conscientious.’
‘Your daughter wasn’t married?’
‘No, she was very much a career woman, Officer,’ said Mr Danby.
‘No boyfriends?’
‘What has that got to do with anything?’ snapped Mrs Danby.
Lennon held up his hands in apology and said, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. I was just trying to establish if there was anyone who might have seen your daughter in the last two or three days, someone who could throw more light on why she felt driven to take her own life.’
‘No one.’
‘A close female friend, perhaps?’
A look of anger flitted across Mrs Danby’s face as she thought she saw an implicit suggestion in the question, but it faded and she responded with a curt shake of the head before covering her nose and mouth again with her handkerchief. Her shoulders started shaking with silent sobs.
Mr Danby cleared his throat twice before managing to whisper, ‘You’ll want me to identify her?’
‘Yes, please, sir, when you feel up to it.’
‘I’m not sure about the procedure in such cases …’
‘There will have to be a post mortem, sir. After that the body will be released to you. You can go ahead and make arrangements pending the issue of a death certificate.’
‘Thank you, Officer.’
‘I don’t want them defiling Ann,’ Mrs Danby blurted out. ‘Leave my baby alone!’ She broke into uncontrollable sobs, and her husband put his arm round her and tried to comfort her. ‘Make them leave her alone, Charles. I don’t want them … doing things to her.’
Both policemen moved uncomfortably in their chairs as her raw grief reached them. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Lennon. ‘It’s mandatory in such cases.’
Mr Danby nodded his understanding and suggested with his eyes that they should leave.
‘Christ, that was awful,’ said Clark as they drove off.
‘It couldn’t be anything else,’ replied Lennon.
‘What a night. What a bloody awful night.’
‘You’ll have worse.’
‘That poor woman. It was as if we just destroyed her life.’
‘We didn’t. We were just the messengers, disinterested parties in other people’s lives. We tiptoe in and then we tiptoe out again – and then we forget.’
‘Forget? How can you possi—’
‘You do because you’re not involved personally and there’s no alternative. Either you learn to forget or you get out of the job double quick. Understood?’
‘Understood.’
‘Come on, I’ll buy you a bacon roll.’
Ann Danby was third on forensic pathologist Peter Saxby’s list the following morning. ‘So what have we here?’ he asked in his usual imperious manner as the mortuary technician transferred the body from the fridge transporter trolley to the PM table. The head hit the metal table with a bang and Saxby snarled, ‘Must you be so bloody clumsy, man?’
The technician mumbled an apology and melted into the background.
Saxby read from the file he was holding. ‘Ann Danby, white Caucasian female, thirty-three, believed to have overdosed on malt whisky and barbiturates. No suspicious circumstances as far as our boys in blue are concerned. Not exactly Silent Witness material, is it? Unless, of course, we find a Malaysian kris up her arse and two kilos of heroin in her peritoneal cavity, eh?’
The technician smiled dutifully. He didn’t like Saxby. He found him crude and insensitive but tried to make excuses for his behaviour, as befitted a soldier of the Salvation Army, something Saxby was unaware of. He waited while the pathologist made an external appraisal of the body and spoke his findings into the microphone that hung above the table. When Saxby had finished, the technician realigned the instrument tray at the head of the table and stood by as the pathologist made the first incision, a long, sweeping cut from throat to groin.
‘Well, no heroin,’ muttered Saxby when he had opened up the body to expose the internal organs. ‘But a hell of a lot of blood. She’s been bleeding internally from
‘Your daughter wasn’t married?’
‘No, she was very much a career woman, Officer,’ said Mr Danby.
‘No boyfriends?’
‘What has that got to do with anything?’ snapped Mrs Danby.
Lennon held up his hands in apology and said, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. I was just trying to establish if there was anyone who might have seen your daughter in the last two or three days, someone who could throw more light on why she felt driven to take her own life.’
‘No one.’
‘A close female friend, perhaps?’
A look of anger flitted across Mrs Danby’s face as she thought she saw an implicit suggestion in the question, but it faded and she responded with a curt shake of the head before covering her nose and mouth again with her handkerchief. Her shoulders started shaking with silent sobs.
Mr Danby cleared his throat twice before managing to whisper, ‘You’ll want me to identify her?’
‘Yes, please, sir, when you feel up to it.’
‘I’m not sure about the procedure in such cases …’
‘There will have to be a post mortem, sir. After that the body will be released to you. You can go ahead and make arrangements pending the issue of a death certificate.’
‘Thank you, Officer.’
‘I don’t want them defiling Ann,’ Mrs Danby blurted out. ‘Leave my baby alone!’ She broke into uncontrollable sobs, and her husband put his arm round her and tried to comfort her. ‘Make them leave her alone, Charles. I don’t want them … doing things to her.’
Both policemen moved uncomfortably in their chairs as her raw grief reached them. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Lennon. ‘It’s mandatory in such cases.’
Mr Danby nodded his understanding and suggested with his eyes that they should leave.
‘Christ, that was awful,’ said Clark as they drove off.
‘It couldn’t be anything else,’ replied Lennon.
‘What a night. What a bloody awful night.’
‘You’ll have worse.’
‘That poor woman. It was as if we just destroyed her life.’
‘We didn’t. We were just the messengers, disinterested parties in other people’s lives. We tiptoe in and then we tiptoe out again – and then we forget.’
‘Forget? How can you possi—’
‘You do because you’re not involved personally and there’s no alternative. Either you learn to forget or you get out of the job double quick. Understood?’
‘Understood.’
‘Come on, I’ll buy you a bacon roll.’
Ann Danby was third on forensic pathologist Peter Saxby’s list the following morning. ‘So what have we here?’ he asked in his usual imperious manner as the mortuary technician transferred the body from the fridge transporter trolley to the PM table. The head hit the metal table with a bang and Saxby snarled, ‘Must you be so bloody clumsy, man?’
The technician mumbled an apology and melted into the background.
Saxby read from the file he was holding. ‘Ann Danby, white Caucasian female, thirty-three, believed to have overdosed on malt whisky and barbiturates. No suspicious circumstances as far as our boys in blue are concerned. Not exactly Silent Witness material, is it? Unless, of course, we find a Malaysian kris up her arse and two kilos of heroin in her peritoneal cavity, eh?’
The technician smiled dutifully. He didn’t like Saxby. He found him crude and insensitive but tried to make excuses for his behaviour, as befitted a soldier of the Salvation Army, something Saxby was unaware of. He waited while the pathologist made an external appraisal of the body and spoke his findings into the microphone that hung above the table. When Saxby had finished, the technician realigned the instrument tray at the head of the table and stood by as the pathologist made the first incision, a long, sweeping cut from throat to groin.
‘Well, no heroin,’ muttered Saxby when he had opened up the body to expose the internal organs. ‘But a hell of a lot of blood. She’s been bleeding internally from
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