DCI Warren Jones. Paul Gitsham

the results to be emailed or phoned to him, or rely on a summary from someone like Tony Sutton. Unfortunately, Sutton was busy and Moray Ruskin hadn’t seen a burn victim up close. With all his detective sergeants otherwise occupied, Warren took it upon himself to oversee this part of the probationary constable’s training. His own mentor, Bob Windermere, had done the same for Warren in the dim and distant past. On the way over he’d grilled the young officer about the interviews he’d conducted with the two teenage witnesses who’d reported the fire; from the sounds of it, Ruskin’s questioning had been thorough, but hadn’t uncovered anything new.

      Professor Jordan greeted them at the door to the morgue, situated under the Lister Hospital in Stevenage, where the pathologist’s office was located. The two officers had already slipped protective clothing over their street clothes when Warren’s phone vibrated.

      ‘Good to see you again, Constable Ruskin. Shall we begin?’ said Jordan.

      Warren motioned for them to carry on without him.

      The text from Susan was brief and to the point.

      Scan fine, everything looking good. Just waiting for blood test. Sxx

      Warren responded with a simple ‘Wxx’, before going to re-join Ruskin, who by now was peering eagerly at the body, which lay on its left side in a similar position to how it had been found at the scene. A discreetly placed metal wastepaper bin stood to the left of the table, in case the sight and smell were too much. That didn’t look as if it would be a problem, at least not for Ruskin. Warren had been breathing through his mouth since entering the cooled room.

      ‘Tell me what you see, Constable,’ invited Jordan.

      ‘The skin on the upper torso is badly charred, probably third-degree burns. Skin that isn’t charred is swollen and split. The crown of the head is so badly burnt it’s unclear if the victim had hair or was bald.’

      Ruskin did a complete circuit of the body, before bending over to look more closely.

      ‘The skin on the front of the thighs is very badly burnt, with little evidence of the clothes that he was wearing, whereas the clothing on the backs of the thighs is scorched but intact.’

      ‘Suggesting what?’ asked Jordan.

      ‘That the deceased was sitting down initially – if an accelerant was used it was probably poured over the top of his head, splashing down to cover his torso and upper thighs.’

      ‘Good. What about the position of the body? Describe its position.’

      ‘Classic pugilistic or boxer’s pose, hands up as if defending his face from attack.’

      ‘Which implies what?’

      Ruskin’ eyes crinkled, betraying the smile beneath his mask.

      ‘Nothing. The positioning is caused by the heat shortening the ligaments and tendons.’

      ‘Good.’

      Lesson over for the time being, Jordan summarised his findings.

      ‘DC Ruskin is correct; the deceased was likely sat down on the chair when the accelerant – probably petrol – was poured over his head. That could have been self-inflicted or by persons unknown. The deceased remained seated for at least some time, whilst the fire took hold; the accelerant will have burnt off fairly quickly but remained long enough to ignite his clothing. In the final stages the clothing and accelerant had gone, but the deceased’s skin and tissues continued to burn until he was extinguished. At some point he toppled off the chair onto his left side.’

      ‘Was he alive?’

      Jordan nodded. ‘I believe that the witnesses reported screams, which only lasted a few seconds. If accurate, then assuming that they came from the deceased, he was almost certainly alive for at least some time – presumably until the fire took hold. Pathologically, I’ve found traces of soot below the larynx which indicates that he was breathing in the smoke.’

      ‘Christ,’ muttered Warren. ‘Do you have a cause of death?’

      ‘Fire is the best I can do at this stage,’ said Jordan flatly.

      Ruskin frowned.

      ‘It’s impossible to be more precise. I measured his carbon monoxide concentration at 42 per cent. That’s on the low end of fatal. Similarly, the intense temperature of the fire did serious damage to his internal organs and ultimately clotted his blood. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you if that killed him, or if he died of other causes before the damage reached a fatal level.’

      ‘What other causes?’ asked Ruskin.

      ‘He had moderate cardiovascular disease. It’s possible that the stress of the situation triggered a cardiac event. It’s difficult to tell what damage to the heart was pre-mortem and what was post-mortem – regardless I’d still regard that as being caused by the fire.

      ‘I’ve sent off for toxicology reports. There was a significant volume of alcohol in his stomach and there was an empty container of medication near to his body. Doxepin has sedative properties, enhanced by alcohol. It’s always possible that he succumbed to their combined toxicity before the fire killed him.’

      Ruskin shook his head slowly. ‘All the other evidence suggests that it was suicide. But how is that possible? The burns on his thighs make it look as though he remained sitting for at least some time before falling off his chair. The witnesses I spoke to are clear that they heard screaming, so he must have been conscious at some point. I’ve seen the videos on YouTube of those monks setting themselves on fire. They shrieked and ran around.’

      ‘Could the alcohol and doxepin have numbed him?’ asked Warren.

      ‘Possible, and he could have passed out quickly from the initial pain,’ said Jordan. ‘The witnesses did claim that the screams only lasted for a few moments. Much of the burning is also third-degree, full-depth, which destroys the nerve endings. Falling out of the chair may have happened after he died, from the post-mortem muscle contraction caused by the fire.’

      ‘I assume that asking for a time of death is pointless, Ryan.’

      ‘I’m afraid so, Inspector. Time of death is a mug’s game at the best of times, but fire messes up everything. I can’t assess rigor mortis since his muscles are already contracted, and the damage to his skin makes it impossible to look for staining due to blood pooling. You’ll have to settle for witness reports.’

      ‘What about positive identification?’

      ‘My investigations so far are consistent with a man of Father Nolan’s age and build. I’ve sent off for dental records and taken a DNA sample if you need it.’

      Warren looked closely at the man’s hands, the skin was charred and split.

      ‘I’m not even going to ask about fingerprints.’

Sunday 22^nd February

       Chapter 6

      ‘Bad news on the CCTV front, sir.’

      Mags Richardson screwed the lid back on her ever-present bottle of water. It was first thing Sunday morning, and most of the team were already hard at work. Richardson was Warren’s first visitor that morning.

      ‘Broken?’ asked Warren.

      ‘Worse. Almost all the cameras inside the abbey grounds are fake, just a deterrent. There are cameras above the main entrance, so we have a record of paying visitors, but once you’re in the grounds, there’s pretty much nothing. According to Deacon Baines, they recently installed covert cameras in the gift shop and the café, but they are focused on the tills – they don’t pick up anything outside.’

      ‘Above