Say You're Sorry(21)

He has three pens in the breast pocket of his business shirt. Black. Blue. Red. I imagine the order doesn’t change. Every morning he straps on his wristwatch and puts the pens in his pocket, a creature of habit, a lover of order.

“A psychologist,” he says, a pulse of surprise in his eyes. “I didn’t know DCI Drury was so fond of the dark arts.”

“He keeps an open mind,” I say, remembering my last conversation with the detective.

The pathologist laughs and looks over his shoulder at me, assuming I must be joking. He taps a security code into a panel and the door clicks open. Around the walls are filing cabinets and whiteboards. He circles a desk and offers me a seat.

“You have an unidentified body,” I say, hoping to stop Dr. Leece from asking any more questions.

“We have four. The oldest has been here two years. We think she’s probably foreign but Interpol hasn’t managed to come up with a match.”

“What about the most recent one?”

“Yes, of course, the newspapers are calling her the ice maiden. Makes her sound like a character from a fairy tale or a Russian novel. What’s your interest?”

“A couple were murdered four nights ago at their farmhouse outside of Bingham.”

“I did their post-mortems.”

“A suspect in the case claims that he saw a woman on the road during the blizzard. He almost ran her down. He says she wasn’t wearing shoes.”

“Now there’s a coincidence,” says Dr. Leece, pushing his glasses further up his nose. “Our ice maiden was similarly unshod. Do you have a name?”

“No.”

“Pity.” He seems to make a decision. “Her body has only just thawed out. I’m due to begin the post-mortem. You can watch if you like. Some of my students are coming along.”

“I’m not really—”

“It’s an interesting case. I haven’t handled a frozen cadaver before.”

“What can you tell me about her?”

“Female. Caucasian. Five-five. There’s not much of her—I’d say no more than ninety pounds. Underweight. At the scene I put her at mid-twenties, but the freezing process had altered her appearance. I’ve since x-rayed her hands and done a comparison using the Greulich and Pyle atlas. Bone development puts her at seventeen or eighteen.”

“What’s the margin for error?”

“A year at most.”

He tilts his head. One of the lenses of his glasses catches the light and seems to wink at me.

“What was she wearing?”

“A woolen jumper and leggings.”

“You didn’t find any shoes?”

“No, but that’s not unusual. People do strange things when they’re suffering from hypothermia. Some victims think they’re overheating because their skin feels hot and itchy. They take clothes off instead of putting them on. She could have dropped the shoes or kicked them off in the water.”

He picks up a model helicopter from his desk and spins the rotor blade with his forefinger. There are more helicopters on the filing cabinets and shelves.

“I fly them,” he explains, noticing my interest.

“Model helicopters?”

“No, the proper ones,” he laughs. “I have a Robinson R44. I should take you up some time.”

“I’m only in Oxford for a few days.”

“You sound nervous. I’m a very good pilot. Only crashed once. Mechanical failure. My old heart was racing, I can tell you.” He glances at his watch. “My students should be here. Come and observe.”

The post-mortem room has a viewing area overlooking the theatre. A dozen chairs rise in tiers. Students have taken up the front seats, leaning forward to get a better view.

Dr. Leece tugs on his surgical gloves and waves up to them, checking his microphone. His assistant pulls aside a curtain to reveal a pale thin cadaver, bleached even whiter by the brightness of the lights. She is naked, stretched out with her arms against her sides and her legs together.

The dull whiteness of her skin makes her look almost like a marble statue that has been defaced by grazes, scratches, sores and bruises. Her arms and legs are scored with carmine marks and her eyelids are like pools of purple dye. The outline of her rib cage can be traced easily and hip bones stick out sharply where there should be curves.

Dr. Leece begins the post-mortem, reading from his notes.

“At approximately 1300 hours on December 19, at the request of Thames Valley Police, I attended the scene of a death near Abingdon, Oxfordshire. I was logged into the outer cordon of the scene at 1445 hours and approached via a farm track and field. Senior SOCO Marcus Larkin gave me a short background briefing.