Lorimer had thought to himself more than once how appropriate these artificial flowers were in a place reserved permanently for the dead.
There were more tasteful arrangements placed in the viewing room where victims might be identified by their families. Today the formalities of identification had been made by officers at the scene, since there was no way of telling who the victim was. Next of kin might wait months before knowing that a family member was lost to them. It happened all the time.
Rosie and Dan were still absorbed in their work with the body on the tray. The vital organs had been replaced, neatly bagged within the torso. Fluid samples had been taken, and already there were containers labelled to be tested in the lab.
‘We’ll be ableto examine samples of tissue,’ Rosie said, her voice coming clearly through the intercom. ‘There were sufficient intact, you know.’
Lorimer raised his eyebrows but made no comment. To him the remains on the table were just that; remains. To a trained pathologist, however, there were innumerable clues to show who this sorry creature had been. Rosie was chatting away cheerfully. She might have been discussing the weather.
‘There may be an infiltration of polymorphonuclear leucocytes into the tissues and into the blister fluid. That would be quite consistent with burns that are sustained by a vital organism. Also there are reddened areas that show the burns were sustained in life.’ She stood back to indicate areas of flesh that showed these patches of red. ‘Do you know, we may even be able to send fingerprints to your lot. You might do a quick ID if he’s got a record.’
There was such bad blisteringthat a positive identification was unlikely from simply looking at the face or body, but in his mind Lorimer tried to match another face to the corpse below him. If his hunch was correct, then he would soon know from the fingerprint records what had become of Valentine Carruthers.
C HAPTER 14
M artin Enderby couldn’t believehis luck. Usually it took a combination of wheedling and cunning to extract decent information from the police. Now they had offered him his story on a plate. The burned-out ambulance was definitely the one mentioned on
Crimewatch
but there was even more to it than that. A body had been recovered from the wreckage, identified as a derelict who had ‘been helping the police with their enquiries’ regarding the St Mungo’s Murders. Chief Inspector Lorimer had forestalled any bombardment of questions from the Press by issuing a statement.
‘We are treating this death as suspicious,’ he had said. ‘However, we do not have any reason to believe that the victim was involved with the murders of the three young women found in St Mungo’s Park.’
Martin had grinned at that. Okay, the guy hadn’t been the killer, but he was involved in some way, otherwise how could he have ended up dead in that ambulance? Lorimer had clammed up at that point, though, almost as if he wanted the gentlemen of the Press to dig deeper for him. And maybe we will, thought Martin. It shouldn’t take too much digging to find out about the derelict. His name was still being withheld until any relatives could be traced.
Martin looked up asa shadow fell across the computer screen on his desk.
‘Davey, my man, just who I need right now!’
He swivelled round on his chair to face the photographer. Davey Baird looked down at him quizzically.
‘How d’you fancy a wee drive out to Strathblane? Take some piccies of a bonfire site?’
The photographer’s thin mouth curled in a sardonic grin.
‘A bit early in the year for Guy Fawkes, isn’t it?’
‘Guy is just about right. Some poor guy copped it out there. Burned to death in that ambulance they were looking for. You know – the one on
Crimewatch
.’
‘Tell me more.’
Davey settled himself onto an adjacent chair, straddling the seat and resting his arms over the back. He listened intently as Martin outlined
There were more tasteful arrangements placed in the viewing room where victims might be identified by their families. Today the formalities of identification had been made by officers at the scene, since there was no way of telling who the victim was. Next of kin might wait months before knowing that a family member was lost to them. It happened all the time.
Rosie and Dan were still absorbed in their work with the body on the tray. The vital organs had been replaced, neatly bagged within the torso. Fluid samples had been taken, and already there were containers labelled to be tested in the lab.
‘We’ll be ableto examine samples of tissue,’ Rosie said, her voice coming clearly through the intercom. ‘There were sufficient intact, you know.’
Lorimer raised his eyebrows but made no comment. To him the remains on the table were just that; remains. To a trained pathologist, however, there were innumerable clues to show who this sorry creature had been. Rosie was chatting away cheerfully. She might have been discussing the weather.
‘There may be an infiltration of polymorphonuclear leucocytes into the tissues and into the blister fluid. That would be quite consistent with burns that are sustained by a vital organism. Also there are reddened areas that show the burns were sustained in life.’ She stood back to indicate areas of flesh that showed these patches of red. ‘Do you know, we may even be able to send fingerprints to your lot. You might do a quick ID if he’s got a record.’
There was such bad blisteringthat a positive identification was unlikely from simply looking at the face or body, but in his mind Lorimer tried to match another face to the corpse below him. If his hunch was correct, then he would soon know from the fingerprint records what had become of Valentine Carruthers.
C HAPTER 14
M artin Enderby couldn’t believehis luck. Usually it took a combination of wheedling and cunning to extract decent information from the police. Now they had offered him his story on a plate. The burned-out ambulance was definitely the one mentioned on
Crimewatch
but there was even more to it than that. A body had been recovered from the wreckage, identified as a derelict who had ‘been helping the police with their enquiries’ regarding the St Mungo’s Murders. Chief Inspector Lorimer had forestalled any bombardment of questions from the Press by issuing a statement.
‘We are treating this death as suspicious,’ he had said. ‘However, we do not have any reason to believe that the victim was involved with the murders of the three young women found in St Mungo’s Park.’
Martin had grinned at that. Okay, the guy hadn’t been the killer, but he was involved in some way, otherwise how could he have ended up dead in that ambulance? Lorimer had clammed up at that point, though, almost as if he wanted the gentlemen of the Press to dig deeper for him. And maybe we will, thought Martin. It shouldn’t take too much digging to find out about the derelict. His name was still being withheld until any relatives could be traced.
Martin looked up asa shadow fell across the computer screen on his desk.
‘Davey, my man, just who I need right now!’
He swivelled round on his chair to face the photographer. Davey Baird looked down at him quizzically.
‘How d’you fancy a wee drive out to Strathblane? Take some piccies of a bonfire site?’
The photographer’s thin mouth curled in a sardonic grin.
‘A bit early in the year for Guy Fawkes, isn’t it?’
‘Guy is just about right. Some poor guy copped it out there. Burned to death in that ambulance they were looking for. You know – the one on
Crimewatch
.’
‘Tell me more.’
Davey settled himself onto an adjacent chair, straddling the seat and resting his arms over the back. He listened intently as Martin outlined
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