With an expression of distaste, the marine unit sergeant shook the eel off his hand and let it splash back into the water. I tried not to look across at Sir Stephen Villiers as Frears resumed his study of the body. The dead man’s father had obviously insisted on being here, and the presence of the senior police officer with him was a clear signal of his influence. But this wasn’t something a family member should have to see.
‘Well, the entry and exit wounds are fairly self-explanatory,’ Frears went on. ‘Judging from the amount of damage either a large calibre bullet or a shotgun fired from extremely close range.’
‘Shotgun, I think,’ I said. ‘There’s what looks like a wad from a shell embedded at the back of the throat.’
‘So there is.’ Frears peered into the wound. ‘And there’s something else underneath it. Metal… looks like a shotgun pellet.’
That hadn’t been visible earlier: the wad covering it had probably been dislodged by the eel as it wriggled free. ‘Can I take a look?’
‘Be my guest.’
He leaned back so I could see into what had once been the mouth. A glint of something round and shiny was visible, lodged in the mess of cartilage and bone behind the brown cartridge wad.
‘Seems a bit big for a shotgun pellet,’ I commented. ‘And it looks more like steel than lead.’
‘Plenty of people use steel shot these days,’ the pathologist said, clearly not appreciating being contradicted. ‘Could be something like large bore buckshot. I’ll have a better idea when I take it out.’
‘You’d expect a pellet to pass straight through from that sort of range.’
‘Yes, but steel pellets are a lot harder than lead. They’re more prone to ricochet so perhaps this one got bounced around and lodged here. At this stage I don’t really know,’ he said with exaggerated patience. ‘Anyway, moving on to something that’s more your field, Dr Hunter, any thoughts on how long the body’s been in the water? Six weeks seems about the right sort of time given its condition.’
The more your field was said pointedly. Taking the hint, I straightened and considered the soaking wet remains.
‘Hard to say,’ I hedged, trying to decide if I wanted to commit myself at this stage. ‘It’ll have been exposed to air temperatures twice a day at low tide, so it’ll have decomposed faster than if it was submerged all the time. And the hands and feet would have trailed on the bottom, which would help dislodge them.’
Frears raised an eyebrow. ‘True, but there’s adipocere as well. That doesn’t appear overnight.’
‘No, but that’ll have been accelerated by the clothes, especially the coat.’ Not much research had been done into adipocere, but the crumbly deposit formed by the breakdown of subcutaneous fats seemed to build up more quickly when the body was covered. And natural fibres, like the cotton of the duster-style coat, enhanced the effect more than synthetic materials. ‘I’m just not sure six weeks is realistic. Not somewhere as shallow and tidal as this.’
Clarke interrupted. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I think Dr Hunter might have doubts about the length of time the body’s been in the water,’ Frears told her.
That was met by silence. My doubts had been growing since Lundy told me about the two-week gap between when Villiers was last seen and when he was reported missing. Unless he’d somehow avoided all contact with everyone who knew him, then whatever happened probably occurred soon after the vet destroyed his dog. As Lundy had said, that placed the probable time-since-death at six weeks rather than four.
The problem was that I didn’t think these remains could have been in the water that long. If the body had been drifting in this estuary for an additional two weeks it would be in an even worse condition than it already was. Which meant that either Leo Villiers had completely isolated himself for almost a fortnight before he shot himself, which was possible but unlikely…
Or this wasn’t his body.
‘I want facts, not doubts,’ Clarke snapped, keeping her voice pitched low. ‘How soon can we confirm an ID?’
‘Well, I think we can safely rule out any help from dental records or fingerprints,’ Frears said. ‘I’ll do what I can, but we’ll probably have to wait for the DNA results. Although…’
He broke off as footsteps approached on the quayside. I looked around to see Sir Stephen Villiers approaching. Dryden, the Deputy Chief Constable, had come over as well, though he remained a few paces behind the older man and looked as though he’d rather be somewhere else. Clarke stepped towards them, placing herself in front of the stretcher lying on the quay’s concrete floor.
‘Sir Stephen, I don’t think—’
‘I’d like to see my son.’ The man’s voice was dry and inflectionless, yet carried an unshakable authority.
‘I’m sorry, but we don’t know yet if—’
But he was already moving past her. She shot a look of appeal towards Dryden, but the senior police officer’s impassive face made it plain he wasn’t going to intervene. Clarke reddened, her ginger hair and pale complexion a giveaway to her emotional state. Tight-lipped, she said nothing as Sir Stephen stood by the open body bag. For a few seconds, the silence was broken only by the gulls. The wind ruffled the grey man’s hair as he gazed down at what lay on the concrete at his feet.
‘I recognize the coat.’ Sir Stephen sounded as unemotional as he appeared. ‘It’s an old one, from Collier’s on Jermyn Street. My son had an account there.’
Clarke and Lundy exchanged a glance. Frears’ attention was already back on the body. ‘There’s a label,’ he said, carefully lifting the coat to see inside the lining. ‘Collier’s Bespoke Tailors.’
‘The watch is his as well. You’ll find an inscription on the inside. His mother bought it for him before she died.’ Sir Stephen raised his head to stare at Clarke. His expression was cold. ‘I told you all along that my son was dead. Perhaps now you’ll believe me.’
‘Sir Stephen, I—’
‘My son was clearly the victim of a shooting accident. I fail to see what can be gained by protracting an already painful process.’
‘I’m sure DCI Clarke will ensure that a formal identification is given full priority,’ Dryden said, his bluff baritone no more subtle than his words. ‘Isn’t that right, Detective Chief Inspector?’
‘Of course.’ Clarke tried to keep her face neutral, but she didn’t have the colouring for it. ‘Dr Hunter, would you excuse us for a moment?’
I nodded, relieved. There wasn’t anything else I could do until the body was back at the mortuary, and I’d no desire to be part of any dispute with the dead man’s father. Sir Stephen Villiers’ reluctance to accept that his son might have killed himself was understandable, but denial couldn’t alter the facts. And while a close-range shotgun wound to the face could be called many things, ‘accident’ was rarely one of them.
But there was another reason I was glad to get away: I’d got it wrong. Unorthodox or not, Sir Stephen’s recognition of his son’s coat and watch pretty much ended any questions over the body’s identity. So much for my doubts over how long it had been in the water. Perhaps I’d been trying too hard, I thought wearily. Clutching at complications that weren’t there. And I knew now why I’d been asked to go on the recovery in the first place. The marine unit hadn’t needed a forensic anthropologist with them. My presence had been little more than a tick-box exercise, so the dead man’s powerful father couldn’t accuse the police of overlooking anything.
They’d just been covering their backs.