May noted that the front-room carpet was still damp and spotted with traces of mud. ‘Let’s go back to this man you saw arguing with the deceased,’ he requested, watching as the two women shifted uncomfortably. ‘We’re not normal policemen, you know. You can say what you like. I’m not taking verbatim notes.’
‘I didn’t see him clearly,’ Heather explained.
‘But you have an idea who it might have been?’
No answer. Neither of them wanted to place anyone under suspicion, but it was obvious to May that an idea had formed in their minds.
‘Look, we’re not going to rush off and arrest someone based on what you think you saw, Mrs Allen. Nor will anyone accuse you of having made a mistake. This is about a process of elimination. At the moment we have no proof of how this gentleman lost his life, and that will make it very hard to get to the truth. The rain has effectively destroyed the crime scene. If there’s anything you can tell us, I promise you the information will be treated with the utmost respect.’
Silence. He sighed. ‘This is how most murder cases are solved, by talking to people. Not by analysing DNA or finding stray fibres, that’s just corroborative detail. So perhaps you could tell me who you think you saw.’
Heather chewed her nail for a while, and finally removed it from her mouth. ‘I think it was Randall Ayson,’ she admitted, looking to Kallie for confirmation.
Outside in the street, the elements appeared to be in collusion, taking turns to demonstrate their power, for as the rain started to abate, a howling wind began to rise.
21
* * *
MURKY DEPTHS
‘There’s only one word for present driving conditions: atrociously bad,’ squeaked Hilary, the Sky One weather lady. ‘Flood warnings have been posted across Kent and Sussex, and there’s another belt of low pressure sweeping in from the south west. The AA is offering this advice: if you’re going out, don’t.’ She suddenly folded in half and vanished as the cable signal popped from the tiny wall-mounted television. Oswald Finch threw the TV remote on to his dissection table with disgust. ‘Stupid woman. I can’t believe the rain in England always makes the headlines.’
‘I can’t believe you’re still here,’ called Bryant, checking his watch.
‘Nor me. I was supposed to retire fifteen years ago.’ The ancient pathologist creaked up from his chair and shook Bryant’s hand. ‘I could be seeing out my retirement in a fisherman’s cottage overlooking the Channel. It’s all bought and paid for, but it’ll fall into the sea before I get there. I’m stuck here, and it’s your bloody fault.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘You know very well that the Home Office won’t pay the going rate for newly trained technicians because they can’t afford to buy them more up-to-date equipment, and most kids can’t work with antiques, so I’m being blackmailed to stay on.’
‘All right to smoke in here?’ asked Bryant, dragging his pipe from his top pocket.
‘No, it is not. You’re the one who requested my services in the middle of the bloody night. You know they’ll only agree to supplement my pension if I do two days a week for you. So instead of fresh sea air I get formaldehyde poisoning and rheumatism from sitting in a damp Camden basement twice a week.’
‘I thought you were getting a new building.’ Bryant looked about with distaste.
‘We are,’ sniffed Finch. ‘Not in my lifetime, however. It might have helped if you hadn’t incurred everyone’s wrath by blowing up your office.’ This part of the morgue had been housed in the old school gymnasium. Where once the youth of Camden had come to stretch their muscles, there were now only departed souls waiting to have their sinews sliced open and examined.
‘Come on, you old misery, I’ll give you a game of basketball.’ Bryant pointed at the steel hoop still attached to the far wall.
‘At my age the effort of getting up from a chair becomes an Olympic event in itself.’ He looked at the hoop longingly. ‘The only thing I can still dunk is a doughnut. I used to go ballroom dancing, you know. Now I can’t even get the shoes on.’
‘I hope this infirmity hasn’t spread to your brain,’ said Bryant rather rudely.
Finch ignored him. ‘I suppose you’re here about Mr Copeland.’
‘That him over in the corner?’ asked Bryant cheerfully.
Finch led the way to a shiny metal container shaped like an overgrown takeaway box. ‘This is what