The Borgia Ring Read Online Free Page B
Author: Michael White
was a scrubbed gun-metal grey. The whole place stank of cleaning agent and viscera.
Dr Neil Jones was pulling on latex gloves as he approached one of the dissection tables. The dead man lay on the table with his torso cut open. His head was raised slightly on a stabilising block. Pendragon noticed a card tied to the big toe of the victim’s left foot. The card was covered in spindly black writing. In one of the steel dishes beside the table lay a liver. In the other, the contents of the man’s stomach. Turner, notebook in hand, seemed fascinated by it all.
‘So, do you have anything for us?’ Pendragon asked, and kicked his sergeant lightly on the shin.
‘No ID. Male. Late-thirties. Indian, or perhaps Bangladeshi. Five-five and overweight. A heavy smoker by the look of his lungs.’ He nudged a mass of grey tissue with a scalpel. Pendragon looked away for a moment; he couldnever get used to the clinical dismissiveness of people like Jones.
‘Oh, please! Don’t tell me you’re squeamish, Chief Inspector?’ Jones chortled.
Pendragon ignored him and glared at Turner who had stopped scribbling. ‘Go on.’
‘You’ll notice extensive bruising … here and here … on the upper arms. Also, his jaw is fractured and his windpipe has been shattered.’ He pointed to the side of the man’s face and under his chin. The flesh was black and broken, split like torn leather. ‘He suffered two particularly vicious blows to the head. Either one would have killed him.’ Jones rolled the victim’s head to one side and they could see a large occlusion on the back of his skull. ‘Blunt-force trauma. Hit by a heavy object, here and under the chin – the blow that smashed his windpipe. I’ve measured the opening in the skull and would guess the weapon was cylindrical – a metal pipe or tubing; heavy-duty torch perhaps. There’s no blood under the fingernails, no hair or skin traces. But from the fractures and bruising, I would imagine there was definitely a struggle.’
Jones turned to another table close by and lifted up a boot. ‘Workboots, size seven, caked in mud. Shirt with a company name – Bridgeport Construction . Our man was obviously a labourer or at least working on a building site. Should help.’
Pendragon was about to reply when Turner’s phone rang. ‘Yep,’ he replied chirpily. ‘Yep, cool … ciao .’
Pendragon gave a heavy sigh and raised his eyebrows.
‘The station, sir. The murdered man is Amal Karim. Indian. Worked for Bridgeport Construction, who just happen to have a building site down the street from Jangles, on Frimley Way.’
‘Great.’
‘There’s more. Forensics have something they want you to see. Wouldn’t elaborate.’
The locus – the immediate vicinity in which the body was found – in The Love Shack – was abuzz with figures in green plastic suits, scene-of-crime officers from local forensics. Yellow police crime-scene tape had been stretched across the door leading down into the club from the short passageway alongside the shop, and as Pendragon pulled himself under it two SOCOs turned to see who had invaded their space. Neither of them knew Pendragon, but one of the investigators nodded to Turner as he followed the DCI under the tape.
A woman approached them. She was dressed in a regulation plastic suit over a shirt and jeans. ‘DCI Pendragon, I presume,’ she said. ‘Dr Colette Newman, Head of Forensics.’ Her voice was clipped, a hint of BBC circa 1960. Not something you heard much any more.
Pendragon started to put out his hand then withdrew it. Dr Newman smiled. She looked to be about thirty-five, he guessed: fine features, high cheekbones, huge blue eyes. She had to keep tucking strands of blonde fringe behind her right ear.
‘You have something for me?’ he said.
‘Yes. If you’d like to follow me.’
Dr Newman took them back out into the small enclosed concrete courtyard. Some stairs to one side led up to the roof of the club. It was flat and
Dr Neil Jones was pulling on latex gloves as he approached one of the dissection tables. The dead man lay on the table with his torso cut open. His head was raised slightly on a stabilising block. Pendragon noticed a card tied to the big toe of the victim’s left foot. The card was covered in spindly black writing. In one of the steel dishes beside the table lay a liver. In the other, the contents of the man’s stomach. Turner, notebook in hand, seemed fascinated by it all.
‘So, do you have anything for us?’ Pendragon asked, and kicked his sergeant lightly on the shin.
‘No ID. Male. Late-thirties. Indian, or perhaps Bangladeshi. Five-five and overweight. A heavy smoker by the look of his lungs.’ He nudged a mass of grey tissue with a scalpel. Pendragon looked away for a moment; he couldnever get used to the clinical dismissiveness of people like Jones.
‘Oh, please! Don’t tell me you’re squeamish, Chief Inspector?’ Jones chortled.
Pendragon ignored him and glared at Turner who had stopped scribbling. ‘Go on.’
‘You’ll notice extensive bruising … here and here … on the upper arms. Also, his jaw is fractured and his windpipe has been shattered.’ He pointed to the side of the man’s face and under his chin. The flesh was black and broken, split like torn leather. ‘He suffered two particularly vicious blows to the head. Either one would have killed him.’ Jones rolled the victim’s head to one side and they could see a large occlusion on the back of his skull. ‘Blunt-force trauma. Hit by a heavy object, here and under the chin – the blow that smashed his windpipe. I’ve measured the opening in the skull and would guess the weapon was cylindrical – a metal pipe or tubing; heavy-duty torch perhaps. There’s no blood under the fingernails, no hair or skin traces. But from the fractures and bruising, I would imagine there was definitely a struggle.’
Jones turned to another table close by and lifted up a boot. ‘Workboots, size seven, caked in mud. Shirt with a company name – Bridgeport Construction . Our man was obviously a labourer or at least working on a building site. Should help.’
Pendragon was about to reply when Turner’s phone rang. ‘Yep,’ he replied chirpily. ‘Yep, cool … ciao .’
Pendragon gave a heavy sigh and raised his eyebrows.
‘The station, sir. The murdered man is Amal Karim. Indian. Worked for Bridgeport Construction, who just happen to have a building site down the street from Jangles, on Frimley Way.’
‘Great.’
‘There’s more. Forensics have something they want you to see. Wouldn’t elaborate.’
The locus – the immediate vicinity in which the body was found – in The Love Shack – was abuzz with figures in green plastic suits, scene-of-crime officers from local forensics. Yellow police crime-scene tape had been stretched across the door leading down into the club from the short passageway alongside the shop, and as Pendragon pulled himself under it two SOCOs turned to see who had invaded their space. Neither of them knew Pendragon, but one of the investigators nodded to Turner as he followed the DCI under the tape.
A woman approached them. She was dressed in a regulation plastic suit over a shirt and jeans. ‘DCI Pendragon, I presume,’ she said. ‘Dr Colette Newman, Head of Forensics.’ Her voice was clipped, a hint of BBC circa 1960. Not something you heard much any more.
Pendragon started to put out his hand then withdrew it. Dr Newman smiled. She looked to be about thirty-five, he guessed: fine features, high cheekbones, huge blue eyes. She had to keep tucking strands of blonde fringe behind her right ear.
‘You have something for me?’ he said.
‘Yes. If you’d like to follow me.’
Dr Newman took them back out into the small enclosed concrete courtyard. Some stairs to one side led up to the roof of the club. It was flat and
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