Down Among the Dead Men_ A Year in the Life of a Mortuary Technician - Michelle Williams [54]
Clive did what Clive always did, which was to smile knowingly and reply with a twinkle in his eye, ‘We’ll see, shall we?’
I knew better than to doubt him; Clive had twenty-six years’ experience and I, in comparison, knew sweet Fanny Adams. What I saw over the next hour made me relieved that I’d remained schtum and not expressed disbelief. Clive, concentrating very hard for nearly fifty-five minutes without stopping, somehow managed to transform the crunchy flesh pancake that had once been Martin Walker’s head into something that was at least vaguely a human face with cranium attached. He did this by packing the skull with cotton wool, very carefully moulding the facial bones back into something that resembled a normal human face, and some very intricate stitching; Martin Walker was never going to win ten pounds in the Monopoly beauty contest but I could imagine that, in the half-light of the viewing room and behind glass, the relatives would not be upset at what they saw.
In the late afternoon, as we were having some well-deserved coffee in the office, Bill Baxford rang to arrange a viewing. Clive picked up the phone. The conversation went on for a while, then he put the phone down and turned to me, shaking his head. ‘We don’t need to worry any more,’ he told me.
‘What about?’
‘The dog. Apparently he’s safe and sound. Ran away when the combine harvester came round and went back home.’ He laughed. ‘So much for man’s best friend.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
The first forensic post-mortem that I did on my own was Mrs Alice Taylor-Wells, who came to us from Amber Court.
I’ve said before that Amber Court had a reputation, and we’d been receiving a regular supply of residents from it throughout the year, all of them looking unkempt and uncared for, being thin and pale and sad-looking. Mrs Taylor-Wells, though, was altogether a different story. When the undertakers brought her in late one afternoon in November, the first giveaway was when it only took one man to lift her on to the tray; you could tell that she was as light as a feather. Then, when Graham unzipped the body bag, the second giveaway was exposed. Graham made a face, as did I when the smell hit me. It wasn’t the same stink as a decomposed body gives off, but it was just as unpleasant. I looked at Graham with a questioning look and he said only, ‘Bed sores.’
Bloody hell, did she have bed sores. Graham pulled her easily on to her side and I saw what looked like a gaping hole at the base of her spine that must have been four inches across and, I could see because the packing had fallen out, went down to bone. ‘Oh, my God,’ I whispered, feeling sick. The flesh at the sides was wet and slimy and covered in yellow-grey pus. This wasn’t the only one either; I could see others on the right hip and the heels of the feet.
Graham growled, ‘Bloody Amber Court.’
The phone rang a few minutes later, and when I picked it up I heard Bill Baxford’s voice. Instead of his usual cheeriness, though, he was distinctly down. ‘It’s about Mrs Taylor-Wells.’
I handed the phone over to Graham who was in charge, Clive being away for a long weekend. I watched him listening for a while, occasionally glancing up at the clock in the office and saying, ‘OK,’ a lot. When he put the phone down, he said, ‘The relatives aren’t happy about the way she was treated and the Coroner’s had enough. It’s going forensic’
I felt immediately nervous. I was on call that night, so it was going to be my responsibility. ‘What time?’
‘The pathologist should be here at seven. If I were you, I’d go home, get some tea and then come back. You’ll be fine, don’t look so worried. I’ll be on the end of the phone if you need me.’
There are four forensic pathologists who come into the county when required. Apparently, three of them are fairly normal, sociable people, but the fourth isn’t. You can imagine my dismay, then, when I found I had drawn the short straw that evening, for I was to have