Elaine trots along after the long-legged inspector, dragging you along in her wake. Her lips are a thin blue slash beneath the old-fashioned fluorescents. “In here,” says the inspector, holding an office door open. For a moment you worry—but it’s just an office, with a desk and a half-bald man in a white coat but no stethoscope. “Dr. Hughes? These are my witnesses. You might want to go easy, they haven’t had much warning.”
Hughes raises an eyebrow. “That makes three of us,” he comments. A deep breath: “Well, I assume you know where you are?” You force yourself to nod. “Good. Well, I’m the duty pathologist today, and I gather the inspector here would like you to confirm a positive identification. Have either of you ever done this before?” You shake your head. Elaine’s grip on your hand tightens as Hughes gives the inspector a sharp look. “They’re not next of kin, are they?”
Your heart flops around madly, missing a beat. Who can it be? Your hands are sweating. You’ve been here before, hung-over in the presence of the law to witness something you don’t want to admit—
“Adult male.” Kavanaugh shakes her head, then glances at you. “Is something the matter, Mr. Reed?”
“No—I mean, not this: I don’t think so.” You take a deep breath. The mummy lobe kicks up a cacophonous din, demanding that you unload everything you know on the inspector right now, but you manage to beat it into submission: “I have a weak stomach.” Which is an exaggeration, but not by much.
“Alright.” That’s Dr. Hughes. He glances at Inspector Kavanaugh. “In that case I’ll take Ms…”
“Ms. Barnaby and Mr. Reed.”
“Yes. Ms. Barnaby? If you’re comfortable with this, in a moment I shall show you into the, ah, viewing room. Mr. Reed, if you’d like to wait here. After you’ve had enough time, I’ll bring you back here and take Mr. Reed in while the inspector records your statement.”
“Is it”—Elaine’s voice is uncharacteristically weak—“I mean, is this necessary?”
Dr. Hughes glances at the inspector. Kavanaugh clears her throat. “I’m afraid it is, under the circumstances.” She gives you a significant look. “I believe you know enough about image filtering to explain why to me.”
The bottom drops out of your stomach again, just after you thought you’d gotten a grip on yourself. Elaine’s hand slips away, lubricated by the sweat of your palm. “I’m ready,” she says.
They disappear through a disappointingly ordinary-looking inner-office door, and Kavanaugh focusses on you. “Yes?” she asks.
“Did Michaels.” You swallow. “Did he tell you about my niece?”
“About who?” In the bright office light you can see her pupils dilate.
“He says his people are looking for her,” the mummy lobe pushes out. Then you add, consciously: “And I don’t trust him.”
“Christ, I don’t blame you for that.” She looks concerned. “What’s the story?”
You explain the background, weird calls, and the photographs, and the police reports—and that last call. It’s not true that the inspector has a Botox-frozen face: It goes through quite a few expressions in just thirty seconds, running through a spectrum of surprise and outrage. But then she cuts you off with a brief gesture. “Later.” She glances at the door. “If you can identify the person in there, I’d be very grateful. But I—” The door opens and she swallows whatever she was about to come out with. Framed in the opening is a whey-faced Elaine, looking between you and the inspector as if she’s certain one of you killed Colonel Mustard in the Drawing Room with the Candlestick.
It’s your turn. Dr. Hughes beckons. “Just follow me,” he says, not unkindly. There’s a short corridor, then another door, and—a window running along one wall? “Take your time,” he says. “When you’ve seen enough, or if you feel at all unwell, we’ll go outside.” Which is all very easy to say, but you do feel unwelclass="underline" It’s giving you a horrible sense of déjà vu, and not in a good way.
A light comes on in the room on the other side of the window. It’s small and bare, with tiled walls, and a trolley with a draped form.
You blink, trying to bring it into focus. He looks like he’s deeply asleep, what you can see of him: head and shoulders only. And something is very wrong indeed, you realize immediately. Your mouth is dry. You work your jaw, trying to get your salivary glands to lubricate your tongue. “I saw him yesterday,” you say, and you’re pretty sure you’re telling the truth. “That’s enough.”
“Thank you.” This time you see Hughes flip the switch. “Are you feeling alright?” he asks, solicitously. “The toilets are just round here—”
“No.” You take a deep breath and try to pull yourself together. “I’m okay.”
Hughes leads you back out through the short corridor and into his office, where Inspector Kavanaugh is waiting, with Elaine, whose expression of numb surprise you can feel mirrored on your own face.
“Well?” Asks Kavanaugh. She glances at Elaine warningly. “Would you please state for the record the name of the person in the observation room as it is known to you?”
“Certainly.” You lick your lips. And now for the surprise package. “He’s called Wayne, uh, Richmond? No, Richardson. And he was the Marketing Director at Hayek Associates.”
SUE: Civil Contingencies
Morning. It’s Mary’s day off work, and you’ve just about got the wild wee one into his school uniform and fed, and you are about to strap your kit on and hie thee to the cop shop when Davey’s phone rings. It’s a kiddie-phone, bright orange-and-black plastic bristling with gadgets, and he listens for a moment before handing it to you: “It’s for yiz, maw.”
“Who is it?” you ask, as you try to find a clear spot to dump your kit.
“It’s some wummun,” he says. Very helpful.
“Aw, fer crying out—” You dump your overladen webbing belt on the floor and make a grab for the phone. It’s probably some telesales bot—they’ve been pesting him lately—“Yes?”
“Sergeant?” Your back stiffens instinctively: You know that voice.
“Skipper?” You glance round, warily. Davey’s looking at you, round-eyed and mischievous like some kind of self-propelled phone tap. “Go comb your hair, Davey.”
Davey legs it. “What’s up, boss?”
Liz Kavanaugh is matter-of-fact. “We’ve got a big problem, Sue. First, I want you to switch your kit off and pull the batteries. You’re not wired yet, are you?”
“Jesus, skipper, that’s against—”
“Don’t I fucking know it!” she snarls, and your hair stands on end. “Sorry, Sergeant, I don’t want anyone else to get…Quick. Are you wired?”
“Not yet, I was just sorting out the wee one first. I’m not on shift for another forty minutes.”
“You’ll be putting in for overtime and expenses before today’s over, I’m afraid. Okay, here’s what I want you to do; you may want to make notes on paper, but do not, under any circumstances, put them into any kind of machine. First, I want you to get over to the nearest Tescos and buy six prepaid mobies, using your own credit card. We’ll put them through expenses later, so keep the paper receipt. Second, I want you to get over to Fettes Row. Get one of the phones registered and charged up, then find Detective Inspector Long, give him the phone, and tell him to phone me. The number I’m carrying today is—you’ve got a pen?”
She goes on like this for a couple of minutes as you frantically scribble on the guts of an organic Weetabix box. Finally: “Are there any questions, Sergeant?”