Policeman's Progress by Bernard Knight

the eyes had been blue. ‘No tattoos or operation scars – in fact, a dead loss from the identification point of view. No fillings or extractions in the teeth, either.’
    He took time off to record all this into a small portable tape machine.
    The small room began to warm up from the sheer fug of policeman’s perspiration and cigarette smoke, and two of the photographers eventually decided that they would rather suffer the cold night air than the sordid atmosphere inside. They stood at the door, lighting cigarettes and gazing over the cluster of police vehicles to the lights up on the Tyne Bridge.
    Presently there was a bellow from inside and the Tyne DI stuck his head out. ‘They want some more photos, so come and hold up your dicky birds.’
    Inside, the pathologist had started on the inside of the body and had an assortment of fractures and bruises to be recorded on film and tape.
    â€˜He’s broken his neck – that’s the actual cause of death,’ said Ellison to MacDonald later. ‘Apart from that, he’s had a fair old battering. Four broken ribs, a haemorrhage around one kidney and a hell of a clout on the back of the head.’
    The chief superintendent rubbed his own cadaverous chin. ‘All caused before death?’ he asked.
    Ellison bobbed his head, rather curtly. ‘Of course. He also had seven bad bruises on his chest and side, tallying with the damage around his kidney and some of the rib fractures. My guess is that someone put the boot into him.’
    â€˜What about the broken neck?’
    â€˜Looks as if he’s had his head cracked against something. No fracture of the skull, but the bruising on the front of the brain shows that he’s fallen backwards on to something hard – that’s how his neck was broken.’
    Potts, the Headquarters man, looked ruminatively at the wreckage of the dead man’s face. ‘All that mess was done after death?’
    Ellison nodded. ‘All post-mortem injuries – he’d probably been in the water a couple of days before that happened. The water is damned cold at this time of year, but a bit of decomposition has started on the stomach wall.’
    MacDonald jumped on this. ‘So what’s the likely time of death?’
    Ellison began peeling the grubby gown from his tubby figure. ‘Very hard to say … more than two to three days, less than ten. I’m only guessing. Damned impossible to be at all accurate,’ he added with a sudden outburst of petulance.
    MacDonald turned to the drooping figure of Gasgoine Burke. ‘Can you help us any more, Mr Burke?’
    The young man shrugged. ‘No clothes, no damn all – only a couple of bits of wire!’ He sniffed disdainfully. ‘Forensic-wise, this is about the most sterile murder we’ve had. Can’t expect much trace evidence, after swilling about naked in the Tyne for days.’
    The Scots detective looked more dyspeptic than ever. ‘What have we got, then? … a dead man, definitely murdered, gingery-fair hair, five foot eight, age …’ He looked across at the pathologist who was struggling back into his outer clothes. ‘Any nearer age, Doc?’
    Ellison paused, one fat arm jammed in a sleeve. ‘More than twenty to twenty-three – all his wisdom teeth are through. The seams in his skull bones suggest he’s less than thirty-five. That’s the best I can do for you. If it turns out to be important, we’ll have to organize some X-rays of his bones, but that’ll be a hell of fag in a place like this.’
    MacDonald got on with his inventory of facts, while Potts made some quick notes in his pocket book. ‘OK. Twenty to thirty-five. No distinguishing marks at all.’ Potts looked up quickly from his book. ‘What about fingerprints, sir? If he’s got “form”, that’s our best bet to get identification.’
    Uncle Mac looked across at