Chapter Seven
After a leisurely lunch in the Stone’s Throw Bar & Grill – just down the street from the ME’s office – they headed out along the 207 to the railway station at Palatka. The satnav gave a time of forty minutes – long enough for a lunch of grilled chicken breasts topped with grilled pineapple to make its way down to somewhere more comfortable.
Rae stared at him. ‘See, what did I tell you – they know nothing.’
‘Do you actually know what “nothing” means?’
‘It means “nothing”, which is exactly what Laura and the police know. Unlike this intrepid investigative journalist, who discovered a key to a left luggage locker, which will no doubt crack the case wide open.’
‘You do realise that it could be an empty locker, don’t you?’
‘Fate would not be so cruel.’
‘You’re young, so I’ll excuse your naivety – fate is always so cruel. That’s how she gets her kicks.’
‘She? You’re a sexist. Why does fate have to be a woman?’
‘Because fate is fickle, and women are fickle. The resemblance is uncanny. And you do know it wasn’t my decision to make fate a female. That’s just the way it is. The fickle finger of fate has always dangled from a woman’s dainty hand.’
‘You’re like those men who give all the hurricanes female names.’
He gave her a wide smile. ‘You’ve got to admit that it’s an apt analogy.’
‘I don’t have to admit anything.’
‘And anyway, some hurricanes are named after men now.’
‘Only because we complained.’
‘It’s still not my fault. Fate is a woman. She has many names.’
‘Yeah, and I bet a man gave her those names.’
‘I’m sure you’re right.’
Palatka Railway Station opened in 1909 and was added to the National Register of Historic Places in 1988. It also housed the Browning Railway Museum, which was operated by the Palatka Railroad Preservation Society. The building itself was painted pink, the woodwork white and the grass cut regularly.
‘It looks pretty,’ Rae said.
‘It’s a train station.’
‘Look at those lovely hanging baskets.’
‘Wonderful.’
There didn’t seem to be much point in both of them going into the station to open the locker, so he let Rae go in alone.
‘Are you sure it’ll be safe?’
‘Just go in there, open the locker, grab whatever’s inside and come right out.’
While she was gone his phone jangled. No name appeared in the display window, so he guessed it wasn’t anybody in his phonebook. ‘Tom Gabriel.’
‘It’s Sara.’
‘Is something wrong?’
‘No, not really.’
‘Not really? What does that mean?’
‘Brad called again – he wants me and Rochelle to go back home.’
‘I thought you’d already made your decision.’
‘I know.’
‘So, what’s the problem? Last night you had a plan to change the world. You were going back to nursing, and then you were going to train to become a doctor.’
‘I know, but . . .’
‘But what?’
‘I don’t know if I can, dad.’
‘So, it was the wine talking?’
‘Yes . . . No . . . I don’t know.’
‘You used to know your own mind.’
‘I know.’
‘I used to have a daughter who wanted to be the first female president of the United States of America.’
‘A lot’s changed.’
‘You’ve changed, you mean.’
‘I guess I have.’
‘What’s-his-name has ground you down to believe that all you can ever be is a wife and mother.’
‘They’re important jobs.’
‘I’m not disputing that, but you could have been so much more – and still can be. You have time on your side.’
‘You’re disappointed in me.’
‘I’m disappointed for you. All your mother and I ever wanted was for both of our daughters to be happy. Are you happy, Sara?’
There was a palpable silence.
‘If you have to think about it, I guess you’re not. I’m certainly not in the business of breaking up marriages, but if you go back to him – it’ll be more of the same. Is that what you want?’
More silence.
‘He’s already proven himself to be a liar. Is what’s-his-name rushing you to make a decision?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you forgotten that he’s in the wrong, Sara. He’s in no position to make demands. I used to have a daughter with a backbone, but now . . .’
‘You’re right, dad.’
‘Tell him you’ll need at least a week to reach a decision, and at the end of that week you’ll inform him what that decision is.’
‘I’m thinking of running for Governor.’
‘I’d vote for you.’
‘Thanks, dad.’
The call ended.
Rae returned carrying a battered brown leather suitcase, opened the door and tossed it on the passenger seat. Her face was flushed as if she’d just run a four-minute mile. ‘This was in the locker.’
‘And?’
‘It’s locked.’
‘Interesting.’
‘What’s interesting about that?’
‘Apart from the locker key that was stolen by the paperboy, John Doe had no other keys on him.’
‘You’re right. He obviously locked the suitcase – where’s the key?’
‘Another mystery. Well, are you going to open it?’
‘It’s locked.’
‘I don’t think Mr Doe will mind if you break into his suitcase.’
‘Have you got something I can use?’
‘Use the knife.’
She shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so. It’s far too nice to be used for opening a locked suitcase, and the paperboy wants it back after I’ve finished with it.’
‘It’s stolen property and evidence in a murder inquiry.’ He climbed out of the driver’s seat, walked to the trunk, found a screwdriver in the bag of tools and carried on round to where Rae was standing. He shouldered her out of the way. ‘Let the suitcase destroyer in then.’
She shifted sideways.
He made quick work of the flip locks by wedging the screwdriver into the gap between the lock and the leather, and twisting. They snapped open as if he had the key.
Rae opened the lid and began pulling out the items one by one:
Red-checked dressing gown;
Red felt slippers size 7;
Underpants x 4;
Blue-striped pyjamas;
Shaving items: cutthroat razor, shaving brush, a pot of lemon-smelling shaving soap and a bottle of Old-Spice aftershave;
A light brown pair of trousers with sand in the turn-ups;
A yellow and red electrician’s Phillips screwdriver;
A table knife that had been ground to a point;
A pair of small stainless steel scissors;
A black bristle No.16 wooden-handled stencilling brush; and
A roll of black cotton thread with a sewing needle stuck in it.
She examined the suitcase inside and out, but found no secret compartment, markings or anything else that might be considered useful in determining who John Doe was. Next, she began checking the items that she’d removed from the case . . . ‘All the labels on the clothes have been removed,’ she said. ‘Just like the clothing he was wearing.’
‘Don’t forget to turn each item of clothing inside out,’ he said.
‘Not the underpants.’
‘Especially the underpants. You never know what you’ll find in those.’
‘I don’t think so.’
She found and removed three different coloured curled-up dry-cleaning tags pinned inside the collar of the dressing gown and the pyjamas jacket, and another one in the waistband of the pyjamas trousers:
1171/7
4393/3
3053/1
The first one (1171/7) was a faded pink; the second (4393/3) was a faded lime green; and the third (3053/1) was a faded blue. It looked as though they’d been left in the clothes and forgotten about for some time.
‘He’s probably an ex-con,’ Tom said.
‘Why?’
‘The pointed knife – it’s a shank, which is prison slang for “knife”.
‘It already is a knife.’
‘It’s been manually ground to a point for stabbing, so it’s now a shank.’
‘Do you think that Mona checked the list of people who had recently been released from prison?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why didn’t they discover who he was?’
‘I don’t know. There’s something else as well.’
‘What?’
‘What size feet did the police report say he had?’
She found the report and checked. ‘Size 9.’
‘What size are those slippers?’
‘My God – they’re size 7. It’s not his suitcase, is it?’
‘That’s certainly one possibility, but then why would he put someone else’s suitcase in a left luggage locker?’
‘Maybe he stole it. Why else would he be carrying around someone else’s slippers?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘The missing labels are the same though.’
He pulled out his phone and called Laura.
‘Hi, Tom.’
‘There was a suitcase in the left luggage locker.’
‘Really? Is it any help?’
‘Not up to now, and we’re not sure that it actually belongs to him.’
‘Oh?’
‘I need to come back and see if the clothes inside it fit him.’
‘We can do that.’
‘Say in about an hour?’
‘See you then.’
The call ended.
Rae carried on examining the contents. On the inside of the trousers she found a small pocket for coins that had been sewn up with the black cotton thread. Using the scissors, she cut through the thread and inserted two fingers into the opening. ‘There’s something in here.’
‘Breathe,’ he said.
‘Oh God,’ She took a deep breath. ‘My heart’s beating like a jackhammer.’ She pulled out the item between her fingers. ‘It’s a rolled up piece of paper.’ She unfurled the yellowing paper, which measured approximately one and a half inches in width by one inch in length. In its centre were two words in a typescript italic:
Tamám Shud
She held the oblong piece of paper out to him. ‘Any ideas?’
He took it. The right hand edge was straight, but the other three edges were rough, as if they’d been torn. ‘It looks as though it’s been removed from the page of a book.’
‘An old book by the colour of the paper, and probably not an English book either.’
‘You look disappointed.’
‘I am. I expected to solve the mystery of John Doe this afternoon, but we still have nothing.’
‘You give up too easily.’
‘How’s that?’
‘We’ve found more clues – the dry-cleaning tags and numbers, the words on this scrap of paper, the possibility that they came from a book, the slippers that aren’t his shoe size, the shank, and the similarity of missing clothing labels . . .’
She picked up the stencil brush. ‘What about this?’
‘I have no idea about that, the screwdriver or the other items – maybe they’re related to the type of work he does.’
‘But if he’s just come out of prison . . .’
‘I don’t know. We may not know what any of them mean yet, but in time I’m sure we will.’
‘In time? I have a story to write.’
‘It’s a jigsaw puzzle, and they’re never easy. If they were, nobody would do them. We have to keep fitting the pieces together until the puzzle begins to take shape and make some kind of sense.’
‘What if it never makes sense?’
‘That’s the risk you take.’
‘Should we tell Mona about the suitcase now?’
‘They’ve washed their hands of it. It’s up to us to find out who John Doe is before he’s buried in an unmarked grave.’
‘You think he was murdered, don’t you?’
‘My gut tells me “Yes”. For a start, he had no wallet and no identification.’
‘That doesn’t necessarily mean he was murdered.’
‘On their own – no, but let’s examine the other jigsaw pieces. He travelled here from somewhere else by train, he then . . .’ Tom looked back at the station building.
‘What?’
‘How did he get from here to St Augustine?’
‘Walked?’
‘Hardly.’ He strode back to the train station.
Rae jogged after him. ‘You don’t have to walk so fast.’
‘Is there a taxicab company that regularly picks up people from outside?’ he asked the man behind the bullet-proof glass screen.
‘Sure – Yellow Cabs. There’s usually one or two parked up outside.’
‘Thanks.’ He turned to go.
‘And then there’s the bus service, of course.’
‘To St Augustine?’ he asked, turning back to face the round-faced man.
‘Sure. Every thirty minutes or so.’
‘Thanks.’
He went back outside and sat on a bench.
‘Have you given up?’ Rae asked sitting down next to him.
‘Don’t sit down. Go and get a decent picture of John Doe from the file.’
‘Why?’
‘So that we can show . . .’
Just then, a Yellow Cab pulled up and dropped off an old woman with a suitcase. The driver was a man with curly hair and a paunch.
He gave Rae the keys. ‘Go on then.’
She hurried over to the Nitro.
Once the woman had made her way into the station, he approached the driver. ‘Excuse me.’
‘Uh huh?’
‘Were you picking up fares here last Thursday?’
The man nodded. ’I picked up one or two.’ He had a heavy accent, but Tom had no idea where it was from.
Rae returned with John Doe’s picture.
He took it off her and showed the cab driver. ‘Do you remember this man at all?’
The cab driver laughed. ‘Do you know how many people I pick up in a day?’
‘Take a closer look.’
‘Probably a hundred. I see their eyes in my rear-view mirror, and the back of their heads as they get out of the cab.’
‘He was wearing a suit and an overcoat.’
‘I get all types in the back of my cab.’
‘You might have taken him to Porpoise Point.’
‘I take a lot of people there – it’s a popular destination.’
‘What about the other drivers?’
He shrugged and pulled a face. ‘Do you know how many other drivers there are?’
‘No.’
‘There’s about thirty of us, but other cab companies pick up and drop off here as well.’
‘Okay, thanks for your help.’
‘No problem.’
The driver climbed back into his cab, moved it to the taxi rank under the shade of an oak tree and switched the engine off.
Rae screwed up her face. ‘What now?’
‘We’ll have to go to the cab company and ask the drivers.’
‘But you heard him – there are other cab companies that pick up fares here.’
‘We’ll go and see them if necessary. Unless you want to finish your story here?’
‘No, I suppose not. I just thought it would be easier, that’s all.’
‘So much for being an intrepid investigative journalist. Come on.’
They walked over to the bus stop and waited for the bus to arrive.
‘You were saying why you think John Doe was murdered.’
‘Laura thinks he was poisoned. And although there’s no toxicological evidence to support that conclusion, I’ve no reason to doubt her instincts. However, if he was poisoned there are two questions. First, did he poison himself? Or, did someone else poison him? Second, what poison did he use? Where did he get it from? And why were there no traces of it found in his body?’
‘I’d heard rumours about dinosaurs not being able to count. There are five questions there – not two.’
‘But you get the idea? So, let’s say that he caught either a taxi or a bus to Porpoise Point . . .’
‘Maybe he went somewhere else first?’
‘Maybe he did. We have to map out his last movements, and we’ve already made some progress. Once we do that, we might find out who he was and what he was doing at Porpoise Point.’
‘Maybe he went there to see someone?’
‘If he did, why has no one come forward? It’s been on the television, the radio, and in the local and national papers . . .’
‘Unless the person he was meeting murdered him?’
‘It’s possible.’
A bus with a large sunshine on the side pulled up.
After the passengers had climbed aboard and paid their fare, he stepped onto the bus.
‘Where to?’ the female driver said.
‘Were you driving the bus last Thursday?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’
He produced his PI’s license. ‘I’m trying to find out the last movements of a dead man.’
‘I hope you’re not suggesting that I had anything to do with his death?’
He smiled wryly. ‘No. I’m just wondering if he travelled on the bus from here to Porpoise Point.’
‘I wasn’t on last Thursday.’
‘Do you know who was?’
‘Yes, but I ain’t gonna tell you. Not only have I got a bus load of passengers waiting to get to their destinations, but it ain’t none of my business to talk about what other drivers were doing or not doing last Thursday with strangers. My suggestion is that you go to the bus depot and speak to the supervisor – Mandie Pidgley – you’ll get some sense out of her. Now, either buy a ticket or get off the bus.’
He heard some mumbling of agreement from the passengers.
‘Thanks for your help anyway,’ he said, and stepped off the bus.
The doors closed and the bus pulled away.
‘So, we have to go to the bus depot and the Yellow Cab company?’ Rae said.
‘Looks like it, but not today. Now, we have to go back to the ME’s office and then onto the Harrisons’.’
***
‘You need to come in with me this time.’
He’d just pulled into the car park outside the ME’s office.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘How can you write about John Doe if you haven’t seen his dead body?’
‘I’ll manage fine with the photographs, thank you.’
‘It’s not just about what you can see either.’
‘I’ll guess the rest.’
‘You need to feel the cold, clammy skin – it’s like touching sweating clay. And a corpse has a distinctive smell – like a slaughterhouse with a hint of cheap perfume.’
‘I’m sure you can’t wait to go back in there and get your daily fix.’
‘So, bring your notepad and pencil with you . . .‘
‘Have you taken out your hearing aid?’
‘. . . And the suitcase.’
He climbed out of the Nitro and began walking across the car park. When he didn’t hear her following him he turned and stared at her sitting in the passenger seat.
Eventually she opened the door and followed him carrying the suitcase. ‘If I puke or faint it’ll be down to you, you know.’
‘You won’t do either, but if you faint I’ll catch you.’
‘You’d better.’
A technician came out to get them.
‘I’m in the middle of an autopsy,’ Laura said, as they entered the autopsy room. ‘You know where John is – help yourself.’
‘Thanks, Laura,’ he said.
She laughed. ‘He didn’t persuade you to join him, did he?’
Rae grunted. ‘Against my better judgement.’
‘Have fun.’
He slid the middle shelf out and threw back the sheet.
Rae put a hand over her mouth. ‘I feel sick.’
‘Write it down. Your readers will love the realism. Make them taste the vomit in the back of your throat.’
‘You need help.’
‘Touch the body. Run your hands over the cold sweaty skin. Put your nose up close and take a deep sniff.’
‘Stop teasing her, Tom,’ Laura called over.
‘Old-aged pensioners have to get their fun where they can,’ he called back to her. ‘Okay,’ he said to Rae. ‘Let’s do what we came here to do.’ He helped himself to a selection of clear plastic evidence bags from a drawer, and then opened up the case on a work surface.
He took out the non-clothing items first and put each one into a separate bag to prevent cross-contamination with the corpse. Then, he pulled out the items of clothing one at time and laid them flat on top of John Doe. The red-checked dressing gown was long enough in the arms, as was the pyjamas jacket. The pyjamas trousers, and the light-brown trousers were long enough in the leg and the right size around the waist. He checked the red felt slippers – they were definitely too small, and there was no evidence that they had ever been worn by John Doe’s distinctive pointed feet. He put all the contaminated clothing into one plastic bag, and sealed it.
‘It doesn’t really tell us much, does it?’ Rae said.
He pursed his lips. ‘No. Have you written down what’s in the suitcase?’
‘Yes.’
‘Taken photographs?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘I’m going to leave it here.’
‘But it’s my suitcase.’
He gave her an understanding smile. ‘It’s possibly John Doe’s suitcase – not yours. Do you want to carry it round with you for as long as it takes to solve the case?’
‘We could keep it at your . . .’
‘Tom Gabriel Investigations is not a storage warehouse. We don’t need the suitcase or the items inside it anymore.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘I am right.’ He turned to Laura. ‘We’re going to leave the suitcase here, if that’s all right with you?’
Laura nodded. ‘I’ll put it with his other stuff.’
‘But I need you to do one thing for me.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The slippers in the suitcase are size 7, and his feet . . .’
‘. . . Are size 9 – that’s odd.’
‘Yes it is. The other clothing appears to fit him, but we’re still not one hundred percent sure that the suitcase actually belongs to John Doe.’
‘And . . . ?’
‘There’s a cutthroat razor, shaving brush and soap in the suitcase – can you see if there’s a DNA match?’
‘I think we can manage that.’
‘Thanks. Got everything you need?’ he said to Rae.
‘I think so.’
‘Good. See you soon, Laura.’
‘Don’t make it so long next time, Tom Gabriel,’ she called after him.
When they were sitting in the Nitro with the air conditioning on Tom said, ‘I saw John Doe earlier, you know.’
‘You’re getting senile, aren’t you? I waited here when you went in.’
‘No. I mean, I saw him. He was sitting on the autopsy table swinging his legs.’
‘That sounds really creepy.’
‘He said something. No sound came out of his mouth, but I understood what he said.’
‘He told you who he was and what he was doing on Porpoise Point, didn’t he?’
His lip curled up. ‘If only life and death were that simple. He said: “It’s finished”.’
‘What’s finished?’
‘If we knew that, we’d know everything.’