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He turned to the group. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Eight
Gardener glanced at his watch as the Home Office pathologist, Doctor George Fitzgerald, came out the front door carrying his medical bag and still wearing a scene suit and mask. His watch read five o’clock.
Gardener approached him. “Can you tell us anything?”
Fitz removed his mask, drew in some fresh air. “Not really, but you’ll be pleased to know Hazchem doesn’t think it’s contagious. From what I’ve seen, it looks like all the proteins have broken down. There’s nothing left. Nothing I can use to start my investigation.”
“Don’t suppose you know what might have caused it?”
“Not without further tests. Who found him?”
“The landlady. A woman named Olive Bradshaw.”
“What time?”
“About half past ten. Claims she went to bingo around half past six, came back, and this had happened.”
Fitz shook his head. “You can’t do this to a body in a few hours.”
Gardener stared up at the heavens. “Somebody has.”
Fitz checked his watch. “Kevin Swan will be down shortly. His team is just finishing up. They’re going to transport what’s left to the mortuary. He’s declared the scene safe, so you should be able to move things forward.”
“At least that’s something.”
Fitz left.
An hour passed before the senior Hazchem officer gave Gardener the green light.
He’d been there six and a half hours, and hadn’t moved a muscle.
He and Reilly donned scene suits and climbed up to the top storey. A stepping plate had been used for every stair. A few more on the landing led into the room. The building had been reduced to a deathly quiet.
Once inside, the Irishman held his nose. “Jesus!”
“If you think that’s bad, wait till you see the victim.”
Gardener studied the flat. On the floor behind the door sat a brown stain where the remains had been. Woodchip wallpaper, magnolia in colour and dirty, decorated the walls. The filthy nets and curtains and windows combined with the threadbare carpet created a general atmosphere of depression. Along one wall sat a stained and discoloured brown
Dralon settee, which had seen better days. The springs threatened to poke through the cushions. A similar seat backed up to another wall, facing an old pre-digital TV. In the corner of a makeshift kitchen, pots and pans were stacked high, caked with stale food. Next to them lay a pile of discarded takeaway foils.
The bedroom stood equally as offensive. The paper had peeled and slid down the wall.
Filth caked the carpet, making it sticky. The unmade bed stank with the odour of stale sweat mixed with God knows what else. No curtains covered the window, but who was likely to see in when you were on the top storey?
The pair of them left the bedroom.
“Doesn’t look like he’s cleaned up in years,” Gardener said. “I really don’t want to spend any more time in here than I have to. We still need to sort through the witness statements. Let’s crack on.”
After an extensive search, the pair came up with nothing more than a few pornographic magazines and DVDs, most of them Dutch and German. Gardener kept them for the incident room exhibit store back at the station.
Chapter Nine
Gardener and Reilly returned to the station after eight. Most of the team were already processing information. Despite it being early, the building showed signs of activity. Phones rang constantly, keeping everyone busy. A handful of officers watched a small TV in the canteen, and a radio played in a tearoom close to Gardener’s office.
Paul Benson and Rick Johnson appeared, coffees in hand. Gardener waved them to his office, where he found Reilly, also with a coffee and a half-eaten doughnut. He sat with his chair tilted back and his legs stretched across the top of his desk.
