51

It was Monday morning, and for some strange reason it felt like the weekend had been cancelled, and not due to lack of interest. My body was on a go-slow and everything had been a struggle. In fact, it felt like life was conspiring against me.

First, I had to tip toe around The Mother, which, at least, did go better than anticipated. But from there it all descended into crud. There was no wholegrain bread left and I had to eat white-crap toast. I was last to the shower and it was only lukewarm. Then my hairdryer wouldn’t work, and now I couldn’t find my flaming car keys. Consequently, I was running late, which wasn’t a good thing when the first item in my diary was an audience with DI Johns. He wanted an update on what I’d covered over the weekend, which was shark talk for keeping an eye on me. I supposed it was progress that he now had enough respect for me to give me the time of day, but my bowels seemed to disagree.

After the second time around the house checking the likely spots, I finally found my keys under the newspaper, on the kitchen bench. My eyes did a spot of spontaneous leaking at the sight of the photograph of Rose-Marie and another of the fire-ravaged circus on the front page of the Otago Daily Times. The paper was folded in half, banner headline uppermost, and I wasn’t about to flip it over to see if there was a photo of an elephant on the other side. The odds were pretty high. Instead, I grabbed the keys and hightailed it out of there.

Decorum went by the wayside and I ran down the street to my car. But my rush was brought to an abrupt halt by the sight of the folded piece of paper tucked under the windscreen wiper. I sighed what felt like all the air out of my lungs and my shoulders drooped to match my mojo. Not today. There was only so much a girl could handle and my resilience had been eroded to next to nought. I wished I’d done something about this sooner, but I truly couldn’t face the hassle. It wasn’t as if there had been anything else happening in my life. I picked the note out by the corner, tossed it, unread, on to the back seat and then moped my way down to town.

 

I needed to hear a friendly voice, so decided a phone call was in order. It wasn’t purely a social call, as I was in need of information, as well as geniality.

‘Pathology.’

I smiled at the sound of the familiar drawl. ‘Alistair.’ I drew out the last syllable.

‘Samantha.’ He returned the favour.

‘How are you bearing up in the big smoke?’ I asked.

‘Oh, you know how it is. As much as I loved Invercargill, the grime, the bland flatness, the arctic southerlies, I’m coping okay, just. Some company would help. What are you up to tonight?’

Good old Alistair, always a trier. In fact, he’d been trying since I was a teenager and he was a pimply geek who spent his school holidays with our family. His parents were busy professionals who found it a bit inconvenient when boarding school emptied everyone out. Fortunately for him, my parents had a farm and were in the habit of picking up strays. Nowadays, Alistair was no longer pimply and was a pathologist at Dunedin hospital.

‘Mum’s in town, Dad’s in hospital – nothing serious. I need to put in some contact hours. Enough said.’

‘I hear you. So to what do I owe the pleasure, then? You only seem to call me when you want something, not just for my charm.’ He put on a dramatic sniff.

‘As much as I love the sound of your voice, you’re right, I’m that transparent – I want something.’

‘I knew it. So not even any small talk?’

‘Not today, sorry. The room has ears.’

‘Fun, how very James Bond. Fire away, then.’

‘A murder case last week.’

‘The young woman?’

‘Yes, Rose-Marie Bateman. Did you do or attend her post-mortem? What can you tell me about it?’

‘Yes, I was there. The forensic pathologist from Christchurch came down to perform it. Details? Fairly straight forward, actually. Major trauma to the head, fractured skull, intra-cranial haemorrhage which, if it didn’t kill her, would have left her with far fewer faculties than she started with. But the cause of death was drowning.’

‘She was a very bright girl, Ph.D. student.’

‘The head injury would have taken care of that.’

I felt an angry heat forming in my guts. It was a sensation that was surreptitiously replacing the blahs as my day rode on. DI Johns had helped it along, as had thoughts about the deaths that were trailing this case, criminal, medical and animal.

‘What about evidence of sexual assault or activity. Was there any semen present?’

‘No physical sign of sexual assault, vaginal or anal, which doesn’t mean there wasn’t any activity. Normally seminal fluid would last in the vagina for at least twenty-four hours, but as she’d been in the water, there was no trace.’

‘Okay. I know this probably sounds odd, but her boyfriend claimed she was a virgin. Was her hymen intact?’ I found myself blushing on the end of the phone asking such a personal question. Smithy looked at me sideways from the next desk.

‘Interesting question. No, but that doesn’t mean anything nowadays, with women leading such active lifestyles. And if we’re being frank here, there are objects of, shall we say, pleasure that can cause the hymen to tear without any actual male involvement.’ I was half-expecting Smithy to comment on what must have by now surely been a beetroot shade of red up my face. Alistair gave a small chuckle, as if he could feel my discomfort. He probably enjoyed it. He always was a little off-centre.

‘Okay, that came into the too-much-information category.’

‘You asked.’ Even more humour in his voice.

‘Pregnant?’

‘No, I’m not, thanks for asking, and neither was she.’

‘Oh, ha, ha. What about other traces of DNA? Her mouth had been gagged by tape, so there were sure to have been skin cells from her on that. What if she’d kissed someone? Could you get a DNA sample from their skin cells or saliva in her mouth if she’d been kissed?’

‘Honey, you have been watching far too much TV. In the real world, not likely. In this case, with the body in the water, impossible. Water is the enemy of evidence.’

‘But wouldn’t the tape have kept the water out of her mouth?’

‘She had a nose.’

Good one, Sam, I hadn’t thought of that.

‘What about fibres stuck to the tape?’

‘Can I refer back to my comment about your television viewing?’

‘I can’t help it, I’m an optimist, however unrealistic.’

‘Which is undoubtedly the best way to be, and one of the things we love about you, Sam. The tape did go to ESR for testing, so if there was anything on it, fibres, fingerprints, DNA, you’ll have to be patient and wait for them to perform their magic.’

Dunedin didn’t have its own forensic laboratory, we had to send samples off to Environmental Science and Research in Christchurch. And like all good things, they took time.

‘Anything else?’ he asked.

‘Nothing dodgy in her blood?’

‘Nothing. No alcohol, drugs. She was slightly anaemic – could have done with some iron tablets or a few good steak dinners. Speaking of which, are you sure you don’t want to hop out for a bite?’

The image of Paul, the unclad version, popped into my mind, and for some absurd reason, even though I’d say no to Alistair regardless – too much like a brother – I felt obliged to say no out of principle.

What was that all about?