‘Dear Christ…’ Phil discovered his voice.
‘Indeed,’ said Esme Russell.
Phil looked from the pathologist to the dining table tableau to the blonde wig and back again. ‘But what is…’ Questions formed and fizzed in his brain quicker than he could articulate them.
‘If it’s answers you’re looking for,’ said Esme, ‘then I’ll have to disappoint you. Lot of work to do on this one.’
‘Glenn McGowan…’ Phil took in the scene once more. ‘Transvestite. Murdered while… eating? Or before?’
‘Hard to tell. Of course, it may not be him. He may have done the murdering and run.’
‘Possible,’ said Phil. He thought of the bathroom upstairs. Two identities, one toothbrush. ‘My gut instinct says this is Glenn McGowan. But I’ll keep an open mind.’ He looked again at the artfully arranged body.
‘We’ve got our work cut out for this one,’ said Esme.
‘Yeah… Time of death? Any idea?’
‘He’s been here a few days. The house is cold. Whoever did this turned the heating off before they left. Knew the body would keep longer.’
Phil breathed deeply. ‘How long before you can do the post-mortem?’
Esme shrugged. ‘Week before Christmas? Don’t know what it’s like in your neck of the woods, but it’s our busy time. The lonely and the skint top themselves, hypothermic pensioners freeze to death, binge-drinking teenagers think they’re superheroes… they all come out of the woodwork.’
‘Cameron’s Britain,’ said Phil.
No one answered him. Everyone looked away.
‘Right…’ He felt uncomfortable, reminded once again that he didn’t belong here. ‘So… time scale?’
‘As quick as I can. But…’ Esme gestured to the body, ‘there’s a veritable smorgasbord to be going on with, so don’t expect anything soon.’
‘Smorgasbord. Right.’
‘Including what’s on those plates. But get your boss to bump this up in importance and you’ll have your answers quicker.’
Esme’s eyes twinkled as she turned back to the body. Phil, thinking how all pathologists were the same, made his way out of the house.
The street was cordoned off, the outer barrier keeping prying eyes away. Reporters had gathered beyond that point, telephoto lenses in position, waiting for one of the team to give something up. Beside them, members of the public craned their necks to see what was going on. Unable to believe how their own unremarkable street had become the focus of something so dramatic. Phil had been at the centre of enough crime scenes to know what they would be experiencing. And it would be conflicting: horror at discovering that the place they had regarded as a safe haven was just as terrifying as the places they imagined they were seeking refuge from; relief that it was happening to one of their neighbours and not themselves. And the illicit thrill of vicarious deviancy, as they wished for the crime to be the most depraved, salacious and titillating they could imagine because it made for better gossip. Phil had seen enough to know that the imagination of the general public was something to be very frightened of. Because that was who he cleaned up after every day.
As he was removing the blue paper suit, Sperring came alongside him.
‘What now? Sir?’
‘Now?’ echoed Phil. ‘We plan what we’re going to do next.’ He shivered, flapped his arms about him, but it was no good. He could feel the cold penetrating through his clothes, right down to his bones. ‘But not here,’ he said. ‘Too bloody cold.’
‘I know somewhere,’ said Sperring.
He walked towards the barrier. The crowd parted for him. Phil bobbed along in his wake.