a couple to do it. I conducted a little experiment at the time, whacking a Thomson’s Local Directory on my stair post. It only took about twenty minutes for it to start to disintegrate. My guess is that the killer would have needed fifteen or twenty.’
‘Twenty phone books? Not an easy murder weapon to carry about.’
‘No, and you can imagine the mickey-taking I took at the time when I stupidly mentioned my theory. Assault with fifteen or twenty deadly phone books. Oh yes, I certainly paid for that one.—
‘Maybe he wrapped one book up in the duct tape he used to secure the victim. That would’ve made it last.’
‘I didn’t find any trace of tape in the scalp, and there would almost certainly have been some microscopic residue.’
‘But there was a trace of fabric fibre, wasn’t there?’
The doctor scrolled through the forensic notes that he’d taken at the time, punching up jpegs of the wound showing ragged bits of blood-caked skin and hair lying across the exposed bone of the skull. ‘The killer certainly did his best to clean out the wound, but of course he couldn’t get it all, no one ever can, and, yes, there were twenty or so tiny threads of fabric.’
‘Any ideas of what they might have been?’
‘I thought that perhaps they came from the sleeve of his jumper.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Nothing that could help you.’
‘Nothing unusual at all?’
‘Well, apart from the funeral.’
‘You went to the funeral?’
‘Yes, I do try to attend them when I’ve had the deceased on my table, so to speak. Small gesture, really. I do it for the families. You see, they know where I’ve been .’
‘Where you’ve been?’
‘Inside their loved one. I’ve seen more of the person they loved than they ever did. I’ve been to every private place and looked at every little personal secret. I’m an intruder, another abuser, really, and I like to show that I always bear in mind that I am intruding on a fellow soul. Another human being who loved and who was loved.’
‘That’s an impressive point of view.’
‘It’s amazing how much they appreciate it. Never once has a family failed to thank me. Of course the funny thing about Spencer’s funeral, the reason I remember it so well, is that I don’t think he was loved very much at all, because I never saw a sorrier turn-out in all my life. Just me and his parents, his two brothers, the one surviving grandparent and the vicar.’
‘A bit embarrassing, I imagine.’
‘I’ll say. What’s more, I’d already agreed to do the sherry and sandwiches bit afterwards. I mean, what do you say? ’
‘ ‘Lovely funeral,’ I suppose.’
‘Except it hadn’t been. There was a curious incident.’
‘What?’
‘It happened as they were lowering the coffin into the grave. Suddenly from nowhere this young fellow in army uniform appeared and played the Last Post. He must have been hiding behind a tree.’
‘Well, that’s quite nice, isn’t it? Military man and all that.’
‘He played it on a kazoo, you know, those things that sound like a fly farting. Not at all sombre or dignified. I don’t think it was meant as a mark of respect.’
‘Didn’t anybody say anything?’
‘The Last Post isn’t very long, is it? I think we were all too taken aback. Anyway, the moment it was finished the man disappeared. Most embarrassing.’
As Newson took his leave the doctor asked to be remembered to Dr Clarke. ‘We were at med school together,’ he said. ‘I always fancied her but she used to go with arty types.’
‘Ah yes,’ Newson replied. ‘She ended up marrying a musician. A mandolin player.’
‘You’re kidding. Not a lot of money in that, I imagine.’
‘I don’t think she married him for money.’
‘Or the size of his instrument either. Ha ha. A mandolin, eh? Not very rock ‘n’ roll.’
‘In my experience very little in life is.’
‘Well, give her my love, will you? Lovely girl. Lovely, lovely girl.’
Newson noted
‘Twenty phone books? Not an easy murder weapon to carry about.’
‘No, and you can imagine the mickey-taking I took at the time when I stupidly mentioned my theory. Assault with fifteen or twenty deadly phone books. Oh yes, I certainly paid for that one.—
‘Maybe he wrapped one book up in the duct tape he used to secure the victim. That would’ve made it last.’
‘I didn’t find any trace of tape in the scalp, and there would almost certainly have been some microscopic residue.’
‘But there was a trace of fabric fibre, wasn’t there?’
The doctor scrolled through the forensic notes that he’d taken at the time, punching up jpegs of the wound showing ragged bits of blood-caked skin and hair lying across the exposed bone of the skull. ‘The killer certainly did his best to clean out the wound, but of course he couldn’t get it all, no one ever can, and, yes, there were twenty or so tiny threads of fabric.’
‘Any ideas of what they might have been?’
‘I thought that perhaps they came from the sleeve of his jumper.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Nothing that could help you.’
‘Nothing unusual at all?’
‘Well, apart from the funeral.’
‘You went to the funeral?’
‘Yes, I do try to attend them when I’ve had the deceased on my table, so to speak. Small gesture, really. I do it for the families. You see, they know where I’ve been .’
‘Where you’ve been?’
‘Inside their loved one. I’ve seen more of the person they loved than they ever did. I’ve been to every private place and looked at every little personal secret. I’m an intruder, another abuser, really, and I like to show that I always bear in mind that I am intruding on a fellow soul. Another human being who loved and who was loved.’
‘That’s an impressive point of view.’
‘It’s amazing how much they appreciate it. Never once has a family failed to thank me. Of course the funny thing about Spencer’s funeral, the reason I remember it so well, is that I don’t think he was loved very much at all, because I never saw a sorrier turn-out in all my life. Just me and his parents, his two brothers, the one surviving grandparent and the vicar.’
‘A bit embarrassing, I imagine.’
‘I’ll say. What’s more, I’d already agreed to do the sherry and sandwiches bit afterwards. I mean, what do you say? ’
‘ ‘Lovely funeral,’ I suppose.’
‘Except it hadn’t been. There was a curious incident.’
‘What?’
‘It happened as they were lowering the coffin into the grave. Suddenly from nowhere this young fellow in army uniform appeared and played the Last Post. He must have been hiding behind a tree.’
‘Well, that’s quite nice, isn’t it? Military man and all that.’
‘He played it on a kazoo, you know, those things that sound like a fly farting. Not at all sombre or dignified. I don’t think it was meant as a mark of respect.’
‘Didn’t anybody say anything?’
‘The Last Post isn’t very long, is it? I think we were all too taken aback. Anyway, the moment it was finished the man disappeared. Most embarrassing.’
As Newson took his leave the doctor asked to be remembered to Dr Clarke. ‘We were at med school together,’ he said. ‘I always fancied her but she used to go with arty types.’
‘Ah yes,’ Newson replied. ‘She ended up marrying a musician. A mandolin player.’
‘You’re kidding. Not a lot of money in that, I imagine.’
‘I don’t think she married him for money.’
‘Or the size of his instrument either. Ha ha. A mandolin, eh? Not very rock ‘n’ roll.’
‘In my experience very little in life is.’
‘Well, give her my love, will you? Lovely girl. Lovely, lovely girl.’
Newson noted
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