Death of an Expert Witness by P. D. James

quarrelled at the dance and he had left early. That she hadn’t arrived home by one o’clock. That he’d gone out to look for her on the road and across the clunch pit field, returning alone half an hour later. That he’d seen no one and hadn’t been anywhere near the clunch pit or the derelict car. It was a good story, simple, unelaborated, possibly even true except in that one essential. But, with luck, the Lab report on her blood and the stain on his jacket cuff, the minute traces of sandy soil and dust from the car on his shoes, would be ready by Friday. If Lorrimer worked late tonight—and he usually did—the blood analysis might even be available by tomorrow. And then would come the elaborations, the inconsistencies, and finally the truth.
    She said: “Who else was at the scene?”
    It was something, he thought, that she had bothered to ask. He said sleepily: “Lorrimer, of course. He never misses a murder scene. Doesn’t trust any of us to know our jobs, I suppose.
    We had the usual half-hour hanging about for Kerrison. That maddened Lorrimer, of course. He’s done all the work at the scene—all anyone can do—and then he has to cool his heels with the rest of us, waiting for God’s gift to forensic pathology to come screaming up with a police escort and break the news to us that what we all thought was a corpse is—surprise, surprise—indeed a corpse, and that we can safely move the body.”
    “The forensic pathologist does more than that.”
    “Of course he does. But not all that much more, not at the actual scene. His job comes later.”
    He added: “Sorry I couldn’t ring. I did try but you were engaged.”
    “I expect that was Daddy. His offer still stands, the job of Security Officer in the Organization. But he can’t wait much longer. If you don’t accept by the end of the month, then he’ll advertise.”
    Oh God, he thought, not that again. “I wish your dear Daddy wouldn’t talk about the Organization. It makes the family business sound like the Mafia. If it were, I might be tempted to join. What Daddy’s got are three cheap, shabby shops selling cheap, shabby suits to cheap, shabby fools who wouldn’t recognize a decent cloth if it were shoved down their throats. I might’ve considered coming into the business if dear Daddy hadn’t already got Big Brother as a co-director, ready to take over from him, and if he didn’t make it so plain that he only tolerates me because I’m your husband. But I’m damned if I’m going to fart around like a pansy floor-walker watching that no poor sod nicks the Y-fronts, even if I am dignified with the name security officer. I’m staying here.”
    “Where you’ve got such useful contacts.”
    And what exactly, he wondered, did she mean by that? He’d been careful not to tell her anything, but she wasn’t altogethera fool. She could have guessed. He said: “Where I’ve got a job. You knew what you were taking on when you married me.”
    But no one ever does know that, he thought. Not really.
    “Don’t expect me to be here when you get back.”
    That was an old threat. He said easily: “Suit yourself. But if you’re thinking of driving, forget it. I’m taking the Cortina, the clutch is playing up on the Renault. So if you’re planning on running home to Mummy before tomorrow morning, you’ll have to phone Daddy to call for you, or take a taxi.”
    She was speaking, but her voice, peevishly insistent, was coming from far away, no longer coherent words but waves of sound beating against his brain. Two hours. Whether or not she bothered to rouse him, he knew that he would wake almost to the minute. He closed his eyes and slept.

BOOK TWO
DEATH IN A WHITE COAT

1
    It was very peaceful in the front hall of Hoggatt’s at eight-forty in the morning. Brenda often thought that this was the part of the working day she liked best, the hour before the staff arrived and the work of the Lab got really under way, when she and Inspector Blakelock