5
The white-tiled post-mortem room was clean and cool. A strong smell of antiseptics hung in the air. The body of a woman lay on the porcelain table, partially covered by a coarse bleached sheet. Her shaved head rested in the hollow of a small wooden block. She didn’t look human, but like a realistic waxwork in an exhibition of horrors.
The doctor, a small, pudgy man, clear-skinned and tanned, was washing his hands in the deep sink. Steam from the hot water dimmed his glasses.
“She’s all yours,” he said, glancing round. “The poor devil killed herself by swallowing powdered glass. I’d like to know where she got it from.”
Somewhere in the jail a woman began to utter clear, high-pitched peals of mirthless laughter as though she were being tortured by having her feet tickled. The sound set my teeth on edge; it was shrill, like a pencil squeaking on a slate.
The doctor scowled, came towards us drying his hands.
“I’m going to report that woman,” he said, irritably. “She shouldn’t be here.”
Neither Maxison nor I said anything. We stood around, looking at the doctor, then at the dead woman. I felt spooked.
“It’s time Edna Robbins was kicked out of here,” the doctor went on. “She’s a sadist. I’m not saying she drove that woman crazy, but she couldn’t have helped her.”
He was addressing me, so I said, “Who’s Edna Robbins?”