Free The Dark Room by Minette Walters

sorry.’
    Friday, 24 June, HO Forensic Lab, Hampshire – 11.30 a.m.
    Dr Robert Clarke, the Home Office pathologist, took pity on the three policemen and herded them out of the laboratory and into his office, peeling off his gloves and his mask as he
did so. ‘Not a pretty sight,’ he agreed, opening his window to allow in the sweeter-smelling air of the busy road outside, ‘but sealing both caboodles in body bags and spraying
with Nuvanstykil is the only way to kill the maggots off and make what’s left presentable enough to examine. Coffee?’ he suggested.
    The three men swallowed convulsively, and wondered how he could consider taking anything into his mouth after what they had glimpsed going on inside the bags. The stench of
putrefaction still lined their throats, as it had done since yesterday when they had stood beside the ditch and stared in gagging repulsion at the pulsating white mass that had seethed turbulently
amongst the pieces of clothing and decomposing body parts that lay there. They shook their heads vigorously.
    ‘No thanks, Bob,’ said Detective Superintendent Frank Cheever, wiping his lips with a handkerchief. He was older than the other two policemen, a fine-boned, rather
studious-looking man with grey hair and pale blue eyes which he fixed unnervingly on the person he was talking to. He was something of a dandy and caused much amusement amongst his officers over
what they considered his fetish for silk. He wore silk bow-ties, tucked matching silk handkerchiefs into his jacket breast pocket, and kept his expensive silk socks at permanent stretch by the use
of sock suspenders. Rumour had it that he also wore silk underwear. ‘But don’t mind us,’ he murmured, looking unhappily at the empty coffee mug on the desk, ‘you go
ahead.’
    ‘I will.’ The doctor stuck his head round the door, waved the mug in the air and asked his secretary to bring him a black coffee. ‘It takes the taste away,’
he said insensitively as he settled himself behind his desk and waved them towards some empty chairs. ‘Now, let’s see what we’ve got.’ He consulted some typed notes in front
of him. ‘I won’t bore you with the life history of Calliphora erythrocephalus , which is the bluebottle we’re dealing with here, but in essence the time lapse in warm
weather between the laying of the eggs and the pupal stage is some ten to eleven days. We found no pupa cases, and the larvae at the time of the discovery were on the way to being mature
third-stage maggots, which would suggest the eggs were laid some eight or nine days before.’ He tapped a calendar. ‘Yesterday was the twenty-third, so we’re looking at the
fourteenth or fifteenth as likely dates for laying. Add another day or two or Calliphora erythrocephalus to find the bodies and my estimate for when death occurred would be the twelfth,
thirteenth or fourteenth, with Monday the thirteenth as my first choice.’ He beamed at his secretary who came in with his coffee and a plate of chocolate biscuits. ‘Sure you won’t
join me, gentlemen?’
    They became visibly paler. It occurred to Detective Inspector Maddocks, a tall heavy-set man in his mid-forties with a permanent scowl on his face, that Bob Clarke was doing this on
purpose, a kind of trial of strength between the hard man of pathology and the hard men of CID. He’d always suspected the little bugger – Clarke was a miserable five feet six inches
– of having a chip on his shoulder. Now he was sure. There was a horrible similarity between this cocky little scientist and the maths teacher who was the cause of his pending third divorce. God, how he loathed arrogant little men!
    ‘All right, Jenny. Thank you.’ Clarke dunked a biscuit into the cup and munched on it with pleasure. ‘Their hands and feet were tied, as you know, so we’ve
got two people quite unable to defend themselves. Cause of death was ferocious bludgeoning with a blunt instrument.’ He pushed some