All the donor had to do was tick boxes. Mr Galen had ticked burial, then apparently changed his mind and gone for cremation.
In a different pen.
Williams pointed it out to Jarvis, who frowned.
‘I don’t know how I missed that. Any changes should be signed at the point of the change, or a new form must be filled in. They can’t just cross things out!’
Williams flicked to the back of the thin sheaf. Attached to the rear of the form was a largely blank page headed PERSONAL DECLARATION (OPTIONAL).
Samuel Galen had exercised the option.
My daughter, Alexandra, is an alcoholic. I am donating my body to help to train doctors who may one day find a solution to this heartbreaking disease.
Emrys Williams was caught off-guard. The declaration was an oddly moving thing to hold in his hands when just this morning he had found the man’s head in a fridge, crammed between the best and the worst of student cuisine.
‘Most applicants attach a personal statement,’ said Jarvis. ‘Why they choose to donate is important to them.’
Williams went through the rest of the file more quickly. There were next-of-kin consent forms, signed by a Mrs Jackie Galen one day after the date of death, transfer documentation from the local hospital to the university, undertakers’ permissions, and a copy of the death certificate, which gave the cause of death as ‘heart failure due to complications of coma’.
‘Another HobNob?’ said Jarvis, shaking the packet at him.
Williams didn’t hear him.
The death certificate had been signed by a Dr D. Spicer.
51
JUST BEFORE THREE p.m., Emrys Williams opened the double doors and said, ‘Thank you for coming back down so quickly, Dr Spicer.’
‘No problem.’
Williams stood aside for Dr Spicer to pass him, then lingered for a moment to listen to the national anthem swell out of the stadium and float across the city – a sound that never failed to take hold of his heart and give it a patriotic squeeze. The city would be loud tonight and filled with Welshmen dressed as daffodils with their arms around the shoulders of Frenchmen in berets, all celebrating the result in the common language of not being English.
Williams sighed and closed the door.
They talked while they walked. ‘There are just a few things we hope you can help us with. About Patrick Fort, mostly.’
‘Of course,’ said Spicer. ‘Is he OK?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Good,’ said Spicer. ‘Because he’s quite vulnerable, I think.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. You know he was at the university on a disability quota?’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Yes. He’s autistic.’
‘I thought he had Asperger’s?’
‘Well, it’s all on the spectrum. He can be quite detached from reality at times. Paranoid. Confused. That kind of thing.’
‘Sounds like my ex-wife.’
Spicer laughed.
Williams opened the door to Interview Room Three and ushered him inside.
‘Dr Spicer, this is DCI White, who is in charge of the case,’ he said. ‘And you already know Mr Galen.’
The head was on the table in a clear plastic evidence bag.
There was a long silence.
Spicer finally looked at White and said, ‘Hi.’
‘Thanks for coming, Dr Spicer.’
‘No problem.’
‘We’ll try not to keep you long,’ said White. ‘DS Williams is a long way past the end of his shift, and I’m supposed to be at the match.’ He smiled ruefully. Spicer only nodded.
They all sat down, the head between them. Williams and White never glanced at it; Spicer could look at little else. The head was a magnet for his eyes, dragging his gaze back to it whenever it strayed. A fold in the plastic touched the remaining eyeball, making it stand out as if peering directly at Spicer through a peephole to another dimension.
DCI White opened a folder. ‘Patrick Fort has told us some story, Dr Spicer.’
‘I’m not surprised. World of his own. He needs help really.’
‘I agree. But maybe together we can separate fact from fiction.’
‘Yes.’
‘Good,’ said White. ‘Patrick says that you tried to kill him last night.’
‘Does he? That’s ridiculous.’
DCI White flicked through the folder in a show of not knowing what it contained. ‘He says you knocked him off his bicycle on Dumballs Road and then tried to run him down in a car park.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘But he was injured.’
‘How would I know?’ said Spicer. ‘Look, Patrick came to a party at my flat last night. He got very drunk. He left early. If he fell off his bike or got knocked off it, I wouldn’t be surprised.’
DCI White nodded and flicked through the paperwork again. ‘This morning he had a blood alcohol level of zero.’
‘I’m surprised,’ said Spicer, and folded his arms across his chest.
‘Did you leave the party at all?’
‘Yes,’ said Spicer. ‘I went out to get more beer.’
‘Bad planning?’ said White.
‘Students. Free booze. You know?’
‘But not Patrick Fort.’
‘Not if you say so.’ Spicer shrugged. ‘He appeared a little irrational. I assumed he was drunk.’
‘What time did you go out?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Guess.’
‘About eleven.’
‘And what time did you get back?’
‘About half past, I should think.’
‘Get a receipt for the beer?’
‘I’d have to check.’
‘Which shop did you go to?’
‘Asda. In the Bay. What has this got to do with Patrick Fort?’
‘I’m getting there. You didn’t go out again?’
‘No.’
‘You have witnesses?’
‘Yes! Everyone. My fiancée, other students. Anyone can tell you where I was.’
‘Patrick tells us you were trying to run him over at the time.’
‘Well, he’s wrong.’
‘We found his bicycle. Someone threw it over a fence. Certainly looks mangled. Forensics are taking prints from it now.’
‘Good. I hope you catch whoever did it. If someone did it.’
‘DS Williams here also found paint and headlight debris from a car that hit a nearby car park wall at speed. What kind of car do you have, Dr Spicer?’
Spicer paused. ‘A Citroën.’
‘Colour?’
‘Grey.’
‘Silver grey?’
‘Sort of.’
‘In good nick, is it?’
‘I’ve had a few bumps. Nothing major. My fiancée drives it too.’
‘That’s nice.’
Spicer shrugged and looked at his watch. ‘Is this going to take much longer?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said DCI White. ‘But you appreciate we have to check out Patrick’s story, Dr Spicer. We wouldn’t be doing our jobs otherwise.’
‘Of course,’ said Spicer.
‘Thanks for your forbearance,’ smiled DCI White.
‘No problem.’
‘Can we get you a cup of coffee or anything?’
‘No. I’m fine.’
‘Good. Patrick admits that after he escaped from you, he went—’
‘He didn’t escape from me,’ said Spicer with air-quotes. ‘I wasn’t there.’
‘After he was knocked off his bike,’ amended White, ‘he went to the dissecting room, where he removed the head of poor Mr Galen here.’
‘That’s appalling.’
‘Indeed. Although he says he removed the head to preserve the evidence that shows that Mr Galen was in fact a murder victim. And that you followed him there to try to stop him doing just that.’