“You know, I’m not so sure about that,” Gideon murmured.
Clapper’s eyebrows went up. “About…?”
“About not being able to tell whether the head injuries came strictly from a fall, or something else was involved. I mean, I don’t want to second-guess Dr. Gillie, and I never even saw Joey’s body, so I may be all wet, but all the same, there are some criteria that can be used to differentiate between various kinds of blunt-force trauma-”
But Clapper’s attention had wandered. “Well, yes, that’s interesting. I’ll put you in touch with Davey Gillie and maybe you can help him out there.” He shot a look at his watch. “Kyle, are you ready to go?”
“Ready and eager, sir.”
“We’re off to the castle for another round of interviews,” Clapper explained to Gideon. “Got some new questions for them today.”
The phone cheeped. Robb picked it up. “Isles of Scilly Police Station, good morning,” he said and quickly straightened up in his chair. “Yes, sir. I understand. Of course, sir.” He covered the mouthpiece.
“Exeter,” he said to Clapper.
Clapper made a disgusted noise. “What do they want?”
“They want to talk to you. It’s Detective Chief Superintendent LeVine.”
“Tell him I’ll call him back.”
“Um, Sarge, he sounds like he’s not in the mood to wait. It’s a conference call; they’ve got somebody else on too.” He hesitated. “It’s about Joey Dillard.”
Clapper’s big hands clamped on the arms of his chair as if he thought they were the necks of two detective chief superintendents. “Damn his eyes,” he growled, pushing himself to his feet and stomping to his office, the door of which he slammed shut behind him.
“He’ll be right with you, sir,” Robb said brightly. He listened until he heard the phone in Clapper’s office being picked up, then replaced the receiver. “This may be bad,” he said.
“Why, what is it?”
“Well, the other person on the blower is the Force pathologist down at the hospital at Treliske. He does the postmortems for southern Cornwall. So I’m guessing he’s going to be autopsying Dillard’s body after all, which would seem to mean headquarters is going to scupper our investigation and take the case back themselves.” He gestured with a tip of his head toward the window behind him. “The fog’s dissipating pretty fast. They might be able to fly in their mainland detectives now.”
“That’s not going to make your boss very happy.”
“It’s not going to make me very happy either,” Robb said. “Excuse me.” He picked up the phone again. “Isles of Scilly Police Station, good morning. Oh, hello, Mrs. Hob-good. No, I’m afraid we haven’t found Eloise yet. Yes, of course we’re actively searching. No, of course we haven’t given up hope, it hasn’t even been a full day yet. We’ll find her, you’ll see. Don’t we always? Oh, definitely, we’ll let you know the moment we do. Don’t you worry, now.”
“Runaway kid?” Gideon asked when Robb turned to him again.
“Runaway duck. She keeps her as a pet. Won’t use a leash. Loses her a couple of times a month. I’ll swing by the wastewater treatment plant this afternoon. Eloise always turns up there to root around after a day or two. I’ll pile her in the van and drive her home.” He grinned ruefully. “What was that again about the majesty and stateliness of the Force?”
They hadn’t been able to hear Clapper’s voice from his office, but they had no trouble hearing the telephone slam into its cradle, and then the squeal of his chair rolling back. They looked at each other, the same question on their minds. When the door opened, who was going to come through it, Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde?
It was Dr. Jekyll, smiling and complacent. “Well, that was interesting.”
“They don’t want the case back?” Robb blurted.
“‘Want’ and ‘get’ are two different things,” Clapper said, returning to his chair and his coffee. “I told them to shove it. I’m the case investigator and I intend to continue being the case investigator, and if I need any of their bloody help I’ll bloody well ask for it.”
Robb’s jaw dropped. “You told Detective Chief Superintendent LeVine to… to…”
“Look, lad,” Clapper said kindly, “you have to understand the way these things work. I’m still a bit of a, shall we say, a legendary figure there, despite a few problems in my latter days. People are reluctant to get into a row with me, especially the detective chief superintendent. Teddy LeVine is fifteen years my junior in age and six years my junior in seniority. He’s never made Officer of the Year, and he has no decorations for valor, and when I really assert myself-which I haven’t done now for many a day-when I put my foot down, young Teddy is not the man to stand up to me. With a few face-saving mutterings about making sure to keep the computer log up to date, he withdrew from the fray. The case is mine. Ours.”
From someone else it would have been hyperbole, but Gideon had the impression Clapper was telling it as it was, without any self-inflating embellishments.
“Now the one thing I can use their assistance on is with the postmortem. Nothing against Davey Gillie, of course, but the man would be the first to admit that he’s not forensically trained. Since Teddy has already arranged for an autopsy with the Force pathologist at Treliske, I’ve let that stand. A helicopter is on its way to pick up the body even as we speak. Kyle, you’ll want to get hold of Davey right now and tell him to keep his bloody hands off the corpse.”
Robb immediately got on the telephone while Clapper clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair, savoring his victory and the job ahead.
“Just in time, Sarge, they say the body’s already on the autopsy table. Dr. Gillie’s about to get started.”
“Well, tell him to stop where he is and get the body bagged up. Have him send off whatever he’s written up, too. Oh, and see that a copy of our report goes out to Treliske along with the body as well.”
Clapper, content and serene, leaned back and re-clasped his hands, but suddenly sat up straight and smacked his forehead. “Gideon, I forgot, I’ve left the pathologist hanging on the blower. He asked to speak with you. You can take it in my office, line one, if he’s still there.”
“With me? About what?” Puzzled, Gideon got up.
“He didn’t say. I happened to mention your being here, and he said would that be Dr. Gideon Oliver, the Skeleton Detective, and I said yes, and he said, may I speak with the gentleman, and there the matter stands.”
In Clapper’s office, Gideon leaned over the desk to punch line one and picked up the phone.
“This is Gideon Oliver. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“Not at all, not at all!” a bluff, jolly voice declared. “How are you, old friend?”
The voice was only vaguely familiar. “I’m sorry, I don’t-”
“This is Wilson Merrill!” the voice cried, after which there was an expectant pause.
It took Gideon a second to make the connection, but when he did, it was with real pleasure. “Wilson!” he said. “How good to hear your voice. Do I understand that you’re the Cornwall and Devon pathologist now?”
“Indeed, yes. My aged mother lives in Falmouth, and Lydia and I are happily settled here now. I left the Dorset Constabulary two years ago. We had some fun there, didn’t we? Remember Inspector Bagshawe?”
Gideon remembered, all right. In the annals of successful police bogglement, the experience with Detective Inspector Bagshawe of the Dorset CID was at the top of his list. Gideon had been staying in the coastal village of Char-mouth in connection with an archaeological dig nearby, and a rotted corpse had turned up in the bay. Merrill, who knew Gideon by reputation, had been responsible for the autopsy. He had asked Gideon to attend, which Gideon, who hated autopsies-especially on corpses well along the road to putrescence-had reluctantly done. As it turned out, there was so little soft tissue to work with that Merrill had simply turned the remains over to him to see what could be gotten from the skeleton. In less than an hour’s time, Gideon had emerged from the autopsy room with his conclusions.