I LEFT ANNIE on the steps of Writers’ Building and walked back to Lal Bazar, making best use of whatever shade was offered by the buildings en route.
There were three new yellow chits waiting on my desk and I was starting to suspect that my office might double as a post office sorting room when I was away. The first was another note from Daniels, asking to see me. This one was marked ‘URGENT’ and I crushed it and filed it in the bin.
The next was from Banerjee. He’d spoken to the bearer at the Bengal Club who’d stated that on the night of MacAuley’s murder, Buchan had retired to bed immediately after his guests had left, emerging for breakfast at around ten o’clock the following morning. As for who Buchan had spoken to that night, the sergeant had drawn a blank, with the receptionist either unwilling or unable to divulge the information.
The third was from Digby. Military intelligence had granted the Commissioner’s request that we once again be given access to the crime scene. ‘Any and all assistance’ would be provided to us. That was a nice touch; like someone punching you in the face, then asking what they could do to help stop the bleeding.
I lifted the receiver and telephoned Digby’s office. The line rang out. I was about to go looking for him when Banerjee knocked and entered.
‘The post-mortem, sir. It’s scheduled for three o’clock. Will you be attending?’
I nodded.
‘And I’d like you there too.’
Halfway up College Street sits the Medical College Hospital, with the Imperial Police morgue in its basement. Morgues always seem to be in basements, as though being physically underground is a good first step towards the grave. This one was no different to the others: white tiled walls and floor, no natural light, and everywhere, the sickly stench of formaldehyde and raw flesh.
We were met by a cadaverous-looking pathologist who introduced himself as Dr Lamb. He appeared to be in his fifties, his skin pallid, almost grey, as though he’d started resembling the bodies he worked on. He was kitted out in gumboots and rubber gloves, with a white apron over a blue shirt and red spotted bow tie, and from a distance looked a bit like a retired circus clown.
He kept the pleasantries brief, then hurried us into the post-mortem theatre. Inside the smell was acrid and the floor slick with water. In the centre of the room stood the dissection table, a large marble slab on which lay MacAuley’s mortal remains, still dressed in his bloodstained tuxedo. The slab was angled downwards on one side towards a drainage channel. On a table next to it were the doctor’s tools of the trade: a collection of hacksaws, drills and knives on loan from the Dark Ages. Two other men were already waiting. The first was a police photographer, replete with box camera, flash bulbs, tripod and plates. The second I took to be Dr Lamb’s assistant, there to transcribe the doctor’s observations; a secretary for the most macabre dictation.
‘Right, gentlemen,’ said the doctor jovially, ‘shall we get down to business?’
He started by cutting through MacAuley’s clothing with a large pair of scissors, like a tailor working lovingly over a mannequin. Once the clothing had been removed, he set to work measuring the body, noting the usual descriptive details, height, hair colour, distinguishing marks, all of which his assistant duly recorded. Methodically, he described MacAuley’s wounds, starting from the missing eyeball and working downwards. As he spoke, he pointed them out to the photographer, who took close-up shots.
‘Slight laceration of the tongue, some bruising and discoloration around the mouth. Clear-cut incision on the neck. Most likely caused by a long-bladed knife, moderately sharp. Incision is five inches in length. Commencing two inches below the angle of the jaw. Incision is clean, deviating slightly downwards. Arteries severed.’
He moved on to the chest. ‘Large puncture wound, three inches wide. Again probably caused by a long-bladed knife. Appears to have punctured a lung.’
He checked MacAuley’s hands. ‘No defensive cuts.’
To my left, Banerjee was making odd noises. I looked over. The young sergeant was reciting some heathen mantra under his breath and the colour had drained from his face.
‘Is this your first post-mortem, Sergeant?’
He smiled sheepishly, ‘My second, sir.’
That was a pity. It’s the second that’s usually the worst. The first, while gruesome, at least has the saving grace of surprise. You don’t really know what’s coming. The second one has no such silver lining. You know exactly what to expect but you’re still not quite prepared for it.
‘How did your first one go?’
‘I had to leave part way through.’
I nodded. ‘Well done, Sergeant.’ I watched as he blushed, but I have a habit of teasing subordinates. In my book it’s a compliment.
Dr Lamb had moved on to washing the body, humming in a deep baritone, like some Inca priest anointing a victim before cutting his heart out. Then, taking a knife, he made an incision from MacAuley’s throat to his abdomen. There was very little blood. He broke open the ribcage, exposing the major organs, and proceeded to remove them one by one. Beside me Banerjee shifted awkwardly. It was never any one thing that tipped you over the edge, it was always a combination: the smells and sounds coming together and reaching a macabre crescendo. Banerjee covered his mouth, then turned and headed hastily for the exit.
My first few post-mortems I’d been sick as a dog. I couldn’t say why. After all, it wasn’t that different from being in a slaughterhouse. But there’s something about the human psyche that rebels against the physical act of watching a person being reduced to a pile of meat. But human beings adapt. It’s one of our great strengths. Natural reactions can be switched off or, as in my case, destroyed. Three years of watching men being butchered will do that to you. I envied Banerjee his reaction. Rather, I envied him his ability to react.
I stayed a few minutes longer, watching the good doctor go about his work. Quiet and efficient, as if it were no more mundane than a dentist removing teeth. While he worked, I built a picture of what might have transpired. Bruising around the mouth, no defensive cuts on the hands. It suggested MacAuley’s killer had approached him from behind. Taken him by surprise. Probably covered his mouth to prevent him from calling out. Then slit his throat, judging by the blood splatter at the scene.
One thing puzzled me, though. The killer clearly knew what he was doing. The incision had been clean, severing the arteries and the windpipe. MacAuley would have been dead in less than a minute. So why the second wound? Why the stab to the chest? The killer must have known MacAuley was as good as dead. Why waste time stabbing him?
That tied in with something else that had been bothering me. The note. Why ball it up and stick it in MacAuley’s mouth? Surely if you were making a political point, the logical thing to do would have been to leave it visible? I’d originally assumed it was done to make sure it wasn’t lost somehow, but now I wasn’t so sure.
I’d seen what I needed to see. Anything else of interest would be in the post-mortem report. I turned and headed out in search of Surrender-not and found him sitting on the steps of the college building, his head in his hands. I sat down next to him and offered him a cigarette, extracting one for myself. He accepted gratefully, taking the cigarette in a shaky hand, and for a minute we sat in silence, letting the smoke do its work.
‘Does it get any easier?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not sure I will ever get used to it.’
‘That might not be such a bad thing.’
I finished my cigarette and flicked the butt away. Banerjee still appeared shaken by the experience. That wasn’t good. I needed him to focus, and the best way of doing that was to get him back to work. We had two murders to solve, one of which I couldn’t figure out a motive for, and the other for which I had a surfeit of motives, but as yet no solid leads.
‘Come on, Sergeant,’ I said, ‘we’ve got work to do.’