The fact that the body was lying on its side in a confined space made their task all the more difficult. Martin had trouble easing his hands under its trunk, but eventually he managed, and pulled it clear of the mud. It came free with a great sucking sound; together, the three were able to turn it onto its back and lift it clear of the floor. Rigor mortis had come and gone, so the body was pliable, but the trickiness of their footing meant that they had to inch along, until finally they were able to lay the burden down on the table, face up.
"Thank you, gentlemen," said Dr. Duck. "I wonder if I could have some water now?"
The detective constable, who, the DCC had been amused to learn, was named Martin Andrews, nodded, picked up a bowl from amid the shambles on the floor, filled it from the tap in the sink, and placed it on the table, beside the body's head. The medical examiner thanked him again, and took a box of tissues from his case. He soaked a handful in the bowl, and began to wipe the thick mud from the head and face.
The police officers watched him work in silence for several minutes, until finally he nodded and glanced up at them. "Yes," he murmured, "I thought so." He beckoned. "See here." The three moved in, their eyes following his pointing finger, which drew them to the body's right temple, between the right eye and the top of the right ear. The skin was broken and discoloured. They focused on it, each trying not to look at the rest of the grotesque, puffy, dead face.
Duck pressed the area firmly, his fingers feeling around. "There's been a severe blow to the head; hard enough to cause a fracture, I'd say. What I can't say is whether it was sustained before or after the man went into the water. There's very little blood, but that doesn't mean anything. Only the pathologist will be able to tell you whether the injury was sustained pre- or post-mortem. It's over to him now, I'm afraid."
"Take a look at the wrists," Martin murmured. "Could he have been tied up?"
The examiner frowned, but did as he had been asked. "It's possible, I suppose," he said.
"Time of death?" asked Greatorix.
The ME looked distastefully at the victim, and sniffed. "Several days ago. That's another for the pathologist."
"Okay, doc, fair enough; you can head off now. Give me your statement tomorrow."
"I will' Dr. Duck glanced at his watch. "If I'm lucky, he grumbled, "I might even find a partner for later in the day."
They listened as he squelched his way back up the narrow staircase. The deputy chief patted the body on the shoulder with a gloved hand.
"Inconvenient of you to die," he murmured.
"Identification," said DCS Greatorix, abruptly. "Andrews, don't remove any of his clothing… that'll be done at the mortuary… but go through his pockets."
The young man, who was in his mid-twenties, grimaced. "Could that not wait, boss?" he asked; it was almost a plea.
"No, it can't. Go on, lad; just think of the day when you'll be able to order people like you to do the really dirty work." He turned to
Martin. "Fancy a breath of air, sir?"
"Do I ever." They followed in the doctor's footsteps, up the steep stair and into Miss Bonney's hall. Martin stripped off the all-covering scene-of-crime tunic and threw it on the floor, beside the one that the doctor had discarded. "I won't be going down there again," he said. He looked down at his white shirt, then at his reflection in a mirror that hung on the wall, above the level of the flood.
"Your wife's going to be pleased when she sees that shirt, Andy,"
Greatorix chuckled.
"What makes you think she's going to see it? This one's for the bin."
He frowned, suddenly and savagely. "I hate it when they've been in the water, Rod. It doesn't happen very often with homicides… that's assuming this is… but I had one in Edinburgh a year or so back. What a fucking mess he was in; much worse than that guy."
"It's never nice," the DCS said. His new deputy chief glanced at him, privately feeling self-conscious about being higher in rank than such an experienced and clearly capable officer. The head of CID was somewhere in his fifties, and could have been up to twenty years older than him. Martin knew that he had been a candidate for his job, and guessed that it was only his age that had told against him. Graham Morton, the Chief Constable, had made a point of telling him how highly
Greatorix was rated, but he had known that from the grapevine within the Superintendents' Association.
"I've had a few in my time too," he continued. "They're a bugger to begin with in terms of what you pull out, and they can get worse.
I just hope young Martin comes up with a name and address, otherwise we could have a problem. That's quite a big river over there, especially when it floods, and without an ID we won't have a clue where our guy went in. The only thing I can say with any certainty is that he didn't drift upstream. Christ, he needn't necessarily have gone in in our area at all. I've got a bad feeling about it already, Andy. I know he was in a state, but even at that, he looked like a bum. He needed a shave, and his hair looked as if he'd cut it himself… and badly at that."
"Let's wait for Andrews, then," said the DCS. He led the way out of the front door and down on to the pavement. There was an ambulance parked nearby; its rear doors were open and the crew, a man and a woman, were sitting inside. Two cars were parked alongside; one belonged to the DCS and the other to the detective constable and his sergeant, a woman named Joan Dunn, who was sitting with Miss Bonney in what she called her sewing room, on the upper floor of her home.
Out on the Inch, he saw a television crew. "Who are they?" he asked his colleague.
"Grampian, I think," Greatorix replied. "Yes, I recognise the girl who's talking to Harry Sharp; she's a reporter."
"They can't know what we're up to here then."
"Not yet; they're probably just filming the clear-up, and Harry won't make her any the wiser. But sooner or later she'll work out that the ambulance crew aren't here for a tea-break. Do you want to deal with her when she does?"
"No. Like I said, this is your show."
"Excuse me, sirs." DC Andrews' voice came from behind them, from the doorway. The head of CID waved to him to join them.
"I've been through all his pockets," the young officer reported.
"There's not a clue to his identity. There was nothing there but three pounds seventy-four in his trouser pocket, and this, in the inside pocket of his jacket." He handed something to Greatorix.
The object was encased in plastic. At first, Andy Martin thought it was a driving licence, but realised quickly that if it had been it would have borne a name. He looked closer, and saw that it was a photograph. "Odd," the chief superintendent muttered. He glanced at it idly for a few seconds, then handed it to the deputy chief. "Maybe it's him, in his younger days."
Martin looked at the plastic packet. As he did, some control mechanism within him made him stifle the gasp that sprang to his lips, and held him straight when he felt like wobbling. With its covering, the black-and-white photograph had survived the flood, and was clearly recognisable. It was that of a young man, dark-haired, tall and powerfully built, but no more, he guessed, than twenty-one or twenty-two years old. He was looking solemnly at the camera, and he wore a dark suit with broad lapels. Martin stared at it in silence, until he realised that the other two were staring at him.
The deputy chief constable tucked the likeness into the pocket of his shirt. "I've been promising you all day that I won't interfere, Rod," he said, 'and I still mean it. But I think I can help here. With your permission, I'd like to hold on to this for a day or so. I don't think this is the man inside, but it could help us find out exactly who he is."
"If you can do that, sir…" said the chief superintendent.