The Chemistry of Death (13 page)

There was an uneasy silence as people tried to digest his words. Scarsdale didn't give them a chance. He lifted his chin and closed his eyes, as the camera flashes cast shifting shadows on his face.

'Let us pray.'

Outside the church there was none of the milling around that normally follows a service. A police trailer had been set up by the village square, and its white, bulky presence seemed both incongruous and intimidating. Despite the attempts of the press and TV cameras, few people felt inclined to provide interviews. This was all still too raw, too private for that. It was one thing watching coverage of other communities that had been struck by tragedy. Being part of one yourself was another matter.

So the journalists' fevered questions were met with a stony response that was no less impenetrable for being polite. With only one or two exceptions, Manham turned its collective back to the eyes of the outside world. Surprisingly, Scarsdale was one of those who allowed himself to be interviewed. He wasn't the sort you would normally expect to have much truck with publicity, but he'd obviously felt it was permissible to sup with the devil, just this once. Given the tone of his sermon, he seemed to regard what had happened as a vindication of his calling. In his jaundiced eyes he had been proved right, and he was going to grasp the moment in both gnarled fists.

Henry and I watched him preaching to soundbite-starved journalists in the churchyard, while behind him excited children scrambled over the Martyr's Stone, trampling the wilted flowers that still decorated it as they hoped to get in shot. His voice, if not his actual words, carried to the green where we waited under the horse chestnut. I'd found Henry there when I'd emerged after the service. He'd given me a skewed smile when I went over.

'Couldn't you get in?' I asked.

'I didn't try. I wanted to show my respects, but I'll be damned if I'm going to pander to Scarsdale's ego. Or listen to his bile. What was it, God's judgement on our sins? We've brought this on ourselves?'

'Something like that,' I admitted.

Henry snorted. 'Just what Manham needs. An invitation to paranoia.'

Standing behind Scarsdale as he continued his impromptu press conference, I noticed that the ranks of his hard-line parishioners had been swelled by new converts. The likes of Lee and Marjory Goodchild and Judith Sutton and her son Rupert had been joined by many less regular church-goers. They looked on like a mute, approving chorus as the reverend raised his voice to drive home his point to the cameras.

Henry shook his head in disgust. 'Look at him. In his element. Man of God? Hah! This is just his chance to say "I told you so".'

'Still, he has a point.'

He gave me a sceptical look. 'Don't tell me you've been converted.'

'Not by Scarsdale. But whoever's behind this must be local. Someone who knows the countryside around here. Knows us.'

'In that case God help us, because if Scarsdale gets his way things are going to get a lot worse before they get any better.'

'What do you mean?'

'You ever seen
The Crucible?
Play by Arthur Miller about the Salem witch-hunts?'

'Only on TV.'

'Well, that's going to be nothing to what goes on in Manham if this carries on much longer.' I thought he was joking, but the look he gave me was entirely serious. 'Keep your head down, David. Even without Scarsdale stirring things up, the mud-slinging and finger-pointing is going to start soon. Make sure you don't walk into any of it.'

'You're not serious?'

'No? I've lived here a lot longer than you have. I know what our good friends and neighbours here are like. The knives are going to be sharpened already.'

'Come on, don't you think that's stretching it a bit?'

'Is it?'

He was watching Scarsdale, who was turning back towards the church having finished whatever he had to say. As the more persistent of the journalists tried to follow, Rupert Sutton stepped to block them with his arms outstretched, a vast barrier of flesh none of them felt inclined to pass.

Henry gave me a meaningful look. 'Something like this brings out the worst in everyone. Manham's a small place. And small places breed small minds. Perhaps I'm being overly pessimistic. But if I were you I'd watch my back all the same.'

He held my gaze for a moment to make sure I'd got the message, then glanced over my shoulder. 'Hello. Friend of yours?'

I turned to find a young woman smiling at me. Dark-haired and plump, I'd seen her around occasionally but didn't know her name. It was only when she moved to one side slightly that I saw she was with Jenny. By contrast, her expression was far from happy.

Ignoring the look Jenny shot her, the other young woman stepped forward. 'Hi. I'm Tina.'

'Pleased to meet you,' I said, wondering what was going on. Jenny gave me a brief smile. She looked flustered.

'Hello, Tina,' Henry said. 'How's your mum?'

'Better, thanks. The swelling's nearly gone now.' She turned to me. There was an unmistakable glint in her eye. 'Thanks for walking Jenny home last night. I share the house with her. Nice to see there's some courtesy left.'

'Uh, it wasn't a problem.'

'I was just saying you'll have to come round some time. For a drink or a meal, or something.'

I glanced at Jenny. Her face was crimson. I felt my own beginning to match it.

'Well...'

'How about Friday night?'

'Tina, I'm sure he's got--' Jenny began, but her friend didn't take the hint.

'You're not busy then, are you? We could always make it another night.'

'Uh, no, but--'

'Great! See you at eight o'clock.'

Still grinning, she took Jenny's arm and marched her away. I stared after them.

'What was all that about?' Henry asked.

'No idea.'

He looked amused.

'I haven't!' I insisted.

'Well, you can tell me all about it over Sunday lunch anyway.' The smile left his face as he looked at me, serious again. 'Just remember what I said. Be careful who you trust. And watch your back.'

With that he began to wheel himself away.

The music floated through the shadowed room, its off-key notes dancing through the objects hanging from the low ceiling. Moving almost in counterpoint to it, the bead of dark liquid traced a crooked line, gaining momentum as gravity finally claimed it. As it fell it formed a perfect sphere, only for its short-lived symmetry to end as it burst against the ground.

Lyn starred dumbly at the blood as it ran down her arm, dripping off her fingers to spatter onto the floor. It had formed a small but spreading puddle, already beginning to thicken and clot at the edges. The pain from the cut had merged with that from all the others, the hurt from one becoming indistinguishable from the rest. The blood from them smeared her skin in an abstract pattern of cruelty.

She wobbled unsteadily on her feet as the discordant music slowed to a stop. Thankful it had ended, she leaned against the rough stone of the wall for support, becoming aware once again of the bite of the rope tied around her ankle. Her fingertips were torn from the futile hours spent trying to untie it as she lay in darkness. But the knot remained as unyielding now as ever.

She had passed beyond the initial feelings of disbelief and betrayal to a state almost of resignation. There was no pity for her in this dark room, she knew that much. No chance of mercy. Still, she had to try. Shielding her eyes from the harshness of the light focused on her, she tried to see into the shadows where her captor sat and watched.

'Please...' Her voice was a parched croak she barely recognized. 'Please, why are you doing this?'

Her question was met by silence, broken only by the sound of his breathing. The smell of burning tobacco hung in the air. There was rustling, an indistinct sound of movement.

Then the music began to play again.

Thursday was the day when the chill began to set into Manham. Not a physical chill -- the weather remained as hot and arid as ever. But regardless of whether it was an inevitable reaction to recent events or a result of Scarsdale's sermon, the psychological climate of the village seemed to undergo a marked change overnight. Now that it was no longer possible to lay blame for the atrocities on an outsider, the village had little choice but to turn its scrutiny on itself. Suspicion stole in like an airborne virus, not apparent at first, but already carried unknown by the first victims.

Like any contagion, there were those who were more vulnerable than others.

I was unaware of this as I came back from the lab in the early evening. Henry had agreed to cover for me again, waving away my suggestion of bringing in a locum. 'Take as long as you want. Do me good to get my finger out for once,' he'd said.

I drove with the windows full down. Once I was away from the busiest roads, the air was scented with pollen, a tickling sweetness that overlay the faintly sulphurous scent of drying mud from the reedbeds. It was a welcome counter to the chemical stink of detergent that still seemed to coat the back of my nose and throat. It had been a long day, most of which had been spent working on Sally Palmer's remains. Occasionally I still felt an odd schism if I tried to reconcile my memories of the extrovert, vital woman I'd known with the collection of bones that had been boiled of any last vestiges of flesh. But that wasn't something I wanted to dwell on.

Luckily, there was too much to do for my thoughts to wander.

Unlike skin and flesh, bone retains the impression of anything that cuts into it. In Sally Palmer's case, some of these were little more than scratches, revealing nothing. There were three places, though, where the blade had gone deep enough to leave an ossified record of its passing. Where her back had been cut for the swan wings, the flat bone of both shoulder blades bore matching grooves. About six or seven inches long, each had been made with a single, sweeping stroke. That much was apparent from the way the wounds were shallower at either end than they were in the middle; in both cases the knife had travelled across the scapula in an arc rather than been thrust. Slashed rather than stabbed.

I'd used a tiny electric saw to carefully cut longitudinally along one of the grooves, so it was split down its full length. Marina had hovered curiously nearby as I'd examined the exposed surfaces where the knife had cut through the bone. I motioned her to take a look.

'See how the sides are smooth?' I asked. 'That tells us the knife wasn't serrated.'

She peered at it, frowning. 'How do you know?'

'Because a serrated blade makes a pattern. A bit like when you cut wood with a buzz saw.'

'So these weren't caused by anything like a bread or steak knife.'

'No. It was sharp, though, whatever it was. See how clean and well defined the cuts are? And they're quite deep. Four, five millimetres in the middle.'

'Does that mean it was big?'

'I'd say so. Could be something like a large kitchen or butcher's knife, but I'd guess some sort of hunting knife was more likely. The blades on those tend to be heavier and less flexible. Whatever did this didn't bend or wobble. And the cut itself is quite wide. Meat knives are much thinner.'

A hunting knife also tied in with the killer's obvious woodcraft, though I didn't say that. I'd taken photographs and measurements of both shoulder blades before turning to the third cervical vertebra. This was the section of bone that had sustained most damage, caused when Sally Palmer's throat had been cut. It was a different sort of wound, almost triangular in shape. Stab, not slash. The killer had plunged the knife into her throat point-first, then drawn it across her trachea and carotid artery.

'He's right-handed,' I said.

Marina looked at me.

'The depression in the vertebra's deep at the left-hand side, then tapers off to the right. So that's the way he cut.' I pointed at a spot on my own throat and drew my finger across. 'Left to right. Which suggests he's a right-hander.'

'Couldn't it have been done backhanded?'

'That would have made it more of a slash, like on the shoulder blades.'

'From behind, then? You know, to avoid the blood.'

I shook my head. 'Makes no difference. He might have stood behind her to do it, but in that case he'd still reach around, put the knife in, and then pull it back across her throat. Left to right, for a righthander. If not it would mean pushing the knife rather than pulling it. Too awkward, and it would make a different-shaped mark in the bone.'

She was silent as she went through it in her mind. She gave a nod when she accepted it. 'That's pretty cool.'

No, I thought. Just the sort of thing you pick up when you've seen enough of it.

'Why do you say "he"?' Marina asked, abruptly.

'Sorry?'

'When you're talking about the killer you always talk as if it's a man. But there are no witnesses, and the body's too far gone for us to find any evidence of rape. So I just wondered how you knew.' She shrugged, embarrassed. 'Is it just a figure of speech or have the police found something out?'

I hadn't given it much thought, but she was right. I'd automatically assumed the killer was male. Everything so far pointed to it -- physical strength, female victims. But I was surprised I'd taken something like that for granted.

I smiled. 'Force of habit. It usually is. But no, I don't know for sure.'

She looked at the bones we'd been so clinically examining. 'I think it's a man too. Let's hope they catch the bastard.'

Thinking about what she'd said, I almost missed the final piece of evidence. I'd examined the vertebra under a bright light and low-powered microscope, and it was only as I was about to straighten that I spotted it. A tiny black fleck, lying like rot at the deepest point of the hole carved by the knife. But whatever it was, this was no rot. I carefully scraped it out.

'What's that?' asked Marina.

'No idea.' But I felt a race of excitement. Whatever it was, the only way it could have got there was on the tip of the killer's knife. Perhaps it was nothing.