Leave the Grave Green

Winstead held up a hand, palm out like a traffic warden. “There is another possibility, Superintendent, that would account for Mr. Swann having been alive when he went in the water. Dry drowning. The throat closes at first contact with the water, constricting the airway. No water gets into the lungs. But, as the laryngospasm relaxes after death, it is impossible to prove. It would explain, however, the lack of foreign matter in the lungs.”

“What causes a dry drowning, then?” Kincaid asked, willing himself again to be patient and let the doctor have his bit of fun.

“That’s one of nature’s little mysteries. Shock would probably be your best catchall explanation, if you must have one.” Winstead paused and drank from his cup, then looked surprised that it hadn’t miraculously improved in the interval since his last tasting. “Now, about this throat business you’re so keen on. I’m afraid that’s inconclusive as well. There was some external bruising—I understand you visited the morgue?” When Kincaid nodded, he continued, “You’ll have seen it, then—but there was no corresponding internal damage, no crushing of the hyoid processes. Nor did we find any occlusion of the face or neck.”

“No spots in the eyes?”

Winstead beamed at him. “Exactly. No petechiae. Of course, it’s possible that either by accident or design, someone put enough pressure on his carotid arteries to render him unconscious, then shoved him in the river.”

“Could a woman exert that much pressure?”

“Oh, a woman would be quite capable physically, I should think. But I would have expected more than just bruising—fingernail marks, abrasions—and there were none. He was clean as a whistle. And I doubt very much if a woman could have rendered him unconscious without her hands suffering some trauma from the struggle.”

Kincaid digested this for a moment. “So what you’re telling me is”—he touched the tip of one index finger to the other—“that a: you don’t know how Connor Swann died, and if you can’t give me cause of death

, I have to assume that b follows: you won’t hazard a guess as to manner of death.”

“Most drownings are accidental, and almost always alcohol-related. We won’t know his blood alcohol until the report comes back from the lab, but I’d be willing to bet it was quite high. However”—up came the traffic warden hand again as Kincaid opened his mouth to speak—“if you want my off-the-record opinion…” Winstead sipped from his coffee again, although Kincaid had long since abandoned his, finding an inconspicuous spot for the cup among the litter on Winstead’s desk. “Most accidental drownings are also fairly straightforward. Bloke goes out fishing with his friends, they all have a few too many, bloke falls in and his friends are too pissed to pull him out. Corroborating stories from several witnesses—end of case. But in this instance,” the intelligent boot-button eyes fixed on Kincaid, “I’d say there are a good deal too many unanswered questions. No indications of suicide?”

Kincaid shook his head. “None.”

“Then I’d say there’s not much doubt he was helped into that river in one way or another, but I’d also say you’re going to have a hell of a time proving it.” Winstead smiled as if he’d just delivered a welcome pronouncement.

“What about time of death?”

“Sometime between when he was last seen and when he was found.” Winstead chortled at his own humor. “Seriously, Superintendent, if you want my intuitive stab at it, I’d say between nineish and midnight, or perhaps nine and one o’clock.”

“Thank you, I think.” Kincaid stood up and held out a hand. “You’ve been… um, extremely helpful.”

“Glad to be of service.” Winstead shook Kincaid’s hand and smiled, the Pooh Bear resemblance more pronounced than ever. “We’ll get the report to you as soon as the lab work comes back. Can you find your way to the front? Cheerio, then.”

As Kincaid left the office he glanced back. The skull seemed to be superimposed upon Winstead’s chubby form, and as Winstead waved Kincaid could have sworn the skull grinned a little more widely.

Kincaid left the hospital feeling little further forward than before. Although now more certain of the fact, he still had no concrete proof that Connor had been murdered. Nor had he a plausible motive, or any real suspects.

Hesitating when he reached his car, he glanced at his watch. Once Gemma had managed to track down Tommy Godwin, she would be on her way to interview Dame Caroline, and as long as she was looking into the Asherton end of things, he had better concentrate on Connor. Connor was the key—until he knew more about Connor nothing else would fall into place.

It was time he did a little prying into the part of Connor’s life that did not seem to be connected to the Ashertons. Using his phone, he ascertained the address of Gillock, Blackwell, Gillock and Frye, then took the road south to Maidenhead and Reading.

*      *      *