Definitely Dead by Kate Bendelow (howl and other poems TXT) 📕

like a total idiot, but other than that I’m fine.’ She gave a strangled laugh.

‘Good. Right. Let’s focus. Everything has been photographed up to now and I’ve taken tape lifts and swabs from exposed areas of his face, neck and hands.’ Chris motioned to indicate the areas. ‘Help me spread this body sheet out and we can get him laid down.’

‘Who is he?’ Maya said as they wrestled the plastic sheeting across the floor.

‘This is Karl Gorman, sixty-five. A convicted rapist with a penchant for teenage girls. He’s also a renowned thief, he’d steal the steam off your piss if he could.’

Maya snorted with disgust. ‘He doesn’t sound like any great loss to society.’

‘Nah. He’s a well-known pisshead. I reckon he’s spent more time in Beech Field nick than I have. Recently we’ve had intelligence to suggest he’s been the errand boy for one of our local gangsters, Aiden Donnelly.’

Maya nodded. ‘I’ve heard of Donnelly. So, who found him?’

‘A fellow barfly. Apparently, he’d not seen Gorman for a few days and called round on the scrounge. Both the front and back door were closed, but not locked. He’s not got any medical issues that we know of. Our main area of concern is that last week he was involved in a fight outside the Black Swan.’

‘Who with?’

‘We don’t know yet. CID are still making enquiries. What we need to ascertain is whether his death is a result of that fight, or if anyone’s been back here to finish him off. Word has got around recently that he’s on the sex offenders’ register, which will muddy the motive waters. That and his recent dealings with Donnelly means he could have upset someone.’

‘And from the conversation I’ve just had outside, it sounds like there’s no love lost between him and the neighbours either.’

‘Exactly. There’s not gonna be a queue outside the crematorium for this one.’ Chris straightened up and patted the corpse on the back.

Maya surveyed the scene of the dishevelled kitchen. Surrounding Gorman on the table was an empty glass, overflowing ashtray, a tea towel, cigarette packet and a vodka bottle, which was nearly full.

‘Has Doctor Granger been able to give a time of death?’ Maya asked.

‘Only an estimation. An exact time isn’t something pathologists will commit to. There are so many variables affecting the stages of death, such as rigor mortis, that it’s not an exact science.’ Chris took another swipe at his sweating brow with his forearm.

‘So, what’s his estimation?’

‘Up to four days, which ties in with when witnesses claim they last saw him. Temperature has a big impact on stages of death. Because it’s been so hot lately, rigor has probably worn off quicker than it would have if he’d died in winter. Plus, he’s a bit of a skinny runt, so that will also affect the process more than if he was a bit on the cuddly side like me.’ Chris winked as he jutted his stomach out.

‘Right, enough of the science lesson. I’ll lift him from under the arms, you get ready to move the chair out of the way and shift his legs.’

Chris grasped Gorman under the arms, grunting as he heaved him out of the chair and manoeuvred him onto the body sheet. Maya pulled the chair out of the way and centred Gorman’s legs by reaching for the back of his calves and positioned them on the sheet. The legs felt heavy and unyielding but were moveable and not the rigid stiffness she would otherwise have expected. The body made a gurgling sound as it shifted, and a foul stench hit Maya as she remained crouched over Karl Gorman.

‘Eugh, it smells like he’s shit himself. Sorry you got the arse end.’ Chris took a step back.

Maya surveyed Gorman in his supine position. He looked surreal, the way his mouth remained frozen and the lividity of his skin. She half expected him to sit up and berate them for being in his house. The blood had been coming from a gash above his left eyebrow – the side which had been lying on the kitchen table. His face appeared strangely flattened, and where his skin had pressed on the table, she could make out the heavy grained pattern of the wood on his cheek.

‘Do you think that cut is deep enough to have caused a fatal head injury?’ Maya asked.

‘We’ll not know for sure until the post-mortem. It looks a bit nasty but could be relatively superficial. I know there’s a fair bit of blood but he’s a drinker. Alcohol thins the blood.’ Chris pointed towards Gorman’s face. ‘Head wounds can look worse than they actually are. You’ll soon learn that noses and mouths can piss blood, but the injury isn’t actually that bad. I’ll go and give Granger a shout and we’ll strip him off while you carry on with the photographs.’

As Chris stepped out to fetch the pathologist, Maya proceeded to photograph Gorman in his new position. She took a series of close-up pictures of his face and general body shots, including several photos of his hands. As she stood over the body taking the pictures at various angles, she noticed how the smell had grown stronger since he had been moved. The stench of excrement mixed with the smell of death was certainly going to be an unforgettable experience.

Although the odour was undeniably unpleasant, Maya was pleased that she could withstand it. Now she had got used to the sight of the dead body, her initial shock was replaced with intense curiosity. Carefully placing the camera down on the edge of the body sheet, she knelt and cautiously lifted Gorman’s right hand. It felt surprisingly cold despite the sweltering temperature of the room.

Like his legs, the hand felt heavy and unyielding, but she could turn it easily enough to inspect the back and palms. The fingers were heavily nicotine-stained, his nails long and dirty. His knuckles appeared bruised and slightly swollen. Old scars were visible on his fingers, consistent with someone