Page 43

The journey from Keswick was a caravan of caravans. They were mainly heading into Cumbria, but there were so many of the bloated white carbuncles it had made overtaking impossible. It wasn’t until Poe reached the dual carriageway section of the A69 that he’d been able to put his foot down and get above fifty miles an hour. It was close to two and a half hours before they finally pulled into the car park at Newcastle’s Royal Victoria Infirmary.

He found a parking space and they hurried to the mortuary and Estelle Doyle’s new post-mortem suite. An attendant was waiting to take them straight through. A few years ago, they would have had to suit up and get in the same room as the pathologist; now they had a suite with negative air pressure and a purpose-built viewing area. Superintendent Nightingale was sitting down, a notebook on her lap and a phone glued to her ear. She gave them a reverse head nod and the two-minute sign, then went back to her call.

‘Ah, you’re here,’ Doyle said. ‘Living together doesn’t mean you get special treatment, Poe.’ She winked at Bradshaw. ‘Not unless he’s been extra naughty, Tilly. Please try to be punctual next time.’

Poe could see Doyle’s lips moving, although her voice came through the speakers in the suite. Some posh new microphone system. Previously she’d had to stand on a pedal when she wanted to be recorded; now it picked her up wherever she was in the room. Cornelius Green’s cadaver was on an inspection table, naked and, apart from his tattoos, colourless under the harsh halogen lights. The Y-shaped incision had been made and closed with the usual ‘baseball stitch’. The top of his skull had been sawn off and sewn back on. Standard post-mortem cuts. Doyle had finished the internal examination. Poe glanced at Linus. The spook had turned green.

‘First dead body, Snoopy?’ Poe asked.

Linus nodded but said nothing. Poe figured his mouth was flooded with saliva and any attempt to speak would result in vomiting. That was how he’d felt at his first PM.

‘Have a seat next to Tilly,’ Poe continued. ‘And if you’re going to spew, go outside. The viewing room’s negative air pressure means that while we might not smell it, Estelle certainly will. And you really don’t want that to happen.’

‘That counts for you too, Poe,’ Doyle said without looking up.

‘Why would I be sick? I’ve been to hundreds of these things.’

‘I’m talking about your dinner – you’re not eating it here.’

‘I wasn’t going to.’

‘He’s fibbing, Estelle,’ Bradshaw said. ‘He asked the man who showed us in if he could bring in some knives and forks.’

‘Take your food outside please,’ Doyle said.

Poe rolled his eyes but did as he was asked. While he was in her post-mortem suite, he wasn’t the man she lived with; he was just another idiot cop. He either did what he was told or he waited in reception. There was no third option. So instead of protesting, he said, ‘Snoopy, make yourself useful and find somewhere safe for all this.’

Linus looked at him gratefully. Any excuse to leave the viewing area.

‘Still picking on your intern, Poe?’ Nightingale said, putting her phone in her pocket.

‘He shouldn’t have lied to me.’

‘I don’t imagine he was given any choice.’

‘Not my problem.’

‘Have you figured out what their interest is yet?’

Poe shook his head.

‘How did you find the Children of Job?’

‘Intense. And their views are outdated and abhorrent by today’s standards. Saying that, I got the feeling some of them are relieved Cornelius Green is dead. It seems he was the driving force behind the more extreme programmes.’

‘Do you think someone killed him to make them appear more progressive?’

‘Can’t rule it out.’

‘Speaking of Cornelius Green,’ Doyle said. ‘As clinically suspected, he died from blunt force trauma. Any number of the blows he took to the head could have proved fatal.’

‘There were no other injuries?’ Poe asked.

‘Did I say that?’

‘You didn’t. Sorry.’

Doyle smiled. ‘Still can’t help butting in, can you, Poe? Cornelius Green did in fact have other injuries. Quite interesting ones.’ She tilted her head towards her assistant. ‘Can we move the body on to its side, please? I want his back facing the viewing area.’

In a well-practised move, they manoeuvred the cadaver until Cornelius’s back was facing them. Like his chest, it was covered with religious tattoos. Crosses, crucifixes, the Virgin Mary, more obscure religious iconography.

Doyle pointed the inspection camera – one of those with a semi-rigid cable – at the base of Cornelius’s spine. The monitor in the viewing room flickered into life. Nightingale glanced at it and went back to her notebook. It seemed this was only for Poe’s benefit.

‘You can’t see these clearly because of his tattoos,’ Doyle said, ‘but there are recent histological changes to the skin. If you look here, here, here and here,’ – she tapped Cornelius’s back with a pen – ‘there are two pairs of dot-like lesions. There’s a third pair higher up, just under the shoulder blade.’

‘Three pairs?’ Poe said. ‘Not six separate ones?’

‘Each pair is exactly thirty-five millimetres apart, Poe.’

‘What are they?’

‘Burns.’

Poe frowned. ‘They can’t be from a cigarette, not if they’re so precisely spaced.’

‘They were caused by a stun gun,’ Doyle said. ‘The marks are quite specific, and once you know what they look like, they’re not difficult to identify. The lowest pair is the deepest. The other two pairs are relatively superficial.’

Poe ran through the most likely sequence of events. ‘The first was to debilitate him, the rest were unfriendly reminders,’ he said.

Nightingale looked up from her notebook. ‘That’s my line of thinking as well, Poe,’ she said. ‘The killer makes Cornelius wobbly with the first jolt then threatens him with more if he doesn’t comply. He has to be reminded of this twice. It explains how he was taken to the Lightning Tree without a noticeable struggle.’

‘We may not be looking for a big burly killer after all then.’

‘Nope,’ Nightingale agreed. ‘Anyone could have killed Cornelius Green.’