‘For a mix-up to have occurred between Megan Griffiths’ body and the biological waste bag would require that Megan herself was in a plastic bag when she was put into her coffin. How come?’
‘Good point,’ agreed Swanson. ‘Mind you, thinking back to my own days as a medical student, pathology departments were never places where you’d find much respect for the dead.’
Seven
It started to rain as Gordon drove back over to Felinbach. Soothed by the sound of the wipers, he found himself thinking about Mary Hallam and wondering when he might see her again. She wasn’t going to be at the meeting on Thursday and that was a pity, but there would be other times. If not, maybe he could think up some pretext for contacting her? But perhaps this was a bad idea, he reasoned. He had a lot on his plate at the moment, what with the Palmers and now the Megan Griffiths business. This was probably not the best time to look for a new relationship... or was he getting cold feet already? Before he’d even met the woman properly? The legacy of a painful divorce was always lurking there in the back of his mind. Once bitten...
The rain got heavier as he reached the village and was running in a river down the cobbles of Harbour Hill as he parked the Land Rover and made a run for his front door. Gordon lived in a small self-contained flat on the first floor of a converted warehouse building looking out on to the marina. The building had been renovated and converted to holiday flats back in the seventies and sold mainly to English buyers.
Most of the flats lay empty throughout the winter months so the building was quiet at this time of year. Gordon’s was the exception. It was owned by a Welshman who lived down in Cardiff and who had bought it as a long-term investment and to use when he eventually retired from business. He had been happy to rent it to Gordon throughout the year rather than go to the trouble of advertising it or using a holiday letting agency. The downside to this was that he had paid little or no attention to maintenance over the years and the furnishings were largely original, featuring a good deal of chrome and plastic. The flat itself comprised a small living room, with views out on to the marina, a bedroom that faced the back, a tiny kitchen with a porthole window and a long narrow bathroom with an avocado-coloured suite which had been all-the-rage at the time.
Gordon swore under his breath when he found the flat cold; the heating had failed to come on again — the third time it had done this in the past two weeks.
He kept his jacket on while he played around with the timer on the wall of his tiny kitchen until it agreed to trigger the ‘on’ switch. The boiler sprang into life and the pump started whirring but it would be some time before the place heated up. In the meantime he had to resort to the back-up of an electric fire in the living room. It sparked a bit when he turned it on and made a grinding noise. This was something else he’d been meaning to get fixed but like so many things, hadn’t quite got around to. He rubbed his arms against the cold and resolved to contact Pryce, the local electrician in the morning and arrange to get repairs organised.
He looked out of the window at the rain in the harbour, speckling the still surface of the oily water and spattering off the plastic hulls of the moored yachts. There was a light in the harbour-master’s office suggesting that a new arrival must be imminent. He lifted the glasses he kept on the window ledge and scanned the dark Menai for any sign of approaching navigation lights but all was dark. He shivered and closed the curtains before turning on the kettle to make tea.
As the evening wore on, Gordon wondered whether or not he should check on Lucy Palmer but after some hesitation, decided against it. Sometimes too much helpful attention could delay a person’s recovery. He thought he’d go round and see her after he’d met with John’s lawyers tomorrow afternoon. Maybe he’d have a better idea of how things were going after talking to them.
He started to read through the file he’d been given at the hospital, acquainting himself with what was already known about the mix-up. It didn’t amount to much, but was useful in explaining the routines and major players in the relevant departments. At the end, it was difficult to conclude anything other than that one of the mortuary attendants had been responsible for the mix-up, but as long as both of them maintained their innocence and denied any knowledge of the affair, then it seemed likely that the impasse would remain.
He supposed cynically that this was what the hospital really required of the committee, the conclusion that the loss of Megan’s body had been the result of a low-level mix-up, unfortunate but just one of these things.
He poured himself a whisky and turned on the television, hoping to find some distraction for a while. He paused as he hopped through the channels when he came to and old black and white film about gang warfare in Chicago. The scene involved a hearse, laden with flowers dedicated to ‘Bugsy’. Looking at the hearse made him think that it might be an idea to talk to the undertaker’s men rather than tackle the mortuary attendants who had already denied all knowledge of the Megan Griffiths affair and would probably continue to do so. The internal inquiry had not done that as far as he knew — it was probably deemed to be outside their jurisdiction — but he opened up the file again to check, just in case. There was no mention of any interview with Prosser’s people having taken place. In fact there was no mention of the undertakers at all other than to note that they had found the coffin sealed when they arrived to pick up the body.
Gordon found it odd that Prosser’s men had arrived at the mortuary to find the coffin all closed up and had left without expressing any surprise or even mentioning it to anyone. It might suggest that that was exactly what they had expected to find. Maybe it implied that an ‘understanding’ as Sepp had called it, had existed over the Griffiths baby. He made up his mind to call in to Prosser’s the next time he was up in Caernarfon; that would be on Thursday at lunchtime, just before the meeting of the inquiry team.
He put down the file and realised that he was hungry; he hadn’t had time to eat before driving up to Caernarfon after evening surgery. He was also tired, too tired to cook. Cheese on toast would have to do.
Gordon sought out the premises of Selby, Jones and Roberts in Bangor on Wednesday afternoon. Although located in a building just off the bustling High Street, he found it strangely quiet when the outside door clicked shut behind him on its electronic latch and deduced that the stone walls must be very thick. He climbed the stairs to the first floor where a glass-panelled door with black lettering on it informed him that he’d come to the right place.
The door made him think of the offices of private detectives in American films of the fifties. He opened it and entered an outer office, half expecting to find Mickey Spillane sitting there with his feet on the desk, loading bullets into his gun, but instead found a plump middle-aged woman typing at a computer keyboard. Chloe Phelps, as the plastic plate on her desk proclaimed her to be, wore a thick black cardigan over a fine-mesh, mauve sweater that emphasised the rolls of fat around her middle. She sported lipstick that clashed violently with her sweater and wore spectacles that seemed to have been glazed with the high strength material they constructed aquariums from. An old fashioned brown kettle sat on a small gas ring on the shelf behind her and a cream doughnut lay on a plate by her side. Above her a large wooden clock was mounted on the wall; Gordon could here it ticking when she stopped typing.
Gordon said who he was.
Miss Phelps took a bite of her doughnut and said with her mouth full, ‘Mr Roberts is expecting you. Just go straight in.’ She used the doughnut to indicate the general direction of the door he should use before taking another large bite.