Chapter 18
The woman was a shadow surrounded by sunlight. Motes of dust floated in the air around her, barely moving flecks of light. I could only see her silhouette in the doorway, but I knew who she was. The knowledge froze my heart. Slowly, her face gained form and feature as she came nearer. Long, raven hair. Dark eyebrows above dead eyes and skin white as bone. Her beauty was terrifying. I wanted to scream, to run.
I couldn’t move.
The full mouth was parted in a smile as she leaned towards me. I could smell her scent, a subtle, spiced musk. Her breath feathered against my skin as she put her lips to my ear.
‘Hello, David.’
She was closer now, staring at me with a gaze so empty it burned. Knowing what was about to happen, I watched helplessly as she took out the knife. Its blade caught the sunlight.
‘You let me go,’ Grace said, and slid the knife into my stomach…
I jerked awake with a cry. A ghost-odour of musk and spice seemed to linger, but it was gone even as I searched for it. Gasping for breath, my heart thudded as I stared into the shadows in the bedroom. Outside the window it was still dark, but enough light came from the street below for me to see that the room was empty. I sagged, the tension draining from me.
Christ. What the hell brought that on? The glowing numerals of the bedside clock showed it was after five. Knowing I’d slept all I was going to, I threw back the duvet and stood up. Night-sweat cooled on my skin as I padded over to the window and looked down. The fire engine had gone, but there was still a faint odour of smoke in the air.
That was probably what had triggered the nightmare.
It was the first time in several days I’d had the dream, and I’d begun to think I’d left it behind. I passed my hand over my face, shaky with adrenaline. Dawn wasn’t far off. Even as I stood there, a bird began singing from one of the trees outside. Within moments it had been joined by others, nature’s chorus announcing a new day.
My feet sank into the thick-pile carpet as I went into the en suite bathroom and turned on the shower. I stayed under the steaming jet until the last vestiges of the dream had been sluiced away, then made sure by running the water cold for a few seconds.
Feeling more awake, I switched on the radio as I made breakfast. Scrambled eggs and toast, with coffee. I considered making an effort with the elaborate coffee machine but soon lost interest: instant was fine.
The memory of what had happened with Mears the night before continued to rankle, but less than it had. When it came down to it, I’d done it more for the investigation — and Ward — than him. Even so, once was enough. If he fouled up again he was on his own.
Rain beat against the window as I ate at the granite kitchen island. I still had the grainy, out-of-sorts feeling that comes from too little sleep, but I felt better when I’d eaten. And my mood improved more when there was no mention of St Jude’s on the morning news. The story had obviously dropped from the cycle, which was no bad thing.
A muddy day was dawning outside as I washed my breakfast dishes. It was still early so I made myself another coffee while I considered what to do. It was too soon to hear when the search operation would resume, but it was unlikely to be that morning. Perhaps not even the following week, either. It all depended on how widespread the asbestos was and how quickly it could be made safe so we could go back into the hospital. Not long, I hoped: Jessop wasn’t the only one who’d be frustrated by any more delays.
I could go into the department later, but since I had an unexpectedly free morning I might as well use it. The situation with Lola and her son had been preying on my mind ever since my last visit. They clearly needed help from somewhere, but I still hadn’t settled on how to go about it. Lola wouldn’t welcome any interference from me or anyone else, and I was reluctant to simply report them to social services. But she was clearly struggling to cope with her ill son on her own, and at her age that wasn’t going to get any better.
Then there was the neighbour’s story. The more I’d thought about it, the less credible it seemed, but it was something else that had been nagging at me. Another visit might help me decide if it was worth mentioning to Ward or not.
Assuming Lola would let me in.
The street of boarded-up terraces was even more dismal in the overcast morning. It wasn’t raining but the air felt damp and the heavy clouds turned day into a grey twilight. I parked on the road outside Lola’s house. There was light leaking through the slats of the window blind, so at least I knew she was home. It was possible she’d left it on for her son while she went out, but she hadn’t bothered on the rainy evening when I’d given her a lift home. I had the feeling she’d view that as a waste of electricity.
As I climbed out of the car I glanced over at the neighbour’s house. No lights or signs of life there, which was a pity. I’d have liked the chance to talk to her again.
I went to Lola’s and knocked on the glossy front door, keeping my eyes on the window blind. Sure enough, after a few seconds the slats shifted as someone peered out. I held up the brown paper bag I was carrying, hoping curiosity would counter any inclination to leave me standing outside.
The slats closed, but nothing else happened. I looked up and down the semi-derelict street, telling myself this had always been a fool’s errand. I raised my hand to knock again when I heard the latch being turned. The front door opened a few inches and then Lola’s unfriendly face appeared over the chain.
‘What do you want?’
‘I brought you this.’ I showed her the brown paper bag again.
She peered at it through the door, scowling. ‘What is it?’
I opened the bag, not so much to let her see as smell what was inside. ‘It’s a roast chicken.’
I’d stopped off at an up-market delicatessen near Ballard Court. The prices were geared more to the neighbourhood’s well-heeled residents than a relocated forensic anthropologist, but I’d shopped there a few times with Rachel. As well as artisan cheeses and cured meats, there was a glass-encased rotisserie on which slow-basted chickens turned, fresh each morning. The smell filled the street, and it had occurred to me that virtually all of Lola’s shopping had been processed or canned. Certainly nothing like the still-warm chicken she could smell now.
I saw her nostrils twitch as the savoury odour of roast meat reached them. I wasn’t proud of trying to manipulate an old woman, but I told myself it was in a good cause. Of course, she might just take it and shut the door in my face. In which case I’d at least know she and her son had some decent food.
She looked at the paper bag again. Then the door closed and I heard the ratchet of the chain being undone. It opened again, wider this time, and Lola reached out to take the carrier.
‘Can I come in?’ I asked, keeping hold of it.
She glared at me, but her eyes kept going to the bag. ‘What for?’
I risked a smile. ‘A cup of tea would be nice.’
I waited for the door to slam. It didn’t. The small eyes scrutinized me, then Lola turned back inside, leaving it open. I followed before she could change her mind.
The fug of human waste and unwashed flesh enveloped me. Music was coming from an ancient CD player on the sideboard, some sort of faux-classical piano that competed with the slow ticking of the clock to set my teeth on edge. The house was as grimly chaotic as I remembered, a single overhead bulb giving off a sickly light that somehow made the stiflingly hot room seem cold.
The man in the single bed was watching me, his face slack but his eyes alert. There were flecks of food caught in his beard, while the plastic infants’ cup, with a lid and non-spill spout, lay empty on the rumpled sheets. At the foot of the bed, the framed photographs of the boy he used to be stood facing him on the cabinet like a premature shrine.