Read Online An Empty Death by Laura Wilson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laura Wilson
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thanks.’
‘That’s good.’ The pathologist’s face resumed its usual disapproving expression. ‘Right, then.’ He told Higgs to fetch a stretcher and marched downstairs to collect his bag, Stratton at his heels.
The warden had gone by the time they reached the bomb-site. Stratton had expected Dr Byrne to get cracking as soon as he’d uncovered the corpse, but he stood back, hands on hips, shaking his head. Higgs, next to him, also shook his head, although Stratton felt that it was sycophancy rather than informed opinion that made him do it. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘That,’ said Byrne, ‘is Dr Reynolds.’ He frowned at Stratton, and shook his head some more. Higgs, whose face had momentarily registered that he had not recognised the corpse and was as surprised as Stratton, immediately narrowed his eyes to mirror Byrne’s expression, and added a touch of his own by sucking his teeth.
Turning his attention back to Byrne, Stratton had the impression that the man thought the whole thing was in poor taste - a practical joke, perhaps, set up by himself and Ballard at Byrne’s expense.
‘You know him, then?’ he asked.
‘Of course I know him!’ Byrne sounded outraged. Jabbing a finger in the direction of the body, he said, ‘He’s a doctor. From the Middlesex.’ There was no regret in his voice, only the suggestion that Reynolds had somehow let the side down by snuffing it.
‘Well, that’s given us a head start - at least we know who he is. Are you going to take a look at him?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Byrne testily, waving a hand at Stratton. ‘Stand back.’ Stratton and Ballard withdrew to a discreet distance.
‘What a turn up,’ Stratton murmured.
‘I’d say so, sir.’
‘Get everything?’
‘What there was, sir. Warden’s name’s Prior. From Post C. I’ve got all the details. What do you think Dr Reynolds was doing out here, sir?’
‘On his way home, I suppose.’
‘Bit dangerous cutting across a bomb-site in the dark, sir.’
‘Unless he’d lost his way . . . or had a skinful.’
‘Not if he’d come straight from the hospital, sir.’ Ballard sounded shocked.
‘That’s true. But he might have been off duty. Anyway, there’s no point speculating. We’ll just have to wait for Laughing Boy to tell us what happened.’
Barely ten minutes had elapsed before Byrne, having finished his notes and sketches, covered the body, straightened up and motioned Stratton over to him. ‘Head wound,’ he said.
Tell me something I don’t know, thought Stratton. ‘How was it caused?’ he asked.
‘Don’t know yet. I’ve done all I can here, so . . .’ On cue, Higgs hurried forward with the stretcher. ‘Fetch Todd,’ Byrne ordered.
Before Higgs could depart, Stratton said, ‘My sergeant can help carry him.’
Byrne looked at Ballard with wary distaste, as if he might violate Dr Reynolds’s body in some particularly disgusting way if allowed anywhere near it. ‘Todd,’ he told Higgs, ‘and look sharp.’
Higgs departed, negotiating the uneven ground at a stumbling run, and Byrne turned back to Stratton. ‘You’ll have my report tomorrow,’ he said.
Stratton decided to ignore the air of finality. ‘How long has he been dead?’
‘Can’t say at the moment.’
‘An estimate?’
‘Six hours, possibly more.’
‘Do you think,’ persisted Stratton, ‘that it was an accident?’
‘I can’t be sure. I suggest you ask your men to search the area. You’ll need to collect all those bricks and so on . . .’ Byrne indicated the area around Reynolds’s head, ‘and have it sent to the Home Office analyst.’
Bollocks, thought Stratton, that’s all I need. Aloud, he said, ‘That’s necessary, is it, in your view?’
Byrne crossed his arms and pursed his lips. End of conversation. It reminded Stratton of a deckchair being folded away, so much so that he was surprised not to hear an audible snap. ‘Well,’ he
‘That’s good.’ The pathologist’s face resumed its usual disapproving expression. ‘Right, then.’ He told Higgs to fetch a stretcher and marched downstairs to collect his bag, Stratton at his heels.
The warden had gone by the time they reached the bomb-site. Stratton had expected Dr Byrne to get cracking as soon as he’d uncovered the corpse, but he stood back, hands on hips, shaking his head. Higgs, next to him, also shook his head, although Stratton felt that it was sycophancy rather than informed opinion that made him do it. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘That,’ said Byrne, ‘is Dr Reynolds.’ He frowned at Stratton, and shook his head some more. Higgs, whose face had momentarily registered that he had not recognised the corpse and was as surprised as Stratton, immediately narrowed his eyes to mirror Byrne’s expression, and added a touch of his own by sucking his teeth.
Turning his attention back to Byrne, Stratton had the impression that the man thought the whole thing was in poor taste - a practical joke, perhaps, set up by himself and Ballard at Byrne’s expense.
‘You know him, then?’ he asked.
‘Of course I know him!’ Byrne sounded outraged. Jabbing a finger in the direction of the body, he said, ‘He’s a doctor. From the Middlesex.’ There was no regret in his voice, only the suggestion that Reynolds had somehow let the side down by snuffing it.
‘Well, that’s given us a head start - at least we know who he is. Are you going to take a look at him?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Byrne testily, waving a hand at Stratton. ‘Stand back.’ Stratton and Ballard withdrew to a discreet distance.
‘What a turn up,’ Stratton murmured.
‘I’d say so, sir.’
‘Get everything?’
‘What there was, sir. Warden’s name’s Prior. From Post C. I’ve got all the details. What do you think Dr Reynolds was doing out here, sir?’
‘On his way home, I suppose.’
‘Bit dangerous cutting across a bomb-site in the dark, sir.’
‘Unless he’d lost his way . . . or had a skinful.’
‘Not if he’d come straight from the hospital, sir.’ Ballard sounded shocked.
‘That’s true. But he might have been off duty. Anyway, there’s no point speculating. We’ll just have to wait for Laughing Boy to tell us what happened.’
Barely ten minutes had elapsed before Byrne, having finished his notes and sketches, covered the body, straightened up and motioned Stratton over to him. ‘Head wound,’ he said.
Tell me something I don’t know, thought Stratton. ‘How was it caused?’ he asked.
‘Don’t know yet. I’ve done all I can here, so . . .’ On cue, Higgs hurried forward with the stretcher. ‘Fetch Todd,’ Byrne ordered.
Before Higgs could depart, Stratton said, ‘My sergeant can help carry him.’
Byrne looked at Ballard with wary distaste, as if he might violate Dr Reynolds’s body in some particularly disgusting way if allowed anywhere near it. ‘Todd,’ he told Higgs, ‘and look sharp.’
Higgs departed, negotiating the uneven ground at a stumbling run, and Byrne turned back to Stratton. ‘You’ll have my report tomorrow,’ he said.
Stratton decided to ignore the air of finality. ‘How long has he been dead?’
‘Can’t say at the moment.’
‘An estimate?’
‘Six hours, possibly more.’
‘Do you think,’ persisted Stratton, ‘that it was an accident?’
‘I can’t be sure. I suggest you ask your men to search the area. You’ll need to collect all those bricks and so on . . .’ Byrne indicated the area around Reynolds’s head, ‘and have it sent to the Home Office analyst.’
Bollocks, thought Stratton, that’s all I need. Aloud, he said, ‘That’s necessary, is it, in your view?’
Byrne crossed his arms and pursed his lips. End of conversation. It reminded Stratton of a deckchair being folded away, so much so that he was surprised not to hear an audible snap. ‘Well,’ he
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