The next day at University College Hospital, Prosser and Breen watched as Wellington prodded charred flesh.
“Any other clues?” asked Breen.
“He’s still dead, I can tell you that.”
Skin on the torso had been roasted till it was black, tightening around his body to become almost shiny. Extremities had been burned clean away. Lipless, his teeth seemed unnaturally white. His left arm and other bones sat in a pile at the other end of the slab. The dead girl, Morwenna Sullivan, would be taken away to be cremated soon, thought Breen. No friends or relatives had come forward to reclaim her body. The man in the fire was the same; nobody had noticed he was missing either.
“I’m not sure what else you want me to find, Paddy.”
“I was just thinking maybe he was worth a second look.”
“This is pointless, Paddy,” said Prosser. “Wellington’s got better things to do.”
“Not much else to go on. The fire must have been hot. These bones”-Wellington pointed to his exposed upper arm-“where they were exposed by burning, have fractured in the heat. Are you sure you don’t need a bowl, Paddy?”
“No. I’m OK.”
“Apparently you had a little vacation with a lady officer.”
Prosser snorted.
“I wouldn’t call it a vacation, exactly.”
“Quite the talk of the station. Have you seen much of her since you’ve been back?”
“Can we just hurry it up?”
“Whatever you say.” The pathologist picked up a fragment of bone. “I can’t find any evidence of trauma that would indicate that he was killed first and put in the fire second. Not that he’s exactly a perfect specimen.”
“Too damaged by the fire to be sure?”
“Yes. But then we found this melted into the skin of his lower abdomen.” He held up a twisted bottle, melted in the heat; a swirl of opaque glass, shattered at the neck, fused with pieces of ash and stone.
“He’s a no-fixter, right, most like?” said Prosser.
“My guess is he was probably roaring. Covered himself in newspaper in there to keep warm. And it did keep him warm, after a fashion. There was a can of lighter fuel on the floor too. He’d probably squirted it at the fire to get it going.”
“What about the clothes?”
“Ah yes. Oxides of calcium and silicon. Lots below the knee.”
“What’s that?”
“Concrete dust to you. His trousers were thick with it.”
“Builder maybe?”
“I’d say so.”
“Height?”
“Hard to be exact. Five foot six to five foot eight, I’d say,” said Wellington. “He’s in bits. It’ll take a while.”
“Age?”
“Thirties. Maybe twenties. What are you going to ask next? Eye color?”
The man had no eyes left.
“Not much to go on, Dr. Wellington?” said Prosser.
“No.”
“Breen’s probably wasting his time on this one. What you reckon?”
“That’s your call, Sergeant.”
“Poor bastard,” said Prosser. “It shouldn’t happen to anyone, should it?”
“Amen,” said Wellington.
They left Wellington putting the pieces of the man back into plastic bags. As they walked along the dark corridor to the stairs, Prosser said, “Don’t get me wrong, I respect you not giving up on this one.”
“And?” said Breen.
Prosser put his hands in his pockets. “Don’t be like that, Paddy. I’m just offering a word of advice. I’ve been around. You know. I’ve been on D longer than you. I’m a survivor. I know the way things work. Don’t waste your effort on jobs that nobody’s going to thank you for.”
Breen nodded. These were the silent rules Prosser understood. Not the regulations that Bailey always tried to enforce, but the rules by which things really worked. A nod and a wink. The regular you-scratch-my-back-and-I’ll-scratch-yours that Breen never felt part of. It was why he never trusted Prosser, and why Prosser didn’t like him. But there was no point in rubbing Prosser up the wrong way. “How’s that murder in Kensal Town?” he asked.
“Open and shut. We got the husband. You OK to walk back to the station? Only, I have something I have to do.”
“Constable Tozer OK?”
“She’s keen, I’ll say that. Bit mouthy. She’ll be one of the boys in no time at all.”
Breen doubted it. He still hadn’t called her. He hesitated, then said, “I was thinking maybe of going up to St. John’s Wood High Street one day, to have a look around at Martin and Dawes. Where you were stabbed. You want to come sometime? I could do with a lift.”
Prosser shook his head angrily, looked away. “There you go again,” he muttered.
“What?”
“You’re wasting your effort. It’s my case. I’m looking after it.”
“I thought if I was there I might notice something I hadn’t on the night. I was tired. Or I might remember something.”
“I remember you legging it clear enough.”
“I want to have a word with the shopkeeper too. He might have heard something.”
“What are you trying to do, Paddy? Piss me off? I thought we were just starting to get along again.”
“I just thought I might-”
Prosser stopped suddenly in the corridor. “Look. You made a cock of it that night and I almost got killed. You made a cock of it arresting the wrong bloke in the murder of that girl by Abbey Road. You made a cock of it down in Cornwall by all accounts. Don’t you start making a cock of my cases too, OK?”
And he poked Breen hard in the chest.
“OK?”
Breen stood in the lobby looking out through the swing doors. Rain was falling hard outside. Prosser had driven off with his raincoat. As he waited for the rain to ease off, he noticed a man he recognized standing in a corridor to his left.
“Mr. Ezeoke,” he called.
Ezeoke’s head turned. He frowned, as if at first the surgeon did not recognize him. He was in conversation with a dark-haired woman of about thirty who wore a lime-green minidress and a gold necklace. Ezeoke towered over her.
“Detective Sergeant Breen,” Breen said, holding out his good hand to Ezeoke in case Ezeoke did not remember him.
“You look pale, Mr. Breen. Is there anything the matter with you?”
The woman smiled. “A detective, Sam? You’ve not been doing anything you shouldn’t?”
“Always,” said Ezeoke.
Breen turned to the woman. “Mr. Ezeoke was helping me with an investigation.”
Ezeoke smiled. “Where is your eager young assistant today? Have you had any luck tracking down the killer of that poor girl?”
The woman said, “A killer? Sam, what are you involved in now?”
“We think her father may have killed her,” said Breen. “Mr. and Mrs. Ezeoke’s house is close to where the body was found,” he said to the woman.
“My God. Why didn’t you tell me about this, Sam?”
The surgeon looked down at his feet and nodded his head. “Her father? How terrible.”
“Yes.”
“Have you arrested him?”
An orderly walked past, pushing an empty trolley. “Unfortunately he is dead too. He was killed by his wife.”
“How terribly Shakespearean,” murmured the woman.
Ezeoke looked past Breen. “I am glad of that. All the same, you must be pleased to have solved the crime.”
“I’m not sure I have.”
Ezeoke smiled. “Does that bother you, that you are not sure?”
“Of course.”
“Really? Perhaps it should not. There are many crimes that go unpunished. Why should another one make a difference? You can only do what you can do. I am a doctor. I cannot save everyone.”
“Of course it makes a difference,” said Breen.
“Behave, Samuel,” said the woman.
“Forgive me if I seem hardened. Or cynical even. I am an African. There are many, many crimes against Africans that have gone unpunished. Crimes that are happening right now. Do you care about those too? Or just the ones that happen in your own jurisdiction?”
“The officer is just trying to do his job. Samuel is a revolutionary.” She smiled. “He loves to get on his high horse about African politics-don’t you?”