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Authors: Laura Wilson
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was impersonal, hygienic, clinical, and bathed in harsh white light.
The odour of decomposition hit Stratton as soon as he opened the outer door. The main room was deserted, save for three bodies lying, covered up, on the tables. From next door came the sounds of bangs and curses, and when Stratton called out, Higgs, Dr Byrne’s assistant, wizened and jockey-like, appeared looking flustered. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Bit of a problem, Inspector.’ Higgs opened the door to the refrigerator room, and Stratton saw, propped against the wall, a metal tray with a fat woman, wrapped in a paper shroud, stuck to it so that she appeared to be hovering three inches from the floor like some bizarre decoration. An elderly undertaker’s man, clad in top hat and black coat, was chipping away at her sides with a hammer and chisel, aided by another mortuary assistant. ‘Frozen, she is, Mr Stratton. Stuck fast. We’ve tried sliding her, but it’s no good.’
‘Jesus,’ said Stratton, revolted. ‘Can’t you wait for her to thaw?’
‘Not likely,’ said the undertaker’s man. ‘She’s due in Cricklewood. Funeral’s at twelve, and we’ll have to tidy her up a bit first.’
‘I’ll leave to you to it.’ Stratton rolled his eyes. ‘Best of luck. Where’s Dr Byrne?’ he asked Higgs.
‘Gone up to the laboratory. I’ll take you.’
‘Does that happen often?’ Stratton asked, as they went up the stairs.
‘No. Got up like a fourpenny hambone when she come in, with not a mark on her. Nothing to tell who she was, though. Had a hell of a job finding someone to claim her, so she’s been with us for a while, and . . .’ Higgs’s face, which reminded Stratton of the sort of preserved infant one might see in a Will Hay comedy, puckered in disgust. ‘As if we didn’t have enough to be going on with. Bodies all over the shop. At least we’ve got an assistant now.’
‘Was that him in there?’
‘That’s right.’ Stratton tried to recall what the man had looked like, but, beyond a vague impression of medium height and sandy hair, couldn’t visualise him. ‘If you don’t mind,’ said Higgs, ‘we’ll use the stairs. Lift keeps breaking down.’
After three flights, neither man was inclined to talk, which suited Stratton, but after five, he was panting, and had to stop and collect himself before Higgs ushered him into the laboratory. Dr Byrne, perched on a high stool, sat squinting into a microscope, surrounded by an array of jars containing, variously, a grotesquely malformed baby, a severed hand, a tapeworm, and something that looked horribly like a tumour. Byrne himself had a sort of specimen quality, being entirely bald, with the thinnest eyebrows Stratton had ever seen on a man, and a greenish-white complexion that made his head look as if it had been preserved in formalin.
‘Stratton.’ Byrne peered irritably over the top of his instrument. ‘What do you want?’
‘There’s a body I’d like you to see before it’s moved. Found on the bomb-site over the way this morning. I’m not sure about it.’
‘Making detecting history, are we?’
Stratton, stung by the implication that he was gunning for fame and promotion, said, drily, ‘I doubt it’s going to lead us to a Crippen or a Ruxton, if that’s what you mean. To be honest,’ he added, ‘I’m hoping you’re going to tell me he got that way by accident.’
‘Ah.’ Byrne managed to work a whole rainbow of meanings into the monosyllable, chief amongst which seemed to be that Stratton’s lack of enthusiasm for the chase left a lot to be desired.
‘Sorry,’ said Stratton, irritated by this. ‘Didn’t manage a lot of sleep last night.’
‘New bomb, was it?’ asked Byrne, and Stratton was astonished to see a flicker of something that looked almost like sympathy cross his face.
‘’Fraid so.’
‘Family all safe, I hope?’ Stratton was touched to see that, for a moment, Byrne looked concerned.
‘Yes
The odour of decomposition hit Stratton as soon as he opened the outer door. The main room was deserted, save for three bodies lying, covered up, on the tables. From next door came the sounds of bangs and curses, and when Stratton called out, Higgs, Dr Byrne’s assistant, wizened and jockey-like, appeared looking flustered. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Bit of a problem, Inspector.’ Higgs opened the door to the refrigerator room, and Stratton saw, propped against the wall, a metal tray with a fat woman, wrapped in a paper shroud, stuck to it so that she appeared to be hovering three inches from the floor like some bizarre decoration. An elderly undertaker’s man, clad in top hat and black coat, was chipping away at her sides with a hammer and chisel, aided by another mortuary assistant. ‘Frozen, she is, Mr Stratton. Stuck fast. We’ve tried sliding her, but it’s no good.’
‘Jesus,’ said Stratton, revolted. ‘Can’t you wait for her to thaw?’
‘Not likely,’ said the undertaker’s man. ‘She’s due in Cricklewood. Funeral’s at twelve, and we’ll have to tidy her up a bit first.’
‘I’ll leave to you to it.’ Stratton rolled his eyes. ‘Best of luck. Where’s Dr Byrne?’ he asked Higgs.
‘Gone up to the laboratory. I’ll take you.’
‘Does that happen often?’ Stratton asked, as they went up the stairs.
‘No. Got up like a fourpenny hambone when she come in, with not a mark on her. Nothing to tell who she was, though. Had a hell of a job finding someone to claim her, so she’s been with us for a while, and . . .’ Higgs’s face, which reminded Stratton of the sort of preserved infant one might see in a Will Hay comedy, puckered in disgust. ‘As if we didn’t have enough to be going on with. Bodies all over the shop. At least we’ve got an assistant now.’
‘Was that him in there?’
‘That’s right.’ Stratton tried to recall what the man had looked like, but, beyond a vague impression of medium height and sandy hair, couldn’t visualise him. ‘If you don’t mind,’ said Higgs, ‘we’ll use the stairs. Lift keeps breaking down.’
After three flights, neither man was inclined to talk, which suited Stratton, but after five, he was panting, and had to stop and collect himself before Higgs ushered him into the laboratory. Dr Byrne, perched on a high stool, sat squinting into a microscope, surrounded by an array of jars containing, variously, a grotesquely malformed baby, a severed hand, a tapeworm, and something that looked horribly like a tumour. Byrne himself had a sort of specimen quality, being entirely bald, with the thinnest eyebrows Stratton had ever seen on a man, and a greenish-white complexion that made his head look as if it had been preserved in formalin.
‘Stratton.’ Byrne peered irritably over the top of his instrument. ‘What do you want?’
‘There’s a body I’d like you to see before it’s moved. Found on the bomb-site over the way this morning. I’m not sure about it.’
‘Making detecting history, are we?’
Stratton, stung by the implication that he was gunning for fame and promotion, said, drily, ‘I doubt it’s going to lead us to a Crippen or a Ruxton, if that’s what you mean. To be honest,’ he added, ‘I’m hoping you’re going to tell me he got that way by accident.’
‘Ah.’ Byrne managed to work a whole rainbow of meanings into the monosyllable, chief amongst which seemed to be that Stratton’s lack of enthusiasm for the chase left a lot to be desired.
‘Sorry,’ said Stratton, irritated by this. ‘Didn’t manage a lot of sleep last night.’
‘New bomb, was it?’ asked Byrne, and Stratton was astonished to see a flicker of something that looked almost like sympathy cross his face.
‘’Fraid so.’
‘Family all safe, I hope?’ Stratton was touched to see that, for a moment, Byrne looked concerned.
‘Yes
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