Colin Ray’s head was full of the Chief Constable’s admonitions. Look among the lowlife of Port Glasgow and Greenock, he’d been told. See if there have been any other fire incidents. But above all, Ray thought to himself, don’t look among Sir Ian’s crowd for a possible enemy because, according to the Chief Constable, he simply didn’t have any. He was being warned off, Ray thought. In any other circumstances he’d be the first to dig into the victim’s background for a possible motive. But it suited him to play this one to the Chief Constable’s tune.
A vision of Grace’s wasted face smiling came to him then: some things were far more important.
‘Sir Ian and Lady Jackson’s children are here to talk to you,’ Emma whispered to Rosie as she emerged from the shower.
‘Ask them to wait in the lounge, will you? And see if they want tea. Thanks, Em.’ Rosie nodded. She sighed heavily. This was one of the most horrible bits of her job. Performing post-mortems was a doddle compared to having to deal with the bereaved. Still, it had to be done and she’d have to find something to tell these kids.
Two faces looked up at the consultant pathologist as she entered the room reserved for relatives of the deceased. Rosie was surprised; the man and woman who sat there regarding her solemnly were not as young as she had expected them to be. The chap might be in his late twenties, the sister a little younger, though it was hard to tell through the huge dark glasses the woman was wearing.
‘Doctor Fergusson.’ Rosie extended her hand, bending down only a little towards the girl. The man was on his feet at once, good manners overriding any semblance of grief.
‘Daniel Jackson,’ he replied, taking Rosie’s hand in a firm grip, then letting it go. ‘My sister, Serena,’ he added, glancing to the woman who sat very still on the couch, her head averted from them as if she was trying to hide her emotions.
Rosie breathed in hard. Daniel Jackson should have been introduced to her under some other circumstances, just so she could feast her eyes on this specimen of perfect manhood. A little under six feet, she thought, and standing so straight that he might have been an off-duty guardsman. Her first impression was of brown: soft reddish-brown hair, eyes the colour of caramels; and that expensive looking alpaca coat and these narrow brogues (handmade?) shining like polished conkers. Soft, brown, understated, but class, Rosie thought, searching for an adequate word to describe Daniel Jackson. Handsome didn’t do justice to that oval face, its lightly tanned complexion suggesting he’d come straight off the ski slopes. Tom Cruise without the twinkle in his eyes, Rosie decided. Taller and less rugged than the American actor; this one was smooth and calm, even under the present circumstances.
‘My parents… our parents…’ Daniel immediately corrected himself as his sister looked up sharply at him. ‘May we see them?’
Rosie hesitated. It was such a normal reaction for the bereaved to want to see the last mortal remains of their loved ones, but surely they both knew what was in store for them? And did the girl really want to go through with this? Again her head was bowed, the long blonde hair covering a pale profile. So, Rosie thought, not out with your brother skiing in Klosters?
‘The bodies aren’t a very happy sight, Mr Jackson,’ Rosie told him. ‘The fire damage was considerable and there are only skeletal remains.’
A thin wail from the girl confirmed to Rosie that this was one occasion when relatives should leave well alone.
‘I’d strongly advise you not to view your parents,’ Rosie said firmly. ‘Remember them as they were in life. Seeing what I have seen today is not how I think you would choose to bring them to mind.’
Daniel Jackson seemed to consider Rosie’s words, then, hunkering down to his sister’s side he asked, ‘What do you think? Shall we leave them be?’
Serena Jackson was shaking her head and Rosie felt a moment of relief. It would be okay. The girl was saying she didn’t want to go through with this after all.
But Rosie was wrong.
‘I want to see them,’ the girl told her in a voice that was surprisingly strong for one who only moments ago had shown signs of losing control. ‘I have to…’
Rosie nodded and shrugged. It was a relative’s prerogative after all and Solly had told her often enough how the bereaved could find closure by actually seeing the dead. And the family liaison officer from the police would have given them the standard information pack that did suggest viewing a body as a way of beginning to cope with grief.
‘The viewing room is through here,’ Rosie said and at once Serena Jackson was on her feet. Rosie took a step back, letting the pair out of the room. The girl was not much shorter than her brother, five-foot-ten, maybe, in those flat-heeled leather boots. A model girl’s height, Rosie thought, watching the pair walk by her side along the corridor of the mortuary. And she had the same sort of graceful gait as a model… that was the word she’d been looking for. Daniel Jackson had a natural sort of grace about him.
The viewing room was small with subdued shades of musky pink and green, deliberately chosen for their calming qualities. Beyond the glass window the Jacksons would be able to see these twin skeletons; all that remained of their mother and father, once Rosie had pulled aside the drapes.
‘Are you sure about this?’ she asked again, trying to sound brisk and authoritative. ‘It could be anyone, you know. They are so badly burned that there are no obvious identifying marks.’
Serena Jackson turned towards the consultant pathologist and drew off the dark glasses. A pair of amber-coloured eyes stared steadily at her and Rosie felt an uncomfortable sense of being weighed up under the woman’s intense scrutiny. The gaze was so unblinking that for a moment Rosie wondered if this girl had some sort of learning difficulty. More likely the poor soul’s spaced out on medication, she decided. Then Serena Jackson gave a small nod.
‘It’s good of you, but we’ll see them, if you don’t mind.’ She turned her head slightly as if to deflect any opposition from her brother, but Daniel Jackson stood impassively, staring straight ahead.
It was over in a couple of minutes, that silent trio staring at the blackened skeletons laid out on the steel tables. But in that short time, Rosie couldn’t help but wonder how much grief was being bottled up inside the young man and woman who stood gazing at the couple who had given life to them both.
‘They were conscious when they died?’ One perfect bow of an eyebrow rose as the woman spoke, her voice quiet and calm now that they were back in the lounge reserved for relatives of the bereaved.
‘It’s possible,’ admitted Rosie. ‘The smoke inhalation may have rendered them unconscious, though.’
‘You can’t tell?’ Serena Jackson shook her head as if the consultant pathologist was somehow at fault.
Rosie stiffened. She mustn’t let this young woman with the cut-glass accent get to her. ‘We don’t usually deal in definitive answers,’ she replied, choosing her words with care. ‘Whenever I’m asked to appear as an expert witness for the Crown I can only say to what extent I deem something possible.’
Serena Jackson’s strange golden-yellow eyes were watching her intently as if she needed more from Rosie.
‘They probably lost consciousness,’ she said at last, hoping that was what the woman wanted to hear.
‘They wouldn’t have suffered at all, then?’ Daniel Jackson asked, half-turning towards Rosie. The expression of hope in his voice matched the plea in his soft, brown eyes.
Rosie shook her head, a gesture that could have meant anything at all. But if Daniel Jackson wanted to think his parents hadn’t suffered during their horrendous deaths, then let him, she thought, opening the door and walking them out into the corridor.
Her goodbyes to the brother and sister were murmured and then Rosie fled back into the sanctuary of her office. ‘Thank God that’s over,’ she whispered under her breath. She heard the main door creak shut then the footsteps outside her window told her they were gone at last. Suddenly the pathologist shivered. That poor man! She tried to conjure up his handsome face again, but all that came to mind were his sister’s amber eyes searching Rosie’s expression for something she couldn’t have. Closure? That word psychologists used so much. Maybe. Grief manifested itself in so many ways. Rosie shook her head as she turned her attention to the computer screen: forget it, she told herself. You’d go mad if you dwelt on every person who came in to see their dead loved ones. But even as she scolded herself, something told Rosie that these two people deserved her pity more than most.