of the wall tiles.
‘Not exactly.’ Nagapon turned to his computer and hammered the keys with his stubby fingers. ‘Let’s deal with the superficial injuries first. He has a compound fracture of the skull. Somebody struck him three, possibly four times on the back of the head. There are radial cracks from the point of impact on the parietal region … want to take a look?’
Thomas didn’t. He would die rather than admit he was uncomfortable around corpses. He had his back to the dead man and that was how he wanted it to stay. ‘Weapon?’ he asked.
‘A club. Or at least something heavy and wooden. There were fibres matted in the hair. I am having them tested as we speak.’
‘That would be on the landing.’ Thomas was remembering the murder site, the flight of stone steps at Halliards and the blankness of the oriel window that looked down on to the place where Quentin’s blood was found. ‘We think he was facing away from the window, standing on the landing overlooking the hall below. He’d have been looking at the statue of the school’s founder, in the niche opposite the front doors.’
‘That would work.’ Nagapon nodded, swivelling his chair along the counter to check something. ‘Here.’ He fitted an X- ray into place and flicked on the white light. ‘Parietal view of Quentin’s skull. See the point of impact?’
Thomas did.
‘And the radial cracks?’
Again, yes.
‘He pitched forward, hitting his mouth on something …’
‘The balustrade.’ Thomas was fitting it all into place. He remembered the brass railings worn smooth by countless school-boy hands.
‘He loosened two teeth and, of course, there is much bleeding from the lips and gums.’
‘Then he went down?’
‘On his right side. There is some minor bruising to the shoulder as it hit the floor.’
‘Stone,’ Thomas murmured, ‘unyielding.’ He had knelt on those flags, worn and slightly uneven. Even now he remembered the cold.
‘And here.’ Nagapon flicked up a second X-ray. ‘A crush fracture of the right orbit. He was lying on his front, with his face turned to the left when the last one, perhaps two, blows were delivered. As you see, the point of impact has slipped sideways.’
‘We found blood on the stairs,’ Thomas told him. ‘SOCO counted sixteen drops.’
‘From the murder weapon.’ Nagapon nodded, glancing across to the white, dead soles of George Quentin, waxy in the glare of the neon lights. ‘He took it away with him.’
‘You think it’s a he?’
Nagapon shrugged. ‘I have no way of knowing that,’ he said. ‘It depends on the weapon used, the frenzy of the attack.’
‘What happened then?’ Thomas asked. ‘The hanging.’
‘This is where strength would have come in, from the scene-of-crime report I have read.’
Thomas nodded. ‘He would have had to have been lifted nearly three feet on to the balustrade with the rope around the neck. Gravity would have done the rest.’
‘But not very well.’ Nagapon got out of his chair for the first time and crossed to the corpse. He lifted the finger of the left hand. ‘The nails have changed colour,’ he said, and he let the hand fall. ‘The tongue protrudes from the teeth, the lips and ears are blue. There is a light froth of blood around the nostrils. The right hand,’ he reached across George Quentin’s lifeless form with the Y-shaped incision yet to be sewn up, ‘is still clenched in spasm. The man was still alive when his killer put the rope around his neck. He may even perhaps have been conscious.’
‘Jesus,’ Thomas whispered, shaking his head. ‘Can you give me a time of death?’
‘When was he found?’ Nagapon asked.
‘Mid-morning, yesterday.’
‘SOCO says the murder site was cold.’
‘An empty school,’ Thomas confirmed. ‘About as warm as this place.’
Nagapon didn’t smile. He didn’t share the gallows humour of his calling or of the police. He was a professional. And death was nothing to smile
‘Not exactly.’ Nagapon turned to his computer and hammered the keys with his stubby fingers. ‘Let’s deal with the superficial injuries first. He has a compound fracture of the skull. Somebody struck him three, possibly four times on the back of the head. There are radial cracks from the point of impact on the parietal region … want to take a look?’
Thomas didn’t. He would die rather than admit he was uncomfortable around corpses. He had his back to the dead man and that was how he wanted it to stay. ‘Weapon?’ he asked.
‘A club. Or at least something heavy and wooden. There were fibres matted in the hair. I am having them tested as we speak.’
‘That would be on the landing.’ Thomas was remembering the murder site, the flight of stone steps at Halliards and the blankness of the oriel window that looked down on to the place where Quentin’s blood was found. ‘We think he was facing away from the window, standing on the landing overlooking the hall below. He’d have been looking at the statue of the school’s founder, in the niche opposite the front doors.’
‘That would work.’ Nagapon nodded, swivelling his chair along the counter to check something. ‘Here.’ He fitted an X- ray into place and flicked on the white light. ‘Parietal view of Quentin’s skull. See the point of impact?’
Thomas did.
‘And the radial cracks?’
Again, yes.
‘He pitched forward, hitting his mouth on something …’
‘The balustrade.’ Thomas was fitting it all into place. He remembered the brass railings worn smooth by countless school-boy hands.
‘He loosened two teeth and, of course, there is much bleeding from the lips and gums.’
‘Then he went down?’
‘On his right side. There is some minor bruising to the shoulder as it hit the floor.’
‘Stone,’ Thomas murmured, ‘unyielding.’ He had knelt on those flags, worn and slightly uneven. Even now he remembered the cold.
‘And here.’ Nagapon flicked up a second X-ray. ‘A crush fracture of the right orbit. He was lying on his front, with his face turned to the left when the last one, perhaps two, blows were delivered. As you see, the point of impact has slipped sideways.’
‘We found blood on the stairs,’ Thomas told him. ‘SOCO counted sixteen drops.’
‘From the murder weapon.’ Nagapon nodded, glancing across to the white, dead soles of George Quentin, waxy in the glare of the neon lights. ‘He took it away with him.’
‘You think it’s a he?’
Nagapon shrugged. ‘I have no way of knowing that,’ he said. ‘It depends on the weapon used, the frenzy of the attack.’
‘What happened then?’ Thomas asked. ‘The hanging.’
‘This is where strength would have come in, from the scene-of-crime report I have read.’
Thomas nodded. ‘He would have had to have been lifted nearly three feet on to the balustrade with the rope around the neck. Gravity would have done the rest.’
‘But not very well.’ Nagapon got out of his chair for the first time and crossed to the corpse. He lifted the finger of the left hand. ‘The nails have changed colour,’ he said, and he let the hand fall. ‘The tongue protrudes from the teeth, the lips and ears are blue. There is a light froth of blood around the nostrils. The right hand,’ he reached across George Quentin’s lifeless form with the Y-shaped incision yet to be sewn up, ‘is still clenched in spasm. The man was still alive when his killer put the rope around his neck. He may even perhaps have been conscious.’
‘Jesus,’ Thomas whispered, shaking his head. ‘Can you give me a time of death?’
‘When was he found?’ Nagapon asked.
‘Mid-morning, yesterday.’
‘SOCO says the murder site was cold.’
‘An empty school,’ Thomas confirmed. ‘About as warm as this place.’
Nagapon didn’t smile. He didn’t share the gallows humour of his calling or of the police. He was a professional. And death was nothing to smile
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