pleasant change, not being up to the armpits in someone’s viscera,” Bream said, opening the door to the Path Lab. He went in first, his considerable bulk swathed in a green plastic apron, rubber gloves up to the elbows. Two of his assistants were at work, assembling and measuring the skeleton on a table in the center of the lab. His senior assistant, Paul, was busy at another bench, reconstructing the smashed skull, piece by piece. It was largely complete, except for a jagged hole towards the back on the right-hand side, and he was fiddling with several fragments, puzzling how they might fit into the bone jigsaw.
Bream gestured towards the skeleton. “Though I must admit this girlie is sorely taxing my memory of my student anatomy classes,” he admitted to Tennison. “You know there are two hundred and six named bones of the body? Twenty-six to each foot alone. Luckily, most of those were still inside her shoes.”
“Fascinating, Oscar. But is it Simone Cameron?”
Bream had planted himself in front of the skeleton, arms folded across the green plastic apron. “Absolutely not.”
Tennison, coming around to join him, stopped dead in her tracks, mouth dropping open. “What?”
“As I said before, like Simone, in her teens—sixteen to seventeen. But taller—Simone was five seven, this girl is five eight, five nine.” He bent his head, peering at Tennison over the top of his glasses. “At the moment it looks as if she was all there, no mutilation. Good head of hair . . .”
And there it was, in a shallow tray, like a discarded wig, plaited and beaded. Bream moved over to the skull, which was raised up on a plinth, the beams of a spotlight shining eerily through the empty eye sockets. “Luckily, Paul here likes jigsaws.” He examined a fragment and handed it to his assistant, muttering, “Could be a bit of the zygomatic arch.”
Tennison was still grappling with this new revelation. It was always unwise to jump to conclusions without any sort of proof, but it was easily done; and Simone’s disappearance and the discovery of the body had seemed a neat fit. Too neat, as it now turned out. But she had to be absolutely certain that Bream himself was certain.
“You’re sure it’s not Simone?”
“Yeah.” He wandered over to the lightbox and stuck up x-rays of two skulls, side by side. One was Simone Cameron’s, taken from her medical records, the other Nadine’s. Bream turned to her. “Do you want me to point out the differences?”
“Not particularly, no.”
“Well, what else?” Bream mused, scratching his chin with his gloved finger. He looked across at the skeleton. “Fractured her wrist when she was younger . . . playing ball? Perhaps she fell off her bike? That’s for you to discover.”
Tennison sighed. “Don’t rub it in. Can you tell me if she was black or white?”
“No.”
“ Shit. I’ve been going up a dead-end street.”
Bream was trying to be helpful. He had a good deal of respect for Jane Tennison, considered her a fine police officer with a keen intellect and an intuitive grasp of the many complex strands that went to make up a homicide inquiry. And to top it all, he rather liked her. Not an opinion he would have extended to quite a few chief inspectors of his acquaintance. He said, “Well, we’ve got a man here who does all kinds of jiggery-pokery with the skull to ascertain ethnic origins. Better still, a medical artist who could make you a clay head, at a price.”
“Is he good?”
“He’s our very own Auguste Rodin,” Bream said, a glimmer of a smile lurking behind his usual deadpan facade.
“Yeah, but is he good?”
“Naturellement.”
“That’s expensive, right?”
Bream nodded, looking down on her over his glasses. “Do you want a word with Mike Kernan?”
Tennison nibbled her lip. Then she decided. “No, screw it. Let’s just do it.”
“Okay.”
“So how long before I can pick it up?”
“Three weeks.”
“Fine,” Tennison said,
Bream gestured towards the skeleton. “Though I must admit this girlie is sorely taxing my memory of my student anatomy classes,” he admitted to Tennison. “You know there are two hundred and six named bones of the body? Twenty-six to each foot alone. Luckily, most of those were still inside her shoes.”
“Fascinating, Oscar. But is it Simone Cameron?”
Bream had planted himself in front of the skeleton, arms folded across the green plastic apron. “Absolutely not.”
Tennison, coming around to join him, stopped dead in her tracks, mouth dropping open. “What?”
“As I said before, like Simone, in her teens—sixteen to seventeen. But taller—Simone was five seven, this girl is five eight, five nine.” He bent his head, peering at Tennison over the top of his glasses. “At the moment it looks as if she was all there, no mutilation. Good head of hair . . .”
And there it was, in a shallow tray, like a discarded wig, plaited and beaded. Bream moved over to the skull, which was raised up on a plinth, the beams of a spotlight shining eerily through the empty eye sockets. “Luckily, Paul here likes jigsaws.” He examined a fragment and handed it to his assistant, muttering, “Could be a bit of the zygomatic arch.”
Tennison was still grappling with this new revelation. It was always unwise to jump to conclusions without any sort of proof, but it was easily done; and Simone’s disappearance and the discovery of the body had seemed a neat fit. Too neat, as it now turned out. But she had to be absolutely certain that Bream himself was certain.
“You’re sure it’s not Simone?”
“Yeah.” He wandered over to the lightbox and stuck up x-rays of two skulls, side by side. One was Simone Cameron’s, taken from her medical records, the other Nadine’s. Bream turned to her. “Do you want me to point out the differences?”
“Not particularly, no.”
“Well, what else?” Bream mused, scratching his chin with his gloved finger. He looked across at the skeleton. “Fractured her wrist when she was younger . . . playing ball? Perhaps she fell off her bike? That’s for you to discover.”
Tennison sighed. “Don’t rub it in. Can you tell me if she was black or white?”
“No.”
“ Shit. I’ve been going up a dead-end street.”
Bream was trying to be helpful. He had a good deal of respect for Jane Tennison, considered her a fine police officer with a keen intellect and an intuitive grasp of the many complex strands that went to make up a homicide inquiry. And to top it all, he rather liked her. Not an opinion he would have extended to quite a few chief inspectors of his acquaintance. He said, “Well, we’ve got a man here who does all kinds of jiggery-pokery with the skull to ascertain ethnic origins. Better still, a medical artist who could make you a clay head, at a price.”
“Is he good?”
“He’s our very own Auguste Rodin,” Bream said, a glimmer of a smile lurking behind his usual deadpan facade.
“Yeah, but is he good?”
“Naturellement.”
“That’s expensive, right?”
Bream nodded, looking down on her over his glasses. “Do you want a word with Mike Kernan?”
Tennison nibbled her lip. Then she decided. “No, screw it. Let’s just do it.”
“Okay.”
“So how long before I can pick it up?”
“Three weeks.”
“Fine,” Tennison said,
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