along the backs of his fingers. He had grown stouter and more bent from his daily stooping over the dead and his English had not improved at all. Precise and flawless on technical matters, his colloquial use of the language was obscenely fractured. Policemen all over London and the Home Counties would relish visits to Hendon, simply because it replenished their fund of Kolankiewicz anecdotes, as he rolled words into each other in pointless, foul combinations along the lines of ‘Fuck bloody off bastardpimpcopper’, or as he nowuttered to Troy, ‘What the bollox you want, smartyarse?’
Troy was glad to see the room was empty. Too often Kolankiewicz had forced him to conduct conversations while he sawed away at a human skull or barked rapid summaries of a stomach’s contents to Anna’, his assistant and stenographer, perched on her stool in the corner. But today he was sitting quietly on the same stool, clean of apron, bloodless of hand, eating a spam sandwich and reading the
News Chronicle.
It was almost pleasant, despite the ever-present chemical reek that spelt out death to the senses.
Troy slapped his brown paper parcel down on the slab and pulled at the loose end. The arm jerked free and rolled halfway across the slab. Kolankiewicz shot out from his corner like a spider scuttling across its web. He seemed to stare greedily at the prize for a few seconds. Then he shrugged and looked up at Troy.
‘What this shit?’
‘It’s an arm.’
‘Mr bloody wiseguy,’ Kolankiewicz muttered. ‘I mean, smartyarse,’ he yelled, ‘where’s the rest of it?’
‘It’s all I’ve got.’
Kolankiewicz raised his hands to heaven. ‘Ach! Ach! Ach! What do you expect me to do with this?’
‘Anything you can. We’re looking for the rest now. There’s plenty of fabric. A cufflink, even.’
‘Ah! Cufflinks I like. Hallmarks. Craftsman’s initials. Distinctive proportions of fine metals to base – all very informative. What do you know about where it was found? What’s it been on or in?’
‘Not a damn thing.’ Troy stretched out a hand to hold down the arm as Kolankiewicz took a large pair of scissors to the woollen sleeve. A sharp stab of pain caught him in the upper left arm. He rubbed gently at the spot with his fingers. Bent double over the arm, Kolankiewicz looked up from beneath wild, bushy eyebrows.
‘Nice workmanship,’ he said. ‘High-grade silver. What’s the matter with your arm?’
A sentence in perfect English almost startled Troy. The absence of the ham element in Kolankiewicz’s voice made him momentarily unrecognisable as the demented dwarf he had known. Kolankiewicz straightened up. ‘Is that the one? Is that where you took the blowwith an axe? Very stupid of you.’ He came around the table, right up to Troy.
‘Let me see,’ he said.
‘It’s OK. I’ve seen a doctor.’
‘I’m a doctor.’
‘I know, but unlike most of your patients I happen to be alive.’
‘Fucking snobbery. If you’re in pain, show me. Don’t play the fucking hero.’
Troy plucked at his overcoat buttons and began to ease his shoulder out of the garment.
‘Would you mind washing your hands first.’
‘Eh?’
‘I don’t know what you’ve been doing with them, do I?’
‘I been eating spam sandwich and drinking tea.’
‘And before that?’
‘Jesus Christ. OK! OK!’
Kolankiewicz stood at the sink, rolled up his sleeves and made an ostentatious display of scrubbing up. Troy winced as the stubby, hairy, cold fingers poked at his arm.
‘You know you’re very lucky you didn’t lose the arm. That was a very deep wound. You had a good surgeon. Lovely job.’
‘Why does it hurt?’
‘You have your arm almost chopped in two and you ask why it hurts?’
‘Now. Why does it hurt now? What’s wrong?’
‘Swelling where the stitches came out – perhaps some minor infection of the needle holes, not the real wound. I’ll give you some surgical spirit and you wash it down for a couple of
Troy was glad to see the room was empty. Too often Kolankiewicz had forced him to conduct conversations while he sawed away at a human skull or barked rapid summaries of a stomach’s contents to Anna’, his assistant and stenographer, perched on her stool in the corner. But today he was sitting quietly on the same stool, clean of apron, bloodless of hand, eating a spam sandwich and reading the
News Chronicle.
It was almost pleasant, despite the ever-present chemical reek that spelt out death to the senses.
Troy slapped his brown paper parcel down on the slab and pulled at the loose end. The arm jerked free and rolled halfway across the slab. Kolankiewicz shot out from his corner like a spider scuttling across its web. He seemed to stare greedily at the prize for a few seconds. Then he shrugged and looked up at Troy.
‘What this shit?’
‘It’s an arm.’
‘Mr bloody wiseguy,’ Kolankiewicz muttered. ‘I mean, smartyarse,’ he yelled, ‘where’s the rest of it?’
‘It’s all I’ve got.’
Kolankiewicz raised his hands to heaven. ‘Ach! Ach! Ach! What do you expect me to do with this?’
‘Anything you can. We’re looking for the rest now. There’s plenty of fabric. A cufflink, even.’
‘Ah! Cufflinks I like. Hallmarks. Craftsman’s initials. Distinctive proportions of fine metals to base – all very informative. What do you know about where it was found? What’s it been on or in?’
‘Not a damn thing.’ Troy stretched out a hand to hold down the arm as Kolankiewicz took a large pair of scissors to the woollen sleeve. A sharp stab of pain caught him in the upper left arm. He rubbed gently at the spot with his fingers. Bent double over the arm, Kolankiewicz looked up from beneath wild, bushy eyebrows.
‘Nice workmanship,’ he said. ‘High-grade silver. What’s the matter with your arm?’
A sentence in perfect English almost startled Troy. The absence of the ham element in Kolankiewicz’s voice made him momentarily unrecognisable as the demented dwarf he had known. Kolankiewicz straightened up. ‘Is that the one? Is that where you took the blowwith an axe? Very stupid of you.’ He came around the table, right up to Troy.
‘Let me see,’ he said.
‘It’s OK. I’ve seen a doctor.’
‘I’m a doctor.’
‘I know, but unlike most of your patients I happen to be alive.’
‘Fucking snobbery. If you’re in pain, show me. Don’t play the fucking hero.’
Troy plucked at his overcoat buttons and began to ease his shoulder out of the garment.
‘Would you mind washing your hands first.’
‘Eh?’
‘I don’t know what you’ve been doing with them, do I?’
‘I been eating spam sandwich and drinking tea.’
‘And before that?’
‘Jesus Christ. OK! OK!’
Kolankiewicz stood at the sink, rolled up his sleeves and made an ostentatious display of scrubbing up. Troy winced as the stubby, hairy, cold fingers poked at his arm.
‘You know you’re very lucky you didn’t lose the arm. That was a very deep wound. You had a good surgeon. Lovely job.’
‘Why does it hurt?’
‘You have your arm almost chopped in two and you ask why it hurts?’
‘Now. Why does it hurt now? What’s wrong?’
‘Swelling where the stitches came out – perhaps some minor infection of the needle holes, not the real wound. I’ll give you some surgical spirit and you wash it down for a couple of