‘Christ, don’t do that!’ he said, putting a hand on his chest. ‘What’re you doing down here?’
‘I took the wrong turn.’
My own heart was thumping, but the feeling I’d had by the old morgue was fading already. We set off along the passageway.
‘They said in the boiler room you’d gone upstairs, but I didn’t pass you on my way down, so I figured you’d wandered off,’ Whelan said.
‘I was going to get some fresh air.’
He slowed. ‘Look, I heard what happened back there. The boss… she’s under a lot of pressure. Don’t take it personally.’
This was another surprise. Whelan wasn’t exactly apologizing for Ward, but it came close. ‘Is she serious about bringing in Mears?’
‘She was just letting off steam. This morning we thought we’d had a break with Lennox. Now that’s bogged down over the bloody fingerprints, among other things, and we’ve found another victim.’ The DI’s tone changed. ‘Trust me, she won’t be letting Mears anywhere near this.’
We’d reached the junction in the passageway where I’d gone wrong before. Floodlights ran off towards the boiler room on one side, and towards the stairs on the other. I turned to face Whelan, wondering what he’d meant by that last statement.
But he’d clammed up again. ‘Go and get yourself a cup of tea, then come and finish up down here. It’s been a long day.’
Leaving me with that, he headed off down the passageway.
It took several more hours to sift through the rest of the ashes in the boiler. By the time we’d done only pale smears remained on the metal base, like a dusting of chalk. The bones we’d recovered had been taken to the mortuary. Parekh would be carrying out a post-mortem on them the following morning, or at least as much of one as was possible with so little to go on. With luck, I’d have a chance to examine them as well.
Assuming Whelan was right and Ward didn’t ask Mears to do it instead.
From what I’d seen, I didn’t expect the bones to tell us very much. But we had recovered one item that might. Although there was no skull, we did find a melted dental prosthesis buried among the ashes. It was a partial dental palate, a twisted lump of blackened plastic and metal to which the stubs of broken-off porcelain teeth were still attached. There was no sign of the teeth themselves and, although it was a potentially important find, without the jaw to match it to we couldn’t be certain it belonged to the victim. For all we knew it could have found its way into the boiler after being lost or discarded by another owner.
I didn’t think so, though. Like the bones, it wasn’t damaged enough to have been subjected to the heat of a working coal boiler. The higher temperature would have vaporized the plastic and shattered the porcelain. These appeared to have been snapped off rather than shattered, and while the palate was badly deformed it hadn’t been subjected to that sort of heat. That pointed towards it being the victim’s, which could be a significant factor when it came to identifying the remains.
It was late by the time we’d finished. Whelan was right: it had been a long day. As I pulled through the electric gates at Ballard Court, I was debating whether to make myself a late supper or settle for a drink and an early night. I’d had a pre-packaged sandwich earlier at St Jude’s, a tired affair of limp lettuce and tasteless cheese masquerading as a ploughman’s, so bourbon and sleep were winning when I noticed one of my neighbours by his car.
Only the apartments on the first floor and above had underground car parking. The rest had spaces in the grounds. I didn’t know the neighbour’s name, although I’d nodded to him once or twice. He was bending over by the driver’s side of his car, a much newer and higher-spec version of the 4x4 I drove myself.
‘Everything OK?’ I asked, slowing and winding down my window.
‘Some swine’s keyed it.’ His voice was tight with anger. ‘Both doors, right through to the metal!’
‘Kids?’ I asked, thinking back to what the fire officer had told me when the bins had been set alight.
‘Or someone living here. The whole place has been going downhill ever since we allowed apartments to be sublet. If I could get my hands on whoever…’
I said something vaguely sympathetic and left him to it. By the time I’d parked and taken the lift up to my apartment, the question of what I was going to do had resolved itself. Pouring myself a glass of bourbon, I decided I’d had enough news for one day. Instead I turned on the sound system and sank into the leather armchair.
I’d barely sat down when the intercom sounded.
I put my head back and closed my eyes. If this was my neighbour wanting to complain some more… With a sigh, I went into the hallway and pressed the intercom button. The night-time concierge’s accented voice came out of the speaker grille.
‘I have a DCI Ward to see you.’
This really would get the neighbours grumbling, I thought, looking at my watch. It was almost midnight, and I’d no idea why Ward might be calling so late. Telling the concierge to send her up, I opened the front door and waited, watching the lift at the end of the hall corridor apprehensively. I’d put what she’d said earlier about bringing in Mears down to frustration: now I began to wonder.
The lift chimed and then its doors opened. Ward came out, mackintosh draped open and bag slung carelessly over her shoulder. She looked exhausted as she stopped in front of the door.
‘Do I get to come in, or aren’t we talking?’
I stood back to let her inside. She slipped off her shoes in the hallway.
‘God, I’d forgotten how thick this carpet is. It’s softer than my bed,’ she said, wriggling her toes in the pile.
Ward had visited the apartment when I’d first moved in, to approve the security arrangements when it seemed Grace Strachan might have re-emerged. As we went through into the open-plan kitchen and dining room, I felt embarrassment as I saw her taking in the opulent surroundings.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ I asked.
‘I’d kill for a gin.’ She gave a tired smile. ‘Joke. Well, not really, but I’ll settle for anything decaf. Fruit tea, chamomile. Water’s fine if not.’
‘I think there’s some mint tea.’ There had been a packet in a cupboard when I’d moved in, but I didn’t think the owner would miss one sachet.
‘Perfect.’ She sat down at the dining table, lowering herself into a chair with a sigh. ‘Sorry to be calling so late. I was on my way home, so… Look, I shouldn’t have bitten your head off like I did earlier. It was unprofessional and unfair, so I wanted to clear the air.’
I switched on the kettle. ‘You didn’t have to come here to do that. You could have phoned or waited till tomorrow.’
‘I wanted to say it in person. And I’d rather get it out of the way. It’s one less thing to keep me awake.’ She sounded as tired as she looked.
‘Tough night?’ I asked.
‘Tough day. And to cap it off, I’ve just come from an interview with Luke Gorski. We’ve found out why he threw up the other day at St Jude’s.’
I paused, a teabag in my hand. ‘Please don’t tell me he was involved in his sister’s death.’
‘No, thank God, nothing like that. Not directly, anyway. But he’s admitted he gave Christine money for a final fix before she went into rehab. She promised him it was the last time, that she just needed something to see her through until she checked in. The idiot believed her. Still, at least we know now what she was doing at St Jude’s.’