The Twisted Knot (15 page)

42

Belinda leant back on a bench next to the public phone and closed her eyes. She needed to lie low for a while, for Nicola's sake. She hated to think what people in Angel's Crossing were saying about her daughter now. It would get around the school. Kids in the playground talking about something they didn't even understand. And her precious girl in the middle of it all. How could she possibly explain the whole nasty mess to an eight-year-old? They could never go back.

The conversation with Faye had been surprising. It had given her a lot to think about. The fact that both men had been abused by their father went some way to explaining things. But not justifying them, nothing could justify what had happened to Nici.

She hadn't considered that Faye might offer support and she replayed the conversation back in her mind. She wasn't suspicious by nature but had a certain paranoia about what the older woman's motives might be. She had never taken to Faye. But she had also never guessed at the burdens she was carrying.

Faye had always seemed old to her, with her crackly voice and shuffling walk. Belinda knew many women who were a similar age to Faye and were active and outgoing. Maybe Faye's narrow pessimistic attitude was one of the reasons she'd never really connected with her, coupled with the revolting chain smoking. Faye had cocooned herself in her home – her sons were the only people she saw regularly – as if memories and regrets were more important than the new day outside her front door.

Belinda realised with a start that Nicola was the closest Faye would ever have to a grandchild. She loved her. In her own way. A way that Belinda hadn't always appreciated. She was constantly giving Nicola little gifts. But they'd either been cheap plastic toys that broke within minutes or old musty relics, dredged up from goodness knows where. Belinda had dismissed her clumsy efforts, ignored the sincerity behind them.

Nici had always been fond of Faye. She loved all the presents, was overjoyed in that way young children can be by the simplest of things. She called her ‘Grandma' and without prompting always made her a sweet card on her birthday.

Belinda had been worried about returning the call, wondering why she felt compelled to do so. But she was seeing Faye in a different light. She was a lot sharper than Belinda had given her credit for. She hadn't asked the barrage of questions that Belinda had anticipated.

An offer of help. Seemingly with no strings attached. Belinda wanted to trust her.

43

Even though the body had been refrigerated and was still ice-cold to the touch, the unavoidable smell of decay filled the morgue. And it was going to get a whole lot worse once the body was opened up. It wasn't unusual to have stinkers for autopsy. Especially in the summer when the decomposition process was faster. But today the forensic pathologist conducting the autopsy appeared to be in a mood as black as the corpse in front of them.

Brian Kelly had chosen to take the job as police liaison at the state morgue three years ago. Although he might whinge on days like this when the smell clung to his hair, to his clothes, even after the body was pushed back in the stainless steel fridges, the position still suited him. He'd had enough of being a police officer on the road. Dead people didn't talk back, they never took a swing at you, never brandished a syringe in your face. Death didn't bother him. The pieces of meat laid out on the slab were no longer people to him and curiosity overwhelmed revulsion.

He looked at the paperwork in his hand. Suicides were far too common. It took a gunshot wound or stabbing to pique his interest these days. He hadn't realised the sheer volume of suicides until he had started at the morgue. People of both sexes and all ages killed themselves, but in his experience, middle-aged men made up the largest segment. Exactly like the body in front of them.

Today, it was a hanging. And Brian could tell the pathologist was up for an argument. Dr Eli Jakobsen had been doing this job for much too long for Brian to sneak anything past him and even he had to agree this paperwork left a little to be desired.

The body had remained undiscovered for several days. The face was black and so puffed up that the eyes had closed up. Brian had already smeared Vaporub into the inside of his face mask. As the body warmed up, the maggots inside re-animated and started crawling again. When Dr Jakobsen touched the face – checking the eyes, nose and mouth – they wriggled back into the dark hollows of the head.

The pathologist looked at the police paperwork.

‘This says the body was identified visually by the next of kin. His mother.' He looked over the top of his glasses expectantly at Brian.

Brian looked back at him impassively, waiting for the question.

‘How can anyone do a visual identification on that face? Or do you think he had a face like the Michelin man when he was alive?'

Brian groaned inwardly. It was a bad sign when the doctor resorted to sarcasm.

‘Maybe there were some tattoos or scars or some other identifying feature?' he said hopefully.

The pathologist continued to scan the paperwork. ‘If there were, they forgot to mention it here. Hard to see, too, on a body in this state.'

‘I'm sure the investigating police went through all due processes to identify the body,' Brian replied.

Again, that look over the top of the glasses.

‘You don't even believe that yourself,' the pathologist replied. ‘Instead of doing dental records or DNA, they've taken the easy route, got the bloke's poor mum to say it was him. I don't care if she's known him his entire life, she couldn't recognise him in this state. I don't accept this identification.'

Brian took a deep breath surreptitiously. It wouldn't do for the doctor to see he was getting annoyed.

‘With all due respect, Doctor, the man was found in his shed. He was wearing his clothes and watch. He left a suicide note. Who else is it going to be?'

‘You want me to answer that?' the doctor said facetiously. ‘I would have thought that was the job of the police.'

Dr Jakobsen loved his conspiracy theories. Some days, they would banter back and forth, Brian playing the devil's advocate occasionally to see what the pathologist would come up with. He had a sharp mind and had been doing this a very long time.

‘I'm surprised they even asked his mother to have a look,' he continued. ‘It would have been singularly unpleasant for her. As well as pointless.'

‘The investigating officer has been in touch about doing an ID through dental records. In the meantime, can we accept the identity for the purpose of the autopsy, Doctor?'

‘If he had his name written in the back of his underwear, would that be proof enough for you too?'

Brian bit back a sharp response, reminding himself that this was part of his job.

‘I see there was also a note left,' the doctor went on. ‘Only one word. “Sorry” is not much to go on, is it?'

Brian quickly read through the summary from the police at the scene. ‘Says here he was a suspected pedophile and was reportedly abusing a local child. There's the motivation.'

‘And there's your alternative. Father of the victim kills him and strings him up to make it look like suicide.' The doctor gave a grim little smile, pleased with his theory.

‘I'm sure that's being investigated by the police at the scene. They've got the full story. That's not our job. And it does nothing to disprove the identification. Whether it was murder or suicide, it's still . . .' Brian glanced down at the paperwork in his hands, ‘. . . Peter Charles Woodford.'

The doctor regarded him over the top of his glasses again.

‘Okay, I'll accept the identification for the sake of the paperwork, but I want confirmation through dental records. I'm not happy about it, and I will be making a note to the coroner in relation to it.'

‘Okay, then. But go on,' Brian challenged, ‘find something that points to murder.'

‘As you so rightly pointed out, that's not my job. I will simply perform the autopsy thoroughly and interpret what the deceased can tell us in death. Then it's over to your people.'

‘Thank you, Doctor.' Brian knew it would be counter-productive to let sarcasm creep into his voice at this point in time. They'd had these conversations before and they probably would have them again. He dealt with the doctor on a near daily basis and any harsh words between them wouldn't change anything, only make for an unpleasant working environment. As if reading his mind, the doctor looked up at him, his expression hard to read behind his mask. ‘I've found a tattoo. If it's his name and date of birth, I'll accept that as positive identification.'

Brian smiled, the tension from a minute earlier easing again. ‘That would be classy, having a tattoo of your name. You could check in the mirror each morning, make sure it was still you.'

‘Sadly, you're out of luck today. There are letters. But in Chinese it would appear.' He adjusted his glasses and pointed at the dead man's chest. On the left side, above the heart were three symbols. It appeared to be two Chinese characters flanking a yin and yang symbol. The doctor peered closer, rubbing at the peeling skin.

‘Speak any Chinese?'

‘No, but I did a year of Japanese in high school,' Brian replied.

‘Did Mr Woodford have any Chinese heritage?'

‘I doubt it. But isn't it trendy to have something deep and meaningful written on you in someone else's language?'

‘Unless you get the characters wrong and what you thought was “fighting dragon” is actually “smelly socks”.'

‘It's all good fun. Until you meet someone who reads Chinese.'

‘Why would someone deface themselves with symbols they don't even understand?' the doctor asked, but Brian could see the amusement in his eyes.

Brian took a photo of the tattoo. The investigating officer might find it useful to help confirm the ID.

That
was
the
only
identifying
feature
the
doctor
could
make
out
on
the
rotting
flesh,
so
he
moved
onto
the
internal
examination.

The first cut was across the top of the head from ear to ear. From there, the scalp was peeled back revealing the white skull and then peeled forward collapsing the face on itself like a Halloween mask.

Despite the number of autopsies Brian had witnessed, the bone saw still bothered him. He wasn't sure if it was because it meant the top of someone's skull was being sawn off or if it was because it sounded like a dentist's drill hard at work. Added to that was the acrid smell of burnt bone. He turned away as soon as it started and feigned interest in a medical chart on the wall while he concentrated on breathing through his mouth.

The groove sawed into the skull was levered and the last bits of bone gave way with a sharp crack. It sounded like someone cracking a walnut open. The top of the skull pulled away from the brain with a wet plopping noise.

Brian always felt a bit better now it looked less human. He was interested in the autopsy, curious as to how the body worked and all the things that could go wrong with it. This one was more tedious because of the level of decomposition, the bodily tissues dissolving back to liquid.

The body cavity was opened up with a zipper-cut from the top of the sternum to the bottom of the belly. The pathologist swapped his scalpel for a set of garden shears and the front of the rib cage was snipped off, rib by rib. Brian couldn't fathom why the question of what was for dinner tonight flashed through his mind. The organs were removed, starting with the lungs. Each one was weighed and Brian made notes on a whiteboard as he was the one without blood on his hands. Specimens were snipped from each organ and filed in tubes, sealed with a sticker bearing the deceased's name.

‘He was a healthy man,' the doctor remarked. ‘Until he died.'

The brain was removed next and sliced open the way you would cut up a loaf of bread.

‘I think that's what killed him,' Brian said, leaning over and inspecting the fat slabs of grey matter.

‘What do you mean?'

‘He was a pedophile. Something was wrong in his brain, and that ultimately led to him ending up here,' Brian said.

‘Interesting way of looking at it,' the doctor said. ‘So, cause of death was terminal pedophilia, you reckon?'

‘If he wasn't a pedophile, would he still be alive?' Brian asked. ‘I'd argue – yes. Wouldn't it make things easier for you if the thoughts people had influenced the structure of their brain? If you could look at the shape or colour of a person's brain and say – yep, that's a pedophile because it's a darker colour, or he's a psychopath because he's got a bump at the back.'

‘I'd never considered that,' the doctor replied.

‘There you go. There's a research project for you. That's a gift from me to you,' Brian replied.

The doctor laughed. He was drawing blood up from the top of the leg, near the groin. It was squirted into small test tubes, each sealed with a sticker bearing the details of the corpse. It would be sent for testing, to see whether alcohol or drugs, legal or otherwise, were in the blood. The doctor wouldn't commit to a cause of death until he'd received this information. It usually took about six weeks for the results. The next of kin would often get cranky about the delay, but the body could be put in the ground after the samples had been taken and the body had been stitched back up.

As Brian walked back to his office afterwards, he thought it had been an interesting morning in the morgue after all.

44

When the phone rang, Faye answered it quickly. The phone didn't ring often at her house, and her heart gave a little jump as she lifted the receiver.

‘Mum, it's me.'

Faye paused, confused.

‘Barry?'

‘No, Mum. It's Peter.'

Faye was utterly stunned.

‘Who . . . what . . .' Her knees buckled. She leant her back against the wall. Her dress hitched up as she slid to the floor.

‘Mum? Are you okay?'

Faye panted into the phone as she tried to twist the things she thought she knew into this new shape. She took the phone away from her ear, looked at the red ‘end call' button, as if hanging up would make this go away. She put the receiver back up to her ear again, tentatively, as if the next shock might be electric.

‘Peter?'

‘Yeah. Did you think I was dead?' He was talking quickly, like she might yet hang up on him. ‘It'll be Barry.'

‘Barry's . . . dead?'

‘Mum,' Peter said, then stopped. ‘I don't know what to tell you.'

‘It was Barry in the shed?'

‘Well, it's not me.'

In that moment, it all became clear to Faye. The strange pieces slipped into place. She knew why Barry was dead. Faye made a grunting noise. She drew a deep breath in.

‘Peter.' She breathed out.

‘I'm okay, Mum,' he said. ‘I'm hiding out till all this blows over.'

It was a short conversation after that. Peter offered no explanations. Faye asked for none. After she'd hung up, Faye wondered why he had even called. Perhaps sometimes you just have to talk to your mum.