‘Uh-huh. Ten-k.’
‘No wonder you’re so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—’
Dr Galway laughed and said in her melodic Irish accent, ‘That’s all right. Never apologise, never explain. That only gets you into more trouble. And once you open the linguistic can of worms... well... what can I say?’
Dr Galway’s face sported a healthy glow from the run, and she had most of her slightly greying hair tucked under a cap. She was an attractive woman, but perhaps better described as handsome rather than pretty or beautiful, Banks thought, pondering on what the differences and distinctions were. She had serious green eyes, in which her intelligence was clear to see, strong features, a rather large nose, thin, tight lips, and a high, domed forehead. Her fingers were long and tapered, her hands smooth and flawless as a young girl’s. As far as Banks knew, she was in her mid-forties, married with two daughters approaching university age, and she clearly kept herself in good shape.
She turned to the boy’s naked body on the slab, his head supported by a padded block. ‘It’s odd,’ she said, ‘but the stab wounds hardly look lethal now, do they? Nothing more than the sort of minor cuts any young lad might get climbing a tree or whatever they do these days.’
‘But?’
‘Narrow, very sharp, pointed, four-inch, one-edged blade. Maybe a kitchen knife of some sort. Upward thrusts.’ She made a gesture in demonstration.
‘Four inches isn’t very long.’
‘It’s long enough to kill, believe me.’
‘Any other injuries?’
‘None. No defence wounds, if that’s what you’re wondering. I’d say the attack took him by surprise. But look at that.’ She pointed to a puckered area on the boy’s upper right thigh.
‘What is it?’ Banks asked.
‘Scar tissue. I’ll need a closer examination to tell you more.’
‘What about time of death? Any idea?’
Dr Galway turned the body over. Gently, Banks thought. ‘I’ve done all the requisite tests, and I can’t tell you much more than you know already. Rigor’s been and gone, and hypostasis is established in the lower extremities, which agrees with the position in which he was discovered. Death probably occurred sometime between nine and eleven o’clock on Sunday evening.’
‘And he’d been in the bin all night?’
‘Ten to twelve hours. That’s only a rough estimate, mind you.’
‘How long had he been dead before he was dumped?’
‘Now, that’s interesting. I can’t give you an exact time, but I can tell you that some time passed between death and the final positioning of the body.’
‘Can’t you narrow it down a bit?’
Dr Galway smiled. ‘Sorry I can’t be any more exact than that. Hypostasis starts — that means the blood begins to obey gravity and descend to the body’s lowest parts — some twenty minutes to half an hour after the heart has stopped. I can’t say how long he survived after the stabbing, but as I have suggested, it wasn’t very long. Minutes rather than hours. Anyway, the hypostasis isn’t usually visible to the naked eye until around two hours after death. It’s also a lot harder to see on darker skin tones. You can tell, however, by the lighter bands — where the body was touching a hard surface, the shoulders, lower back and so on — that the process had started while he was still on his back.’
‘How long was he on his back?’
‘I can’t say for certain. I may get a better idea once I open him up, but right now the best I can do is between one and two hours. You must understand, that does not mean I’m concluding that he was on his back for two hours after death.’
‘Got it,’ said Banks. ‘But he was on his back for a short period of time, perhaps being transported?’
‘He was on his back for a while. I can’t say where or why.’
‘OK. We have good reason to believe that he was dumped in the bin between eleven and half past, and you’re saying he died maybe two hours before then?’ If the boy had been dead for two hours before being dumped in the bin, then he would have died between nine and half past. If he had only been dead one hour, then it had happened between ten and half past. It could make a lot of difference down the line, depending on where the investigation took them.
Dr Galway sighed. ‘I said between one and two hours. I don’t think it was any longer. I understand your frustration, Superintendent, I really do, but I can only be as exact as science allows me. Shall I continue?’
‘Sorry. Any leads on where he’s from?’
‘I’ve sent samples to Ms Singh in the lab, so DNA analysis might tell us something. At a guess, though, from experience, I’d say he’s probably from Syria, Iraq or Saudi Arabia. Those would be the most obvious choices. But as for how long he’s been over here, I can’t tell you. There might be some indications from the samples at the lab. Certain chemicals or elements found in the teeth, bones and hair, that sort of thing.’
‘What about his age?’
‘Again, it’s an estimate, but I’d say no younger than twelve and no older than fourteen. He’s definitely in early adolescence. There’s pubic hair, hints of facial hair, and you can see the testicles have grown already. I’ll know better when I’ve had a good look around inside. Shall I get started?’
‘I’ll robe up,’ said Banks.
‘Vicks?’
‘For sissies.’
Dr Galway laughed as she applied a little of the vapour rub under her nostrils. ‘Call me a sissy then, but you can give me Vicks over a perforated bowel any day.’
‘You know it’s not good for you to do that?’ Banks said. ‘Rub it right under your nostrils.’
‘I know. Camphor’s toxic and shouldn’t be swallowed or absorbed.’
‘So?’
Dr Galway made a face. ‘So bite me.’
‘You’re the doctor.’ Banks put on his gown and cap and took his position far enough away from the slab so Dr Galway and her two assistants had room to manoeuvre. First the doctor carried out a close examination of the body’s exterior and spoke her comments to the microphone that hung above the table. There wasn’t really anything new. Not that Banks had expected much. The boy had no tattoos or piercings, only the mysterious scar; his pale brown skin was otherwise smooth and unblemished, apart from the stab marks.
‘One thing I can tell you before going any further,’ said Dr Galway, ‘is that there are no signs of sexual activity or abuse, and no recent physical abuse, other than the stab wounds, of course.’
‘That’s good to know,’ said Banks.
When Dr Galway began making the Y incision and removing the boy’s inner organs, Banks noticed that she worked slowly and methodically, pausing occasionally to share a thought with her assistants, who looked fresh out of medical school, or to make a comment for the audio record. Dr Glendenning, her predecessor, had been far more cavalier. Brilliant, certainly, but his post-mortems had taken place at a faster pace, a flurry of organs flying here and there — or so it seemed — and, in the early days at least, surrounded by a fug of cigarette smoke. But Dr Glendenning, despite his speed and impatience, had also been thorough.
The organs had to be examined and weighed before being sent for further toxicological analysis to determine the presence of drugs, poisons and malnutrition. Unlikely as it was, there was always a distant chance that the boy had been poisoned before he’d been stabbed.
When she had finished, Dr Galway left her assistants to sew up, removed her surgical gown and gloves, washed and invited Banks into her office. A family photograph was the only personal item on her tidy desk, and on the wall opposite hung a framed print of Rembrandt’s ‘The Anatomy Lesson of Dr Nicolaes Tulp’.
She must have seen him staring at the picture because she said, ‘Some people think it’s a bit gruesome, but I could stare at it for hours. I once went to The Hague for a weekend specially to see the original canvas.’ She crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair. ‘Anatomy lessons were real social events back in the seventeenth century, you know. Even the general public were allowed in if they paid an entrance fee.’