help. It’s clear you have expertise. As I’m sure you can appreciate, a murder investigation is a sensitive thing. We can’t allow members of the public, however distinguished, to get involved.”
“Distinguished. Good word, good word,” said Bob. “Yep. That’s where we’re at with it. You’re all very distinguished but I’m going to have to ask you, very kindly, to do one.” Bob waggled his thumb, suggesting the direction in which he thought they ought to sod off.
“No, thank you,” said Catherine. “We’re coming in.”
“I don’t get it,” said Laura. “Why do three retired people want to come to an autopsy?”
“Because, my dear,” said Margaret, “we are bored.”
—
Margaret wasn’t sure what to expect. She’d seen this sort of thing on television.
Didn’t they keep the bodies in drawers? Had she remembered that right?
Would the room be cold? She’d dressed for the mild weather, not an indoor freezer.
And how would she react when she saw the body?
What if she had a completely unexpected response?
Fainted or started screaming or broke into uncontrolled song?
The smell hit her. Chemicals, like a photography lab, back when that was still a thing.
“Hello, everybody, hello, Catherine. How exciting. We have an audience today.” The man was in his fifties and carried himself like an accountant.
The sort of person, thought Margaret, you’d see on a train eating shortbread biscuits and it would never occur to you that they spent their days with corpses.
Beside him there was a plump girl in her twenties.
The kind people used to call bubbly. She reminded Margaret of her younger self.
“My name is Dr. Stephen Turnham. This is Gemma.”
The echoey room had white brick walls. There was a sink, various pieces of apparatus that hinted at the grim nature of the job: knives, pliers, scissors, a saw.
Margaret swallowed. A green hose hung on the wall.
Dr. Turnham walked over to a table with a black sheet over what Margaret assumed must be the body.
“Is everybody ready?”
They all nodded solemnly.
“Yes,” said Margaret quietly. She steadied herself.
Dr. Turnham whipped off the sheet to reveal the body of Sir Desmond Crisp, their friend. Margaret instinctively crossed herself. Geoffrey, she noticed, was looking away. He appeared to be going green.
“As you are all aware, he fell from a roughly fifty-foot height,” said Turnham breezily.
“He appears to have landed on his back. Skull fracture, fractured collarbone, spine broken in five places, broken hip. Trauma to the abdomen resulting in ruptured intestines and a severe leakage of semi-digested beef. Right leg broken. Left leg fine so, for his football career’s sake, let’s hope he’s a left-footer.
Joke. Severe damage to the brain, heart failure, and a collapsed lung.
Ladies and gentleman, at this point I can confidently state that this man is dead. But this is where it gets interesting.”
It was about to get more interesting? Margaret, fascinated, was already wishing she could relive her life and try pathology as a career.
“Desmond Crisp would most likely have died without the fall. He may have been dead before he came off the roof.”
Bob popped nicotine gum into his mouth and chewed intently.
Dr. Turnham pointed to the cadaver’s forehead. “This is a blow to the head, most likely not caused by impact from the fall but by him being struck with an object. You see this circular imprint? It’s about forty-five millimeters in diameter. Somebody hit him.”
Catherine quickly took a notepad from her handbag and started scribbling. Laura frowned, annoyed, wondering if she should be doing the same.
The pathologist continued: “Take a look at the neck. This redness here indicates that the victim was strangled. The abrasions suggest some kind of fabric was in contact with his skin. A scarf could have been used, or perhaps they were wearing gloves.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Bob. “Some fucker really wanted Des dead.” He then looked to the elderly ladies beside him. “Excuse my French.”
We’re looking at a dead body, thought Margaret. Swear away.
“There’s more,” said Dr. Turnham. “We’ve had a look at his bloods.
The victim was poisoned. We’re waiting on Toxicology for an exact ID on the substance.
Might take a while. Let’s just say they’re no Speedy Gonzalezes in that department.
” He turned to Gemma, his assistant. They rolled their eyes, sharing in a workplace gripe that meant nothing to anyone else in the room.
“All right. Well, thank you, Stephen,” said Catherine, adjusting the shoulder strap on her handbag. “Is there anything else we should know?”
Bob Beattie looked affronted. He cleared his throat, attempting to establish his control of the room. “I’ll take the lead, if you don’t mind. Right. Um. Yeah, is there anything else we should know?”
Dr. Turnham thought for a second. “I can tell you what Desmond Crisp ate for his last meal if you’re interested?”
“Ooh, yes, please!” said Margaret.
“Shepherd’s pie.”
Margaret’s belly rumbled.
—
The group decided to walk home, across the Heath. Rather a long way, but no one wanted to be the person to say no. They were all shell-shocked by what they’d seen but also, if they were honest with themselves, a little energized.
For London, Hampstead Heath was wild, myriad paths heading in all directions. A lack of order. The taller patches of grass were as high as Margaret.
“Mark my words,” said Geoffrey, focused on nothing but where they’d just been. “This is the work of an experienced killer.”
“If it was Carol, and I’m not saying it wasn’t, but if it was, why Desmond?” said Margaret.
“You don’t need a motive,” said Geoffrey. “Not in a court of law. You just need to be able to prove they did it.”
“Which we can’t,” said Catherine. “I’m with Margaret. Whether it’s needed or not, I’d like to know her motive.”
“What we’re dealing with is a psychotic mind,” said Geoffrey. “She did it for the thrill of it.”
Margaret tried to imagine it, the lady she knew murdering—murdering—Desmond. “Well, I thought she was lovely. Perhaps I’m just a terrible judge of character. I suppose the pair of you have psychotic minds, too, do you?”
“Is it all right if we take a seat for a moment?” said Catherine.
All three of them fell back onto the same bench, each pensioner making their own unique sound. In the quiet, they heard crickets. A dragonfly fluttered chaotically between blades of grass, entirely unaware that it lived in a city.
“Well, this is nice,” said Margaret.
“Of course, it is one of the most notable gay cruising areas in Europe.”
“Thank you, Geoffrey.”
“Just a little factoid I thought you might find interesting.”
“Yes, thank you, Geoffrey.”
“Personally, I’m all for it. Let people do what they want. Whatever floats your boat. They’ve got special names for all the things they do, you know.”
“Geoffrey!”
“The spoon! He licked the spoon!” said Catherine.
“Yep, that’s one of them—”
“No, at the last baking club. The day before he died. He left early, you remember?”
“Yes, I remember,” said Margaret.
“He asked if he could lick the bowl. He always did that, didn’t he? Big kid, really. And Carol—”
Margaret interrupted Catherine with one of her yelps before shouting, “Carol handed him a spoon!”