Dagwood sent you in the first place.’
‘Because this place reminds him too much of home?’
‘Well, quite.’ Cadwallader smirked. ‘Shall we get down to business?’
As if she had been waiting for the cue, Tracy appeared from the little room that served as their office. She had donned a set of scrubs and long rubber gloves and wheeled a steel trolley on which had been laid out variousinstruments of torture. McLean could feel Constable MacBride tense beside him, rocking slightly on his heels.
‘Subject is male, African, six foot two. At a guess I’d say late fifties.’
‘Forty-four.’ MacBride’s voice was slightly higher than usual, and there’d been no cutting yet.
‘I’m sorry?’ Cadwallader put his hand over the microphone hanging above the table.
‘He was forty-four, sir. It says so in his file.’ MacBride held up the sheaf of papers he had retrieved from the printer on their way out.
‘Well, he doesn’t look it. Tracy, have we got the right body?’
The assistant checked her paperwork, looked at the tag on the dead man’s foot, then went over to the racks of cold cabinets, opening a couple and peering inside before coming back.
‘Yup,’ she said. ‘Jonathan Okolo. Brought in late last night. Identified by fingerprints from his immigration file.’
‘Well, that is odd.’ Cadwallader turned back to his patient. ‘If he’s only forty-four, I hate to think what kind of life he’s had. OK, let’s continue.’ He went on, examining the body minutely.
‘His hands are rough, fingernails chipped and short. He has a couple of recent scars consistent with splinters in his palms and fingers. Manual labourer of some kind, though I can’t imagine he’d be much good at it, given his health. Ah, here we go.’ The pathologist turned his attention to the dead man’s head, reaching into his thinning, tight-curled, grey hair with a pair of forceps. ‘Specimenjar, please, Tracy. If I’m not mistaken, that’s plaster. His hair’s full of it.’
McLean noticed movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see Constable MacBride furiously scribbling down notes. He smiled; all of this would be typed up and presented to them within the day, but a little enthusiasm never hurt. And besides, it might distract the constable from what was coming next.
There was a certain elegance to the way a skilled pathologist opened up a body. Cadwallader was perhaps the best McLean had ever watched. His deft touch and quiet banter with his assistant went some way towards making the whole process bearable. Even so, he was glad when it was all over and the job of stitching up began. It meant they could get out of the examination room, which in turn meant they could soon leave the building.
‘What’s the verdict, Angus? Can you save him?’ McLean saw the joke raise a flicker of a smile, but it was soon replaced with a worried frown.
‘I’m surprised he lived long enough to kill Smythe, let alone himself,’ Cadwallader said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘He has advanced emphysema, acute cirrhosis of the liver, his kidneys are diseased. Christ alone knows how a heart with so much scar tissue on it could possibly beat regularly enough to let him walk.’
‘Are you suggesting he didn’t kill Smythe?’ A cold shiver ran down McLean’s spine.
‘Oh, he killed him all right. His clothes were soaked in Smythe’s blood and there are traces of it under hisfingernails. That Stanley knife is a perfect fit for the notches in his neck vertebrae. He’s definitely your man.’
‘Could he have had an accomplice?’ McLean had that dull sensation in the pit of his stomach. He knew he’d be unpopular for even mentioning the possibility, but he couldn’t ignore it.
‘You’re the detective, Tony. You tell me.’
14
Carstairs Weddell occupied the entirety of a large Georgian terraced house in the west end of the city. Where the more modern and progressive law firms had moved into purpose-built offices on the
‘Because this place reminds him too much of home?’
‘Well, quite.’ Cadwallader smirked. ‘Shall we get down to business?’
As if she had been waiting for the cue, Tracy appeared from the little room that served as their office. She had donned a set of scrubs and long rubber gloves and wheeled a steel trolley on which had been laid out variousinstruments of torture. McLean could feel Constable MacBride tense beside him, rocking slightly on his heels.
‘Subject is male, African, six foot two. At a guess I’d say late fifties.’
‘Forty-four.’ MacBride’s voice was slightly higher than usual, and there’d been no cutting yet.
‘I’m sorry?’ Cadwallader put his hand over the microphone hanging above the table.
‘He was forty-four, sir. It says so in his file.’ MacBride held up the sheaf of papers he had retrieved from the printer on their way out.
‘Well, he doesn’t look it. Tracy, have we got the right body?’
The assistant checked her paperwork, looked at the tag on the dead man’s foot, then went over to the racks of cold cabinets, opening a couple and peering inside before coming back.
‘Yup,’ she said. ‘Jonathan Okolo. Brought in late last night. Identified by fingerprints from his immigration file.’
‘Well, that is odd.’ Cadwallader turned back to his patient. ‘If he’s only forty-four, I hate to think what kind of life he’s had. OK, let’s continue.’ He went on, examining the body minutely.
‘His hands are rough, fingernails chipped and short. He has a couple of recent scars consistent with splinters in his palms and fingers. Manual labourer of some kind, though I can’t imagine he’d be much good at it, given his health. Ah, here we go.’ The pathologist turned his attention to the dead man’s head, reaching into his thinning, tight-curled, grey hair with a pair of forceps. ‘Specimenjar, please, Tracy. If I’m not mistaken, that’s plaster. His hair’s full of it.’
McLean noticed movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see Constable MacBride furiously scribbling down notes. He smiled; all of this would be typed up and presented to them within the day, but a little enthusiasm never hurt. And besides, it might distract the constable from what was coming next.
There was a certain elegance to the way a skilled pathologist opened up a body. Cadwallader was perhaps the best McLean had ever watched. His deft touch and quiet banter with his assistant went some way towards making the whole process bearable. Even so, he was glad when it was all over and the job of stitching up began. It meant they could get out of the examination room, which in turn meant they could soon leave the building.
‘What’s the verdict, Angus? Can you save him?’ McLean saw the joke raise a flicker of a smile, but it was soon replaced with a worried frown.
‘I’m surprised he lived long enough to kill Smythe, let alone himself,’ Cadwallader said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘He has advanced emphysema, acute cirrhosis of the liver, his kidneys are diseased. Christ alone knows how a heart with so much scar tissue on it could possibly beat regularly enough to let him walk.’
‘Are you suggesting he didn’t kill Smythe?’ A cold shiver ran down McLean’s spine.
‘Oh, he killed him all right. His clothes were soaked in Smythe’s blood and there are traces of it under hisfingernails. That Stanley knife is a perfect fit for the notches in his neck vertebrae. He’s definitely your man.’
‘Could he have had an accomplice?’ McLean had that dull sensation in the pit of his stomach. He knew he’d be unpopular for even mentioning the possibility, but he couldn’t ignore it.
‘You’re the detective, Tony. You tell me.’
14
Carstairs Weddell occupied the entirety of a large Georgian terraced house in the west end of the city. Where the more modern and progressive law firms had moved into purpose-built offices on the
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