Chapter 28

It was the first time Penn had ever visited Sandwell Valley crematorium.

The hexagonal building was fashioned from cream-coloured brick, and it had a distinctive red-tiled roof.

‘This way,' Tiff said, guiding him towards a dour grey-brick building that was attached to the crematorium and which looked as though it had been tacked on from somewhere else.

A woman in her mid-thirties, wearing a pale blue suit, happened to be walking past the doors as they entered. After showing their IDs, she pleasantly guided them to a side room beyond a cafeteria area which was used for wakes. Before closing the door, she assured them that Doctor Connor would be along shortly.

A call ahead had secured them a ten-minute slot with the pathologist responsible for James Nixon. He wondered if the man would be equally as keen to share his expertise as Keats.

Despite the unexpected turn in the case of Sheryl Hawne, Penn was still happy to be working alongside Tiff. She was a police officer and she'd had a hunch that needed further exploration. A feeling he knew well.

In his early days as a constable, he'd been tasked with overseeing the removal of a five-year-old boy from an alcoholic mother. His only job was to ensure that the situation didn't get heated or violent during the removal. The mother had been completely co-operative, and the boy had been taken away for assessment. Two weeks later, he learned that the child had been returned and something hadn't sat well in his gut. After replaying the incident in his mind many times, he'd finally realised the cause of his unease lay in the little boy's expression when he was being removed. Although scared, he had also appeared relieved.

After a five-minute contemplation of risk versus reward, he had taken action.

There had been a possibility that child services would get annoyed at his involvement, but the reward of them listening and acting had been well worth it. After pleading with them to do a spot-check follow-up, the boy had been found with a black eye and a sprained wrist. He'd been removed immediately, and Penn had learned never to ignore his gut feelings.

‘You ever met this guy before?' Tiff asked while they waited.

He shook his head. He'd only dealt with Keats since being back at West Mids and, as grizzly as the pathologist could be, Penn enjoyed and respected him.

The door opened, and the doorway was filled with a bear of a man. His white coat strained at the upper arms and had no chance of ever meeting in the middle.

Penn had the sudden vision of this man in the dark, clad in blood-covered overalls, wielding a meat cleaver.

‘Doctor Connor, thank you for seeing us,' he said, shaking away the thought and standing.

Doctor Connor waved him back down. ‘Always happy to help our friends in the Dudley borough. What do you need?'

Penn wasn't sure if there was an edge to his voice or not. What he did suspect was that with this man, ten minutes meant ten minutes. As if to prove that point, the pathologist looked at his watch.

Never had Penn been so conscious of how short ten minutes was.

‘We're here about the body of James Nixon. We're assessing whether there are any suspicious circumstances around his death.'

‘You looking for extra work, Sergeant?'

‘Just answers,' Penn replied.

‘After a cursory physical exam, I'm leaning towards an accidental death. I remain open to being proved wrong, but I see nothing obvious on his body to suggest violence.'

After two years in the water, that was hardly a surprise.

‘I think it most likely he either had too much to drink or he stood too quickly and had a dizzy spell which caused him to fall in the water.'

All this from a cursory glance at the body. They sure did things differently over here in Sandwell.

‘Can you tell if he definitely drowned?' Tiff asked.

‘It's a safe bet, love,' he said indulgently, and Penn felt the hairs stand up on his neck. ‘But I will be conducting a digital post-mortem later today, which I expect will confirm my suspicions.'

The problem with having a preconceived idea was that it left little opportunity for further development. Instead of looking at everything, you tended to look only for facts that supported the theory you'd formed.

‘But if he was pushed?' Penn asked.

‘No pathologist would attest to such a theory after two years without video evidence or a sworn confession.' He looked at his watch again. Clearly the ten minutes he'd allowed included travelling time. ‘To be honest, Sergeant, I'm not sure exactly what you were hoping to achieve with this meeting. There's really nothing more I can do to help you.'

‘Will you send me the report?' Penn persisted, unwilling to let go quite so easily.

Before the pathologist refused, Penn took out his notebook and pen. He quickly scribbled down his email address and pushed it across the desk.

Doctor Connor folded it into his top pocket as he stood up.

They both thanked him and left the room.

Tiff waited until they were outside before speaking.

‘Sorry for wasting your time, Penn. I suppose that leaves us with nowhere?—'

‘Hey, us Dudley lot don't give up quite that easily. Come on – let's get out of here.'

‘To go where?' she asked, following closely behind.

‘To where it all began.'