‘Are we being followed?’ asked Louise. She was looking over her shoulder, having spotted Dixon watching something in his rear view mirror.
‘It’s Sarah,’ he said.
‘Anxious to know whether she was right about Thomas Fowler, I suppose.’
‘I’d have rung her.’
The mortuary van continued around to the back of the lab, Dixon parking next to Poland in his Volvo. Sarah parked on the other side of the car park, trying to keep out of the way, probably.
Louise shook her head. ‘I’ll go and get her.’
‘We’ll be a few minutes getting ready,’ said Poland. ‘We’ve got to get the coffin open and do the usual checks. I’ll switch the coffee machine on for you.’
‘What are you doing here?’ Dixon asked, when Sarah appeared, hiding behind Louise almost.
‘I wanted to come to the PM, if that’s all right, Sir. I feel sort of responsible for him, really.’
‘Of course you can come,’ said Poland, smiling. ‘The more, the merrier; keep the old boy company. We’ll go this way, follow me.’
A side door, keys jangling.
Poland switched on the lights and then leaned over behind two vending machines, flicking switches on both.
‘Coffee and nibbles,’ he said. ‘Give me ten minutes and I’ll come and get you.’
‘Did you get the papers off to the chancellor of the diocese?’
‘The legal department did,’ replied Sarah. ‘Email and the originals by courier.’
Dixon was rummaging in his pockets for some change.
‘I’ve got some cash,’ offered Louise. ‘Three coffees?’
Sarah was still looking sheepish. ‘Mark went home at eight, Sir,’ she said, trying not to blush. ‘So I thought I’d come here.’
‘Did he find anything on the cameras?’
‘Nothing, I’m afraid. We’ve found lots of people who knew Deirdre Baxter and Michael Allam, but nothing to indicate why they’ve been murdered. Most people seem to have fond memories of them. Wish I could say the same about my teachers.’
‘What about the ghost story?’
‘Lots of former pupils at both schools remember that – remember being told that, I should say. One said he thought it happened in the nineteen-thirties, but couldn’t tell us why he thought that.’
‘So, we’re no further forward.’ Dixon was blowing the steam off a coffee Louise had handed him, trying to ignore a thin film of God knows what floating on the surface. Suddenly, mulled cider didn’t seem quite so bad.
‘We might end up further back, if Thomas Fowler really is a victim,’ said Louise, handing a coffee to Sarah, the whirr of the machine behind her.
‘I prefer to think of that as a step forward.’ Dixon took a sip; the coffee really was as bad as it looked. ‘Anything from Scientific?’
‘Nothing yet, Sir,’ replied Sarah.
‘Did Jane go home and feed Monty?’
‘She went about four.’
‘Good.’
‘Then came back about six.’ Sarah grinned. ‘Brought him with her and he’s been asleep under her workstation in the incident room since then. Even growled at the ACC when he came for a nose around.’
‘I trained him myself,’ said Dixon, proudly.
‘Ready when you are.’ Poland was standing in the door leading to the pathology lab, dressed from head to toe in dark green, although his plastic apron was white, as were his wellington boots. ‘We’ve got him on the slab, ready to go. Masks will be the order of the day, and there’s a tub of Vicks VapoRub in the top drawer of the filing cabinet.’
Sarah looked nervously at Louise.
‘Put a blob on your top lip, under your mask,’ said Louise. ‘It’s for the smell.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘He’s been embalmed, so he’s not too bad,’ said Poland, clearly trying to be helpful. ‘Best to be on the safe side, though.’
Thomas Fowler was lying on his back, his body covered in a green sheet from his shoulders down. His face had a waxy sheen, a blackened nose, with red and purple blotches on his skin. Eyes closed, his mouth was open, the gums receding from his teeth.
‘I thought we’d start with the bit you’re interested in,’ said Poland. ‘I can do the rest of the PM after that.’
‘Thank you.’ Dixon was standing behind Louise and Sarah now, figuring it was his turn to use them as a shield.
Poland took hold of the very edge of Thomas Fowler’s eyelid with a pair of tweezers and rolled it back, examining the underside with a magnifying glass. ‘There’s petechial haemorrhaging. Not much, but enough.’
