The Tightrope Men / The Enemy. Desmond Bagley

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       NINETEEN

      Carey and McCready were being violently seasick. They clung to the rail of the small boat as it pitched in the summer gale which had blown up from the south and whistled up the narrow channel between the Swedish mainland and the island of Oland. There was but one significant difference between them – while Carey thought he was dying McCready knew he was dying.

      They both felt better when they set foot ashore at Borgholm. There a car awaited them, and a police officer who introduced himself with a jerky bow as ‘Hoglund, Olof.’

      ‘I’m Carey and this is McCready.’ The wind blew off the sea and riffled his short grey hair. ‘Shall we get on with it?’

      ‘Certainly. This way.’ As Hoglund ushered them to the car he said, ‘Your Mr Thornton arrived an hour ago.’

      Carey stopped dead in his tracks. ‘Has he, indeed?’ He glanced sideways at McCready, and muttered, ‘What the hell does he want?’

      They were silent as they drove through the streets of Borgholm. It was not the time yet for talk; that would come later after they had seen what they had come to see. Carey’s mind was busy with speculations arising from the presence of Thornton, and even if he wanted to discuss it with McCready he could not do so in the presence of Hoglund.

      The car pulled up in front of a two-storey building and they went inside, Hoglund leading the way. He took them into a back room where there was a trestle table set up. On the table was a long shape covered with a white cloth. Behind the table stood a short young man with a neat vandyke beard, who wore a white coat. Hoglund introduced him as Dr Carlson. ‘You already know Mr Thornton.’

      Thornton was a tall, dark man of cadaverous features, smooth unlined skin and indecipherable expression. He was a young-looking sixty or an aged forty – it was hard to determine which and Thornton was not going to tell anybody. It was not his habit to tell anyone anything that did not concern him and he was chary of doing even that. He could have been Carey’s boss but he was not; Carey was proud and pleased to be in another department.

      He lifted yellowed, dyspeptic eyes as Carey and McCready entered the room. Carey nodded to him curtly, and turned to Carlson. ‘Good afternoon, Doctor,’ he said in a weary voice. He was very tired. ‘May I see it?’

      Carlson nodded without speaking and drew back the cloth. Carey looked down with an expressionless face and motioned for the cloth to be drawn back farther. ‘This is how he was found?’

      ‘The body has been cleaned externally,’ said Carlson. ‘It was covered with oil. And the manacles have been removed, of course.’

      Carey nodded. ‘Of course. There was no clothing?’

      ‘The man was naked.’

      McCready looked at Carey and raised his eyebrows. ‘The same as …’

      Carey was unaccountably clumsy. He turned and trod heavily on McCready’s foot. ‘Sorry, George.’ He turned to Carlson. ‘What was the cause of death, Doctor?’

      Carlson frowned. ‘That will have to await the autopsy,’ he said cautiously. ‘At the moment it is a question of whether he was drowned or poisoned.’

      Thornton stepped forward. ‘Did you say poisoned?’ Carey analysed the tone of voice. In spite of Thornton’s habitual flatness of expression he thought he detected a note of genuine surprise.

      ‘I’ll show you,’ said Carlson. He opened the jaws of the corpse and took a long spatula and thrust it down the throat. McCready winced and turned away. Carlson withdrew the spatula and held it out. ‘A scraping from the inside of the throat.’