‘Hello, Helen,’ he said. ‘A pleasant surprise.’
At the mention of the name, Dee’s head swung round, eyes burning into him, as if she could see the woman on the other end of the phone. She knew who it was.
‘Jeff’s dead,’ said Helen Hibbert.
‘So I heard,’ said Sloane. ‘My condolences.’
‘You know why I’m calling. I have to see you. I’m coming round.’
Sloane mustered a smile. ‘Of course, Helen. Always a pleasure.’
The phone went dead. He handed it back to the house slave, who left the room. Dee was still staring at him.
‘Let’s hope,’ he said, ‘that it’s not too late for all this damage limitation.’
The other two said nothing.
53
The fog was lifting. Not nearly enough for the sun to appear, but just enough for Mickey to make out the tall, cadaverous shape of pathologist Nick Lines standing ahead of him by the second tent. He looked like a ghost, or the Grim Reaper, ready to carry dead souls over to the afterlife. He beckoned to Mickey, entered the tent. Mickey couldn’t shake the feeling that by following Lines, he was stepping out of one world and into another.
And in a sense he was. Phil Brennan, after a few too many beers, had once explained it to him.
‘The ordinary world,’ he had said, ‘the normal, everyday world, the nine-to-five, alarm clock, EastEnders of an evening and dinner out on a Saturday world, is the one that most people inhabit. But that’s not for us, Mickey. Not for us.’
Mickey had listened, thinking that if nothing else, he’d have a good story to tell the rest of the team the next morning about what the boss had come out with when he was drunk.
‘We stand on the threshold,’ Phil had continued. ‘We’re the gatekeepers to the other world. Where the dead live, the raped, the mutilated … the abandoned. The blind, the voiceless. The real world doesn’t want to know, Mickey. They don’t want to be reminded that it exists. Because if they knew, if they really, really knew what it was like … they wouldn’t be able to get up the next morning.’
Mickey had listened. Nodded.
‘And it’s our job — you, me, Anni, the rest of the team … our job to make sure the two worlds never collide. Or hardly ever. And we do that … you know how we do that?’
Mickey had said he didn’t.
‘We do that by giving a voice to the voiceless. By speaking up for them. The murdered, the raped, the mutilated. The victims. We give them a voice. We find who did this to them.’ He had taken another drink. Found his glass empty. ‘MIS. Major Incidents. Doesn’t begin to cover it. We’re the gatekeepers, Mickey. All that stands between one world and the next. Never forget that, Mickey. Never forget that.’
And Mickey hadn’t. He hadn’t gone into work the next day and made jokes about what the boss had come out with when he was drunk. He had gone on his next case — a double murder of teenage twin girls — remembering Phil’s words. Acting on them. When he finally amassed enough evidence against their killer — their father — and charged him, leading to a successful conviction, those words had come back to him. And there was nothing funny or ridiculous about them. Just an honest job description of what he did.
So when he stepped across the threshold of the white tent, he was prepared for what awaited him. Nick Lines was already there, staring down at the sight before him.
‘There,’ Lines said, accompanied by a quick wrist-flick gesture, in case Mickey was in any doubt as to what he was referring. ‘Down there.’
Mickey looked. It had once been a man. And his death hadn’t been easy. His face was swollen, dark. His eyes wide and staring, dotted and streaked with leaked blood from burst capillaries.
‘Cerebral hypoxia,’ said Nick Lines.
‘You mean he was strangled. Choked.’
Lines didn’t answer. He wasn’t given to wasting time on unnecessary words. His dismissive manner and haughty attitude always made Mickey feel inferior. He was fairly sure it was a pose the pathologist had worked up, a mask he had initially worn to hide his own all-too-human reactions to his work. But like most masks worn for any length of time, instead of hiding the wearer, the wearer had grown into it.
Nick Lines was kneeling down, studying the corpse.
‘Contusions to the neck … major bruising either side of the trachea … abrasions, scratches from fingernails … ’ He looked up at Mickey. ‘I’d say you’re looking for a very strong man with very large hands.’
‘Large hands?’
‘He was strangled with only one hand. With quite a wide span. He got both carotid arteries. If the lack of oxygen didn’t kill our boy, the cardiac arrest would have.’ He straightened up. ‘So he’s got at least one large hand. Although in my experience, I’ve found this sort generally carry two.’
‘Not always.’ If it wasn’t Nick’s erudition that made Mickey feel inferior, his attempts at humour always made him defensive.
‘True. Although I think in this case we can assume that.’ He glanced round at the ground covered by the tent. Forensics had made a thorough examination of it. ‘There was a fight here. One on one. And by the way blows were traded, it’s clear that both participants had two arms. Although … ’ He knelt down once more. Pointed to an area of earth that had been heavily sampled. ‘Blood in the soil. Been taken for analysis. Shame. Nitrogen, calcium and phosphorous. Very good fertiliser. If they’d left it, they’d have lovely cauliflowers.’
Mickey said nothing. He could find no words with which to reply to that. Instead he said, ‘Time of death?’
‘Hard to say without a full post-mortem. But given the rate of lividity and the weather conditions, I’d say within twenty-four hours. Possibly less.’
‘Thanks. Any idea who he was? Why he was here?’
Nick Lines didn’t even look at him as he spoke. ‘I just do the biology. Metaphysics is your job.’
‘Thanks, Nick.’
‘Any time.’ Nick Lines straightened up, the remains of a playful smile fading from his lips. ‘I will say one thing. It’s the same chap who did those two dogs over there. No doubt about that. Same degree of strength, same area of the body attacked. The throat. The neck. Such a small, weak area for such an important job.’
‘Does that tell us anything about him?’
Nick Lines shrugged. ‘Well if you wanted me to do your job for you, I’d tell you that he had done this before. Or is probably a professional, given that he knew what to go for and where to target.’
‘A hit man?’
Lines shook his head. ‘Sorry. You’ve run out of questions. You’ll have to find your answers elsewhere.’
Mickey prepared to leave. With his opinion of Nick Lines unchanged and relieved to be leaving the man behind.
Before he could go, Lines stopped him. He looked straight at Mickey. Addressed him directly. ‘How is he?’
Mickey knew who he was talking about.
‘No change, last I heard. I’m sure they’ll let us know when there’s some news.’
Nick Lines nodded. Sighed. ‘Always difficult when it’s one of our own, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah,’ said Mickey. ‘It is.’
It was the first time he had felt he was on the same side as Nick Lines.
54
Tyrell opened his eyes and found he wasn’t where he had expected to be.
No grey walls, no barred windows. No thin sheet over the top of him. Nothing familiar, nothing safe. Just light all around. Cramp growing like plant roots within him.
He tried to uncoil himself, straighten, sit up. His back screamed out as he did so, fighting to stop him. He lay back down again. Looked round. Tried to orient himself. His neck hurt. He saw daylight through windows. Trees. Mist. Felt the fog in his bones, the cold, his muscles cramped and seized. Then he remembered.