Read Online So Say the Fallen (Dci Serena Flanagan 2) by Stuart Neville - Free Book Online
Authors: Stuart Neville
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them back to the heat of her scalp.
She gasped, eyes opened wide, her gaze flitting around the room until she found him, inches away, staring back at her.
No recognition there, only confusion. Then realisation, and her expression turned from fear to anger.
‘Get out,’ she said.
He reached for her again, his fingertips seeking the soft skin of her cheek.
She slapped his hand away. ‘Get out.’
‘But—’
‘Get out!’
A shout now, her voice cracking.
‘But we’ve—’
She struck him, her palm against his cheek, glancing off his nose.
‘Get out!’
He brought his hands up as she swiped at him again. Then she pushed, first with her hands against his chest until he teetered at the edge of the bed, then she curled her legs up, and planted her feet against his stomach and pushed again.
McKay landed on the floor, shoulders first, the back of his head cracking on the floorboards. His legs followed, bringing the tangled duvet with them.
Up on her knees now, naked, pointing to the door. ‘Get the fuck out!’
He scrambled to his feet, fell, got up again.
‘Get out!’
McKay didn’t look back as he crossed the room, opened the door, exited, closed it behind him. He stood on the landing, shaking, shame creeping in on him, a sickly wave of it.
He went to the spare room and slipped inside, silent, and climbed back into the small bed. Pulled the duvet up over his head, blacking out everything.
It took an hour for the shaking to pass.
11
At eight a.m., the pathologist’s assistant opened the door to the Royal Victoria Hospital’s mortuary and allowed DCI Flanagan and DS Murray to enter. Flanagan had spent several minutes assuring Murray that he could leave at any point if he really needed to. Sooner or later, he would have to attend a post-mortem in her stead, and he might as well break his duck with this one. With no trauma involved, no bullet fragments to seek, no stab wounds to count, this would be about as clean as an autopsy gets.
The assistant led them to the post-mortem table. The body bag lay on a trolley beside it, Mr Garrick’s remains within. Dr Miriam McCreesh, the forensic pathologist, waited for them. A tall woman, the kind whose girlhood awkwardness turned to grace as an adult, she had an efficiency about her movements and her words. She wore surgical gloves, and a cap that strangely matched the green of her eyes.
‘Morning,’ she said.
Flanagan and Murray returned the greeting.
McCreesh consulted the clipboard on the wheeled table at her left hand.
‘Dr Barr’s initial assessment is death by suicide,’ she said. ‘Do you concur?’
Flanagan hesitated, then said, ‘I’m undecided.’
McCreesh looked up from the notes. ‘I see.’ She returned her attention to the clipboard. ‘Going by the liver temperature taken at the scene, the rigor, and the lividity, I’m estimating time of death between eleven p.m. and midnight on Sunday the 4th of October. Dr Barr observed no sign of recent trauma, as well as the presence of ten empty morphine granule sachets. There was an empty yogurt pot, and the spoon with which the yogurt was eaten. I understand the deceased was in the habit of using the yogurt as a means of administering his nightly dose of morphine, correct?’
‘That’s my understanding,’ Flanagan said.
‘All right,’ McCreesh said. ‘Shall we begin?’
Murray endured the early stages of the ritual. Flanagan watched him from the corner of her eye. He showed no signs of defeat as the body was taken from the bag, transferred to the post-mortem table using a ceiling-mounted hoist, and then photographed. Nor when the pyjama top was removed, or even the dressings on the stumps of Mr Garrick’s legs. Only when the adult nappy was removed, and the damage to the dead man’s lower abdomen was revealed, did Murray flinch.
In truth, so did Flanagan.
They watched as McCreesh took samples – hair, skin, matter from beneath the fingernails. Murray cleared his throat as she
She gasped, eyes opened wide, her gaze flitting around the room until she found him, inches away, staring back at her.
No recognition there, only confusion. Then realisation, and her expression turned from fear to anger.
‘Get out,’ she said.
He reached for her again, his fingertips seeking the soft skin of her cheek.
She slapped his hand away. ‘Get out.’
‘But—’
‘Get out!’
A shout now, her voice cracking.
‘But we’ve—’
She struck him, her palm against his cheek, glancing off his nose.
‘Get out!’
He brought his hands up as she swiped at him again. Then she pushed, first with her hands against his chest until he teetered at the edge of the bed, then she curled her legs up, and planted her feet against his stomach and pushed again.
McKay landed on the floor, shoulders first, the back of his head cracking on the floorboards. His legs followed, bringing the tangled duvet with them.
Up on her knees now, naked, pointing to the door. ‘Get the fuck out!’
He scrambled to his feet, fell, got up again.
‘Get out!’
McKay didn’t look back as he crossed the room, opened the door, exited, closed it behind him. He stood on the landing, shaking, shame creeping in on him, a sickly wave of it.
He went to the spare room and slipped inside, silent, and climbed back into the small bed. Pulled the duvet up over his head, blacking out everything.
It took an hour for the shaking to pass.
11
At eight a.m., the pathologist’s assistant opened the door to the Royal Victoria Hospital’s mortuary and allowed DCI Flanagan and DS Murray to enter. Flanagan had spent several minutes assuring Murray that he could leave at any point if he really needed to. Sooner or later, he would have to attend a post-mortem in her stead, and he might as well break his duck with this one. With no trauma involved, no bullet fragments to seek, no stab wounds to count, this would be about as clean as an autopsy gets.
The assistant led them to the post-mortem table. The body bag lay on a trolley beside it, Mr Garrick’s remains within. Dr Miriam McCreesh, the forensic pathologist, waited for them. A tall woman, the kind whose girlhood awkwardness turned to grace as an adult, she had an efficiency about her movements and her words. She wore surgical gloves, and a cap that strangely matched the green of her eyes.
‘Morning,’ she said.
Flanagan and Murray returned the greeting.
McCreesh consulted the clipboard on the wheeled table at her left hand.
‘Dr Barr’s initial assessment is death by suicide,’ she said. ‘Do you concur?’
Flanagan hesitated, then said, ‘I’m undecided.’
McCreesh looked up from the notes. ‘I see.’ She returned her attention to the clipboard. ‘Going by the liver temperature taken at the scene, the rigor, and the lividity, I’m estimating time of death between eleven p.m. and midnight on Sunday the 4th of October. Dr Barr observed no sign of recent trauma, as well as the presence of ten empty morphine granule sachets. There was an empty yogurt pot, and the spoon with which the yogurt was eaten. I understand the deceased was in the habit of using the yogurt as a means of administering his nightly dose of morphine, correct?’
‘That’s my understanding,’ Flanagan said.
‘All right,’ McCreesh said. ‘Shall we begin?’
Murray endured the early stages of the ritual. Flanagan watched him from the corner of her eye. He showed no signs of defeat as the body was taken from the bag, transferred to the post-mortem table using a ceiling-mounted hoist, and then photographed. Nor when the pyjama top was removed, or even the dressings on the stumps of Mr Garrick’s legs. Only when the adult nappy was removed, and the damage to the dead man’s lower abdomen was revealed, did Murray flinch.
In truth, so did Flanagan.
They watched as McCreesh took samples – hair, skin, matter from beneath the fingernails. Murray cleared his throat as she
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