The soil scientist gave him a little bow, then turned and slipped out of the enclosure, Igor the Dude hot on her heels.
Isobel held up a hand. ‘Mr Haffenden?’
Someone dressed head-to-toe in SOC white shuffled over, a black toolbox held tight to his chest. He fiddled with the elastic hood encircling his masked face. Coughed. Cleared his throat. ‘Actually, my friends call me Ian so—’
‘Don’t be shy, Mr Haffenden.’
With all the soil and mud gone, more of the body was on show. About a quarter of Steve Polmont stuck out of the concrete, the left leg from the knee down, the right arm from the elbow, a hip, a bit of shoulder, and the side of his face. Lividity had stained the flesh dark purple – except where Polmont’s skin had been pressed against Dr Frampton’s precious soil. There it was a pale waxy-yellow, patterned by the dirt and rocks.
Haffenden shifted his feet.
Isobel placed her hand on his shoulder and guided him towards the remains. ‘As soon as you’re ready.’
The little man looked up at her. ‘It’s just…
She tilted her head to one side, staring at him.
Logan stepped forward. ‘Just pretend it’s one of those peat bog people. The ones that are all preserved by the tannin and whatever?’
‘Yes…right. Peat bog.’ Haffenden placed his toolbox on the edge of the concrete slab and pulled out a set of tiny chisels. ‘A very hard peat bog…’
The plastic enclosure rippled with white light: the IB photographer’s flash recording everything as the nervous archaeologist chipped at the concrete around the body. Loosening it off.
He’d partitioned the slab into a grid of three-inch squares, piling the waste concrete from each section into separate evidence bags, the whole exercise meticulously documented on video and digital cameras.
After half an hour Haffenden seemed a lot more confident, following the lines of the shoulders and head, chipping around the ends of the hair. The more he exposed, the worse the smell got.
The archaeologist put his chisels down. ‘I’ve got the head free.’
Logan followed Isobel over to the slab.
Polmont’s head lay back at an awkward angle, the whole thing oddly shaped – slightly flattened. The side that had been embedded in concrete was puckered and blackened, flecks of grey still stuck to the cracked skin, a trickle of yellow-green liquid seeping from his nose.
‘Ack…’ Logan cupped a hand over his facemask, the fabric damp with absorbed condensation. ‘Thought he was supposed to be preserved by the cold.’
Isobel leaned forward and gently cupped Polmont’s distorted cheek, turning the head until it was staring straight at them. The nose had been broken, one ear torn, the open mouth a solid grey mass – not excavated yet – but it was definitely Steve Polmont.
She felt her way around the back of the head. ‘Some concretes are exothermic – they generate heat as they set. A mass the size and thickness of the foundations probably stayed warm for days. He’s basically been cooked on one side and deep-chilled on the other…His head’s been deformed by the weight of the concrete. I won’t know if the damage to the skull was post or ante mortem until I open him up.’
Isobel ran a gloved finger down the body’s twisted neck. Just above the clavicle there was a circle of black puncture wounds. ‘Bite mark.’
Isobel frowned at the exposed arm, the dark brown discolouration on the sleeve. Then unbuttoned the cuff and rolled the fabric back to expose another bite.
‘Of course, I’ve had to lose some of the hair.’ The archaeologist pointed at the strands still embedded in the wall of the block. ‘And the outer clothing’s going to be a challenge.’ He shrugged at Logan. ‘The concrete’s seeped through the weave of the material, then set solid. Should make the actual body easier to remove though, like getting a moth out of a cocoon.’
Haffenden picked up his little chisel again. ‘You know, this isn’t nearly as bad as I thought it was going to be. It’s really kind of fascinating when you think about it.’
Good to know someone was enjoying themselves.
Half an hour later they were gathered around the body again. Haffenden had moved on to the torso, excavating the left shoulder and upper arm.
‘Problem came when I hit the first one, took a bit of doing to get them chiselled out without damaging any.’ He pointed at the shoulder, where ten or twelve metal spikes protruded from Polmont’s jacket, the fabric stained dark brown.
Isobel held one of the X-rays up for comparison. ‘Excellent job.’ She leaned in, touching the end of one spine with her gloved finger. ‘Definitely nails.’ She laid a ruler along the arm and waited for the photographer to finish, before slicing the sleeve open with a scalpel, then did the same with the jumper and checked shirt underneath. The arm had that familiar mouldy cooked look, but where the nails went in the skin was darker.
