Truth Lies Bleeding (14 page)
Read Truth Lies Bleeding Online
Authors: Tony Black
This city smelled of evil. Could a city smell of evil? He knew it couldn’t but the familiar smell had come to be associated with the concept in his mind now. Would he ever be able to rid himself of that notion? Would this place forever be the home of all that was unwholesome, unholy?
The minister opened the car door. ‘Come on, my dear, let’s get you out of there.’ Frieda swung her legs over the car’s sill. Her shoes had been polished – they shone. She held on to her husband’s hand as she eased herself towards the pavement. As she tried to stand she made a slight stagger. ‘Everything all right?’
She nodded.
‘Just take it easy. I know it’s been one shock after another these last months . . .’
Her hand went up to her mouth, seemed to hold in words she didn’t want to say. She kept it there for some moments, then dropped it to her side and clutched at her handbag. ‘It’s not Carly, is it, John?’
‘No, of course not.’ He smiled at her.
‘Do you mean it?’
It was like talking to a child. She was more fragile than he had ever seen her. ‘Yes. Yes. It’s all formality.’ He started to walk. She stayed still, her feet fixed to the pavement. ‘Come on, it’ll be fine.’
She wasn’t convinced. ‘Are you sure? . . . It’s not her, is it?’
He eased her into a first step. ‘Come on, my love.’
DC Stephen McGuire had appeared at the gate once more. He pointed up to the entrance. ‘Let me know when you’re ready. There’s no rush.’
The minister nodded. ‘We’re on our way.’ At first he had to drag his wife a little. It was like when Carly was a child and she didn’t want to go to the dentist. The thought wounded him.
On the stairs to the morgue the couple held on to each other; they must have looked like some four-legged beast, he thought. Moving slowly, taking the steps one at a time. At the doorway stood a young woman, an Asian with a pretty smile. She seemed very welcoming and he was glad to see her comforting presence. The young policeman had been very good, but there was something perfunctory about his demeanour in comparison with the woman.
‘Hello, Minister,’ she said. ‘I’m Misa, the pathologist.’
The word seemed to have a physical presence as they stood on the steps, in the cold.
Pathologist
– he had never met a pathologist before. There was a reason why he had to meet one now and it hung over the step with him like a pall. The minister removed his right hand from his wife’s arm and extended it towards the woman. ‘Hello, Misa.’ He couldn’t say he was pleased to meet her; that would be wrong. It wasn’t that it would be a lie, though it would. It was because the statement was out of sorts with the situation. Meeting someone who had the potential to deliver news like Misa had was no cause for joy. He thought of the woman standing before him, and what must have been on her mind when she was presented with the remains of the girl. Had she felt any grief for her? Did she place herself in the minds of the girl’s family? Or had she been doing the job so long that it had become no more than a perverse sort of butchery?
Pathologist
– he had never met a pathologist before. There was a reason why he had to meet one now and it hung over the step with him like a pall. The minister removed his right hand from his wife’s arm and extended it towards the woman. ‘Hello, Misa.’ He couldn’t say he was pleased to meet her; that would be wrong. It wasn’t that it would be a lie, though it would. It was because the statement was out of sorts with the situation. Meeting someone who had the potential to deliver news like Misa had was no cause for joy. He thought of the woman standing before him, and what must have been on her mind when she was presented with the remains of the girl. Had she felt any grief for her? Did she place herself in the minds of the girl’s family? Or had she been doing the job so long that it had become no more than a perverse sort of butchery?
Misa edged backwards towards the door. She went inside the squat building and ushered the way in for the minister and his wife. The police officer followed behind them. ‘Just right the way to the end of the hall there. Follow the carpet down to where the tiles start.’
They walked slowly. Gripping each other. The place seemed dark and gloomy. A smell like bleach lingered in the air. It seemed to have been masked with something, a patchouli oil, perhaps. Whatever it was, it hadn’t been strong enough. The odour reminded him of decay and of his days as a schoolboy in the science labs. He followed the line of the wall, where it met the carpet. It was an industrial colour of grey – like they painted battleships. Why didn’t they brighten the place up, he thought? Would it be too much trouble to have some brighter colours about the place? Flowers, perhaps? That’s what they did at funeral services. It reminded everyone that even in death there was still much to be thankful for on God’s earth.
‘And round to the right here, Reverend.’ The girl had a sweet voice, like a nurse; he could hear the compassion in her tones.
As they turned the corner he saw the large double doors. They had heavy plastic skirts along the bottom and two circular windows. As the neared the doors the minister felt his mind suffused with a weary fog. The closer they came he saw the scuff-marks and scratches on the doors where he assumed they had been pushed open by heavy trolleys. It suddenly occurred to him that they were similar to the doors of an operating theatre, though this was no place where life was extended, or saved.
The DC spoke: ‘Now, if I could just have your attention for a moment, please.’
Misa slid past him. ‘I’ll go through now.’ She edged into the door like before, creasing her lips as she went.
The minister felt his wife gripping tighter to him.
‘The pathologist has prepared the . . .’ the police officer stalled, ‘young girl for your visit, but . . .’ He paused again. ‘I should warn you, her appearance might be a shock to you, whether you can identify her or not.’ He hurried the last words.
The minister nodded. ‘We understand.’ He did not turn to his wife again as they were led through the doors. He could hear her sobbing already, tried hard to steady her gait, but by now his own steps were faltering.
The room was large and well lit. Misa stood in the centre by what at first glance looked like a bed, but on closer inspection appeared to be more like a kitchen counter with shiny steel coverings on the sides. There was a heavy wooden board at the end and a tap that could be raised like a shower head. On top was a small, green bundle. At once the minister knew what must be under the covering but it seemed too small. His mind stilled – it couldn’t be her.
As they reached the centre of the room, and the side of the mortuary slab, they all stopped and stared at each other. It was as if no one wanted to be the first to speak.
DC McGuire broke the silence. ‘If you’d like to let me know when you’re ready, Misa will remove the sheet.’
The minister and his wife held firm to each other; nothing in this world seemed real any more. A flurry of emotions he didn’t recognise swept over him. His mind returned to bright days in the summer months when his daughter played in the garden, in a paddling pool or with a badminton sets. She was such a lovely child. She had always been so content, so playful as a young girl. And as a young woman, even when she was tested by circumstance, she had been brave. If there was one thing the minister wished from God it was to return to those sunny days of the past when they were all so happy, when there was nothing but peace in their home, but they were gone. He braced himself for God’s will and nodded towards the young woman. Her hand moved slowly towards the green cloth. As she removed the covering there was a flash of blonde hair – thin wispy hair scraped back in an unfamiliar style. The minister stared but did not recognise the face before him. The skin was pale, blue almost, and the eyes were blackened. A dark line of stitching ran the length of her brow. The eyes were closed – if they had been open, it might have made a difference.
He turned to his wife. She seemed as still as the girl. She seemed to have stopped breathing. The minister grabbed her shoulders. ‘Frieda. Frieda . . .’
There was no reply.
The officer moved into his view. ‘Reverend Donald.’ He placed an arm on his wife’s back; the minister brushed it away.
‘Leave her alone!’ The harshness of his tone surprised him. ‘Frieda. Frieda.’ His wife didn’t reply.
As the officer stepped back, Frieda lost her balance and slumped away from him. She fell into the officer and he grabbed her; in one smooth movement he took up her weight and lowered her to the floor. The minister watched as his wife lay lifeless. The pathologist ran to her side, supported her head. ‘She’s fainted. She’ll be okay. She’ll be just fine . . .’
As the minister looked at his wife on the cold floor of the mortuary, he knew she would never be fine again.
Chapter 18
DI ROB BRENNAN HAD GONE straight home from the morgue the night before. Despite a loose agreement to meet Lorraine, he’d driven directly to his Corstorphine address and spent the night with two tins of Stella Artois and a peaty malt as his wife and daughter kept their distance. He would have liked to be able to switch off his mobile phone but the job didn’t allow that, so he had kept it on vibrate and let the two calls from Lorraine go to voicemail. He knew this was storing up trouble for himself but he was content to let that sit in the back of his mind whilst the rest of it filled up with thoughts about a young girl lying on a mortuary slab, and her killer walking free.
Brennan was woken by Joyce shouting at Sophie about being late for school and looked at the clock. It was nearly 9 a.m. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, tried to make sure he hadn’t made a mistake. No, it was nearly 9 a.m. His mobile phone sat next to the bed, still on vibrate. He had missed another call but this time it was from the office.
‘Shit.’
He would have to call back, but decided on a quick shower before he did so. As he walked to the en suite he could still hear Joyce and Sophie rowing in the kitchen below. His daughter should have been at school by now, there was no way she would be anything but late. He could already hear Joyce telling him in that hard, demanding tone to ‘speak to your daughter’. He had done too much of that already. She needed something, but it wasn’t speaking to.
In the bathroom Brennan started the shower. He looked at himself in the mirror and contemplated running a razor over his stubbled chin but the thought was enough to discourage him. He stuck out his tongue – a grey-white layer of velvet sat on the surface. As he stared he could smell the malt whisky seeping through his pores. Did it matter? It did if Galloway thought to call him on it. She never had, but after recent run-ins with the Chief Super nothing would surprise him. He replayed yesterday’s words with her, and then the encounter with Lauder in the toilets. It felt like there was a storm coming. He didn’t know which direction it was going to arrive from but it was imminent. He let the thought trail off; he did this on purpose. Brennan knew that his main focus was the job. When he was working a case like this – no matter what else was going on in his life – if he left his thoughts to run their own course they always came back to the case. Even in the bad times, the worst times, when he was low and lost, he had always been sure of that one irrefutable fact. The job was his life and everything else was a distraction.
Brennan showered and dressed. He chose a navy blazer to match the grey chino-style slacks he still wore. He knew they were no longer fashionable, but he didn’t care. He was carrying a little more weight than he had in the past and the wider leg and pleats were comfortable. There had been a time when he had been a keen follower of the latest styles, but the older he got, the less it had meant to him. Fashion was an irrelevance, for trivial minds. Brennan occupied his thoughts with serious issues – the width of a trouser leg was something for other people to worry about.
In the kitchen Sophie ignored her father, as she always did these days. She was eating a piece of toast and watching the moronic presenters on breakfast television dissecting the weekend’s
X Factor
talent contest. Brennan hugged her. She pulled away, rolling her eyes.
X Factor
talent contest. Brennan hugged her. She pulled away, rolling her eyes.
‘You might try speaking to your daughter,’ Joyce greeted him in her usual way.
‘Good morning, Sophie darling.’ He knew he was using the girl as some form of emotional ammunition.
‘That’s not what I meant,’ snapped Joyce. Her face had set hard already. The dew was still on the grass and Joyce was moaning, thought Brennan.
‘What would you like me to say to her?’
‘Well, how about why are you not going to school?’
Brennan mimicked her: ‘Why are you not going to school?’ He paused, added, ‘Sophie darling.’
The girl kept her eyes focused on the television screen, said, ‘I don’t feel well.’
Brennan turned towards his wife, repeating, ‘She doesn’t feel well.’ It was their first exchange of the day and already he knew that the next one would be no improvement.
Joyce turned away, went to the kitchen sink and turned the tap on to fill an empty pot. When the water was tipping over the brim, she turned the tap the other way. She dropped cutlery and other household items on top of the pot. Each one clanged loudly, each one echoed her mood.
Brennan started to fasten his tie, to pocket his keys and coins from the counter. Joyce turned. ‘If she’s going to stay off school,
allegedly
sick, then she can at least tidy her room . . . Have you seen the state of her room?’
allegedly
sick, then she can at least tidy her room . . . Have you seen the state of her room?’
Brennan wasn’t given an opportunity to answer: Sophie stood up, glowered at her mother and stated, ‘Why should I tidy my room when the whole world’s a mess?’
Joyce put her hands on her hips, turned to her husband. ‘Are you going to let her talk to me like that?’
Brennan shrugged. ‘She has a point.’ He walked out the door.
In the car he contemplated calling in to the office but figured he would be there soon enough anyway. If there were any important developments he would find out when he got in.
The roads were heavy with traffic again. Cyclists weaved in and out of the bus lanes and made gestures at drivers when they thought they were being denied ample road space. The commute to the station always seemed like a worthless task to Brennan. All time spent travelling was like intellectual and emotional stasis for the detective. He had never been able to adhere to the adage that it was better to travel than to arrive. Travel was dead time; arrival was all about the commencement of action, and Brennan was all about the action. By Ravelston Dykes he had started to drum his fingers on the wheel. He had tried to go over things in his mind that he had to do, but he knew the landscape shifted so quickly that any assessment he made of the current situation could have changed by the time he reached the office. He still felt the girl was local; his instinct was to question the teenager, Trish Brown, and see what she really knew. He hoped McGuire had got onto that like he had told him.
Other books
Everything Changes by Stahl, Shey
Velveteen by Saul Tanpepper
See You at the Show by Michelle Betham
La jauría by Émile Zola
Sawn-Off Tales by David Gaffney
Retreat to Love by Greene, Melanie
Daisies In The Wind by Jill Gregory
Pathfinder's Way by T.A. White
Supernatural: Heart of the Dragon by Keith R.A. DeCandido
Long Summer Nights by Kathleen O'Reilly