out of control.’
He went sourly into his meeting with the division’s top brass, wondering how he had got into this exchange with an officer who was not under his control and whom he might never see again. His humour was not improved by the realization that there was something in what the man said: the chances of pinning down the shadowy men who had killed a snout were not high, because the degree of cooperation among the criminal fraternity, normally low, would no doubt be zero.
***
The tap was running steadily, sluicing the results of the scientific butchery which is a postmortem examination away over the stainless steel.
Lambert, resolutely avoiding the visual evidence by remaining in the office outside the laboratory, tried to shut his ears to the steady sound of the water. He was unsuccessful, for he found his mind filling with the images of gore and worse, swirling away into the drains. Cyril Burgess, wearing his green rubber boots and soiled cotton overall like the uniform of a soldier fresh from battle, wondered how best to exploit the delicacy of the superintendent’s stomach for his own amusement.
‘He bled a lot,’ the pathologist said by way of conversational opening. ‘Four or five pints gone before we ever got at him here. What the meat wagon brought in was an empty container, as far as blood was concerned.’ He turned towards the entrance to his dissecting room with an invitational wave of his arm. ‘He’s still on the table: we can’t sew him up until we’ve done more tests on the innards. I can show you if—’
‘That isn’t necessary!’ The haste of Lambert’s refusal brought a delighted smile from his tormentor. The superintendent was disgusted with himself for his weakness; he should have grown used to the abattoir aspects of the job in his uniformed days of twenty years and more ago. Yet somehow the worst of road accidents had never affected him as badly as the damage done to human bodies with full and malicious intent. He seemed to be becoming more squeamish as he got older. He strove for a professional question. ‘How quickly did he lose all this blood? I mean, did it seep away gradually, or was there a sudden…?’ His words tailed away hopefully.
‘Poured like a fountain, I should think. Positively gushed out,’ said Burgess with relish. ‘It does from the heart, you know, when they hit the main artery. Positively pumps out. But it would be much easier to show you—’
‘I know how the heart works, thank you, Cyril,’ said Lambert. ‘You’ve explained it to me on previous occasions.’
‘Really? Well, anyway, this one worked as it should. Case of “Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?” eh?’ Burgess was an avid reader of detective fiction, who treasured an idea from his youth that no murder was complete without a quotation.
‘Not so old,’ said Lambert stolidly.
‘No. About fifty, I’d say. Are you telling me that you knew him, John?’ Burgess was suddenly put out, as if a new rule in the game had been invoked: if the dead man was known to Lambert, perhaps even a friend, his teasing would be in bad taste.
‘I knew him, yes. I suppose he was about fifty.’ It was a bleak reminder of his own mortality. He realized now that he had always thought of the nervous, shuffling little man as being older than him, when he must have been almost exactly the same age. He did not give any more details of the relationship to Burgess.
The pathologist became carefully professional. ‘I can’t give you a precise time of death, but he’d been dead for at least six hours before he was found, and probably rather longer. You can say with certainty that he was killed sometime before midnight.’
‘Yes. We can probably pinpoint the time of death fairly accurately, now you’ve confirmed that. Apparently he was seen in the Star and Garter pub at around half past nine. We shall eventually find the man he was talking to there.’
The
He went sourly into his meeting with the division’s top brass, wondering how he had got into this exchange with an officer who was not under his control and whom he might never see again. His humour was not improved by the realization that there was something in what the man said: the chances of pinning down the shadowy men who had killed a snout were not high, because the degree of cooperation among the criminal fraternity, normally low, would no doubt be zero.
***
The tap was running steadily, sluicing the results of the scientific butchery which is a postmortem examination away over the stainless steel.
Lambert, resolutely avoiding the visual evidence by remaining in the office outside the laboratory, tried to shut his ears to the steady sound of the water. He was unsuccessful, for he found his mind filling with the images of gore and worse, swirling away into the drains. Cyril Burgess, wearing his green rubber boots and soiled cotton overall like the uniform of a soldier fresh from battle, wondered how best to exploit the delicacy of the superintendent’s stomach for his own amusement.
‘He bled a lot,’ the pathologist said by way of conversational opening. ‘Four or five pints gone before we ever got at him here. What the meat wagon brought in was an empty container, as far as blood was concerned.’ He turned towards the entrance to his dissecting room with an invitational wave of his arm. ‘He’s still on the table: we can’t sew him up until we’ve done more tests on the innards. I can show you if—’
‘That isn’t necessary!’ The haste of Lambert’s refusal brought a delighted smile from his tormentor. The superintendent was disgusted with himself for his weakness; he should have grown used to the abattoir aspects of the job in his uniformed days of twenty years and more ago. Yet somehow the worst of road accidents had never affected him as badly as the damage done to human bodies with full and malicious intent. He seemed to be becoming more squeamish as he got older. He strove for a professional question. ‘How quickly did he lose all this blood? I mean, did it seep away gradually, or was there a sudden…?’ His words tailed away hopefully.
‘Poured like a fountain, I should think. Positively gushed out,’ said Burgess with relish. ‘It does from the heart, you know, when they hit the main artery. Positively pumps out. But it would be much easier to show you—’
‘I know how the heart works, thank you, Cyril,’ said Lambert. ‘You’ve explained it to me on previous occasions.’
‘Really? Well, anyway, this one worked as it should. Case of “Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?” eh?’ Burgess was an avid reader of detective fiction, who treasured an idea from his youth that no murder was complete without a quotation.
‘Not so old,’ said Lambert stolidly.
‘No. About fifty, I’d say. Are you telling me that you knew him, John?’ Burgess was suddenly put out, as if a new rule in the game had been invoked: if the dead man was known to Lambert, perhaps even a friend, his teasing would be in bad taste.
‘I knew him, yes. I suppose he was about fifty.’ It was a bleak reminder of his own mortality. He realized now that he had always thought of the nervous, shuffling little man as being older than him, when he must have been almost exactly the same age. He did not give any more details of the relationship to Burgess.
The pathologist became carefully professional. ‘I can’t give you a precise time of death, but he’d been dead for at least six hours before he was found, and probably rather longer. You can say with certainty that he was killed sometime before midnight.’
‘Yes. We can probably pinpoint the time of death fairly accurately, now you’ve confirmed that. Apparently he was seen in the Star and Garter pub at around half past nine. We shall eventually find the man he was talking to there.’
The
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