Playing with Fire by Peter Robinson Page A

of accelerant, blood samples had been sent for analysis, and the body had been X-rayed for any signs of gunshot wounds and internal injuries. None had been found, only a belt buckle, three pounds sixty-five in loose change, and a signet ring without initials engraved on it.
    â€œThought you wouldn’t know that,” Glendenning went on, casting an eye over his audience: Banks, Geoff Hamilton and Annie Cabbot, fresh from the scene. “And I hope you appreciate my working on a Friday evening,” he went on as he examined the body’s exterior with the help of his new assistant, Wendy Gauge, all kitted out in blue scrubs and a hairnet. Glendenning looked at his watch. “This could take a long time, and you also probably don’t know that I have an important dinner engagement.”
    â€œWe realize you’re a very important man,” said Banks, “and we’re eternally grateful to you, aren’t we, Annie?” He nudged Annie gently.
    â€œWe are, indeed,” said Annie.
    Glendenning scowled. “Enough of your lip, laddie. Do we know who he is?”
    Banks shook his head. “All we know was in the report I sent you. His name’s probably Tom, and he was an artist.”
    â€œIt would help if I knew something about his medical history,” Dr. Glendenning complained.
    â€œAfraid we can’t help you,” said Banks.
    â€œI mean, if he was a drug addict or a drunk or on some sort of dodgy medication…Why do you always make my job so much more bloody difficult than it needs to be, Banks? Can you tell me that?”
    â€œSearch me.”
    â€œOne day I probably will,” Glendenning said. “Inside and out.” He scowled, lit a cigarette, though it was strictly forbidden, and went back to work. Banks envied him the cigarette. He had always smoked at postmortems. It helped to mask the smell of the bodies. And they always smelled. Even this one would smell when Dr. Glendenning opened him up. He’d be like one of those fancy, expensive steaks: charred on the outside and pink in the middle, and if he’d got enough carbon monoxide in his system, his blood would look like cherryade.
    â€œAnyway,” Glendenning went on, “if he was an artist, he was probably a boozer. Usually are in my experience.”
    Annie said nothing, though her father, Ray, was an artist, and a boozer. She stood beside Banks, eyes fixed on the doctor, already looking a little pale. Banks knew she didn’t like postmortems—nobody really did except, arguably, the pathologist—but the more she attended, the sooner she’d get used to them.
    â€œHe’s got burns over about seventy-five percent of the body’s surface area. The most severe burning, the greatest combination of third-and fourth-degree burning, occurs in the upper body area.”
    â€œThat would be the area closest to the point of origin,” said Geoff Hamilton, cool and glum-looking as ever.
    Dr. Glendenning nodded. “Makes sense. Mostly what we’ve got is full-thickness burning on the front upper body. You can see where the surface looks black and charred. That’s caused by boiling subcutaneous fat. The human body keeps on burning long after the fire’s been put out. Sort of like a candle, burning in its own fat.”
    Banks noticed Annie make an expression of distaste.
    â€œFarther down,” Glendenning continued, “on the legs and feet, for example, you can see the skin is pink and mottled in places, covered with blisters. That indicates brief exposure and lower temperature.”
    When Dr. Glendenning got to the external examination of the victim’s head, Banks noticed what looked like skull fractures. “Found something, Doc?” he asked.
    â€œLook, I’ve told you before not to call me Doc. It’s lacking in respect.”
    â€œBut have you found evidence of blows to the head?”
    Glendenning bent over and probed the wounds,