The Anatomy of Death Read Online Free PDF Page B

astonishing. Here, have a look at this one.” Pike slid a large photograph across his desk.
    Dykins rested his cigarette in the ashtray and picked up a photograph of a police officer ripping at a woman’s bodice and exposing her breasts. He paled under his bruises.
    “Do you recognise that police officer, Dykins?” Pike’s tone was no longer conversational.
    Dykins put his hand to his mouth as if to cough. The high neck of his tunic moved as he swallowed. “It looks like me, sir, but it must be some mistake, some trick of photography.”
    “No trick, I assure you. I supervised the setting up of the equipment myself. The idea behind it was to capture the women in the act of breaking the law so we could show proof of their behaviour to the courts.” Pike paused. “I had no idea just how useful this surveillance technology would be.”
    He glanced pointedly at Dykins. Removing a magnifying glass from his desk drawer, he took the photograph back from Dykins and read aloud the enlarged serial numbers on the policeman’s collar. Then he left his desk, bent over the seated Dykins, and made a show of inspecting his collar. “No mistake, it’s your number: 358.”
    Dykins jumped to his feet. His face had reddened; his mouth moved without sound. Pike moved back to his side of the desk to sign the dismissal papers. With an impassiveexpression, he handed the papers over, repeating what he’d said to the three previous interviewees. “Collect your pay and hand your uniforms in to the Whitechapel quartermaster.”
    He was indicating the rear door when Dykins caught him off guard. With surprising speed, the man grabbed the front of Pike’s waistcoat and almost lifted him from the ground one-handed. “You fucking officer toff,” Dykins said through a spray of spittle. “You’ve no bloody idea what it’s like out there on the street. I been in the force over fifteen years now, and doing me duty, spat at, ’urt, abused, and you reckon you can judge me by one fucking photograph? We was told to stamp on them women. I was just following orders …”
    With a swift chop, Pike brought the edge of his hand down on the man’s bicep. Dykins lost his grip and cried out in pain.
    “Sergeant Fisher,” Pike called, pulling down his waistcoat and adjusting his collar. Upon the sergeant’s speedy entrance, he said, “Please escort this man from the premises.”
    Of even greater height and weight than Dykins, Fisher had no trouble restraining the burly man and hustling him out the back door. The sound of the man’s curses and threats continued to be heard down the street.
    “Another one who said he was following orders,” Pike said when Fisher returned, dusting his hands.
    “Well, there’s orders and orders, ain’t there, sir? That Whitechapel mob are a rough lot, they wouldn’t need much encouragement.”
    “Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest?” Pike mused. Fisher looked back at him blankly. Pike wondered what was troubling the man; he was usually quicker than that. “I want you to speak to the Whitechapel sergeant,” Pike said. “Find out what he said to his men. But wait, don’t go just yet.”They both needed a break. Pike had noticed the fatigue in the eyes of his sergeant, the paleness of his usually ruddy skin. The final constable could wait a little longer. “How are things at home, Walter?” he said. “Is Mrs. Fisher any better?” Fisher’s wife had been diagnosed with tuberculosis, though Pike would never have known had Fisher not recently requested a day off work to take her to the doctor.
    “Much better, sir; she was—we both were—very grateful for the hamper. The doctor says she needs as much eggs and fresh milk as we can get.”
    And a rest cure in Switzerland, no doubt
, Pike thought bleakly. “Have you tried for the Policeman’s Hardship Fund?”
    “No, sir, and I don’t intend to neither. A man’s got to look after his own, else it’s the beginning of a long slippery slope