I Am Pilgrim(6)

‘No connection – Sweden,’ I say. ‘A guy used a surgical hammer on the victim’s bridgework and jaw – same objective, I guess – but forceps? I’ve never seen anything like that.’

‘Well, we have now,’ Ben replies.

‘Inspiring,’ I say. ‘The onward rush of civilization, I mean.’

Putting aside my despair about humanity, I have to say I’m even more impressed by the killer – it couldn’t have been easy pulling thirty-two teeth from a dead person. The killer had obviously grasped one important concept, a thing which eludes most people who decide on her line of work: nobody’s ever been arrested for a murder; they have only ever been arrested for not planning it properly.

I indicate the metal case. ‘Where’s a civilian get one of these?’ I ask.

Ben shrugs. ‘Anywhere they like. I called a buddy in the Pentagon and he went into the archives: forty thousand were surplus – the army unloaded the lot through survival stores over the last few years. We’ll chase ’em, but we won’t nail it that way, I’m not sure anybody could—’

His voice trails away – he’s lost in a labyrinth, running his gaze around the room, trying to find a way out. ‘I’ve got no face,’ he says softly. ‘No dental records, no witnesses – worst of all, no motive. You know this business better than anyone – if I asked you about solving it, what odds would you lay?’

‘Right now? Powerball, or whatever that lottery’s called,’ I tell him. ‘You walk in, the first thing you think is: amateur, just another drug or sex play. Then you look closer – I’ve only seen a couple anywhere near as good as this.’ Then I tell him about the antiseptic spray, and of course that’s not something he wants to hear.

‘Thanks for the encouragement,’ he says. Unthinking, he rubs his index finger and thumb together, and I know from close observation over a long period that it means he’d like a cigarette. He told me once he’d given up in the nineties and there must have been a million times since then that he’d thought a smoke might help. This is obviously one of them. To get over the craving, he talks. ‘You know my problem? Marcie told me this once’ – Marcie is his wife – ‘I get too close to the victims, ends up I sort of imagine I’m the only friend they’ve got left.’

‘Their champion?’ I suggest.

‘That’s exactly the word she used. And there’s one thing I’ve never been able to do – Marcie says it could be the only thing she really likes about me – I’ve never been able to let a friend down.’

Champion of the dead, I think. There could be worse things. I wish there was something I could do to help him, but there isn’t – it’s not my investigation and, although I’m only in my thirties, I’m retired.

A technician enters the room fast, yelling in an Asian accent: ‘Ben?’ Bradley turns. ‘In the basement!’





Chapter Four


THREE TECHNICIANS IN coveralls have torn apart an old brick wall. Despite their face masks, they’re almost gagging from the smell inside the cavity. It’s not a body they’ve found – rotting flesh has its own particular odour – this is leaking sewage, mould and a hundred generations of rat shit.

Bradley makes his way through a sequence of foul cellars and stops in the harsh light of a bank of work lights illuminating the wrecked wall. I follow in his wake, tagging along with the other investigators, arriving just in time to see the Asian guy – a Chinese-American who everyone calls Bruce, for obvious reasons – shine a portable light deep into the newly opened space.

Inside is a maze of cowboy plumbing. Bruce explains that, having torn up the bathroom in Room 89 without finding anything trapped in the U-bends, they went one step further. They got a capsule of Fast Blue B dye from the forensic guys, mixed it into a pint of water and poured it down the waste pipe.

It took five minutes for all of it to arrive, and they knew if it was running that slow there had to be a blockage somewhere between the basement and Room 89. Now they’ve found it – in the matrix of pipes and illegal connections behind the wall.

‘Please tell me it’s the teeth,’ Bradley says. ‘She flush ’em down the toilet?’

Bruce shakes his head and shines the portable light on a mush of charred paper trapped in a right-angle turn. ‘The pipe comes straight from Room 89 – we tested it,’ he says, pointing at the mush. ‘Whatever this is, she probably burnt it then sent it down the crapper. That was the right thing to do – except she didn’t know about the code violations.’