I was fitting my seat belt when my mobile sounded. I fished it out awkwardly from my jacket pocket. ‘Hi,’ Mia said, quietly, as I connected.
‘Hi yourself,’ I replied. ‘Shouldn’t you be getting ready to entertain my daughter and her peer group?’
‘I am. I’m in my studio now, getting my playlist and ads sorted, but before I go on air I wanted to talk to you again. That dinner we discussed… can we skip it?’
What? In that first instant, I managed to feel both disappointed and relieved at the same time. ‘Sure,’ I murmured, slowly. ‘If that’s what you want, no harm done, and maybe I’ll see you around.’
She chuckled, huskily. ‘I’d never have taken you for someone with low self-esteem where women are concerned. I didn’t mean that I didn’t want to see you again. The opposite, in fact. Can you make it back to my place tonight, once my show’s finished?’
I felt a trembling in the pit of my stomach. Nerves? Jesus Christ! ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure. Thing is, I’ve got a work commitment that could go on for a while. Plus, it’s a bit late to spring a sleepover on Daisy.’
‘Tomorrow?’
I sighed, audibly, and wondered what she’d read into that. ‘Mia, don’t you want to take time to think about this?’
‘I have done. I’ve been thinking about nothing else since you left. Tomorrow?’
Low self-esteem, no willpower. ‘Tomorrow.’
‘Seven thirty?’
‘Seven thirty.’
‘Lovely. By the way, I’m not on the pill.’
Eleven
‘A re you on the pill?’
‘Fuck me, Bob,’ Alison exclaimed; appropriately. ‘It’s a bit late to ask me. What brought that on?’
I shrugged. ‘A moment of panic?’
‘Of course I am. Do you think I’d have let you go bareback otherwise?’
‘I suppose not.’
She laughed. ‘Bloody hell! You suppose?’
Fortunately there was nobody close to us in the autopsy room, and our exchange was muffled by our surgical masks. Nevertheless Professor Hutchinson frowned at us from the other side of the examination table. ‘Pay attention in class, you two,’ he said. He tapped the microphone above his head; it was there to pick up his commentary as he worked. ‘And remember, this thing is extremely sensitive.’
I hoped we wouldn’t have to ask him to edit the tape.
‘Since you’ve just joined us, Detective Superintendent Skinner,’ he continued… a little archly, I thought, ‘I’ll recap what I told DI Higgins following the examination of the body of Albert McCann. The young man was in excellent physical health, although somewhat intoxicated at the time of his demise; he had recently consumed at least four pints of beer, India Pale Ale from its colour and odour, none of which ever made the journey to Seafield. My assistant and I found that death was due to a single upward stab wound that skewered the heart, piercing both chambers. The indication is that the attacker was either male, or an exceptionally strong woman, and right-handed.’
‘We know that,’ Alison volunteered, ‘from a statement by a surviving witness. And he says it was a man.’
He glowered at her. Joe didn’t like to be interrupted while in full flow. ‘There were twelve other wounds in total,’ he continued, ‘but we believe that these were all inflicted post mortem, and that the massive wound I have described was the first, and almost instantly fatal. The attack on this man was of the sort that usually attracts the adjective “frenzied” in the popular press. At the very least anyone who continued to attack what would have been a fairly obviously dead body with such force can be described as “determined”. Regrettably, I have seen in my career many victims with injuries similar to those of Mr McCann. Similar…’ he repeated, and his eyes twinkled, telling me that he’d been leading up to a major moment
… ‘but not identical. There is a shape, a pattern, to these wounds that I haven’t seen too often before. The weapon that inflicted them was razor-sharp in its tip and on both sides of the blade, but what makes it different is its shape. It’s broader than the norm, although to be honest the range of objects that people stick into other people seems to be expanding all the time these days.’
He stopped and looked at me. ‘Alison tells me that you believe that McCann and Mr Weir here are both victims of the same man. A little patience on your part, and I may be able to advance that theory, or knock it down.’
‘We await your findings, Joe,’ I told him, ‘enthralled.’
He went to work, and I thought about something other than what I was going to have for dinner.
‘How are you getting on with Marlon?’ Alison asked, sotto voce, as we looked on.
‘We’ve got a suspect, probably two,’ I murmured.
‘Excellent.’
‘It will be when Northumbria CID manage to find them.’
‘Are you sure they’re your men?’
‘If we’re lucky we might have a witness to place them with Watson.’ Before I’d left, I’d told Mario McGuire to take the photos of Milburn and Shackleton that had been faxed from Newcastle and show them to his pub manager pal. An identification under those circumstances might not stand up to heavy cross-examination by a defence brief, but it would be enough to let us charge them and hold them on remand.
‘Good luck.’ She looked at me. ‘Bob, is something bothering you? Something you’re keeping from me?’
I found it difficult to return her gaze. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘I don’t know, exactly, but last night, when I arrived at your place, I thought you were preoccupied.’
If it hadn’t been for the mask, my sigh of relief might have been audible. ‘I was,’ I told her. ‘I didn’t want to ruin your night with it, that was all. It was my father-in-law’s visit.’ I led her across to the furthest corner of the room and told her why Thornton had come to see us.
When I was finished, she took my arm, and hugged it. ‘Oh Bob,’ she sighed, ‘that’s awful. The poor chap.’
‘There’s more,’ I said. ‘I’m in a real dilemma.’ I explained Thornie’s view about keeping it from Alex until it was all over. ‘I agreed,’ I added, ‘but now I’m not so sure.’
‘Nor should you be,’ she said, firmly. ‘You don’t have the right to do that. Neither does her grandfather.’
‘But Ali, love, she’s so young,’ I protested.
‘Jesus Christ, Bob,’ she spluttered behind her mask. ‘Emotionally, she’s older than you are. Do you think she isn’t ready to deal with death? Is that it? The girl lost her mother when she was barely school age. Yet now she’s one of the best adjusted, most mature thirteen-year-olds that I’ve ever met. She’s faced her tragedy and she’s come to terms with it… which, perhaps, is more than you have.’ Her forehead was wrinkled with concern as she spoke. She really was a good woman, better than I’d appreciated, and better than I deserved; suddenly a randy night with Mia Sparkles seemed less of an imperative. ‘You’re very close to him, aren’t you?’ she said.
‘Truthfully? Closer than I was to my own dad.’
‘Then this is going to affect you just as much as it does Alex, and probably more. You helped her to deal with her mother’s death. Now it’s her turn to help you.’
I smiled at her, but she probably didn’t realise because of the damn mask. ‘Thanks.’
‘Any time.’ She paused. ‘Have you got next weekend planned?’
‘Are you kidding?’ I replied. ‘I don’t have tonight’s dinner planned. Why?’
‘I was wondering; would you like to go crewing?’
‘Say that again?’
‘Crewing, Bob, crewing.’ She shook her head. ‘Bloody men! Have you ever done any sailing?’ she went on.
‘Cross-Channel ferries; that’s all. Boats are not my thing.’
‘In that case… the thing is, my brother Eden has a yacht. He keeps it at Inverkip Marina. It’s quite a big boat and sometimes I help him with it. He’s asked me if I’ll go out with him next weekend. Would you and Alex like to come?’