‘Whatever you’re after, I wouldn’t bother. Won’t give you the time of day, that one.’
I gave a non-committal smile as I started over to my car, not wanting to be drawn into a conversation. The woman didn’t take the hint.
‘You social services?’
‘No.’ But I slowed. ‘Why?’
She took a drag of her cigarette, eyeing me through the smoke. ‘It’s about time somebody did something. It’s not right, her keeping her son at home like he is. He should be in somewhere, the state he’s in. You can smell the stink out here.’
I glanced at Lola’s house. The blinds appeared shut but I still moved further down the street so I was out of earshot and view. ‘How long has he been like that?’
She gave a shrug. ‘No idea. I’ve lived here nearly a year and he was like it when I moved in. Only time I’ve seen him was not long after, when she’d got him out in a wheelchair. Poor bastard. They should shoot me if I end up like that.’
It was said without any real feeling.
‘Does anyone come to help them? Another son or daughter?’
‘Not that I’ve seen. Can’t blame them, though, can you? Sour-faced old bitch. I asked what was wrong with him once and she told me to mind my own business. Gave me a right mouthful. I didn’t ask again, I can tell you that.’ She looked me up and down, tapping the cigarette thoughtfully in her fingers. ‘So if you’re not social services, who are you? A doctor or something?’
‘Something like that.’ It wasn’t a lie, and it saved long-winded explanations.
‘Thought so. Got that look about you.’ She sounded pleased with herself. ‘Son taken a turn, has he? I’m not surprised, with someone like her looking after him. Rather him than me, after what she did.’
It was said in such an arch way it was an obvious invitation. I didn’t want to ask, but curiosity won.
‘What did she do?’
The woman smirked. ‘She tell you she used to be a nurse?’
‘Yes, she did.’
‘Did she tell you she got the sack as well?’
The neighbour was watching me, gauging my reaction. ‘Sacked for what?’
‘She was lucky she wasn’t thrown in prison, from what I’ve heard.’ She took another drag on her cigarette, enjoying herself. ‘They reckon she killed a kid.’
Chapter 12
I drove past St Jude’s after I left Lola’s. It wasn’t far, and I wanted to see what impact Oduya’s leak had made. The previous evening there had been hardly any journalists outside, and it wouldn’t have been the rain that kept them away. With no further developments to sustain it, media interest had begun to die down.
But Oduya had changed all that. The gates outside St Jude’s were once again surrounded by press vans and journalists. Not as many as when the victims’ bodies had first been found, but enough to show interest in the story had taken a definite upswing. Some of them had spilled on to the road, forcing me to slow as I drove by. It was as well I did. Coming from the opposite direction, a young man in a hooded sweatshirt was walking on the pavement towards them. He’d turned his head to stare, obviously more interested in the TV cameras than where he was going, and in one of those half-intuited moments I knew what was going to happen.
I’d already started to brake when he stepped off the kerb. Even so, it was a close thing. He was right in front of me, and if I hadn’t already slowed I would have hit him. As it was, I was rocked against the seatbelt, my flight case thudding over in the boot as the car came to a sudden halt. The youth stood frozen in the road, his hooded face washed with shock as he stared at the car that had suddenly appeared. Then his expression changed.
‘Watch where you’re fucking going, prick!’
He seemed about to launch a kick at my car before remembering the police across the road. Giving them a furtive glance, he put his head down and hurried off.
The near-miss had shaken me as well. My heart was bumping as I moved into gear and pulled away. The commotion had drawn the attention of the nearest journalists. Conscious of their stares, I didn’t look back as I drove down the road.
I didn’t want to give them any more headlines.
As St Jude’s disappeared in the rear-view mirror, I thought over what had happened back at Lola’s. Her neighbour had clearly enjoyed spreading the rumour that she’d been sacked after a child in her care had died, but it was quickly apparent that she didn’t know any more than that. If there was even anything to know: I’d once been a victim of malicious gossip myself and knew how easily it can stick, regardless of whether it was true or not.
Yet Lola had told me she used to be a nurse. And just because I didn’t like the way some people revelled in spreading slander, it didn’t mean there couldn’t be a kernel of truth in it sometimes.
It was an unlooked-for complication, especially after seeing the squalid conditions Lola and her son were existing in. It was clear she was struggling to look after him on her own and, while I didn’t want to interfere, her wish for independence had to be balanced against his welfare. I might not be a doctor any more, but now I’d seen how Lola and her son were living I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t.
The question was, what to do about it?
It was a relief to step inside the cool, clinical quiet of the mortuary. Here at least I had some control over what was going on. I signed in and changed into scrubs, switching my phone to silent before putting it into an inside pocket. If I was carrying out particularly demanding work I would often leave my phone in the locker. But today’s task should be relatively routine, and I didn’t want to be out of touch.
I knew Ward would be trying to get hold of me.
I checked on the delicate foetal bones first. Even though there had been precious little soft tissue remaining, it would take several days of soaking in plain water for the last of it to dissolve and fall away. But examining them was only a formality. There was nothing to indicate that the mother had been stabbed or suffered some other physical trauma that could have left its mark on the tiny bones. Inside the womb, her unborn infant would have been protected from whatever final moments its mother had endured.
At least until she’d died.
Changing the water the bones were soaking in each day was as much as I could do to speed the process along. I did that now, then turned my attention to the mother. The overnight maceration, simmering gently in a weak detergent solution, had effectively removed tissue and grease from her disarticulated bones. Pulling on a pair of elbow-length rubber gloves, I set about the next stage.
As a piece of biological engineering, bone puts manmade constructions to shame. The smooth exterior is made from layers called lamellar bone, within which is a honeycomb structure known as trabecular bone. This serves to strengthen without adding weight. In longer bones, such as those of the arms and legs, the hollow centre — or medullary cavity — is filled with bone marrow, the fatty tissue responsible for producing blood cells. It’s a masterpiece of structural design which, when viewed under a microscope, reveals an even more intricate world.
I’d carry out a full examination later when I reassembled the woman’s bones in their correct anatomical positions. That didn’t mean I couldn’t make an initial assessment now. Lifting the dripping skull from the pan where it had been macerating, I rinsed it off in clean water. It gave little clue of the person it had once been. Bone might form the underlying framework, but it’s the skin and muscles that give our faces animation and character. Without them the skull is only a calcium relic.