What Will Burn James Oswald (booksvooks txt) 📖

‘I almost didn’t come. Wasn’t sure there was much left for you to examine.’ McLean reached a point well away from the examination table, but close enough that he could observe, then stopped. The body lay under a white sheet, and he could see from the way it hung that large parts were missing.

‘Oh ye of little faith,’ Cadwallader muttered, then turned his attention to the job in hand. Doctor Sharp rolled back the sheet to reveal the dead man’s head and a portion of his chest. It was impossible to make out much of Steve Whitaker’s features, as the fire had burned away most of his skin. Black chunks of charred muscle clung to bone in a manner horribly reminiscent of flame-grilled meat. McLean fought back the bile that rose in his throat at the thought. He’d attended far more post-mortem examinations in his career than he cared to think about; it was a long time since one had made him feel like being sick.

‘Subject is male, approximately one hundred and eighty centimetres tall. Hard to give an exact figure as a large section of his torso appears to have been burned away.’ Cadwallader worked his way around the body, peering close every so often, taking samples and handing them to Doctor Sharp to label for later analysis. It wasn’t possible to open him up, since the fire had already done that, so McLean was at least spared that unpleasantness.

‘Thighs have been badly scorched on the front, but the damage from burning does not appear to extend down below the knees. Subject was found in a seated position and this would suggest that the fire occurred while he was sitting down.’

‘What could have done this, Angus? You’d need some fierce heat, surely?’ McLean inched a little closer as he asked the question, drawn in by a morbid fascination at the damage done.

‘I’m really not sure, Tony. There’s a few things that might do it. Phosphorous, perhaps. Magnesium. Some kind of incendiary weapon. We’ll screen for residues when we analyse the samples, of course, but . . .’ Cadwallader shrugged. ‘He’d have to have swallowed the damned stuff to end up like this, and even then it would have taken his head off first.’

McLean clenched at the image, took a step back. Despite the chill air in the mortuary, sweat beaded in his armpits and dripped uncomfortably down his side.

‘The hands are interesting, see?’ Cadwallader addressed these words to Doctor MacPhail, which was something of a relief. McLean watched as the two pathologists leaned over one of the forearms that were laid out in their correct place anatomically alongside the remains of the body. That they weren’t still attached was made evident when Cadwallader picked up the arm and turned it over to inspect the palm of the hand.

‘Again, no sign of burning here, which is strange. You’d think if he’d dropped something on his lap that caught fire, he’d grab at it, try to get it off. You’d expect extensive burning to the fingertips and palms. The only damage here is some abrasion of the skin and a tear in one fingernail.’ Cadwallader put the arm back down again, held up his own hand and formed it into a claw. ‘He was gripping the arms of the chair so hard he almost broke his fingers. Of course, that could have been muscle contraction due to the fire. He may have already been dead at that point.’

‘Could he have, I don’t know, accidentally set himself alight while drunk? We found some booze in his room, but you’d have to be pretty hammered to . . .’ McLean waved a hand at the body.

‘That’s actually my working hypothesis. Did a little reading on the subject last night. Not Dickens, in case you were wondering. Some more scholarly works on the subject. If your man here had been, as you put it, hammered before he came home, carried on drinking until he was in a stupor, he might well have set himself alight with a cigarette or something. It happens, although the damage isn’t usually this localised.’

‘But there’s no glaringly obvious sign of foul play, I take it.’ McLean wasn’t sure whether he wanted the answer to be yes or no. If this was nothing but an unfortunate accident, they could get on with all the other work that needed doing. It felt wrong to be looking for the easy way out, though. Regardless of the things he’d heard about Steve Whitaker, the man deserved his death to be properly investigated.

‘We’ll know more once the chemical analysis is done, although given the state of him I doubt anything will be conclusive.’ Cadwallader shook his head slowly. ‘No, if you want evidence of foul play, I think you’ll have to look elsewhere.’

21

He’s never been one for drinking during the day, but then in almost ten years since he last walked out through the school gates, Gary’s never been out of a job either, so he’s hardly had the opportunity. He’s worked hard, played hard, lived his life. Until a month ago, it was all going well. He had a partner, a kid, a home. The city was booming, new buildings going up all over the place. No shortage of work for a strong man who didn’t mind getting his hands dirty. How the fuck did it all fall apart so quickly?

‘Heard you were in a spot of bother, Gary.’

A figure slides on to the stool beside him, elbows on the bar. Gary’s slow to respond. He’s not had that much to drink really, just enough to take the edge off his anger. Or maybe stoke it. When he does look round he almost falls off his seat, slopping beer on to his hand in surprise.

‘Mr Fielding?’

‘Tommy, please. I heard from your mate Bazza they let you go at the building site. You should have said, back at the meeting.’

‘I didnae think . . . No’ wi those women screaming an’ all.’ And there was the small matter of not