Ward had done her best to smile, but she wasn’t in a joking mood. ‘That’s very gracious of you, Mr Oduya…’
‘Adam. You can call me Adam.’
But that was going too far. She’d nodded, sidestepping the invitation. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, but I’ve got to see how Luke Gorski is.’
‘Of course. I’ll be there myself in a second.’
Ward clearly hadn’t liked the idea of leaving him with me, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. Giving me a warning look, she’d headed back towards where a paramedic was helping the teenager to his feet.
‘Heartbreaking, isn’t it?’ Oduya had said, looking over. ‘This was bad enough for them without this.’
‘They shouldn’t have come.’
I didn’t try to keep the accusation from my voice. Oduya nodded heavily.
‘I agree. I tried to talk them out of it. Tomas didn’t want to, and you can see what it’s done to Luke. But Sandra insisted, and I’m not going to argue with a mother whose daughter’s been murdered.’ It had been his turn to look at me. ‘Anyway, thanks for what you did back there. I saw you trying to stop Jessop.’
‘Not very effectively. That was quite a move you pulled.’
He gave a shrug. ‘In my line of work it pays to know how to defend yourself.’
We’d watched as Luke Gorski was led, weakly protesting, to a waiting ambulance. ‘Has he taken it hard?’ I’d asked.
‘Very. I think even his parents are surprised at how it’s affected him. He and his sister don’t seem to have been particularly close.’
Death could do that. Sometimes you only realized how much someone meant when it was too late.
‘This isn’t the right time, but there is something else I’d like to talk to you about,’ Oduya had gone on. ‘If I give you my word it’s nothing to do with this case, would it be OK to call you to discuss it?’
I’d just been starting to let my guard down: now it snapped back up. ‘So you could quote me as a known and trusted source again, you mean?’
He hadn’t flinched. ‘I did what I had to, I’m not going to apologize for that. And whether you meant to or not, your reaction did confirm the pregnancy. I’d do the same thing again if it meant a missing young woman’s family could know what happened to her.’
He’d had a point. Although Christine Gorski would have been identified before much longer anyway, Oduya’s intervention had ended her parents’ uncertainty sooner. Even so, although I couldn’t blame his motives, I still didn’t like being used. ‘Like you said, this isn’t the time.’
‘No, of course.’ He’d given me a regretful smile. ‘Perhaps later, then.’
It would be much later, if I had anything to do with it. Oduya’s motives might be laudable, and it was hard to argue with results. But for him the end would always justify the means.
That made him a hard man to trust.
By the time I’d made a statement about the Jessop incident it had been late afternoon. There was no question of going back inside St Jude’s. The entire search operation had been suspended because of the asbestos and wouldn’t be resumed until the building was declared safe. I might not relish spending time inside the old hospital, but I didn’t welcome yet another delay. First the loft, now the basement.
St Jude’s sprang traps from every angle.
It had been too early to go back to Ballard Court, so with nothing better to do I’d called into the university. I hadn’t checked my emails since that morning, and when I did I found another one waiting from Francis Scott-Hayes. The freelance journalist was becoming a nuisance, I’d thought, deleting it. Other than that, it was all routine stuff. Anything was better than spending an evening alone at Ballard Court, though, and it had only been when my stomach started growling that I’d reluctantly called it a day.
The reason for my restlessness wasn’t only work. The truth was I missed Rachel. We’d both known she’d be out of touch for days and possibly longer, but her absence was starting to gnaw at me. I’d grown used to her being a part of my life. For the last couple of months we’d virtually lived together, rarely been apart for more than a couple of days at most. Knowing she was there had made the soulless apartment more bearable. For the first time in years I’d begun to think in terms of we rather than I.
Now I was having to get used to being on my own again.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself. She has a job to do. And so do you. Finishing the omelette and beer, I saw it was almost time for the late news. I washed and put away my few dishes, then took one of the ridiculously heavy crystal tumblers from a cupboard and poured myself a bourbon. I’d taken to drinking the occasional glass of Blanton’s in memory of an old friend and had brought a bottle with me to the apartment. There was an extensive — and expensive — drinks cabinet, and the owner had said I could help myself. But that wouldn’t have felt right. I was only there because Ward felt my own flat wasn’t safe and, while I was grateful to Jason for arranging it, I didn’t want to make myself too comfortable. Not when I didn’t plan on staying.
Settling into one of the deep leather armchairs, I turned on the TV. St Jude’s was again featured on the news, but it had slipped down the headlines. There was footage of the Gorskis being driven through the hospital gateway, their faces pallid ovals behind the smoked glass of the car, but it wasn’t the lead story. No mention was made of the incident with Jessop, but that had taken place inside the hospital grounds, well away from media scrutiny. To his credit, Oduya evidently hadn’t told the press, although I thought that was more from consideration for Christine Gorski’s family than for the police.
Ward would still be relieved.
When the segment on St Jude’s had finished, I remembered my bourbon. I reached for the glass and almost knocked it over as my phone rang. Hoping it might be Rachel, even though I wasn’t expecting to hear from her again so soon, I quickly picked up. The number wasn’t one I recognized, though.
‘Is that Dr Hunter?’
The voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Disappointment made me irritable. ‘Who’s this?’
‘It’s, er, it’s Daniel Mears.’
Mears? I couldn’t think why the forensic taphonomist would be calling, let alone so late. ‘What can I do for you?’
I heard him breathing. ‘It doesn’t matter. Forget it.’
‘No, wait,’ I said, before he could ring off. Now I really was curious. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing’s wrong.’ The arrogance was back. And just as quickly gone again. ‘Not as such, it’s just… Could you come out to the mortuary?’
‘You mean now?’
‘Yes, I mean—’ He stopped himself. ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’
Any thoughts of bourbon or an early night were forgotten. I sat up. ‘Why, what’s happened?’
There was silence. Finally, Mears found his voice.
‘I need your help.’
Chapter 17
Mortuaries are strange places even during daytime. At night they take on a character all their own. Not because there’s anything profoundly different then. There are few windows: for obvious reasons, most rely on artificial lighting. And, like hospitals, mortuaries are a twenty-four-hour business.
Yet, for all that, I’ve always felt that something still changes. Never noisy or bustling even at their busiest, at night mortuaries slow even more. The quiet that descends has a different quality, pensive and more hushed. Weighted, almost. The awareness of the silent dead who inhabit the building, their bodies laid out on metal tables or stored in cold, dark cabinets, seems heightened. Perhaps it’s a primitive response to the fall of night coupled with the proximity of death which, on some instinctive level, we still baulk at. Or an effect of our body-clock running down as we approach the small hours, a psychological and physiological protest at the disruption to its natural, diurnal rhythm.