Dr Ben Clough’s hands always felt cold. After every time they shook hands, Gray had to fight the urge to rub his own together to warm them up again. He couldn’t figure out if it was a genetic thing with Clough or whether it was because he spent the majority of his time in the mortuary where the temperature was kept permanently low.
Clough was the silent, considerate type. He was a runner — another solitary pastime — pounding the streets out of hours. At some point, Gray would ask his advice on the mundane matter of exercise, though at a more appropriate time.
Gray had driven over to the hospital, rather than head into the station, setting off before the beginning of his shift in order to beat the traffic. Thanet was a maze of indirect, restricted routes which had a tendency to bottleneck at the slightest opportunity, making the journey half an hour rather than ten minutes. Clough was an early starter, too.
The pair sat in the pathologist’s tiny, airless office. A desk, a couple of chairs, a pair of filing cabinets, and it was full.
“I made a start as soon as I could,” said Clough. “I thought it prudent.”
“Fine with me.” Gray didn’t like watching a corpse being dissected. “Any revelations?”
“Best I show you.”
Clough led Gray to the storage area. The air was several degrees cooler, and Gray could see his breath fog. There were many small metal doors set into the wall in rows, floor to ceiling. Clough undid the latch on one at waist height. Cold spilled out, and Gray shivered involuntarily. The pathologist tugged on the gurney inside and Regan’s shrouded corpse was silently revealed, the bed moving on well-oiled runners.
Clough lifted one corner of the white sheet to expose a wrist, leaving the rest of the body hidden. Gray bent closer to see what Clough was pointing to.
“Abrasions,” said Gray.
“Correct. And not just there.” Clough moved down the body, lifted back the adjacent corner, bringing a leg into view. “It’s the same on both wrists and ankles.”
“He was bound hand and foot?”
Clough nodded. “And these.” He folded back the sheet, keeping Regan’s face and half his body covered. There was bruising on the side of his ribcage, the marks livid.
“He was assaulted, probably kicked. By the arrangement of the discoloration I’d suggest he curled up into a ball to protect himself.”
“Cause of death was drowning?”
“His lungs were inundated with liquid, if that’s what you mean.”
“So, he drowned then, Ben.”
“You know how the process works?”
“They breathe water rather than air, which isn’t particularly good for them.”
“Very droll, but basically correct. The fluid obstructs the airway which causes asphyxia. Circulatory and respiratory failure occurs almost immediately.”
“Nice.”
“Quite. To be honest, it’s usually difficult to conclusively establish death by drowning. The lungs naturally fill if a corpse is submerged for any reasonable time, meaning the findings in any investigation are at best minimal.”
“Really?”
“Surprisingly, yes. There’s several signs to look out for.” Clough held a hand up in a fist. Gray was about to get a lesson. “One, a white froth at the nose and mouth.” Clough extended a finger. “But there was none. Possibly washed away in the surf. Two, the presence of weeds or stones grasped by the hands. Desperation at the nearing end. There were none — perhaps nothing could be grabbed? Three, foam in the lungs and air passage, which was present. Four, water-logged lungs, also a check, though as I’ve already said that’s entirely natural. Five, water in the stomach and intestines, ditto.” Clough raised his other hand in a fist. “Six, diatoms and maybe plankton in the tissues.”
Gray opened his mouth to ask the obvious question. Clough got there first.
“They’re algae found in water and they’re what can prove the evidence we need. The diatoms pass from the ruptured alveolar wall into lymph channels and pulmonary veins and then into the heart. Only a live body with circulation can transport diatoms from the water into organs in that fashion.”
“The heart pumping junk around the body?”
“Right. No pump, no diatoms where they shouldn’t be.”
“Bloody hell, Ben, are you going to tell me if you saw them or continue being far too clever for your own good?”
“Sorry, I get a bit carried away.”
Gray felt like screaming.
“Yes, there were diatoms.”
“And time of death?”
“Again, difficult to establish because of the body’s time in the sea. It’s effectively a huge heat sink. Could have been hours or days. Given the preserved nature of the cadaver I’d tend towards the former — limited time as fish food,” clarified Clough. “It’s usually the eyes that get eaten first. I also took a blood sample for analysis. Because I knew you’d be in a hurry I called in a favour, walked the sample over, stuck around and made a general nuisance of myself until I got the data.” Clough handed over a file. He did enjoy a degree of melodrama.
In this case it was warranted.
“Ketamine,” said Gray.
Clough nodded. “Enough to knock him out and make him compliant. Regan ingested the drug at some point prior to his immersion. And being in a relative state of helplessness would in all likelihood actively reduce the signs of drowning.”
“What about the other two?”
“I’ve yet to undertake the full post mortems. Outward appearances signpost similar drowning indicators to Regan in one. The knife wound in the other may or may not have been fatal. I won’t know for sure until I go inside later today.” Clough held up a hand; palm towards Gray. “And yes, before you ask, I’ve sent their blood samples away too, although I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for those. I can only work one miracle at a time.”
“That’ll do me, Ben.”
They shook hands once more. When Clough was out of sight Gray rubbed his palms together and only stopped to answer his phone. He checked the display. Hamson.
“Are you still at the hospital?” she asked.
“Yes, why?”
“We had a report of a disturbance last night at the Lighthouse Project on Belgrave Road. Seems like our mystery man was there.”
“Okay, I’m on my way.”
“Not yet. There’s a witness in the hospital you should speak to, if you can. Rachel O’Shea.”