say there’s more than a sporting chance he struck a vehicle before he hit the road.’
‘Had he eaten?’
‘A few hours before – maybe three. All that was in his stomach was water.’
Jenny pictured the empty bottles on the passenger seat. ‘How much water?’
‘A cupful. It’s hard to say. It can take time to be absorbed after death.’
‘He’d walked a mile and a half from his car. There were two empty 300ml water bottles in it. Does that make sense?’
‘That seems about right.’
Biologically perhaps, but Jenny wondered about a sober man who calmly drank water before hurling himself from a road bridge. The two actions seemed incompatible somehow.
‘He was an aid worker. He’d spent a lot of time in Africa, apparently. Might that make you look for something out of the ordinary?’
Dr Kerr shook his head. ‘Forensically, all I found was trauma. Injuries aside, he was a perfectly healthy specimen.’ He gave an apologetic shrug. ‘The boys have tidied him the best they could.’
‘Thank you,’ Jenny said. ‘I know you’re crowded, but if you don’t mind, I shan’t be releasing the body for burial just yet. Not until I have some answers.’
He gave a resigned smile. ‘What possible difference could one more make?’
Jenny led Mrs Jordan in from the main entrance. The long walk down the corridor to the refrigeration unit took them past trolleys stacked two, sometimes three deep. At times such as this, when the mortuary was overwhelmed, the technicians employed what they called a carousel, giving each body that was more than a day old a turn in the fridge until it chilled down to below five degrees. Mrs Jordan passed them without a sideways glance, the light stolen from her eyes by sedating drugs.
They arrived at the fridge. Joe, the junior technician Jenny had met at the door, slid open a tray on the bottom stack of three and gave Jenny a look, awaiting her instruction.
Jenny turned to Mrs Jordan. ‘I’m afraid you won’t be able to identify your husband facially. I’d like to ask you to do it from his hands, if that’s possible.’
Karen Jordan shook her head. ‘I want to see all of him.’
Jenny glanced at the technician. ‘Can you show us the hands, please?’
He leaned down to pull back the flap of plastic at waist level.
‘I said, I want to see all of him,’ Karen Jordan insisted.
‘I really wouldn’t advise—’
‘Are you telling me I can’t see my husband’s face?’ She spoke with a level and determined assurance that didn’t seem to come from the same woman that Jenny had met outside the paediatric ward. It was as if the drugs had allowed only the coldest part of her to remain conscious.
‘If you’re absolutely sure.’
‘Show me.’
Jenny nodded to the technician, who pulled the flap back a little more.
‘All the way,’ Mrs Jordan said.
The hands and arms came into view, and then the savage, crudely stitched autopsy scar than ran from neck to navel along the midline. A separate, oval-shaped piece of plastic covered the staved-in features.
‘I said all ,’ Mrs Jordan said. ‘Do I have to do it myself?’
She moved half a step forward. Jenny touched her arm, holding her back, and indicated to the technician to do as she requested.
He lifted the covering clear. Jenny glanced away, but Mrs Jordan’s gaze held steady. She took in every detail, forcing herself to record the image that would never leave her.
‘It’s Adam,’ she said, then dipped at the knees and touched his still-perfect fingers with a whispered goodbye. As she straightened, she turned to Jenny and said, ‘I suppose we should talk. You probably know more than I do.’
They sat in the staff section of the hospital canteen where they served strong, rich Italian coffee that wasn’t for sale at the public counter. Karen Jordan glanced out of the window, her expression saying she was trying to find something that would make sense of it all.
Jenny said, ‘I spoke to a girl called
‘Had he eaten?’
‘A few hours before – maybe three. All that was in his stomach was water.’
Jenny pictured the empty bottles on the passenger seat. ‘How much water?’
‘A cupful. It’s hard to say. It can take time to be absorbed after death.’
‘He’d walked a mile and a half from his car. There were two empty 300ml water bottles in it. Does that make sense?’
‘That seems about right.’
Biologically perhaps, but Jenny wondered about a sober man who calmly drank water before hurling himself from a road bridge. The two actions seemed incompatible somehow.
‘He was an aid worker. He’d spent a lot of time in Africa, apparently. Might that make you look for something out of the ordinary?’
Dr Kerr shook his head. ‘Forensically, all I found was trauma. Injuries aside, he was a perfectly healthy specimen.’ He gave an apologetic shrug. ‘The boys have tidied him the best they could.’
‘Thank you,’ Jenny said. ‘I know you’re crowded, but if you don’t mind, I shan’t be releasing the body for burial just yet. Not until I have some answers.’
He gave a resigned smile. ‘What possible difference could one more make?’
Jenny led Mrs Jordan in from the main entrance. The long walk down the corridor to the refrigeration unit took them past trolleys stacked two, sometimes three deep. At times such as this, when the mortuary was overwhelmed, the technicians employed what they called a carousel, giving each body that was more than a day old a turn in the fridge until it chilled down to below five degrees. Mrs Jordan passed them without a sideways glance, the light stolen from her eyes by sedating drugs.
They arrived at the fridge. Joe, the junior technician Jenny had met at the door, slid open a tray on the bottom stack of three and gave Jenny a look, awaiting her instruction.
Jenny turned to Mrs Jordan. ‘I’m afraid you won’t be able to identify your husband facially. I’d like to ask you to do it from his hands, if that’s possible.’
Karen Jordan shook her head. ‘I want to see all of him.’
Jenny glanced at the technician. ‘Can you show us the hands, please?’
He leaned down to pull back the flap of plastic at waist level.
‘I said, I want to see all of him,’ Karen Jordan insisted.
‘I really wouldn’t advise—’
‘Are you telling me I can’t see my husband’s face?’ She spoke with a level and determined assurance that didn’t seem to come from the same woman that Jenny had met outside the paediatric ward. It was as if the drugs had allowed only the coldest part of her to remain conscious.
‘If you’re absolutely sure.’
‘Show me.’
Jenny nodded to the technician, who pulled the flap back a little more.
‘All the way,’ Mrs Jordan said.
The hands and arms came into view, and then the savage, crudely stitched autopsy scar than ran from neck to navel along the midline. A separate, oval-shaped piece of plastic covered the staved-in features.
‘I said all ,’ Mrs Jordan said. ‘Do I have to do it myself?’
She moved half a step forward. Jenny touched her arm, holding her back, and indicated to the technician to do as she requested.
He lifted the covering clear. Jenny glanced away, but Mrs Jordan’s gaze held steady. She took in every detail, forcing herself to record the image that would never leave her.
‘It’s Adam,’ she said, then dipped at the knees and touched his still-perfect fingers with a whispered goodbye. As she straightened, she turned to Jenny and said, ‘I suppose we should talk. You probably know more than I do.’
They sat in the staff section of the hospital canteen where they served strong, rich Italian coffee that wasn’t for sale at the public counter. Karen Jordan glanced out of the window, her expression saying she was trying to find something that would make sense of it all.
Jenny said, ‘I spoke to a girl called
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