pathologist?’
‘Dr Sweeney.’
She said something else but the line wasn’t good and her voice broke up. ‘I missed that, Carol. Again?’
‘The old lady was murdered. Eighteen months ago.’
13
I n life, the old lady at 24 Brantwood Road had the name Isobel Swift. In the fluorescent glare of the mortuary, there was something birdlike about
her skeleton, a lightness and vulnerability that reminded Rosen – if a reminder was needed – how fragile life was.
Dr Sweeney hummed an improvised melody and rinsed his hands under the tap, the sound of running water reminding Rosen of Father Sebastian and his impoverished room. But instead of aromatic
incense and the undertone of sweat, the mortuary smelled of chemical cold and the ultimate transience of the flesh.
Sweeney snapped on his gloves, his fingers, much travelled into the dark spaces of the human body, flexing in the harsh overhead light. Of all the rooms and places Rosen had had to enter in his
capacity as a detective, the mortuary was the one he always wanted to be out of fastest.
‘Detective Rosen.’
Rosen raised his eyes from Isobel Swift to meet Sweeney’s.
‘Cadavers can’t bite.’ Sweeney may have sounded happy, but his face was frozen behind an impassive mask. ‘She died of asphyxiation and the person who killed her knew what
he was doing. I wouldn’t even rule out an advanced knowledge of medicine or the human body. There are five separate and deliberate blows to the ribcage. The five ribs have penetrated inwards,
two to the left, three to the right. Within her chest, blood had flooded both lungs. Look at the top ribs: they’re short and chunky and hardly ever break. He’s picked the middle ribs,
dainty and long. Why? Because it takes a long time to die of a haemothorax. If you were speculating about her death, she drowned in the thin air around her, so to speak, her own blood filling up
her lungs from within.’
Rosen considered. In a bungled burglary, he’d once seen an old lady’s ribcage smashed in a panic of blows. But the breaks before his eyes were precise and had a sinister
symmetry.
‘Sadistic,’ whispered Rosen. ‘Only five broken ribs, so it took the longest possible time to die. This man wanted to observe.’ He stopped thinking aloud when he saw the
smile in Sweeney’s eyes evolve into a smirk.
‘What is it, Dr Sweeney?’
‘Why do you insist on tormenting yourself over the victims?’
Rosen was lost for words. Bellwood stepped closer to the slab. She said ‘Whoever did this wanted to savour and enjoy it.’
Sweeney’s forehead shone in the overhead light of the windowless room.
A string of possibilities occurred to Rosen, which he kept to himself.
The person who killed Mrs Swift, eighteen months ago, is Herod. Herod doesn’t appear to know his more recent victims, but I’d bet my last pound he knew Mrs Swift. What’s
the link here? How do the pieces connect?
‘Anything else to add, Dr Sweeney?’
‘Do you mean, was there any sexual interference, Detective Rosen?’
Rosen wished hard for a ‘no’.
‘It’s hard to tell from a skeleton but I’ve had an initial report from the forensics lab and there was no semen on her bedsheets and nothing alien came out of the pubic
comb-through.’ Sweeney spoke to Rosen as if he was a child, and a rather stupid one at that.
‘Let’s go, Carol.’
Although grateful for Sweeney’s information, Rosen resisted the urge to thank him or even say farewell to a man who thought compassion was a sign of weakness.
——
‘Y OU THINK THERE ’ S a link between Mrs Swift’s murder and the murder of our pregnant mothers?’ he asked Bellwood.
‘The proximity between numbers 22 and 24 could be a coincidence. What do you think, David?’
‘It’s too much of a coincidence. We know Herod was in 24 Brantwood Road recently. We know there was a murder there eighteen months ago. We know he abducted a woman from number 22 in
the last few days. Running
‘Dr Sweeney.’
She said something else but the line wasn’t good and her voice broke up. ‘I missed that, Carol. Again?’
‘The old lady was murdered. Eighteen months ago.’
13
I n life, the old lady at 24 Brantwood Road had the name Isobel Swift. In the fluorescent glare of the mortuary, there was something birdlike about
her skeleton, a lightness and vulnerability that reminded Rosen – if a reminder was needed – how fragile life was.
Dr Sweeney hummed an improvised melody and rinsed his hands under the tap, the sound of running water reminding Rosen of Father Sebastian and his impoverished room. But instead of aromatic
incense and the undertone of sweat, the mortuary smelled of chemical cold and the ultimate transience of the flesh.
Sweeney snapped on his gloves, his fingers, much travelled into the dark spaces of the human body, flexing in the harsh overhead light. Of all the rooms and places Rosen had had to enter in his
capacity as a detective, the mortuary was the one he always wanted to be out of fastest.
‘Detective Rosen.’
Rosen raised his eyes from Isobel Swift to meet Sweeney’s.
‘Cadavers can’t bite.’ Sweeney may have sounded happy, but his face was frozen behind an impassive mask. ‘She died of asphyxiation and the person who killed her knew what
he was doing. I wouldn’t even rule out an advanced knowledge of medicine or the human body. There are five separate and deliberate blows to the ribcage. The five ribs have penetrated inwards,
two to the left, three to the right. Within her chest, blood had flooded both lungs. Look at the top ribs: they’re short and chunky and hardly ever break. He’s picked the middle ribs,
dainty and long. Why? Because it takes a long time to die of a haemothorax. If you were speculating about her death, she drowned in the thin air around her, so to speak, her own blood filling up
her lungs from within.’
Rosen considered. In a bungled burglary, he’d once seen an old lady’s ribcage smashed in a panic of blows. But the breaks before his eyes were precise and had a sinister
symmetry.
‘Sadistic,’ whispered Rosen. ‘Only five broken ribs, so it took the longest possible time to die. This man wanted to observe.’ He stopped thinking aloud when he saw the
smile in Sweeney’s eyes evolve into a smirk.
‘What is it, Dr Sweeney?’
‘Why do you insist on tormenting yourself over the victims?’
Rosen was lost for words. Bellwood stepped closer to the slab. She said ‘Whoever did this wanted to savour and enjoy it.’
Sweeney’s forehead shone in the overhead light of the windowless room.
A string of possibilities occurred to Rosen, which he kept to himself.
The person who killed Mrs Swift, eighteen months ago, is Herod. Herod doesn’t appear to know his more recent victims, but I’d bet my last pound he knew Mrs Swift. What’s
the link here? How do the pieces connect?
‘Anything else to add, Dr Sweeney?’
‘Do you mean, was there any sexual interference, Detective Rosen?’
Rosen wished hard for a ‘no’.
‘It’s hard to tell from a skeleton but I’ve had an initial report from the forensics lab and there was no semen on her bedsheets and nothing alien came out of the pubic
comb-through.’ Sweeney spoke to Rosen as if he was a child, and a rather stupid one at that.
‘Let’s go, Carol.’
Although grateful for Sweeney’s information, Rosen resisted the urge to thank him or even say farewell to a man who thought compassion was a sign of weakness.
——
‘Y OU THINK THERE ’ S a link between Mrs Swift’s murder and the murder of our pregnant mothers?’ he asked Bellwood.
‘The proximity between numbers 22 and 24 could be a coincidence. What do you think, David?’
‘It’s too much of a coincidence. We know Herod was in 24 Brantwood Road recently. We know there was a murder there eighteen months ago. We know he abducted a woman from number 22 in
the last few days. Running
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