Cruel Justice (DI Lorne Simpkins (Book one)) (4 page)

"Nice of you to come so promptly," Arnaud said, when the two detectives arrived at the spotlessly clean St Patrick's hospital mortuary.

Knowing how Pete felt about sarcasm, Lorne shot him a warning glance not to retaliate.

"Well! What are you waiting for? A number seven bus? For God's sake go and get suited and booted. Bones, show them the way."

His pathologist assistant, Bones, grudgingly showed them to the locker room. He rummaged through the tall plastic container in the corner marked CLEAN and withdrew two sterilised green operating gowns that had been discarded by surgeons.

The hospital deemed it a waste of funding to supply new greens for use in the pathology department, especially when, at the end of a post-mortem, the blood-soaked uniforms were disposed of in the hospital's incinerator anyway. Booties slipped over their shoes completed their fetching ensemble, they were ready to go.

On the return journey up the long hallway to the doctor's theatre
,
Pete gave a small cough and said, "Well then …"

Lorne cringed and braced herself, she knew her partner was about to ask one of his dumb questions.

"What's with the nickname?" he asked his unsuspecting victim.

The small geeky-looking assistant snapped back, "Bone's isn't my
nickname
, it's my surname."

Pete smiled.

"You got a problem with that? And yeah, I've heard all the wisecracks in this universe and the next, so don't waste your time even trying to come up with a new one."

"Hey, mate, no insult intended, just trying to make conversation," Pete replied.

Lorne suppressed a chuckle at how Pete seemed taken aback by the young man's abruptness.

 Out of the corner of his mouth he said to her, "Touchy, ain't he? Guess his sense of humour died a long time ago, working in a dead end job like this."

"Give it a rest, Pete." She elbowed him in the ribs and added, "Shut that over-worked mouth of yours for a change, will you?"

Lorne knew that his mistimed humour was all bravado, a sign of how uncomfortable he was in his surroundings.

Inside the post-mortem suite, Lorne approached the stainless-steel table in the centre of the room. Standing approximately eighteen inches from the corpse's feet guaranteed her a bird's eye view of the proceedings. Pete however, positioned himself alongside a chair that'd been handily placed next to the exit, ideal for a quick getaway. His pusillanimity in their environment was laughable.

Arnaud stood next to the table and snapped on his latex gloves. His tools were laid out on the waist-high trolley beside him. Eyeing the tools, Lorne thought some of them looked like they had been purchased at the local DIY store, rather than a medical supplier. Alongside the pruning clippers and the vibrating bone saw was a knife which resembled a bread knife she used at home. There were also various-sized scalpels, probably painstakingly sharpened by his assistant, Bones, after every examination.

Bones unzipped the bag and both the men, one on either side of the table, slid the bag from under the body.

Lorne glanced over at Pete as the corpse, which had been wrapped in a white sheet at the scene, lay like a midget-mummy on the table.

After Bones and Arnaud carefully removed the sheet, Lorne hoped Pete wouldn't faint, or throw-up, at the sight of the headless, rotting, trunk.

Bones cautiously placed the sheet to one side, making sure any trace of evidence, no matter how small, would stay in the sheet, to be studied in depth, later.

The perforated table the body now lay on would allow any excess fluids to run through it and settle in the drip tray below, and the samples would also be analysed later.

Bones walked over to the recorder and switched it on.

As Arnaud made his first cut into the torso, Lorne quickly donned her surgical mask. It didn't take long for the smell of decomposing flesh to waft over to where Pete was standing. He gagged, his knees buckled and he dropped into the chair beside him.

Darn it, just as I thought.
The post-mortem suite was the place where the men were sorted from the boys. For some reason, the women seemed to cope far better in the environment than their male counterparts. Lorne always thought that having to go through the ordeal of childbirth worked in a female officer's favour.

"While I dissect the body, please feel free to ask any questions," Arnaud said brusquely.

The doctor was one of the few pathologists she knew who performed a post-mortem without wearing a mask. She'd once asked him why, only for him to snap that 'a mask disguises crucial smells', like the smell of almonds when cyanide had been used in a homicide. Lorne had a suspicion that he probably got a kick out of the vile stench of rotting flesh, and was too ashamed to admit he had a fetish.

"At the scene, you suspected the body had been moved. Can you tell us why, Dr?" Lorne asked, her fascination piquing with every cut he made.

"Ah, yes. Although the body had been discovered beneath a pile of leaves, it was caked in mud. As far as I know, when a pile of leaves breaks down it
does not
mysteriously change its natural composition. I suspect that somebody returned to the body, to remove its limbs. You see here," he said, pointing to the gaping hole in the right shoulder. "The arm has been
pulled
from its socket, not detached with a sharp implement. This can only be carried out with ease once the body has begun to decompose."

"Oh Jesus," Pete cried as he bolted through the heavy plastic door.

"I see your colleague appears to have lost his stomach for the job," the Frenchman said, smirking, with a glint in his smouldering dark brown eyes.

A smile touched her taut lips. So this incredibly complex man did have a sense of humour after all.

Chapter Four

The drive home was an arduous one. Lorne's autopilot kicked in without much effort. Before long, she had her front door open and was easing her way along her narrow Minton-tiled hallway. Leaning against the decorative dado rail, she removed the shoes that had imprisoned her aching feet for the past five hours. Standing over a corpse in a sanitised cold environment certainly took its toll.

The post-mortem had turned out to be disappointingly inconclusive. Doctor Arnaud suspected the cause of death would
only
be determined once the missing limbs had been recovered. He'd been positive about only one thing — a homicide had been committed.

Exhausted both mentally and physically, she couldn't summon up enough energy to climb the stairs to take a shower, despite having the putrid smell of rotting flesh lingering uninvitingly on her clothes. Instead she wandered through to the kitchen. The newness of the wood was a welcome relief to her nostrils, Tom had recently refurbished it in a contemporary style of beech and stainless steel.

Henry approached her sleepily. "Hello, boy, how's it going?" she asked, petting his silky head. She took a crystal tumbler from the cupboard above the granite breakfast bar and filled it with the remains of the whisky.

The sharp aroma of the amber-coloured liquid transported her to pastures far away. To the sumptuous heather-clad hillsides of Scotland. To a little holiday cottage Tom and she used to visit regularly before Charlie came along. Life had been so different back then, they'd been free spirits without a care in the world. Now they were just an ordinary married couple trapped in the midst of time, waiting for their child to fly the nest.

With Henry close to her heels she crept back into the lounge, switching on the lamp on the small table beside the sofa. She groaned as she settled her weary body on the cushions her husband had left strewn across the floor. The burning embers of the fire still radiated enough heat for the room to feel comfortable. Henry sidled up to her, she stroked him and he licked her face in return.

The whisky warmed her insides as it slid gracefully down her throat. She sighed with contentment and removed the band that had kept her shoulder-length hair in place throughout the post-mortem. She ran her fingers through her locks as she reflected on her day. Eventually her coil-sprung mind cleared and she drifted off to sleep, wrapped around her devoted four-legged friend.

Four hours later, she woke to find Tom standing over her, glaring.

She stretched and yawned noisily. Henry ran to the back door and whimpered to be let out.

"What time did you get in?" Tom asked.

"I don't know exactly, about three. Are you still in a mood?"

He turned and headed into the kitchen. Lorne shook her head in dismay. After a few minutes, she followed him. He had his back to her. She tiptoed across the room and wrapped her arms around him, her head resting on his back, she asked again, "Are you still in a mood with me?"

Untying himself from her grasp, he stepped away. "Don't you ever stop interrogating people?"

His angry words sent a chill running up her spine. He looked handsome in his burgundy silk robe that was draped open, revealing a muscular, thickly thatched chest she usually adored running her fingers through. Her heart skipped a beat as her eyes lingered on the stunning Mediterranean dark looks he'd fortunately inherited from his father. The problem was he'd also inherited other traits that weren't so charming, such as his temper and unwillingness to compromise.

"Once a policewoman, always a policewoman, I guess," she shrugged an apology.

"You stink, the least you could have done was had a shower."

Lorne shook her head. "Tom, I was buggered when I got home, give me a break, will you?"

"I don't doubt that, you're always buggered lately," he snapped back at her.

Without realising it she rolled her eyes and set him off again.

"Don't bloody do that, you know I'm right. You're always too tired to do anything when you get home from that place, but that doesn't excuse you from not having a shower. You should've had one at work. What gives you the right to bring the smell of death into our home?"

"Are you finished?" She folded her arms defiantly. "For your information I was at the mortuary last night —"

"That much is evident," he retaliated with narrowed eyes.

"As I was saying, I was at the mortuary and it was quicker to come home rather than go back to the station. I've never done that before, have I?"

He shrugged and had the grace to look ashamed at his uncalled for outburst.

Tom bent down and took a couple of cereal bowls out of the cupboard. "Do you want some breakfast?" he asked his tone much softer.

"I'll grab a shower first and then have some, thanks."

As she turned to leave the room, she heard him mumble an apology.

"No problem," she called back over her shoulder and headed up the stairs.

Half an hour later she found him at the hob frying bacon and eggs. "Not for me, hon, I'll just grab a bowl of cornflakes and head off. Sorry, but I have to be at the station for a nine o'clock meeting with my team."

That was it. The storm clouds gathered again, he threw the frying pan in the sink and stomped out of the room like a five-year old.

Why do I bother?
Her appetite suddenly gone, she left the house moments later. She was tired of fighting. Tired of stepping on eggshells. Tired of saying the wrong thing.

When did it all change?

The happiness they'd once held so dear now seemed light years away. She didn't have a clue how, or if, they would be able to sort things out. Was their marriage really at breaking point or was it a case of her imagination working overtime?

Chapter Five

"Morning, ma'am," the desk sergeant greeted her as she marched through reception.

"Morning, Burt, anything I should know about?"

"All quiet around here, ma'am, but the chief asked me to tell you he'd like a word ASAP."

"What kind of mood is he in?" she asked the balding sergeant.

"The usual, I guess," he replied vaguely.

The chief was an unknown quantity to her team. But Lorne had been with him for many years and understood his quirky ways. He was her mentor, it hadn't taken him long to figure out her potential. He had pushed her to the limit, knew she'd have to work harder than any male under him. He had showed continued faith in her when others obstinately neglected to see her strengths.

Without his guidance, she wouldn't be half the detective she was today, and would have probably been driven from the force years ago, like most of the female colleagues she had trained with at Hendon. The force, unfortunately, still lived in the dark ages where female recruits were concerned. Something that Lorne fought hard to combat daily.

"So, Burt, retirement won't be long now."

"Yep, looking forward to it after forty years on the job."

"And exemplary service, it's been."

"Nice of you to say so, ma'am."

"And knowing you, you'll enjoy every minute of your retirement, eh?"

He threw her one of his broad smiles that she would miss when he left.

"I'd better see what the chief wants then. Can you contact the incident room for me? Let the team know the meeting will be delayed a few minutes?"

"Roger that, ma'am," he replied reaching for the phone.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Lorne said, poking her head around the chief's door.

"Come in. Take a seat, Lorne, I shan't be a moment." He didn't look up from the pile of documents he was signing and handing back to his secretary.

He dismissed the older woman, who scurried from the room.

"What happened to you?" he asked, noticing the plaster over her eye.

Lorne hesitated for a moment wondering whether to confide in him, but decided against it when she saw how pale he looked. "Oh, it's nothing, the dog tripped me up last night and I head-butted the door," she told him, avoiding eye contact.

He eyed her suspiciously, knew when she was lying, but Lorne could tell he wasn't willing to press her further.

He sighed. "Fill me in on the body discovered last night, will you?"

"Nothing much to tell yet, sir. There was no form of identification found at the scene. Dental records are a no go as the head was missing. Someone did everything they could to hinder us. The victim's right arm is missing and the fingers on the left hand have been chopped off at the knuckle."