dragon’s fart, thought Stratton, remembering the picture books he’d read with the kids. Small and demonic, the P-plane went into a glide - somewhere near Baker Street, he guessed - then the noise cut out and it disappeared. Seconds later, they heard a loud, dull crump. ‘Christ,’ said Ballard, which, Stratton felt, about covered it.
‘Let’s hope it landed in Regent’s Park and not on top of anyone.’
‘Know what people are calling them, sir?’ asked Ballard.
‘What?’
‘Doodlebugs. Makes them sound like toys, doesn’t it?’
Stratton snorted, thinking of the previous night. ‘Some toys.’
They tramped on towards the Middlesex Hospital, and clambered over the damp debris of the bomb-site until they came across the warden, who was squatting over a human-shaped something shrouded in a dusty blanket. He was smoking and swatting at the flies, which, despite the recent rain, had begun to circle.
‘What have we got?’ asked Stratton.
The warden, his face grimy and exhausted, pinched his fag end between his thumb and forefinger, and flicked it at a pile of bricks. ‘Dead bloke, guv. I come across him on my way home - always take a short-cut across here - and I thought I’d better let someone know.’
‘Let’s have a look.’
The warden drew back the blanket, revealing a clean-shaven face with strong features. About half of it, including the dark hair, was covered with damp plaster dust of a pinkish colour. Blood, Stratton thought, mostly washed away by the rain. ‘Was he on his back when you found him?’ he asked, pulling the blanket further down to reveal a well-built man in a good - if soaked and grubby - suit. The hands were only superficially dirty, and the nails looked well kept. ‘Looks as if the only injuries are the ones to the head.’
‘He was lying on his side,’ said the warden. ‘I turned him over to have a look, and . . . Well, here we are.’
Aren’t we just, thought Stratton, wearily. ‘Was he at all stiff?’
‘No, he came over quite easy.’
Stratton sniffed at the body, hoping for a whiff of alcohol - if the head wounds could be chalked up to a drunken fall, that would wrap things up nicely. Scenting nothing, he stood up again.
‘Must of been last night,’ said the warden. ‘Like I said, I always come this way, so I’d have noticed. You do see some funny things in this job,’ he conceded, ‘some of ’em don’t have a mark, but this one didn’t seem right to me. We didn’t get any bombing here last night, or the night before. This lot,’ he jerked his thumb at the site, ‘come down six months ago, and he ain’t dead long enough for that - if he’d just worked his way up to the top, I mean. That happens, too. Things,’ he added, vaguely, ‘moving.’
Stratton stood for a moment, indecisive. Ordinarily, such a situation would have sharpened his interest, but today . . . He shook his head, trying to force his brain to life. ‘Right,’ he said to Ballard, ‘seeing as we’re so close to the hospital, I’m going to have a word with Dr Byrne. Take some details, and then you,’ he nodded at the warden, ‘can get off home.’
‘Yes, sir.’ He left Ballard extracting his notebook from his tunic, and began picking his way through the rubble towards the Middlesex.
After several years’ working with Dr Byrne the pathologist, Stratton, though impressed by the man’s observational skills, had never got used to his way with the living, which was brusque to the point of rudeness. His manner matched his domain, which was permanently cold and smelt of a mixture of cadavers and disinfectant. The refrigeration - never enough after an air-raid, when sheeted bodies lay in the corridor awaiting inspection - coupled with the damp cement floor and the hard textures of the white porcelain tables, metal instruments, rubber overalls, and the slippery prophylactic feel of recently washed dead flesh, made everything cold to the touch. Everything
‘Let’s hope it landed in Regent’s Park and not on top of anyone.’
‘Know what people are calling them, sir?’ asked Ballard.
‘What?’
‘Doodlebugs. Makes them sound like toys, doesn’t it?’
Stratton snorted, thinking of the previous night. ‘Some toys.’
They tramped on towards the Middlesex Hospital, and clambered over the damp debris of the bomb-site until they came across the warden, who was squatting over a human-shaped something shrouded in a dusty blanket. He was smoking and swatting at the flies, which, despite the recent rain, had begun to circle.
‘What have we got?’ asked Stratton.
The warden, his face grimy and exhausted, pinched his fag end between his thumb and forefinger, and flicked it at a pile of bricks. ‘Dead bloke, guv. I come across him on my way home - always take a short-cut across here - and I thought I’d better let someone know.’
‘Let’s have a look.’
The warden drew back the blanket, revealing a clean-shaven face with strong features. About half of it, including the dark hair, was covered with damp plaster dust of a pinkish colour. Blood, Stratton thought, mostly washed away by the rain. ‘Was he on his back when you found him?’ he asked, pulling the blanket further down to reveal a well-built man in a good - if soaked and grubby - suit. The hands were only superficially dirty, and the nails looked well kept. ‘Looks as if the only injuries are the ones to the head.’
‘He was lying on his side,’ said the warden. ‘I turned him over to have a look, and . . . Well, here we are.’
Aren’t we just, thought Stratton, wearily. ‘Was he at all stiff?’
‘No, he came over quite easy.’
Stratton sniffed at the body, hoping for a whiff of alcohol - if the head wounds could be chalked up to a drunken fall, that would wrap things up nicely. Scenting nothing, he stood up again.
‘Must of been last night,’ said the warden. ‘Like I said, I always come this way, so I’d have noticed. You do see some funny things in this job,’ he conceded, ‘some of ’em don’t have a mark, but this one didn’t seem right to me. We didn’t get any bombing here last night, or the night before. This lot,’ he jerked his thumb at the site, ‘come down six months ago, and he ain’t dead long enough for that - if he’d just worked his way up to the top, I mean. That happens, too. Things,’ he added, vaguely, ‘moving.’
Stratton stood for a moment, indecisive. Ordinarily, such a situation would have sharpened his interest, but today . . . He shook his head, trying to force his brain to life. ‘Right,’ he said to Ballard, ‘seeing as we’re so close to the hospital, I’m going to have a word with Dr Byrne. Take some details, and then you,’ he nodded at the warden, ‘can get off home.’
‘Yes, sir.’ He left Ballard extracting his notebook from his tunic, and began picking his way through the rubble towards the Middlesex.
After several years’ working with Dr Byrne the pathologist, Stratton, though impressed by the man’s observational skills, had never got used to his way with the living, which was brusque to the point of rudeness. His manner matched his domain, which was permanently cold and smelt of a mixture of cadavers and disinfectant. The refrigeration - never enough after an air-raid, when sheeted bodies lay in the corridor awaiting inspection - coupled with the damp cement floor and the hard textures of the white porcelain tables, metal instruments, rubber overalls, and the slippery prophylactic feel of recently washed dead flesh, made everything cold to the touch. Everything
Similar Books
