“You were right, Eddie,” Orford gasped. “Someone’s at home. And, I’d say, been right here, simmering gently in the heat all afternoon. No need to check for vital signs,” he added queasily. “Flies seem to have made that decision for us. They always know. We need help with this one. Look are you all right to stay and keep the dear departed company while I nip to the police box?… Um, what would you say to dowsing the lamps?”

“Good idea! Wouldn’t want to attract an audience.” The officer grinned. “Can’t stand ghouls. Make it sharp though, Guv! I don’t mind the dark but I don’t like talking to myself.”

He switched off the torches to keep his vigil over the silent corpse.

CHAPTER 12

As they entered the gloom and disorder of the anteroom to the police laboratory, Kingstone brushed a sooty cobweb from his shoulder and snorted in disgust. “Is this the best you can do? Who’s behind the door at the end of the corridor? Count Dracula?”

“No, sir.” Joe was icily polite. “Just one of the two best pathologists in the world—nothing more alarming. The Met have suffered the privations of many years of cutbacks and we’re fortunate indeed to be able to afford his services. We could have had our subject taken to the bright lights and shining surfaces of St. Mary’s or St. Bartholomew’s hospital across the city but discretion and speed seemed to be called for.”

Doctor Rippon, at least, offered reassurance by his presence. Even Kingstone appeared stunned by the handsome figure in the austere elegance of an evening suit and stiff-collared dress shirt. Joe noted that Rippon refrained from offering his hand to his visitors on being introduced but inclined his head with great courtesy. Joe had seen him do this before. Many of the people arriving at his laboratory or pathology lab, already in a state of distress, were squeamish—or superstitious—about touching the hand of the “death doctor,” he’d explained, and in deference to this, he never put them on the spot. On meeting the doctor some months ago, Joe had refused to take notice of his reticence, guessing the reason for it, and had firmly reached for and shaken the warm strong hand, which was probably the most hygienically clean in London.

“Going on somewhere, doctor?” Joe asked. “Surprised to find you still here.”

“Oh, I took five hours off to go back to Bart’s. Fitted in three more post mortems. All straightforward—not like this one to which I returned, after a shower and a shave, in the hope that the back-room boys had come up with test results. I told them you’d flagged it as top priority.”

“Quite right. Do they have them?”

Rippon held out a manila envelope. “Good lads! They’ve strained a fetlock getting it ready before the weekend breaks over us.” Joe had noticed the staff usually responded with commendable efficiency to the doctor’s needs. He felt the same compulsion himself. “You’ll find what you want in there. It’s all typed up, checked by me and signed. A few surprises, I think you’ll say. I’ll stay on and work through them with you if you wish.” This was a serious offer, made with a smile. And, typically of Rippon, it came with no reference, petulant or joking, to the fact that he was already dressed for an evening with more animated company than the police morgue could supply.

“But this is the gentleman who may be able to identify our young lady, I take it? When I got your call I had her body brought out of cold storage and placed on the table. If you’ll come this way? It’s just next door.”

Joe was glad of the courtesy, glad that Kingstone was to be let off the chilling experience of the opening of the morgue drawers with their nightmarish squeaking and the inch by inch revelation of grisly contents. He’d known fainter hearts to turn and run.

Kingstone turned to Julia and Armitage. “You two don’t have to come in. I’ll do this myself.”

“No. I want to see her,” Julia said.

In the end, the four of them crowded into the pathology laboratory with Rippon. Joe stationed himself on the far side of the table the better to watch the reactions of the two main players. They all stood quietly, staring at the body. She had been laid out with a white sheet draped over her from head to foot. With solemnity Rippon took hold of the sheet and drew it down below her shoulders. The presentation was neatly done. There were no signs of the postmortem incisions other than the row of stitches running downwards from her neck and away out of sight. The hair, now dry, had been combed out and rested in a dark cloud about the waxen features, concealing the pathologist’s work on the head.

In the silence that followed, Joe heard drips of water falling from a tap into the metal sink in the corner and counted to six before anyone responded. Kingstone reached for the comfort of another hand. Joe noted it was Julia to whom he’d turned to share this tense moment. But out of despair or relief?

It was Julia who spoke first. “This is not Natalia Kirilovna. I’m sorry, I’ve never seen this girl before. I don’t know her.”

Joe’s eyes flashed to Armitage standing behind the pair. Bill raised his eyebrows, signalling helpless mystification. Kingstone shook his head in denial also but remained where he was, hypnotised by the pathetic sight. Finally, he spoke to the doctor. “Poor child! Poor little creature! So like Natty but not her. May we see her feet? Yes, there it is. Don’t ask me why, doctor, but I seem to be in possession of the missing part. Sandilands? You have it? I think we should restore it to the doctor.”

Puzzled, Rippon watched as Joe produced the gold chocolate box, opened it and offered him a view of the contents. For a moment, prompted by the familiar gesture, Joe was seized by the ghastly urge to share a joke, the kind of grisly exchange of what passes for humour to fend off the horror of the most tragic circumstances. Rippon looked from the box and back to Joe and his eyes flared in response. He fought back the comment he’d been about to make but his shoulders shook as he slipped on a glove, delicately crooked his little finger and extracted the offering. “You can keep the rest for later. I mean—you’ll be wanting to retain the box for processing, no doubt. I’ll need time to examine this, but, yes, at a quick sighting, I’d say we have here the last piece of the jigsaw.”

“If only!” Joe muttered.

Rippon found a tray and dealt with the object. He turned again to the visitors. “One last thing: this was delivered here after I left to go to Bart’s, Sandilands. I’ve no idea when. I found it in my in-tray a minute ago. It’s addressed to me but inside there’s a sealed envelope with your name on it.”

Joe thanked him. “Probably a note from Inspector Orford. He’d expect me to be back here this evening.”

Joe glanced at the typed address on the outer cover and was intrigued. Not from the inspector. Orford would have had to scrawl his own letters on any envelope he was sending to Joe. Secretarial assistance was at a premium these days, the few girls who remained overburdened with work. Even Assistant Commissioners had to wait a day on occasion before general typing came through from the pool. Urgent notes were invariably handwritten. He even addressed his own envelopes to save Miss Snow, his personal secretary, the time. He opened it and took out the inner envelope. He looked again, startled.

Too late, he noticed that Kingstone had seen it too. The senator shivered but it wasn’t the dank, chill atmosphere and the presence of the corpse that were affecting him, Joe guessed.

“My God!” Kingstone’s voice was a stunned whisper. “Someone’s watching me. I’m being—what’s that phrase they have in witchcraft?—overlooked. He knows where I’m going … what I’ll do next. He’s got into my hotel room and now he’s here with me in the morgue.” He rubbed the back of his neck between his shoulder blades. “I know what it feels like to have a sniper take aim at you. But this one’s targeting the inside of my head. Let me see that, Sandilands.”