armoured you against scenes like this, Faraday thought. Maybe that was the trick.
Ewers was already at work, assembling the body parts, addressing the overhead microphone as he inspected a smashed hand or a loop of viscera before carefully adding it to the growing jigsaw on the slab. To the head he paid special attention, inspecting the pulped flesh and sinew where the neck had been torn from the rest of the body, parting the matted hair to study the state of the scalp and running his fingers over what remained of the man’s features. The nose had gone, one eye was missing completely, while the other hung down on a white thread of optic nerve, glistening and sightless. Faraday stared at it for a long moment, sickened.
Ewers handed the head to one of the mortuary technicians and muttered something else for the benefit of the microphone. Already, from the tone of his voice, Faraday could sense that little of real forensic value would come out of the post-mortem. The body was simply too damaged. There were certain physical observations that could be safely made - height, shoe size, hair colour, approximate weight - but the rest of the evidence had been utterly smashed by the impact. If you wanted to eradicate any trace of prior damage, thought Faraday, this is exactly what you’d do.
As Ewers moved on to the more intact of the two legs, Faraday’s mobile began to trill. He stepped out into the fridge room. It was Willard.
‘Sir?’ Faraday was peering back through the open door. Ewers seemed to have found something on one of the legs.
Willard wanted to know how the post-mortem was going. Barrie had kept the new Head of CID briefed all day.
‘Fine, sir. But don’t hold your breath. The bloke’s a mess.’
Willard grunted something Faraday didn’t catch then asked him about his plans afterwards. Just now he was camping in a rented flat in Winchester. He needed a word or two with Faraday. Maybe a drink after the post-mortem?
Faraday was still watching Ewers. The invitation, he knew, had the force of an order.
‘Of course, sir. I’ll bell you when we’re through.’
The Eldon Arms straddled the fault line between Portsmouth and Southsea. Within easy walking distance of the nearby law courts, it attracted a handful of barristers every lunchtime, offering a spread of real ales to go with a snatched lunch, but in the evenings it became a locals’ pub, favoured by a noisy mix of builders, students, petty criminals and the odd lecturer from the university. The walls were clad with bookshelves and there was a house spaniel with three legs. The place was at once intimate, smoky and - if you had the need - deeply private. Winter loved it.
He’d already found a corner table by the time Jake Tarrant arrived. Winter spotted him by the door, gelled blond hair, full lips, Madness T-shirt and jeans, giving someone he obviously knew a little wave. Seconds later, he was beside Winter, telling him to drink up.
‘Stella top, son.’ Winter was feeling better by the minute. ‘And a packet of roasted peanuts.’
Tarrant returned with the drinks and nibbles, settled in the chair across the table. Although Winter had known him for at least ten years, he still hadn’t a clue how old he was. Some days at St Mary’s, rushed off his feet by a traffic jam of post-mortems, Tarrant could look almost middle-aged. Other times, afternoons especially when the pressure had eased, he might just have left college. Either way, with his boundless energy and easy wit, he’d always made trips to the mortuary a real pleasure, and Winter’s affection for the boy had been shared by countless other detectives. Jake was also handy on the football field, a gifted defender, and for a couple of seasons he’d guested in the Pompey CID team, transforming their prospects in the local league. Coppers liked Jake Tarrant. Not only could he handle most centre forwards but he also held his own when it came to conversation at the bar.
‘Mr Winter …
Ewers was already at work, assembling the body parts, addressing the overhead microphone as he inspected a smashed hand or a loop of viscera before carefully adding it to the growing jigsaw on the slab. To the head he paid special attention, inspecting the pulped flesh and sinew where the neck had been torn from the rest of the body, parting the matted hair to study the state of the scalp and running his fingers over what remained of the man’s features. The nose had gone, one eye was missing completely, while the other hung down on a white thread of optic nerve, glistening and sightless. Faraday stared at it for a long moment, sickened.
Ewers handed the head to one of the mortuary technicians and muttered something else for the benefit of the microphone. Already, from the tone of his voice, Faraday could sense that little of real forensic value would come out of the post-mortem. The body was simply too damaged. There were certain physical observations that could be safely made - height, shoe size, hair colour, approximate weight - but the rest of the evidence had been utterly smashed by the impact. If you wanted to eradicate any trace of prior damage, thought Faraday, this is exactly what you’d do.
As Ewers moved on to the more intact of the two legs, Faraday’s mobile began to trill. He stepped out into the fridge room. It was Willard.
‘Sir?’ Faraday was peering back through the open door. Ewers seemed to have found something on one of the legs.
Willard wanted to know how the post-mortem was going. Barrie had kept the new Head of CID briefed all day.
‘Fine, sir. But don’t hold your breath. The bloke’s a mess.’
Willard grunted something Faraday didn’t catch then asked him about his plans afterwards. Just now he was camping in a rented flat in Winchester. He needed a word or two with Faraday. Maybe a drink after the post-mortem?
Faraday was still watching Ewers. The invitation, he knew, had the force of an order.
‘Of course, sir. I’ll bell you when we’re through.’
The Eldon Arms straddled the fault line between Portsmouth and Southsea. Within easy walking distance of the nearby law courts, it attracted a handful of barristers every lunchtime, offering a spread of real ales to go with a snatched lunch, but in the evenings it became a locals’ pub, favoured by a noisy mix of builders, students, petty criminals and the odd lecturer from the university. The walls were clad with bookshelves and there was a house spaniel with three legs. The place was at once intimate, smoky and - if you had the need - deeply private. Winter loved it.
He’d already found a corner table by the time Jake Tarrant arrived. Winter spotted him by the door, gelled blond hair, full lips, Madness T-shirt and jeans, giving someone he obviously knew a little wave. Seconds later, he was beside Winter, telling him to drink up.
‘Stella top, son.’ Winter was feeling better by the minute. ‘And a packet of roasted peanuts.’
Tarrant returned with the drinks and nibbles, settled in the chair across the table. Although Winter had known him for at least ten years, he still hadn’t a clue how old he was. Some days at St Mary’s, rushed off his feet by a traffic jam of post-mortems, Tarrant could look almost middle-aged. Other times, afternoons especially when the pressure had eased, he might just have left college. Either way, with his boundless energy and easy wit, he’d always made trips to the mortuary a real pleasure, and Winter’s affection for the boy had been shared by countless other detectives. Jake was also handy on the football field, a gifted defender, and for a couple of seasons he’d guested in the Pompey CID team, transforming their prospects in the local league. Coppers liked Jake Tarrant. Not only could he handle most centre forwards but he also held his own when it came to conversation at the bar.
‘Mr Winter …
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