Reaching
into my pocket I felt for my packet of cigarettes. Opening the
packet I took one for myself and offered the packet to Alan. He
looked at the pack and shook his head. “No thanks “ he
said, “I don’t smoke”. “Good for you, “ I replied,
“Stunts your growth”. He grinned as I struck a match and
lit the cigarette, pulling hard on it and then blowing the smoke
sideways out of the drivers window. I took a few breaths whilst
I considered what needed to be done. It was necessary to build
a few bridges with the young Copper. It was not his fault that
he had been stuck with bone idle Dickie Knight for the afternoon and
thrown into a fairly traumatic session on the moors. “Alan”
I said. “Have you had to deal with a sudden death before?”
Looking sideways at me he shook his head without saying anything. I
nodded to myself and put the vehicle into first gear, pulling away
from the steps to the front door. As we drove along the drive
to exit from the station on to the main road I started to explain to
him the complications and implications of dealing with the death of a
citizen in unexpected circumstances.
“There
are two main things to bear in mind when you are dealing with someone
who has died in unusual circumstances. It is the legal duty you
as a Police officer have, to ensure the safety of the deceased’s
body and possessions, and the other is a duty you have to the
family.” I paused to let it sink in, then carried on. “You
might think that the second duty is not covered by either the law or
Police procedure, but if you have any pride in the job you do, or the
force you work for, or any feeling of human compassion, then the two
go hand in hand.” I glanced at him and he was nodding
thoughtfully to himself. “Does that make sense to you Alan?”
I asked. He immediately replied, “Yes. I think so.”
“If you have any feelings of compassion to the family of the
dead person then you will treat him with consideration and respect.
It goes without saying.” We carried on driving, this
time in silence. It did not take us long to reach the access
road leading to the old hospital.
Birch
Hill Hospital was opened in 1877 as a Workhouse where people who had
fallen on hard times were sent to be taken care of by the local
authority. It was not a place of leisure, you were put to work very
hard, often simply breaking stones for road fill for ten or twelve
hours a day. It was a large edifice built on three levels and
with many long buildings. Inside it was a maze of long wide
high corridors leading to wards of similar design. Nobody
wished to go there. The Workhouse was the last refuge of the
poor and needy. In 1903 the building was enlarged and a
hospital opened on the site, and there it became part of the British
National Health Service in 1948 where it served the people of the
Rochdale area along with the Rochdale Infirmary. The road
leading to the imposing clock tower was a steep hill, covered in
places with a thin covering of snow. I drove slowly up the road
watching the tall trees on both sides of the road moving with an
unseen hand of wind in a gentle swaying dance. The light in the
clock tower showed the time to be half past eight and below it
several lonely lights illuminated several lonely rooms in the rest of
the tower. I slowed at the top of the road in front of the
tower and then pulled round to the right along the road which ran
from left to right in front of the tower.
“Is
it far to the mortuary David?” Alan asked. I pointed ahead of
us into the darkness. “It’s down the end of this road near
to the end of the main hospital building. You’ve never been
here before?” I asked. “No.
My first time” His voice was quiet. He sounded a
little fearful of what might lie ahead of him. I could
understand and sympathise with him. On a bright sunny day Birch
Hill Hospital was a very large foreboding building built on several
stories, mainly in red brick with a steep slated roof. Although
each ward had many windows, they were closed and curtained at this
time of night. There were no lights shining from the windows
other than an occasional glimmer from a crack in a curtain or a ward
sisters office window. The building was never ever going to be
called welcoming. The road was narrow, a service road around the
whole perimeter of the hospital but never used at night, other than
by people taking bodies to the mortuary.
I
drove slowly along the road moving gently in second or third gear to
avoid the rubbish bins left outside ward and department doors for the
rubbish removal service to collect. The trees on the left hand
side of the service road were overhanging most of the road and made
the road even darker than the absence of lighting created. Now
and again, a door opened, throwing light out onto the road, and a
body in a white coat or blue uniform would hurry through it and off
into the shadows ignoring our vehicle. Other thoughts and other
problems occupied their minds as they scurried off into the dark and
cold. After a minute or more driving I saw the end of the
building coming into sight on my right. I slowed down to
crawling pace as I knew the mortuary was on my left, close to the end
of this building. Suddenly there it was, on my left almost
hidden in a small group of trees, deliberately planted to screen the
small building from the general public who might accidentally stumble
across the place where dead people were stored and where post mortem
examinations were carried out. It was part of the sensitivities
of the Victorian builders and commissioners of the hospital that they
tried to hide the fact that sometimes people went into hospital, but
did not come out. Thus the mortuary was hidden from view as far
as possible at a remote end of the hospital and screened delicately
by trees. These trees now cast black shadows against an even
blacker sky and made the whole place ominous and foreboding. It
was not a happy place.
I
braked when I caught sight of the front door of the building, set
back a little further into the trees. Swinging the nose of the
Rover round to face the side of the main hospital building I turned
round in my seat and selected reverse gear. Alan looked over
his left shoulder to try and catch a glimpse of the building and
where I was reversing into. When the reversing lights shone
against the door and front wall of the mortuary I applied the brakes,
stopped and set the handbrake. I turned off the lights and then
the engine. The silence enveloped the vehicle like a cold damp
cloak. Alan and I sat in silence for a moment or two. He
coughed a little nervously. Glancing sideways at him I asked,
“Are you alright?” “Yes, I’m okay” he replied.
“Liar” I thought and grinned in the darkness.
“We’re
going to have to wait here until the porter arrives” I said.
“There might already be a body in the mortuary and as there
is only one slab it might be that we have to shift it to get our John
in place”. I could feel him gulp. “Okay “ He
muttered. “Come on Alan, it’s not pleasant but it is
something we have to do. Do you understand what we have to do
here?” I asked, feeling that he might become a little easier if we
spoke about what we were going to have to do. “Not really”
he confessed. “Right" I said " We have to get
John in the mortuary, take him out of the coffin, place him on the
slab and then strip him. Okay so far?” I said.
He
nodded his head, “Yes, I understand” he replied. “What do
we do with his clothes and stuff?” “We
bag everything up, we take everything off him, his clothes, shoes,
rings, jewellery, watches, anything he has on him gets taken off, we
make a note of it, bag it and take it back to the nick with us. It
is our responsibility to ensure that nothing goes missing and that we
make an accurate list of all his stuff. There might be notes in
his pockets, lists of people he wants us to contact, or literally
anything. There might be a suicide note.” Alan looked
round at me quickly, “Do you think he committed suicide?”
he asked, a note of hesitancy or fear in his voice. “Well,
what do you think was the cause of death then?” I replied. Alan
was silent in thought for a few moments. Something was
troubling him. “What’s the problem?” I asked. Then
very quietly he said, “But I thought he was a Catholic. It
would be a mortal sin if he did commit suicide”.
This
was a new twist I had not considered. My mind went back to
earlier that day, or maybe it was a week ago, that I had sat with my
good friends Frank and Margaret, in front of their coal fire in
Milnrow drinking their coffee and eating Margaret’s mince pies.
They were also Catholics, and I knew from our conversations
that what Alan had said was true. For a Catholic to commit
suicide was a mortal sin, and if John Brown was a practicing
Catholic, and it appeared he might have been, then according to their
rites his soul would never rest in peace in his heaven. It was
not something which would affect what we as Police officers did, but
it certainly gave me food for thought as we sat in the dark, each
with our own thoughts.