Love You Dead (25 page)

Branson shook his head. ‘No way, I love this work. You said to me once that you never wanted to do anything different. I get that, I’m the same.’

‘Make sure you make it up to her when you get home late. Offer to cook dinner or buy her a nice, thoughtful present.’

‘Good advice.’

They reached the mortuary’s front door.

A large, opaque window to their right provided light for the main post-mortem room. Grace rang the bell.

Moments later, Cleo, in green scrubs, gloves and white rubber boots, opened the door. Her face brightened when she saw them. ‘Hi, guys – great you’ve arrived before the
pathologist – I need you to help me with a bit of a dilemma.’ She gave Branson a peck on the cheek and Grace a kiss on the lips, and ushered them into the changing room.

They gowned up and put on rubber boots also, then Cleo led them through into the large, open-plan post-mortem room. The place had a neat and tidy post-weekend feel about it. All except one of
the steel post-mortem tables were empty and spotless. In the alcove to the left lay a motionless figure encased head to toe in black rubber, with two tiny eye-slits in a gimp mask.

Cleo stood over it and peeled back the mask to reveal the face of an elderly man. His eyes were wide open and, despite being dead, they seemed to have a twinkle in them.

Branson giggled, irreverently. ‘A proper little bouncing boy you’ve got here!’

Grace smiled. The poor man looked ridiculous. ‘Seems like he died having a nice time,’ he said.

‘He was,’ Cleo confirmed, also smiling. They were joined by Darren, Cleo’s Assistant Mortuary Technician, a sharp, good-looking and pleasant-natured young man in his twenties,
with spiky black hair, similarly clad to the rest of them.

‘They called him Rubber Johnny,’ Darren said, his mouth twisted into a grin.

‘Who did?’ Grace asked.

‘All the girls who worked there, apparently.’

‘Didn’t Rubber Johnny use to be slang for a condom?’ Branson asked. ‘I saw that in a movie – was it
Quadrophenia
?’

‘The problem I have,’ Cleo said, ‘is that this sweet little old man, Ian Rolf, has been visiting a dominatrix dungeon in Saltdean every Monday morning for the past ten years.
Apparently he would tell his wife he was off to play golf, put his clubs in the car and then go to this dominatrix place. Yesterday, he suddenly stopped breathing. They panicked, tried to
resuscitate him, then called an ambulance.’

‘Either a heart attack or a stroke?’ Grace asked.

‘Seems likely,’ Cleo said.

‘Lucky sod,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘That’s the way to go. Out with a bang and a hard-on. Beats being wheeled around an old folks’ home, playing tiddlywinks and
pissing in your pants any day.’

All of them laughed.

‘Maybe,’ Cleo said. ‘But what the hell am I supposed to tell his widow?’

‘The truth,’ Grace said.

‘I can’t, Roy! That would just be so cruel. Can you imagine finding that out about the man you loved? That he’d been deceiving you for so long?’

They heard the doorbell and Cleo went off to answer it.

‘Does his widow need to know, Roy?’ Branson asked.

Grace stared down at the dead man’s face. He really did look happy. Most dead bodies he’d attended had their faces frozen in shock or pain. ‘I’m sure it would be better
for her and her family if she didn’t. But she has to know the truth – it’ll come out.’

‘You implying I’ll tell Siobhan so she can write it in the
Argus
? Never!’

‘That’s not what I’m saying. But it’s going to come out at the inquest. Better to let his widow find it out sensitively.’

Grace reflected for a moment on his own massive issue, and when he was going to tell Cleo.

‘Morning all!’

They turned to see a tall, reedy man in his mid-thirties, with lank, floppy hair, dressed in a jacket over a black T-shirt, blue jeans and fancy, knobbly, black and white trainers. He strode
into the room in light, bouncy steps, followed by the Coroner’s Officer, Michelle Websdale, a slim, fair-haired former Border Agencies officer, whose attractive model looks belied her tough
character. She even managed to make her baggy green scrubs look like they were designer chic, Grace thought. Behind her was the youthful Crime Scenes Investigator, Chris Gee, also gowned up and
holding a camera. Grace always thought Gee, much like Cleo, looked too gentle a person for such a grim job, yet Gee was unfazed by almost anything – except children. Children were the one
thing that most affected all those in the emergency services, without exception.

Grace held out his hand to the stranger he presumed must be the Home Office pathologist, Nick Best. ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Grace – and this is my colleague, Detective
Inspector Branson.’ He introduced Websdale and Gee also.

Best had a warm smile but a rather brusque nature. ‘Good to meet you all. So, my information is we have a suspected death from poisoning?’

‘That’s correct,’ the Coroner’s Officer said.

‘I’ll go and get my kit on.’

‘I’ll show you the changing room.’ Cleo smiled at him. ‘This way.’ She led the way back out into the corridor.

The pathologist looked at Cleo in a way, suddenly, that Grace did not like. It was a really lechy stare.

Nor did he much like the smile Cleo gave the man back.

Shit, he was jealous! And he felt almost ridiculously relieved when Cleo came straight back in. It was the first time, ever, that he had felt such an emotion. He didn’t like it. And he
didn’t like himself for feeling it.

‘So, guys,’ Cleo said. ‘What am I going to do with – er –
Rubber Johnny
?’

‘Remove his kit for the viewing,’ Grace said. ‘The widow’s going to have to formally identify him. It’ll be easier for her if he’s not in a latex
shroud.’

‘Yep, you’re right,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’ Then she led them all through towards the Isolation Room.

As they crowded round the door, peering in through the glass panel at the body on the solitary table, Cleo instructed them all to put on their face masks.

‘Righty ho!’ said Nick Best, joining them. He was gowned-up in white, head to toe, with a full head mask and visor, as if ready to enter a nuclear waste site, and holding a small
bag. ‘Let’s go and check out
le plat du jour
!’

He entered the Isolation Room, followed by the others. Last in, Grace closed the door behind them. As he did, Glenn Branson took a shocked step back and said, his voice muffled, ‘Oh
Jesus!’

After Rollo had left the cabin to play bridge again, at 4 p.m., Jodie waited a few minutes to ensure he didn’t come back for something he had forgotten, then she changed.
She slipped on a push-up bra, slinky top, a short skirt and high-heeled sandals, then admired herself in the full-length mirror, mouthing, with a grin, ‘You are so sexy!’

She made her way along to the ship’s doctor, on a lower deck down in the bowels of the ship, placing her hands in the wall-mounted disinfection unit before entering. She explained her
reasons for her visit to the nurse, who asked her to take a seat and fill in a form. Then she was ushered into the consulting room, which contained an examination couch, eye-test chart, towel
dispenser and a desk with a computer screen and keyboard.

Dr Gordon Ryerson was a charming grey-haired man, in a smart white outfit, and of a similar vintage to Rollo, she estimated. And with a roving eye, she guessed, too, from the way he looked her
up and down appreciatively. As she was a generation younger, at least, than most of the rest of her fellow female passengers, she guessed he didn’t get to flirt with young women that often on
this voyage. So she flirted coyly with him now, meeting his gaze. She loved it, always. Loved seeing in men’s eyes just how damned attractive she was. And sometimes she would think back to
her younger days as an ugly duckling and count her blessings. Life now was very much more fun.

‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Carmichael,’ he said, as if suddenly ending the game and going into professional mode, pointing to a chair in front of his desk. ‘Have a seat. What can I
do for you?’

She crossed her legs, then uncrossed them slowly, smiling to herself as his eyes followed them. ‘I’ve been feeling queasy ever since we sailed from Dubai, doctor,’ she lied.
‘I was wondering if you could suggest anything? I’ve seen people wearing motion sickness bracelets, but before buying one I thought I’d ask your views.’

‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘Poor you. I’m afraid it does take some people a few days to get their sea legs. Are you on any medication of any kind?’

She shook her head.

He studied the form for some moments that she had filled out for his nurse a few minutes earlier. Then he asked, ‘You’re not pregnant or anything?’

‘God, I hope not! My husband’s had a vasectomy.’

‘They’re not always foolproof, of course. I’ve had patients in the past who’ve fallen pregnant when they thought they were safe.’

‘I’m not pregnant, believe me!’ Changing the subject, she said breezily, ‘This must be a nice job. Do you work on this ship permanently?’

‘No, I’m retired, really. I used to be a general practitioner in Chipping Norton in Oxfordshire. I do a bit of locum work to keep my hand in, and a couple of times a year I do this
– my wife and I enjoy a free cruise in return for my working a few hours a day. It’s very pleasant.’

‘How nice!’

‘Well, you know, it’s nice to work with happy people. People come on a cruise to have a good time. Are you and your husband enjoying yourselves?’

‘Very much. So you’re an expert in everything medical?’

‘I began life as an army surgeon, so I wouldn’t call myself an expert in everything, but I can cope with most emergencies that are likely to happen on board ship.’

‘You do operations?’

‘I can whip out an appendix, if needed. But for anything more serious we’d put a patient ashore or have them airlifted off.’ He smiled.

She smiled back. Good. Very good.

He pulled open a drawer behind his desk and produced a blister pack of pills. ‘I’m sure we can clear up this motion sickness very quickly, then you can focus on enjoying
yourself!’

‘Thank you,’ she said, as he handed her the pills and gave her instructions on taking them.

She’d already got all she needed from this brief meeting.

The knowledge that he was limited in his experience. He could deal with all the basics. Fine.

She doubted he’d ever had to deal with what she had in mind.

Throughout his career, Roy Grace had been known as an innovative thinker, with a highly organized mind. He was also sentimental and he was sad this would be one of his last
investigations to take place in Major Incident Room One – or MIR-1 for short – the place where all the homicide enquiries he had run or worked on for over a decade had been based. It
was a large open space, with three huge workstations, and capable of housing three different major crime enquiries at any time. But for now he put all his issues about the changes out of his mind,
to concentrate on the task confronting him.

Operation Spider was the name the Sussex Police computer had randomly generated for this operation. Already, since the completion of Stonor’s post-mortem, as was the tradition, one of the
team had stuck up on the door to MIR-1 a cartoon parodying the operation name. Today’s was a depiction of Spiderman climbing up the side of a high-rise building.

Grace had assembled just a small team of his trusted regulars, including DI Glenn Branson, DS Norman Potting, DS Guy Batchelor, who he had appointed as Office Manager, DS Cale, DCs Emma-Jane
Boutwood, Alec Davies and Jack Alexander, indexer Annalise Vineer, as well as a researcher and a HOLMES analyst.

They were all seated around one of the curved workstations in the room. The others were empty, which Grace was pleased about. It meant that if he needed to step up this enquiry, as instincts
told him he might, there would be space to expand right here.

Four whiteboards were on the wall behind them. On one there were photographs of Stonor taken during the post-mortem, some in wide angle and some in close-up. On the second was an association
chart for Stonor, with several photographs of him, including standard prison mugshots, both face-on and side profile, and a strange flash-lit, blurry image of him that looked to be accidental,
blown up to an eight by ten. On the third was a photograph pulled off the internet, of a snake with beige, brown and black markings. On the fourth was a map of the east side of Brighton, with an
area of about a square mile crudely ringed by red marker pen.

In front of Grace lay his notes typed by his new Command Secretarial Assistant, Lesley Hildrew, his policy book and a tepid cup of coffee, which he’d had to stir with a knife because as
usual all the spoons in the kitchenette had vanished. Reading from his notes he said, routinely, ‘The time is 6.30 p.m., Tuesday March 3rd, this is the evening briefing of Operation Spider,
the investigation into the suspicious death of Shelby James Stonor.’

He went on to outline the circumstances, especially the concerns of the helicopter’s alert on-board paramedic that, although he had died at the scene, the injuries Stonor had sustained in
the accident were not severe enough to have killed him – although he might have ended up as a paraplegic. The paramedic arranged to have blood samples biked up to Guy’s Hospital where
there was a specialist department in tropical diseases and poisons.

It was found that Stonor had toxins in his body from a saw-scaled viper snake, as well as complications from septicaemia. What had at first been mistaken for needle puncture marks had been
established as a snake bite. The septicaemia was probably due to the bite causing contaminated clothing fibres to be injected into his leg, enabling bacteria to enter the bloodstream.

Norman Potting raised his hand.

‘Yes, Norman?’

‘In case it’s of interest, chief, I read that tens of thousands of people die annually in India from snake bites. Quite a high percentage from this particular creature.’ He
pointed at the whiteboard.