‘There were powder burns on his lips and tongue’ Rafferty added. ‘The bullet took out three of his back teeth on its way through.’
Talbot chewed another square of chocolate.
‘One of the ambulance men pulled part of it out of the wall behind where he was sitting’ the DS added.
‘Any family?’ Talbot asked.
‘A wife. She’d just found out she’s pregnant. Apparently Parriam was over the moon about it.’
‘So happy he blew his brains out’ Talbot mused, looking at a third photo. ‘Has official identification been made?’
‘They took the body to Guy’s. His wife identified it. They’ve taken her back home now, she’s sedated.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘She left his personal effects at the hospital.’
Talbot looked puzzled.
‘He was carrying a wallet, credit cards, that sort of shit’ Rafferty elaborated.
‘I’m not with you, Bill’ the DI muttered.
‘He had a pocket diary with him too: one of the uniformed men at the hospital went through it - don’t ask me what he was looking for.’
‘And?’
Rafferty ran a hand through his hair.
‘There weren’t many entries in it, but one of them caught his eye and he called me. He’s a good man. Observant. He was on Euston the same day we pulled Peter Hyde off the tracks, that’s why the entry in the diary made him sit up.’
‘Bill, what the fuck are you talking about? Are you trying to excuse the actions of one of our men who went through the private belongings of a dead man because he had nothing better to do?’ Talbot snapped.
‘There was an entry in the diary for two weeks ago. It said “Call Peter at Morgan and Simons”. Morgan and Simons is the firm of accountants that Peter Hyde worked for. Parriam knew him.’
Talbot stopped pacing and looked quizzically at his companion ‘So what?’ he said, finally.
‘Jim, two men commit suicide within days of each other, both for seemingly no reason and now we find out that they knew each other. Doesn’t that strike you as strange?’
‘One entry in a diary doesn’t make them bosom buddies, and even if it does it still doesn’t prove a link between the two suicides.’
‘It’s a hell of a bloody coincidence though.’ ‘Yes it is. But that’s all it is, Bill. A coincidence.’ The two men locked stares, then Rafferty took a defiant drag on his cigarette. He inhaled then blew out a long stream of bluish-grey smoke, watching it dissipate in the air.
‘So that’s it’ he said. ‘End of story?’ ‘What the hell else do you want me to do?’ Rafferty didn’t answer. ‘I suppose you’re right’ he conceded finally.
‘You know I’m right. If I thought it was worth investigating we’d be on the case now, but what are we going to
look for, Bill? Why they killed themselves? No one but Hyde and Parriam is ever going to know that. Fuck knows what made them do it, but then again I’m a copper not a psychiatrist. I can’t read minds. Especially dead ones.’
Rafferty nodded slowly.
‘Fancy a drink?’ Talbot asked.
‘Are you buying?’
Talbot nodded.
Rafferty got to his feet. ‘Let’s go then.’
As they left the office, Talbot glanced back at his desk, at the photos of Neil Parriam.
One was a close up of the dead man’s face, eyes still staring wide. The corners of the mouth were turned up slightly. Talbot could have sworn Parriam was smiling.
Fifteen
‘I tried you twice earlier on but I couldn’t get an answer,’ said Phillip Cross.
Catherine Reed continued gazing at the screen of the word processor, scanning what she’d already written. It flickered there in green letters, almost accusingly. She waited a moment longer then pressed Delete. The screen went blank.
‘Sorry, Phil, what did you say?’ she asked, the phone balanced between her shoulder and ear.
‘Jesus, are you listening?’ Cross chuckled.
‘I was working on something; I was miles away. Sorry.’
‘Was it the guy who blew out his brains in that gun club in Druid Street?’
‘No, I didn’t cover that. I’ve been at the Dorchester most of the day.’
‘Nice work if you can get it. What happened?’
‘Some visiting Arab ambassador went ape-shit and strangled one of his wives, or tried to, according to some of the staff I spoke to. She’s in hospital.
I’ve been tearing around like a blue-arsed fly trying to speak to doctors, nurses and Christ knows who. The embassy guys and security were pretty jumpy.’
‘What did you hear about the suicide?’
‘Put a gun in his mouth, didn’t he? Did you take the pictures?’
‘No, Porter covered it. I’ve been in Croydon Cemetery today.’
‘What for?’
‘One of the graves had been dug up, the headstone had been smashed.’
‘Shit,’ she murmured, sitting forward in her seat. ‘What else?’
‘The coffin had been tampered with, apparently it’s not the first time it’s happened in that cemetery.’
‘Who did the grave belong to?’
‘A kid. A baby. I made a note of the name, don’t ask me why. I reckon I’ve been around you too long.’
At the other end of the phone she heard the rustling of papers.
Cath pulled a pad towards her and wrote on it: Desecration?
‘Stephen Foster, that was the kid’s name,’ Cross said at last.
Cath scribbled it on the pad and drew a ring around it.
‘Did you say it wasn’t the first time it had happened there?’ she asked.
‘The vicar was there when I arrived, I overheard him talking to the police about it. I didn’t catch it all.’
She sat staring at the word Desecration, chewing on the end of her pen.
‘Probably just some sick bastard pissing about’ Cross added.
‘Mmm’ Cath responded distractedly.
‘So’ the photographer said. ‘What are you doing tonight? Are you coming over here or-‘
She cut him short. ‘I’m expecting company, Phil.’
‘Anyone I know?’ Cross asked frostily.
‘My brother.’
‘Oh, right’ he murmured, sounding relieved. ‘What about tomorrow?’
‘I’ll call you.’
‘I just think there’s things we should talk about’ Cross protested.
‘Not now, Phil’ she told him, wearily. ‘I’ll see you for lunch tomorrow, all right?’
There was a protracted silence at the other end of the line.
Cath exhaled deeply.
‘Yeah, OK’ Cross said, reluctantly. ‘See you.’
He hung up.
Cath replaced the receiver, got to her feet, and headed for the kitchen. It was hot; three pots were bubbling on the cooker. She lifted the lid of each and checked its contents, smiling to herself. Then she passed back into the sitting room and picked up her wine glass, taking a sip. She had laid the table close to the window, even draped it with a clean, freshly ironed table cloth. Cath wasn’t the most domesticated of women but even her mother would have been proud of the table, she mused, glancing across at her parents’ photo on top of the TV.
There was music playing softly in the background, the volume turned low. Cath hummed as she wandered back to the kitchen, glancing at her watch.
Almost time.
It wasn’t like him to be late.
The doorbell sounded at exactly eight o’clock and Cath headed towards its source, a smile already on her face.
She checked the spy-hole and saw him out there.
She opened the door.
‘Hello, mate’ said Frank Reed, grinning, holding a bunch of flowers before him.
He stepped inside, into her welcoming arms.