Free Necrocrip by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles Page A

from theirs,’ Slider said. ‘Surely you’ve heard of the London Derriere?’ He looked at the bar menu. ‘Are you having a sandwich?’
    ‘No, thanks, I haven’t time. I’ve got to get across to Harlesden by two o’clock for a PM on that immolation case.’
    Slider, who had been toying with the idea of a toasted ham sandwich, changed his mind. ‘So, what can you tell me about the Fish Bar victim?’ he asked instead. ‘Apart from the fact that he’d completely gone to pieces, of course.’
    ‘Young Atherton’s been a rotten influence on you,’ Cameron said sternly. ‘Deceased was male, about five foot seven; slender – weight around ten stone; sallow-skinned; probably dark haired to judge by the body hair – of which there was very little, by the way. No scars or peculiarities.’
    ‘Age?’ Slider asked.
    ‘I put him at first at twentyish, going by the skin and muscle tone, but now I think he was probably older. From the skull sutures I’d say he was nearer thirty. But probably he was young-looking for his age.’
    ‘Have you found a cause of death?’
    ‘Almost certainly a single heavy blow to the back of the neck at the level of the second and third vertebrae.’
    ‘Battered to death,’ Slider murmured, somewhat against his will. Still, better out than in.
    Freddie didn’t flinch. ‘Death would have been instantaneous,’ he corrected stalwartly. ‘Fracture of the spine and rupture of the spinal cord. It was torn about two-thirds of the way across. An expert blow, I’d say – or a damned lucky one.’
    ‘And then the cutting up?’
    ‘With very sharp instruments, as I said before,’ Freddie went on. ‘I’ve taken the fingerprint, by the way, of the one finger we had, and sent a copy over to you but I don’t think it’ll help you much. Deep frying didn’t improve it.’
    ‘Yes, I got it, thanks. I wish it had come with a photograph, though.’
    ‘Someone’s done a good job on the head,’ Cameron admitted gloomily. ‘Scalp and face both removed, and the bits we’ve found of the face are no help at all.’
    ‘You can’t put them together again?’
    ‘Diced,’ he said succinctly. ‘Couldn’t do anything with ‘em except make a shepherd’s pie. Chummy was taking nochances. The scalp and hands are missing, as you know. Oh, we haven’t got the eyes, either. But he had a fine set of gnashers. I suppose you want the Tooth Fairy to have a look at them?’
    That was the forensic odontologist. ‘Yes, please. We’ll see what comes of that. If it doesn’t lead to an identification, I suppose it’ll be a job for Phillips at UCH.’
    ‘The medical illustrator?’ Cameron raised his eyebrows. ‘Is it that bad, old boy? Won’t chummy come across?’
    ‘He’s sitting on his hands and keeping his knees tightly together.’
    ‘So what’s gone wrong with the old Slider Interview Technique?’
    ‘Look at it from his point of view,’ Slider said. ‘If he’s gone to all that trouble to hide the identity, he’s not going to tell us just for the asking who the corpus is. And until we know who, we can’t prove Slaughter even knew him, let alone topped him—’
    ‘And chopped him. I can’t get over that name –Slaughter!’ Cameron said, shaking his head.
    ‘He’s obviously banking on the body-work for his salvation. But if we can present him with an identification, I think he may fold up and admit the murder. Otherwise we’ve a long hard road ahead of us.’
    ‘Have you charged him yet?’
    ‘Barrington’s toying with the idea, but I can’t see how we can, yet. I’m not too worried about that. If we let him go and he does the off, it’s all evidence on our side. And he might just do something really stupid. He doesn’t,’ he added, ‘seem the brightest to me.’
    Freddie studied Slider’s expression. ‘That puzzles you?’
    ‘It does, rather. There’s an inconsistency in it all.’
    ‘Human beings aren’t machines. Besides, what’s so bright about committing a