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In the Mortuary Outside
of Braintree "I'm
having some . . . problems . . . that means I need somewhere quiet
to work," Lapslie said. "This mortuary is one of the most peaceful
places I've found. I'd like to use it as a refuge, if I may."
"Problems as in medical problems?"
He sighed. "It's called synaethesia--" he
began.
"Ah, a rare case where cross-wiring in the
brain means that inputs from one sense can trigger responses in another
sense," Jane said, straightening up from the corpse.
Lapslie was taken aback. "You've heard of
it?"
"It's a fascinating illustration of how the
brain works," she replied. "I have read several articles in neurology
magazines concerning the things synaethesia can teach us about the way
we interpret the vast flood of data that enters the brain every moment.
Tell me, Mark -- what form does your synaethesia take? The most common,
I believe, is where sounds give rise to the sensation of colour,
although one of the more interesting ones I have come across is the man
who can actually feel tastes on his skin. Chicken, apparently, is spiky,
while wine is spherical and cold."
"With me," he said, taking a deep breath,
"things that I hear get translated into tastes in my mouth. It's not
everything, but most things I come across in everyday life cause me to
have a reaction of some kind. Lorries are flavoured like asparagus. A
fountain or a shower taste of cauliflower."
"Both of them vegetables," Jane observed.
"Badly chosen examples. My mobile phone
makes me taste coffee when it rings. And, before you ask, your voice
tastes of brandy and soda."
"There are worse things," she said, smiling.
"You must have been asked that question so many times before."
"I have, but don't let that stop you asking
anything you want. I realise it's an interesting subject for anyone who
doesn't suffer from it."
"What does your voice taste of?" she asked.
Lapslie found himself frowning. Nobody had
ever asked him that before. In fact, he'd never even thought about it
before. "I don't think it tastes of anything," he said slowly, savouring
the words as they came out and finding them lacking any flavour.
"That's instructive. What about your
parents."
"I don't remember. They died when I was
quite young."
"Have you always been synaethetic?"
"No -- it seemed to develop when I was a
teenage, in a mild form, and it suddenly deteriorated about seven years
ago. It's been stable since then, but over the past few days it's
suddenly got a lot worse, to the point where it's stopping me from
carrying out my investigations properly." Now that he had started
speaking, he couldn't seem to stop. The words came spilling out of him.
"And I think I'm beginning to hallucinate. I keep hearing drums. Loud
drums."
She frowned. "But this is happening in
reverse, surely? You are hearing a noise which is not there, implying
that it is being triggered by something else. Does that happen?"
"Occasionally," he admitted. "There are one
or two tastes or smells that cause the synaethesia to go into reverse.
Seafood that's going off makes me hear high-pitched violins, for some
reason. And when I first entered this mortuary, a year or so ago, the
smell of the bodies and the bleach made me hear church bells."
Jane nodded. "And is that what's happening
now? You're smelling something, and it's causing you to hear the sound
of drums?"
"It's possible, I suppose, but what is it?"
"You said you had heard the sound before.
When was that?"
Lapslie considered for a moment. "The first
time was in Catherine Charnaud's house in Chigwell; the second time was
on a roof used by the bomber in Braintree."
"And the cases are not connected?"
"We have no evidence that they are."
"If you ask me," Jane said, "and you usually
do, I would suggest that there is a connection between the murders. They
each have a certain smell about them that only you can pick up, and I
don't mean the smell of death. Somehow, I believe you are smelling the
murderer."
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