Lost Souls by Jenny O'Brien (android e book reader txt) 📕

far too early for him to talk about – let alone think about – his wife’s sister. Angelica’s birth was their way of drawing their line through that unhappiest of times. ‘I know you’re a busy man but something’s cropped up with one of your recent autopsies that I’d like to run by you, if I may?’

‘Really. One of mine, you say.’ Rusty shifted his glasses into place from where they’d been perched on his forehead, his long slender fingers reaching for the top document. ‘Duncan Broome. That wasn’t too long ago, only a few weeks if I remember rightly,’ he said, turning to his computer and logging on to the system. After a moment he added, ‘Here it is. Died on the 1st of July here in St Asaph’s. There was some question as to the cause of death as, apart from bilateral hip replacements and a pacemaker insertion, he was fit and well.’

‘And anything suspicious with your findings?’

‘Not a thing. Cerebral haemorrhage, which links to a fall he’d suffered a few days previously. So, all very straightforward. I met with the daughters. Nice women. Clearly devastated.’ He twisted back in his seat, his expression frank. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with or …?’

‘I’m not sure if I’m honest.’

‘I’m happy to be used as a sounding board. Sometimes a different viewpoint is all that’s needed.’

The problem was that Owen didn’t have a clue what he was looking for, if anything. The likelihood was that Martin Penrose was telling them complete porkies but that was far from the impression he’d given them. The other thing of course was that information was always on a need-to-know basis in police work but what the hell. If you couldn’t trust a doctor then you couldn’t trust anyone.

He placed his already half-empty cup back on the desk and withdrew the second sheet of paper. ‘Before we go into that can I ask if there’s anything you can tell me about an Olive Johnson, aged ten?’

Rusty steepled his fingers, his blue eyes suddenly sharp behind his lens. ‘Another one of mine, I believe. This investigation wouldn’t have anything to do with the department, would it, because if so I’m not sure if I should be—?’

‘No. Nothing like that or, at least I don’t think so. In fact, most unlikely. I only need to ask if she’d ever had a hip replacement?’

‘A hip replacement? Improbable in a ten-year-old but not impossible if she’d been suffering from something like juvenile arthritis,’ he said. ‘But in Olive’s case, no. I’m certain that her problems, while diverse, didn’t include damage to her joints. You’re intriguing me with this line of questioning, Owen.’

‘More like puzzling myself,’ he replied. ‘So, what would you say to three prosthetic hip replacements being found in a cremator when the last two bodies to be cremated were Olive Johnson and Duncan Broome?’

Rusty sat back in his chair, peering at him over the top of his cup, a thoughtful expression now in place. ‘I can see your difficulty due to the rarity of three-legged corpses,’ he said, the hint of a smile on his lips. ‘You’re sure it’s not a mistake with the cleaning out of the cremator between … er … guests? As I’ve said, Duncan Broome is known to have had two hip replacements and, no matter how incompetent his surgeon might have been, it’s unlikely a spare hip would have gone unnoticed during the routine post-op X-ray they all have to undergo. The odd watch maybe but—’

Owen joined Rusty in a brief chuckle. ‘As sure as I can be, bearing in mind that the person responsible for cleaning it out was the one who came to us in the first place.’

‘Good point. So either someone with a prosthetic hip was placed in the coffin along with Duncan Broome or somehow slipped into the cremator after his coffin? An interesting, rather unique method of body disposal.’

Owen shook his head. ‘Not possible, I’m afraid. With the temperature safety mechanism, there’s no way of opening the door until the cremator has cooled. Also the groundsman told me that Mr Broome had a morbid fear of being buried alive and specifically requested an open coffin right up to just before he was cremated. There’s some story about his mother in the Eighties being verified as dead by some junior doctor or other. The nurses were washing the body when they noticed her chest rising. Scared the bejesus out of them, apparently.’

‘I’m not bloody surprised.’

‘You can appreciate my confusion. If there’s no possibility of an additional body hidden in the coffin and we’ve ruled out Olive Johnson as ever having had a prosthesis then it’s right back to the drawing board.’

‘Not quite. You’re further on than you think, Owen.’ Rusty picked up the empty cups and, after throwing them in the bin, rested back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head. ‘Somewhere along the way a spare metal hip has found its way into the crematorium. What we need to do is to find the owner.’

‘Easier said than done. It’s not as if it’s likely to have any evidence attached to it after the temperatures they’ve been exposed to.’

‘No. Not at all,’ he said, unclasping his hands and leaning across the desk. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have brought them with you by any chance? There’s a huge amount to tell from the prostheses themselves by someone like me just examining them,’ he continued, his gaze resting on the bulky envelope sat between them on the desk.

Owen returned his look. ‘Yes, in the faint hope you might have any ideas. It’s unlikely there’ll be any forensics but—’

‘Noted.’ Rusty removed a pair of gloves from the box behind his desk and slipped them on before reaching inside the envelope.

Each artificial hip was in its own clear plastic bag, the metal now black and marked instead of smooth and shiny. Rusty removed them, examining each in turn, running his index finger over the surface. ‘What do