She stopped. 'Yes, sir?'

'Does Mrs Fanshawe have some information of relevance to this case?'

'The family believe so, sir.'

I thought the Coroner looked a little sceptical at this, but he nodded and said, 'Very well.'

She turned back to Ed. 'Mrs Fanshawe is a medium and she has received a message from Mrs Mellors in the afterlife to say that she did not take her own life. What do you say to that, Dr Burberry?'

Before Ed could answer, the Coroner erupted. 'Are you serious, Miss Christy? Do you really think I'm interested in what a clairvoyant has to say about the matter?'

'Sir, I '

'Have you any other matters to raise, Miss Christy?' He had on a dangerous smile again.

'Well, sir '

Expression unchanged, he interrupted. 'If I were you, I wouldn't raise anything that isn't germane, Miss Christy.'

She looked for a moment as if she was going to push her luck but then she said, 'No, sir,' and sat down heavily.

That was that really. The husband's barrister asked a few questions but I got the impression that he was just performing a bit to be seen to be doing something to earn his wad of fifty-pound notes, and the police solicitor didn't even bother to do that. There was a bit more fun to be had when the husband took the stand because, instead of cutting his wife down straight away, he had gone next door to his neighbour for help. The family obviously thought that this was as good as a signed confession, but the Coroner was of the opinion that, since the husband was also a vet, he would know a dead person when he saw one.

After two and a half hours, the Coroner told everyone he was going to go away and consider his verdict, everyone stood and then the whole atmosphere became a bit less formal. Ed came over to join me and asked what I thought. I didn't really know; half of me thought it was pretty much as I had expected, but the other half was surprised by it. 'Isn't there a jury?'

Ed explained that unless there were special circ.u.mstances, such as the death occurring in prison, or on railway property, then it was at the discretion of the Coroner.

'What do you think he'll decide?'

'I'm afraid it'll be an open verdict.'

'Is that bad?'

'It might give the family the idea that there is still some question about the husband's involvement.'

The Coroner returned after an hour and then spent thirty minutes summing up all the evidence in great detail. As Ed had predicted, he did return an open verdict but he said in no uncertain terms that this was not because there was a shred of evidence that Mr Mellors or anyone else had had some involvement, it was merely because he couldn't be absolutely sure that she had intended to kill herself, and the possibility that it might have been a cry for help that went wrong could not be excluded.

I watched the family and could see how dissatisfied they were. When I told Ed on the way back to the mortuary, he shrugged. 'What can we do? People believe what they want to believe.'

THIRTY-ONE.

I'd never really thought about how pathologists are trained, especially when it comes to doing autopsies. I was aware that they had to be a doctor to start off with, but it all turned out to be quite complicated as Ed explained one day in late October when he came down to the mortuary office to inform us that in two weeks' time two candidates for membership of the Royal College of Pathologists would be joining us for the day. Clive rolled his eyes. 'This is part of their final examination,' Ed explained. 'If they pa.s.s this, then they become members of the College and are eligible to become consultant pathologists.'

Maddie asked, 'What else do they have to do?'

With a perfectly straight face, he said, 'In this exam? After they've performed a complete post-mortem, evisceration included, been orally examined on it, then written it up, they return for two more days during which they'll have a three-hour examination reporting surgical pathology, a two-hour examination reporting cytology cases, a two-hour examination reporting special cases, be examined on how well they cut up surgical resection specimens, be examined on whether they can accurately report frozen sections, and then they have a final oral test.'

Maddie is not one to be impressed and hides it well when she is, but I could see that she was a bit taken aback by this and might have said more; I, though, was totally lost, and had been so after the second exam was mentioned. Clive interrupted then and stopped Ed in his tracks. 'Which doesn't involve us, it's only the PM side we have to concern ourselves with, Maddie.' He sounded cross. 'I hope this isn't going to be like the last time, Ed.'

Ed frowned. 'Why? What happened?'

'Complete shambles. Twiggy was organizing it and so no one bothered to tell me what was going on until the day before. Graham had booked annual leave and had to cancel it, and we only just managed to get suitable cases. Then one of the idiots taking the exam decided he was going to cut up too high, and we had to perform some magic trying to cover the st.i.tching under the bloke's collar once he was dressed ready to be presented to his family.'

'Well, Professor Twigworth isn't organizing it this time, I am; and that's why I'm here. To make sure that you know exactly what's going on.'

'And we got no thanks. Not so much as a "kiss my a.r.s.e".'

Ed smiled. 'I think you know me better than that, Clive.' Times like these felt weird. Clive was the Mortuary Manager, but Ed the Head of Pathology. It was like Ed was trying to pacify Clive, just for an easy life. Whatever it was, it was working.

Clive still looked a little unhappy but didn't keep on, asking instead, 'When is this?'

'Two weeks tomorrow. I'll let you know the details of the candidates when I get them. I haven't finalized the timetable, but I should think they'll turn up down here just before nine and we should be finished in the PM room by one thirty in the afternoon.'

Clive had done this kind of thing plenty of times before and gave us the low-down after Ed had gone. 'Actually, it can be quite good fun,' he said. 'Poor b.u.g.g.e.rs are so nervous, most of the time they can't even speak properly.'

Maddie said, 'I hope you're not nasty to them.'

Clive was actually quite offended. 'Of course I'm not. The mortuary staff are supposed to be helpful and courteous at all times, and we always are. We always tell them where all the protective equipment is, give them a full set of instruments, and open the head for them, as we're supposed to. I know that some places deliberately give them difficult cases to work on, like large or rotting bodies, and make them use c.r.a.p, blunt, outdated instruments, or make the opening in the skull too small, but not here. We're professionals. No matter what we think, we keep it to ourselves on examination days.'

I knew Clive quite well by then and could tell that he had only told half the story. 'But . . ?' I encouraged him to carry on.

He grinned and shrugged. 'Nothing wrong with a bit of light entertainment to make things go with a swing, is there?'

We were playing host to Dr Mirza and Dr Merkovich. Dr Mirza was a short, dumpy young woman of Indian extraction with gla.s.ses and long hair tied in a bun; Dr Merkovich was Polish, tall and clearly under the impression that his. .h.i.tler-like moustache was a real turn-on (he could not have been more wrong, as the look of disgust that Maddie threw at his back as he walked past testified). Ed brought them down to us at ten to nine and introduced them. As Clive had predicted, they had a serious case of nerves, with Dr Mirza visibly shaking and Dr Merkovich walking into the hat stand in the vestibule, but Clive and Ed were patient and eventually we got them into the PM room with scrubs on, where Clive helped them to put on the personal protective equipment or PPE that we all have to use.

We had already stripped and laid out the two patients that Ed had selected for the examination, and he had given each candidate the details, including the hospital notes. He now looked at his watch and said, 'Right. It's now ten past nine. You have three hours, after which Dr Peter Gillard and I will be back down to talk to you about your findings. Please start.'

He then took Clive to one side and I heard him say in a low voice, 'Make sure they identify the bodies properly, and keep an eye on how well they do the evisceration.'

Clive nodded. 'Don't worry, boss. You can rely on me.'

Ed stayed another ten minutes or so while the candidates scribbled notes on clipboards, and Maddie and I chatted in low voices about Saw II Saw II, which she'd watched the night before. After this, first Dr Merkovich, then Dr Mirza identified their bodies and began the eviscerations.

It became immediately obvious that Dr Mirza was at a disadvantage, because she was so short. She was all right with the initial incision but as soon as she had to push her hands deep into the body cavity to reach the kidneys, she was on tiptoe and almost left the ground. 'Would you like a box?' asked Clive brightly, and I'm not sure that he was joking. Dr Mirza, bless her, shook her head and said in a voice that was m.u.f.fled because of the mask, 'No, no, thank you.' Dr Merkovich, meanwhile, might not have been having similar troubles, but both Maddie and I could see that he was the APT's worst nightmare; he was messy. The primary incision had been jagged and there was blood everywhere; on his mask, down his ap.r.o.n, on his goggles, on his wellies, all over his tools, the table and the floor. When he finally got the pluck out, he left a trail of blood spots as he took it over to the bench. Clive looked on with unconcealed disgust and murmured to me, 'I'll wrap the mop round his ankles in a minute; that'll stop him. Even better I'll give him the b.l.o.o.d.y mop and he can clean it up himself.'

Dr Mirza, meanwhile, had another problem; her gla.s.ses kept falling off into the body. Eventually, after they'd landed in the abdominal cavity for the third time, Maddie quickly stopped her from replacing them on her face, even though they were covered in blood and fat, cleaned them up and then had to tie them on behind her head. Clive could hardly contain his laughter and his eyes were starting to water; had it not been for the mask, I think the effort of keeping a straight face would have killed him.

Over the next two and a half hours, the two candidates beavered away at their task while the three of us kept an eye on them and tried to amuse ourselves. Maddie and I were chatting about each other's plans that evening, when I happened to look over at Clive. He stood supporting his body on two mop poles, while gesturing that he was doing a ski slalom. I think, by the look on his face, he actually believed he was on the French Alps. I nudged Maddie and we both stared at him for a couple of minutes. When he did finally make eye contact with us, he just exaggerated what he was doing with that twinkle in his eye that lets you know he is on a wind-up.

With thirty minutes to go, Ed returned, this time accompanied by Peter Gillard. During the morning, apart from his slalom, Clive had sung into plug sockets, told a few jokes, mopped the floor umpteen times and broken wind loudly twice. They asked us what we thought of the way the candidates had eviscerated, and Clive gave his full opinion, then they watched silently as Drs Mirza and Merkovich finished. Both candidates had laid out the sliced and dissected organs on boards on the bench, but they had done so with varying degrees of success. Dr Merkovich had managed to display them in a neat, logical way and had wiped away most of the blood, but poor Dr Mirza's display was to my eye a complete mess; and I think Ed and Peter thought so too. Clive had told Maddie and me to watch Ed and Peter's faces as they walked over. I know I saw them wince when they were confronted by the random display of blood and organ slices that she had prepared for them. Each of the candidates had to present the case, including the clinical information that they had been given, their external findings and their interpretation of the appearances of the organs. We couldn't really hear what was going on, because by then we were busy starting the reconstruction of the bodies after what felt like a lifetime of waiting, but I got the impression that things weren't going well for Dr Mirza. Her nervousness had been obvious from the start, but when Peter and Ed moved in, she all but fell to pieces. She was shaking so badly that she was spraying spots of blood up the wall and even, to Clive's disgust, on to the low ceiling above her. She kept apologizing and there were long silences after either Ed or Peter asked her a question. The low point came when she couldn't find the spleen and there was a great deal of rummaging about in the steel bowls and even back in the body, which meant she had to push Maddie out of the way.

Eventually they moved on to Dr Merkovich and things appeared to go much more smoothly. He was still nervous, I could see, but he managed to get out some coherent answers and there were none of those long, embarra.s.sed silences that Dr Mirza seemed to specialize in. Eventually Ed and Peter had finished, and went to the door where they pulled off their disposable gowns and overshoes. Outside, in the body store, they were just talking to Clive when suddenly Dr Mirza uttered a little squeak and, newly found spleen in hand, she rushed across the dissection room and barged into the body store, completely ignoring health and safety. 'I've found it! I've found it!' she cried.

They all recoiled and Ed said, 'Yes. OK. If you could just take it back into the PM room, please . . .' Clive nearly fainted. 'NOT OUT HERE!' he shouted at her. Even I jumped.

She withdrew, apparently delighted that she had found the spleen and completely unaware that she had done her chances great damage because of the way she had behaved. Clive followed her with the mop, cleaning up the blood splatters, shaking his head and mumbling, 'Not a b.l.o.o.d.y clue; all brains and no b.l.o.o.d.y common sense .'

By the time the candidates had gone, the bodies had been reconstructed and returned to the fridge, the surfaces had been cleaned down and everything mopped and dried, it was after three o'clock and none of us had had a lunch break. Two PMs which would normally have taken three hours had taken closer to seven. Clive was in a bad mood because he likes his routine and doesn't take well to having things disrupted. Over coffee, he kept on and on about how much trouble trainee pathologists were, and how things were going downhill. 'Would you want your nearest and dearest PMed by one of those two?' he asked Maddie, who shook her head. 'Not a chance,' he continued. 'I wouldn't trust the dumpy one to find her own backside with the lights out, let alone a cause of death.'

Maddie said timidly, 'Everyone has to learn.'

Clive was taking no prisoners, though. 'Some people can't learn. Some people are untrainable.'

If we thought that by saying nothing we would calm him down, we were wrong. 'And they're getting so precious now. Do you know, we had one chap who refused to do autopsies if the body was too fat or a bit decomposed. Even got a bit of paper from the Royal College of Pathologists to back him up. b.l.o.o.d.y disgrace. Supposing everyone did that? It'd be chaos; complete chaos . . . What if we started to refuse to do the unpleasant ones?'

And so he went on until four thirty came and we could escape. Maddie and I went for a drink because we reckoned we deserved one, or maybe three . . .

THIRTY-TWO.

In early November Luke and I, together with Ed and my brother Michael, had a weekend away at the rugby. Ed and I had discovered that we were both huge rugby fans, and we had got hold of some tickets to see England take on the Pacific Islanders in one of the autumn internationals; it was the first time I'd ever been to 'HQ', which I later learned was the insiders' name for Twickenham. I had only truly got into rugby by watching the Six Nations earlier in February that year, but was hooked straight away and was still a bit unaware of the terms the diehard fans used. Ed, who had been before, waxed lyrical about how impressive it was and what a fantastic occasion it would be, especially as England might even win, and I have to admit, I was blown away when we turned the corner and Twickenham stood in all its glory in front of me. Michael, who is not the greatest of rugby fans (and I'm sure Luke would rather have been at the football), was really just along for the jolly, but I knew neither of them would spoil the party. They are very similar in the way they are quiet and easy-going, and just rub along with whoever is around; they also both have a really dry wit which only becomes apparent when they have got a few beers under their belts.

Because Ed lives out of the town, it was agreed that he would drive, calling in early to pick us up. Luke and I had had a party the night before to celebrate something or other at our local pub, and only rose about twenty minutes before Ed arrived, true to his word, at nine o'clock on Sat.u.r.day morning. After a quick cup of coffee, we set off in good spirits, all dressed in England shirts, apart from Michael, and all keen on one thing and one thing only, that we were going to have a good time. Halting for a quick refreshment stop at a service station near Swindon, we made it to Twickenham in a little over two hours. We had rooms booked at a small hotel in Richmond which Ed's satnav found without difficulty; it wasn't exactly a five-star luxury job in fact, it was pretty dire, what with plastic headboards and dodgy carpets a fact that was reinforced in no uncertain manner when Luke and I first went into our room and there was a strange little man sitting on the bed with his shoes off, bed unmade, apparently making himself at home. He soon skedaddled, but it was a rather unsettling experience. Luke mentioned this to the owner when we went back to reception, and he was as bewildered as we were.

With our bags stowed in our rooms, we a.s.sembled outside the hotel with the receptionist's instructions regarding the nearest pub fresh in our minds. It proved to be a charming, typical London boozer and we settled down to pa.s.s the next hour or so by putting the world to rights and boosting their profits a little. What amazed me was the number of England shirts that came through the door during that time. I felt part of a huge and very proud group. At one, after Luke and Michael had visited the betting shop over the way to check out the afternoon sporting action, we called a local taxi firm. What arrived was a highway robber who demanded thirty pounds to take us the two miles to the stadium, a sum that Luke negotiated down to twenty-five; not surprisingly, d.i.c.k Turpin didn't get a tip. At least the real one wore a mask.

The atmosphere as soon as we got among the crowds was better than I could ever have imagined; there was no sense of menace, just one of togetherness and camaraderie and enjoyment, with a lot of families and ankle-biters, most of whom were well behaved. It was past two o'clock by now so we made our way around the stadium, through the gates and up inside the giant concrete stadium. Our seats were on the upper tier, so by the time we arrived we were out of breath and fairly thirsty, requiring a stop off at the nearest stadium bar. Such were the crowds that it took fifteen minutes to get served, but I did manage to sneak through, and so, by the time that we were lagered up and in our seats, the teams were all set to come on to the field.

What followed over the next hour and three-quarters was simply brilliant. England actually managed to win, and win quite respectably, which, together with a top-up of lager levels at half-time, lots of shouting and listening to the various musical instruments belting out 'Swing Low', meant that by the time four thirty had arrived we were four happy people making our way down the staircase to the outside and the deepening gloom. We elected to catch one of the free buses back down to the town centre, then looked around, trying to decide which of the many alehouses would have the privilege of entertaining us. Opting for a large but stylish pub replete with bouncers on the door, we sallied forth and once more settled down to some serious beer talk, surrounded by like-minded, England-shirted punters, discussing the game and our prospects for the games that were forthcoming in the next few weeks. By the time we emerged, it was well and truly dark and we were hungry to the point of famine. Mindful that it would be a good idea to relocate closer to the hotel if we were going to take on board some grub, we hailed another (cheaper) taxi and were deposited in short order in Richmond High Street.

I think it would be true to say that by this time we were all fairly merry and finding a restaurant proved, well, 'interesting'. I decided that I wanted an Indian but no matter where we looked, there was not an Indian to be found. There were Chinese restaurants (which I hate), French restaurants and Italian ones, but no Indians; I mean, how can there be no Indian restaurants within walking distance of anywhere in this sceptred isle? Ed kept moaning bitterly whenever we walked past most of these, but I was intent on an Indian.

I didn't get my wish, though. We eventually settled for a Thai restaurant that was close to the hotel, one that Luke pointed out we had walked past three times already. Still, it proved to be a decent place, well frequented and with a very nice menu. We settled down at the table, ordered some wine and then thoroughly perused the menu, while getting warm after the chill of a November night.

Over the next hour we stuffed Thai food. Towards the end of things I began to flag so made my apologies and disappeared back to the hotel bedroom, silently hoping that I was not about to meet another of the hotel's uninvited guests. I didn't, and plunged into such a relaxed slumber that not even Luke's later return could disturb me.

The next morning, I learned from Luke that it hadn't been long before the three of them decided to decamp to the pub that we had originally frequented on our arrival in Twickenham. There they had had a few shots, spent a while more talking about important and serious issues, and then rolled back to the hotel. Considering, none of them looked too bad when we a.s.sembled at reception; they were a bit pale and certainly quiet, but not obviously wasted. We got into Ed's car and drove out of the hotel car park, then through south-east London, tired but happy. The traffic seemed not too bad until we were nearly at the turn-off for the M4, then we got snarled into some seriously heavy congestion. Ed, who, it appeared, was not a particularly patient driver, began to curse under his breath in loud whispers that the CD player could not hide. 'b.l.o.o.d.y Sunday traffic . . . It's worse than Sat.u.r.days now . . . Sodding Chelsea tractors . . .'

After forty minutes, however, the reason for the hold-up became apparent and we all fell silent. There had been a bad smash-up just past Junction 2 of the M4. One entire carriageway had been closed and, as we drove past the carnage, we saw why. There were four ambulances, two fire engines and at least half a dozen police cars parked around a mess of shrapnel that had once been maybe four, maybe five cars. As if that weren't bad enough, there were large bloodstains on the tarmac that we all knew were bad news.

The pleasure of the weekend dimmed, overshadowed not by what we saw but by what we could only guess had happened. For Ed and me, it was especially depressing because we had vividly in our minds the kind of injuries that those bloodstains represented, and we knew at first hand the pain that the relatives would now have to endure.

On the way back we called in again at a service station for coffee and a rest, just sitting in the restaurant and making idle chitchat. The joy of the weekend as good as it had been was now placed firmly into context. It might be that what we did in the mortuary was unseen by almost everyone, but I now fully appreciated just how important and relevant it was.

THIRTY-THREE.

In my very first days at the mortuary, it never dawned on me to wonder how the deceased would be removed from us. Totally new to the job, I had never even thought about it. Who would? People die, and how they get to the funeral parlour is something that most of us don't consider. I certainly did not.

Within my first week I had met several undertakers who had come to collect bodies for their final journeys, and watched how Clive had gone through all the procedures to make sure that he was releasing the right person to the right undertaker, but doing it while chatting away about everyday topics. He made it seem a doddle. As the weeks pa.s.sed, and I was trusted to release the deceased without Clive or Graham looking over my shoulder, I got to know the undertakers individually and on a personal basis. I became almost friends with many of them and, if not quite the sort of friends that you would socialize with, they were certainly people who you would put on a step above any other outside colleagues.

Because of the small, intimate environment we work in, it is inevitable that this will happen, but it is also extremely useful to have a good solid relationship with the undertakers as you never know when you will need them, and they take the same view. They treat us well (or most of them do) as they too never know when they are going to get a demanding family who want a quickie funeral, in which case they rely on us to turn the paperwork around in as little as twenty-four hours. Since funeral arrangements normally take three to five working days (involving two doctors, the bereavement office, porters transporting the notes and relevant legal forms to us, the body going in and out of the fridge to check identification, and us chasing the pathologists to complete their part of the form and they already have enough to do anyway), this is a big ask. It means a lot of extra work and grief, a lot of nagging of doctors, and the use of a lot of staff right across the hospital who are tied up with the sick and needy.

So, when I got to know the various undertakers, personalities shone, and some of them shone big time. You have to remember that in this trade we are surrounded by death five days a week, and sometimes seven if you get a bad weekend on call. Respect for the deceased patient is our utmost concern, but for us the living and breathing in the mortuary interaction is vital, as it is for any human being. And so the banter began, and the jokes started to creep in; the conversations would become more in-depth, more personal, and most of the undertakers became like old friends. This led me to think about which firm I would use for myself and my family once the time came; one of the few perks of the job is that, more than anyone else, you know where to go to get a decent send-off for your kith and kin. Strange how you accept these things while doing this job, things that n.o.body else ever thinks about until they have to; I suppose it's because you come to appreciate that death is the one thing certain in life and just hope that, when the time comes, you embrace it with dignity.

Of course I have my favourites, undertakers who greet us with a smile when we open the door, respect the times that they know we are busy in the PM room in the mornings and not come till we are finished and clean, and maybe stop for a coffee and a gossip in the afternoon. These are the guys that nothing is too much ha.s.sle for, and it is for these guys that we will work our socks off to make sure things run smoothly for them. And, likewise, they will do the same for us. If they do need that quickie funeral, they let us know as soon as possible, while certain others will only bother to ring on the actual morning and expect miracles for that afternoon.

It is amazing to sit and listen to the stories of what allegedly went on before the days of CSI CSI and and Silent Witness Silent Witness, when people suddenly became a little more aware of what happens when someone breathes their last. Some of the stories would turn your stomach, and I refuse to believe they happened, while others are just downright hilarious.

I recall one afternoon when, releasing a deceased patient to an undertaker, I commented that I had not seen his colleague for while. He then proceeded to tell me how his colleague was on a funeral a couple of weeks back, and had had the duty of picking up the next of kin from the house to follow the coffin, which had been in the same house overnight. It so happened that he did not have to leave the stretched limousine to collect the family, as they dutifully filed out of the house when he pulled up and no one thought anything of this. As soon as the family had entered the limo, he had driven them, as instructed, behind the hea.r.s.e to the crematorium at a very slow, very respectful pace. All was well and good, and there was no reason to suspect anything untoward. On reaching the crematorium, though, he was required as part of his duty to get out of the driver's seat and open the door for the bereaved family to enter the church. He never got that far because, as he opened the driver's door, he at once fell out, face down on the concrete, not even leaving the seat, but almost oozing out of the limo. And that was where he stayed, eating dirt, as drunk as a skunk. n.o.body had realized his state because he went straight to the garage from home to collect the limo; when he drove the family the screen was across so they couldn't smell the alcohol on his breath, and the hea.r.s.e was going at such a slow pace that no one could tell that they were being chauffeured by someone who, as it turned out, was completely legless. These factors, plus the fact it was a funeral a day of total respect and a celebration of life meant that no one had even the faintest suspicion that he had spent the night before and much of the morning emptying a whisky bottle down his neck. Needless to say, he was not in employment any longer.

I'd guess that most of you have heard stories about undertakers. The tale about the beautiful coffin that cost hundreds of pounds because it was made of solid oak or beech, only the bottom fell out (along with the deceased) when they lifted it because it was made of thin, cheap plywood. Or the one about the undertaker who forgot to mention to the bereaved parents of a child that the doctors had waived all the cremation fees and charged them nonetheless. Or even the one about the undertaker who cremated the wrong body . . .

Clive swears that such stories are true, but I don't know; he likes a good tale, does Clive. Most of the undertakers that come to collect the deceased from the mortuary are good, loyal, hardworking people with normal lives, and take the job in their stride. They are immune to the environment that we work in and, like most technicians, they are fazed by very little. Of course there are those who are only in it to make money and who are less considerate than we would expect or wish them to be, but the families are not paying us for this service and it is not for us to quibble.

THIRTY-FOUR.

It was clear to us all that Martin Malcolm Best had not been the luckiest of souls, but he must have been a game old boy. At the age of seventy-seven years, he had acc.u.mulated an impressive number of operations and chronic medical conditions. When I stripped him as he lay on the dissection table, his body resembled a map of the London Underground due to the number of scars he displayed, a testament to the wonderful care that the NHS can give us all. Both of his legs were wrapped in thick bandages that I knew Ed would want me to unravel; when I did so, I nearly gagged into my mask because the feet were horrible. They were swollen and looked like they'd originally belonged to an elephant, only it was a sick elephant, one with a dreadful skin disease, so that they were covered in disgusting brown polyps and there were ulcers on the tips of his toes. They stank, too, which made my stomach contents even jumpier. He was short and looked just plain ill. ill. Each of his ears carried a hearing aid, too. Each of his ears carried a hearing aid, too.

All of this was interesting, but even I could see the thing that might have offed him; on his right forearm was a deep cut. This had been partly sewn closed but a goodly proportion of it was gaping open. I took a peek; it seemed to go down to the bone.

When I did his evisceration, there was even more evidence of how much poor Mr Best had required the services of the medical profession throughout his life. He had had heart surgery: veins had been stripped from his leg and sewn around his heart to replace the native arteries (a Coronary Artery Bypa.s.s Graft, known in the trade as a 'cabbage') an operation that I knew was a major piece of surgery. Not only that, I also found that he had three kidneys; two were in the usual place (looking to me a bit sick), but there was another tucked nicely into the left side of the pelvis. I knew from what I had learnt from Clive that this was a transplanted kidney, and it had been doing all the work since it had been put in.

I hadn't seen the paperwork and didn't know the circ.u.mstances of Mr Best's death so, apart from the cut on his arm, I had no clues. Ed said nothing while he performed the post-mortem so it was only when we were sitting in the office downing some coffee that I learned the truth. Clive asked, 'What was the cause of death, then?'

'As expected, he haemorrhaged to death.' He bit into a chocolate digestive. 'Hardly surprising since he was found sitting in his wheelchair surrounded by a huge pool of blood.'

Full of curiosity, I asked, 'So how did he get that cut on his arm?'

'Apparently,' he explained, his face completely serious, 'Mr Best was not a man to be discouraged by the blows that life had dealt him. He might have been suffering from serious heart disease, had a renal transplant, be completely deaf and so blind that he could only make out vague shapes, and he might have been confined to a wheelchair, but that didn't stop him continuing to do what he'd always done in his spare time. He was a keen woodworker.'

I thought for a moment that I must have misheard. 'Woodworker?'

Ed nodded solemnly, while Clive chortled to himself and shook his head slowly. 'He was really serious about it, too.' The chocolate biscuit disappeared and there was a pause while he trawled in the tin for another one. 'He had his own circular saw . . .' he said, his head still down.

'My G.o.d,' I burst out. 'He couldn't have done.'