Life on Mars: A Fistful of Knuckles. Tom Graham

on the way,’ said Gene.

      ‘Do you boys clean up too? I mean, look at them carpets.’

      ‘I’ll Brasso your flamin’ knick-knacks on me way out an’ all. What state was the front door in when you found him? Had it been forced?’

      ‘No. I had to use my key. I came up because Denzil was behind on the rent, which weren’t like him. He were regular, you know. A good lad, for a coon.’

      ‘Please!’ Sam insisted irritably, speaking over his shoulder as he looked around the flat. ‘Can we knock it off with the BNP language.’

      Gene shot a glance at the landlord: ‘No, I don’t know what the flamin’ chuff he’s on about either.’

      The landlord scratched at the hairy dome of his stomach through the holes in his string vest. ‘I was just sayin’ that Denzil were okay, that’s all. He didn’t deserve this.’

      Sam looked at the front door; it was fitted with three sturdy bolts and a spyhole for seeing who was on the other side of it.

      ‘Security conscious,’ said Sam.

      He stepped carefully across the blood-splattered floor and examined the window.

      ‘No sign of this being forced either, Guv. Looks like Denzil opened the door and let his killer walk right in.’

      What little furniture was in the room lay overturned. Clothes and possessions were strewn about the floor. There were bloodstains on the bed and up the walls. There were even splatters of red across the ceiling.

      ‘He didn’t go quietly,’ said Sam. ‘Must have been a hell of a fight.’

      ‘And this lad looks like he could handle himself,’ said Gene, indicating Obi’s muscular arms and torso. ‘Body builder, was he?’

      ‘Boxer,’ said the landlord.

      ‘Who beats a boxer to death?’ asked Sam, shaking his head.

      ‘Another boxer?’ shrugged the landlord.

      ‘Or a whole gang of ‘em,’ put in Gene.

      Sam looked about the room: ‘Not much room in here for a lynch mob, guv. Barely enough room for the body.’

      ‘You saying this place is small?’ piped up the landlord, looking defensive. ‘It’s cosy. People like it.’

      ‘Any of your other cosy tenants hear anything?’ asked Gene. ‘This whole building must have been shaking like a fun house at the fair when this boy got walloped.’

      ‘No other tenants, not here. Downstairs is empty.’

      ‘What about the flat above this one?’

      ‘Just a couple of layabouts up there, but they’ve buggered off to India or something. Students.’

      ‘Pity,’ said Gene, flexing his hands and making his leather driving gloves creak. ‘I’m in the mood for questioning students.’

      Sam peered down at what remained of Denzil Obi. He had been beaten into anonymity, his nose and eyes reduced to swollen puddings of battered flesh. His mouth had been battered into a misshapen, toothless hole. He was barely even recognizable as a human being. The only identifying mark Sam could make out was the large spider tattooed on the dead man’s neck, its spiky legs reaching up towards the remains of Denzil’s ear.

      Suddenly, something else caught Sam’s attention – something inside of Denzil’s slack, gaping mouth. He leant closer.

      ‘You’re getting unpleasantly intimate with the victim, Tyler,’ Gene said gruffly. ‘Your little woman not keeping you satisfied?’

      ‘Guv, there’s something in the back of his throat.’

      ‘His pelvis, probably, given the pasting he’s had.’

      ‘No, Guv, it looks like something metallic.’

      ‘His fillings?’

      Sam peered closer, trying to see without touching the body. Gene loomed over him.

      ‘Well? What is it?’

      ‘I can’t quite see, Guv. Whatever it is, it’s gone down his throat.’

      ‘Don’t be squeamish, Sammy-boy. Have a rummage.’

      ‘I can’t do that,’ Sam protested.

      Gene loomed closer: ‘Think of it like a first date – stick your fingers in and see what you can find.’

      ‘For God’s sake, Guv, I’m not qualified to conduct an autopsy!’

      ‘You don’t need ten years in medical school to fish out a ball bearing, Sam. Dive in, he won’t bloody bite.’

      ‘Guv, this is a crime scene, and we’re going to act professionally, and we’re not going to start mucking about with the body, and we’re not going to-’

      Gene ripped off his driving glove, elbowed Sam aside, and thrust his hand into Obi’s mouth. After a spot of blind fumbling, he produced something and held it up with bloodied fingers. It was a bullet.

      ‘Blimey …’ murmured the landlord. ‘Is that what did him in?’

      ‘If it is, then Denzil Obi choked to death,’ said Gene. ‘This round hasn’t been fired.’

      Sam squinted closely at the bullet. It was indeed perfectly intact.

      ‘Somebody shoved it down his throat,’ he said.

      ‘Either that or the coon got peckish,’ said Gene. And then, with enough sarcasm to sink a battleship: ‘Sorry, Tyler. Mixed. Race.’

      The coroner peeled off his latex gloves, dropped them into a pedal bin, and belched like a walrus.

      ‘Beg pardon. I had whelks,’ he said, patting his flabby chest and growling out more gas.

      This put into Sam’s mind the ghastly image of the fat coroner’s digestive system clogged with semi-digested seafood. He felt his own stomach heave uncomfortably. How the hell could the coroner talk like that, here of all places? Damn it all, they were at a morgue not a restaurant!

      Unmoved and unconcerned, Gene Hunt lounged against a wall, his arms folded, his manner casual: ‘So Doc, what’s the story with Rocky Marciano? Anything for us to go on?’

      ‘Denzil Obi’s been dead about two or three days,’ said the coroner. ‘He suffered a prolonged and powerful attack, almost exclusively to the face and head. Massive fractures to the parietal and zygomatic regions.’

      ‘That bit and that bit,’ translated Gene for Sam’s benefit, pointing to the side of his head and then his cheek.

      ‘Nice to see you’re picking up the lingo, Inspector,’ said the coroner, impressed.

      ‘I’m not just looks and charm,’ growled Gene. ‘So what was the weapon used? Iron bar was it? Baseball bat?’

      ‘Interestingly, no. The nature of the skull fractures are inconclusive, but the contusions to the face and head bear very clear imprints of a human fist. Punch marks, gentlemen.’

      ‘Well that makes sense,’ put in Sam. ‘Denzil Obi was a boxer. Are you sure these weren’t old bruises?’

      The coroner smiled condescendingly and said: ‘I flatter myself, young man, that I can tell an old contusion from a cause of death. Denzil Obi was punched – repeatedly, and with impressive force,’ he fought to suppress another deep, whelky belch, ‘until he died from cerebral haemorrhaging.’

      ‘But … whoever did this must have hands the size of anvils!’ Sam said.

      Again, the coroner shook his head: ‘Quite the opposite. A broad fist wouldn’t inflict quite this degree of concentrated damage; the force of the blows would