Book extract: Former state pathologist Dr Marie Cassidy's debut novel

Death and noise. Two constants of the pathologist’s working life.

In the mortuary, of course, such intrusive sounds could be drowned out by the radio, which was, at that precise moment, playing the Commodores’ ‘Three Times a Lady’ at full volume.

The stereo was a rather grubby piece of equipment that spent its days wedged between boxes of gloves and rows of glass specimen jars on top of a cupboard that lined the wall of the mortuary. Getting into that cupboard and giving it a good clear-out and restock was next on the list of jobs Terry had been systematically working through since she’d taken up the position of temporary state pathologist in the Dublin State Mortuary a few weeks ago.

But it would have to wait for now.

A body had been found in the Phoenix Park.

 The garda car entered the Phoenix Park from the North Circular Road.

Terry was still getting her bearings around Dublin. It would be easier if she had her own car, but that was parked at her dad’s place back in Glasgow, and there was no way she was ever getting on a ferry again after the horrendous crossing she had endured a month ago.

At the first roundabout the garda driver took a right turn, away from the main park area. Terry relaxed a little. Her work, either in the mortuary or in the field, was a safe space for her, somewhere she knew the rules and had a tangible, achievable problem to solve. Pathology wasn’t like the other areas of policing, where they had to worry about motive and crimes of passion — Terry’s job involved getting to grips with the science of what had happened to the deceased.

And science was, in many ways, simple. It told you directly, in a trail of evidence that was easily detectable if you knew where to look, the story of what had happened to the dead. Even better, science was as honest as the day is long.

Science never lied, even if people misunderstood it from time to time. Terry, though, was an expert in interpreting the subtler messages left for the living to read.

She tapped the shoulder of the garda in the passenger seat in front of her, who’d introduced himself as Pádraig and the driver as Tony. ‘Where are we heading?’ ‘Farmleigh. You know the big house where all the VIPs stay?’ The car was stopped at the gatehouse by a couple of security guards, who seemed to take their role a tad too seriously.

Only when it was explained that one of the state pathologists was on board did they relent and move the bollards.

‘Farmleigh,’ the guard in the passenger seat repeated.

‘There’ll be TV cameras all over the place before we know it, like flies on shite.’ He turned back to Terry again. ‘They’ll be all over you as per, Doc.’ She knew they would. The anonymity that came with a forensic pathology job in Scotland was not replicated in Ireland; here, it seemed, you were part of the story. A fact that, as had so recently been communicated to her, bothered Professor Boyd considerably.

The Irish media had made a huge fuss over her, the broadsheets referring to the new arrival as ‘Ireland’s glamorous new pathologist’ and one of the tabloids going so far as to state that she was ‘making murder sexy again’, which she thought was rather offensive to the families of the deceased. But she knew responding would just add fuel to the fire.

As they followed the road through the grounds, the handsome Edwardian house — all columns and balustrades — suddenly came into view against a backdrop of pristine blue sky. Once the home of the Guinness family, the mansion sat on seventy-eight acres of what was mostly farmland in the north-west corner of the Phoenix Park.

The house’s commanding vista was, that afternoon, marred by a haphazard arrangement of garda cars and vans.

The ‘death investigation circus’ — as that same tabloid had referred to Irish law enforcement’s arrival to a murder scene — had come to town, creating a dark contrast to the unusually warm late summer’s day. Terry, the journalist in question had suggested, was the ‘alluring female ring mistress’.

You’d swear I asked for any of that nonsense, Terry brooded, recalling once again Professor Boyd’s irritation. It was the press who want the personal, rather than the professional, angle. It wasn’t her fault if the occasional hack asked what brand of make-up she wore or where she got her shoes. Boyd was never asked stuff like that — it was not a problem men had to deal with.

The driver gave their details to a young guard with a clipboard, who dispassionately lifted the tape stretched across the end of the drive and directed them to the front of the house.

We’ll hang around and take you back, Doc,’ the driver said. ‘No rush. We’ll park over there behind the van.’ Terry thanked them and, climbing out into the sunshine, walked towards the group of detectives standing in the shade of the portico.

Among the group was Detective Chief Inspector John Fraser, a well-dressed senior detective whom Terry had met at a forensic medicine conference on deaths in custody some months before.

‘Dr O’Brien.’ ‘DCI Fraser.’ They looked at one another for a few long moments, then Fraser said, ‘Your timing couldn’t be better. I was just going to have a look at the site.

‘The body’s over beyond the lake there, in the woods near Beech Lane along the north side of the estate. Do you need to bring anything with you?’ 

‘Nope,’ she said.

Terry had encountered forensic pathologists who attended scenes with enough equipment to carry out major neurosurgery. In her experience it was better to keep your powder dry, your mouth shut and your hands in your pockets until you knew what you were dealing with. She could drag half the lab out with her and use none of it. Far more sensible to look at the remains and then send for equipment that would actually be useful.

‘We don’t know much at this stage,’ the DCI continued.

‘Some kids on a day out with their mothers found the body.

'They were walking around the lake, the young lads messing about, throwing sticks in the water, when their dog went missing. They found more than they bargained for when they went looking for it. According to the technical bureau, the body’s been there a while. It was probably the smell that attracted the dog. We’ve got a specialist team talking to the boys and their mothers.’  Those poor kids, Terry thought. But they were not her problem now. She needed to keep her mind on the task before her. Whoever was lying in the woods ahead, all alone, was the person she needed to care about.

 ‘Male or female?’ she asked.

‘Looks like a woman. But no one’s got too close.’ The ghost of a smile crossed his lips. Terry knew that some of the burliest police officers were the biggest wimps when it came to death.

And this one would be particularly unpleasant. ‘There’s no sign of a bag or a phone. But you might find something when you have a close look.’  At the far side of the lake was a large white van with ‘Technical Bureau’ emblazoned on it. As she and Fraser approached, Terry spotted two men in white coverall suits wrestling with a body bag.

 When suited and booted, Terry and Fraser set off towards the natural clearing ahead. In a natural clearing ahead, they could see a man hunkered down with his back to them. As they got nearer, it was clear he was focused on something in the ditch in front of him; he turned as he heard them approach.

 ‘Vinnie!’ Terry was relieved to see the photographer’s familiar aquiline face, his heavily lidded eyes giving the man a permanently thoughtful, hangdog look.

 ‘Just finishing up here, Doc, then you can give it all a once-over.’ Vinnie let his camera rest against his chest. ‘She’s lying in an awkward position so I can’t see too much.’  

Definitely female?’ Vinnie nodded. Terry made her way over, carefully placing every step so as not to disturb evidence. The photographer got up and stood back so she could squeeze past.

The smell of decay hit her. The others quickly pulled up their masks, but the flimsy coverings weren’t designed for this situation — Terry thought they intensified the stench rather than filtering it out — and they were damned uncomfortable to wear for any length of time. But rules were rules.

 She looked back at Vinnie and, sotto voce, asked, ‘Dumped?’ He gave a subtle nod. Terry was always careful not to divulge too much to anyone outside her immediate team before she was sure of her facts.

 The body was small and appeared slight, long blonde hair the only indication that this was likely to be a female. It lay on its right side in a semi-foetal position, the limbs at odd angles, as if it had rolled into that position. The other side of the ditch was boundaried by a dense hedge and a fence.

She looked at Vinnie and nodded across at it. Vinnie nodded in return, silently agreeing with her hypothesis that the body must have been hoisted over the hedge and fence to have landed where it was, in such a twisted, unnatural position.

 Gingerly, she slid into the ditch, Vinnie above her, firmly grasping her left arm. She leaned over the corpse and as she did the hair moved and she could see the face had begun to decay.

Shit, Terry thought, ID is going to be a problem.

The body looked fully dressed, but Terry couldn’t see any staining. She could see tears in the clothing and the woman’s fingertips had been gnawed — not surprising, given that she was at the mercy of any passing rodent or other four-legged resident of these grounds.

 ‘Any idea about the cause of death?’ Fraser called down to her.

She knew her answer would determine what he did next, so she just shrugged. ‘Not a clue at the moment, sorry. I might, and I mean might, have a better idea once I get a good look at her in the mortuary.’ She saw disappointment cross his face, but she was damned if she was going to jump the gun.

 ‘Time of death?’ asked Fraser.

‘Don’t know that either. But I know a man who will be able to help us.'

 Terry knew many pathologists who gave the impression they could give a specific time of death and, unfortunately, they believed that they were being helpful, but many an investigation had fallen foul of good intentions. She was well used to griping from detectives when she talked in terms of days since death rather than hours and minutes. But only the people there at the time knew when someone had died. And she wasn’t in the business of delivering false hope.

On the drive over, her garda escorts had regaled her with tales of bodies found in the park and how, in their considered opinion, this was probably just another ‘junkie’. Terry hated that term.

 ‘Wait until you have the facts,’ she’d told them. ‘And the term is drug user.’  A collective roll of their eyes had confirmed that she was preaching to the entrenched and disinterested.

 A drug overdose was a long shot here, though. Why would someone move or try and conceal the body of a woman who had simply died of an overdose? That didn’t make sense. Still, she had to keep an open mind. Terry stuck her arm up. Vinnie grabbed it and hoisted her out of the ditch.

 With luck there could be a very simple explanation for this woman’s death.

 But she doubted it.

Extract taken from the crime novel Body of Truth by Dr Marie Cassidy published by Hachette Books Ireland. Marie Cassidy will be in conversation with crime author Catherine Kirwan at Waterstones Cork on Wednesday November 15 at 6:30pm