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Fitz’s last comment worried Gardener. As far as he knew, the pathologist was probably the best in the country. He had over thirty years in the specialist area of anatomic pathology. Gardener trusted him. If he said he’d never seen anything like it, and he didn’t know what caused it, they were in trouble.
“Is it homicide?”
“In my opinion, yes. What’s happened isn’t natural. If it is natural, there is no recorded case.”
“Any ideas on the unnatural substance?” asked Gardener.
“Not at the moment, no.”
“What about an estimated time of death?”
Fitz shrugged before answering. “Judging by what the landlady said last night, he was still alive between half past six and eight o’clock. Yet he was almost completely destroyed by half past eleven.”
“So, whatever it is only took three hours to do its work.”
“Yes.”
“Jesus Christ.” Gardener stared at Reilly.
He turned back to Fitz. “Have you any ideas? Is it a chemical?”
“Without the results of the analysis on the samples, I can’t tell you anything. Just give me a day or two and I’ll send my report through. Hopefully, I will have something more concrete for you.”
“Any opinion on the type of person we should be looking for?”
“You really need a profiler for that. For what it’s worth, I think it’s someone with high intelligence. Whatever the assailant used is probably very specialized.”
Fitz paused.
Gardener could tell there was more.
Apprehensively, Fitz added, “It took three hours for the body to reach a state of decomposition which normally takes three months.”
Fitz replaced the sheet over the remains. “I wish you the best of luck, Stewart. I think you’re going to need it.”
Chapter Thirteen
Back at the house in Rawston, Gardener mounted the stairs cautiously, warning Reilly to do the same. He knocked loudly on Nicki Carter’s door. She answered immediately, forcing Gardener to wonder who she’d been expecting. He could tell from her expression it wasn’t him.
She was wearing the same clothes she had on the previous evening. Of course, so was he. The only difference was, he hadn’t been home yet.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“To talk.”
“I’ve already spoken to you lot.”
“No, you made a statement which told us where you were. Now we need to build up a picture of the deceased. It’s our job, remember? Can we come in?”
“I suppose so.”
She didn’t actually invite them in, she simply left the front door open and skulked off. The flat contained two rooms. One had been sectioned into nothing more than three cubicles accommodating a bathroom in one corner and a kitchen in the other. A small bed struggled for space with a bookcase along one wall. The other room, the living room, gave a view of the terraced housing in Rawston around them. Both rooms stank of baby and damp. A threadbare carpet covered the floor, and peeling wallpaper and nicotine-stained paintwork the walls. She owned very little in the way of furniture. Nicki Carter offered them a seat.
Gardener chose to stand.
“Will it take long?” she demanded. Her manner and her broad Yorkshire accent, in which she had a habit of dropping H’s and reformulating words to suit the dialect, annoyed Gardener.
“As long as it has to.”
