The Unquiet Dead Read online

  She looked away from her brother crossly. ‘I don’t want tapes, Bill. I want her.’

  This statement was followed by the awkward silence that Jessie was used to getting from her brothers when she tried to talk about their mother. Her father was the same. None of them would talk to her about it.

  ‘I feel cheated,’ she said to the windowpane. ‘I want to go shopping with her for my wedding dress.’

  ‘Christ, Jess, I thought you said it was over with that guy.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Who are you getting married to then?’

  ‘I’m not getting married to anyone.’ Bill looked more perplexed than ever. ‘Oh, never mind,’ said Jessie, finishing her drink. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’

  ‘Boss?’ said a voice behind her. It was Burrows. ‘They need you at Marshall Street Baths.’

  ‘Is is Anna Maria?’

  ‘They wouldn’t tell me.’

  Burrows looked over at Bill, nodded curtly then returned to the door, which he held open for Jessie. She kissed her brother on the cheek; he held her hand.

  ‘You’ll be all right, Jess,’ he said.

  She pulled her hand away. Sometimes she wasn’t so sure.

  The media frenzy had doubled in the short time Jessie had been in the pub. White vans with satellite dishes and company logos were stretched back into Broadwick Street. She and Burrows made slow progress through the crowd. No one took much notice of them, they blended in with all the other hacks and hawks. As they pushed to the edge of the pack, in a quieter place further away Jessie saw Amanda Hornby. She was standing in front of a camera, a small microphone clipped on to her lapel. She glanced nervously at the spiral-bound pad she held in her hand. Jessie looked at her watch. A special bulletin. Live from the scene. There must have been some development or else there wouldn’t be this frenetic activity. Amanda looked up and caught her staring. Jessie tried to look away but it was too late, the news reporter had clocked her and she was coming over.

  ‘Oi, get back here!’ the cameraman shouted.

  ‘I’d do as he says,’ said Jessie.

  ‘Why are you back, Detective Inspector? What’s going on? Is Sarah Klein here to identify her daughter?’

  Sarah Klein? Here? ‘Three minutes to air,’ said the cameraman, sounding exasperated.

  ‘It’s not my case.’

  ‘But you’re here.’

  Jessie couldn’t argue with that.

  ‘Why?’

  A car pulled up to the barrier and Jessie inadvertently looked around. She saw the familiar red hair emerge.

  ‘Sally Grimes – isn’t she the pathologist who helped you with the celebrity murders?’ said the reporter. Jessie ignored her. ‘So you’ve definitely got a body then?’

  Jessie turned back to Amanda Hornby. ‘You know too much.’

  ‘That’s my job.’

  ‘Amanda!’ shouted the cameraman. Amanda put a finger to her ear then glanced down at her watch. She started walking slowly backwards. ‘I know nothing. Just one thing, give me one fact, that’s all I’m after.’

  Jessie watched her retreat.

  ‘One fact, that’s all,’ she pleaded again.

  ‘My brother fancies you,’ said Jessie flippantly. ‘And that’s a fact.’

  Amanda swore silently, turned to the camera and nodded once. ‘That’s right, Sarah Klein the mother of the missing girl arrived here ten minutes ago, creating quite a scene. She was driving her car, turned into Marshall Street just behind me and was blocked from continuing any further by the growing number of photographers and journalists who have congregated here. Eventually she got out of the car and forced her way though the crowd, refusing to answer any questions. It was only when the extent of her distress became evident that they allowed her to pass.’

  Jessie listened in horror.

  ‘That’s correct. The actress was due to appear in a West End production of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf in a month’s time. The much-revered director, Timothy Powell, isn’t saying anything at present as to whether this is still the case, though it is assumed she will not carry on with a play the subject of which is a couple with an imaginary child. Things are looking less hopeful here. Just a few moments ago the pathologist Sally Grimes arrived and was rushed inside. Although the police are saying nothing at this stage, I think it is safe to assume that rumours regarding the discovery of a body are true. The exact cause of death is unknown, but it is being treated as suspicious. Sally Grimes became a fully qualified Home Office pathologist just a few weeks ago.’ Jessie watched the reporter’s face go taut with concentration as she listened to the next question from the studio. Amanda nodded. ‘That’s right, it means that Ms Grimes’ evidence can be used by prosecutors, in this case the Crown Prosecution Service, in a court of law. However, the police are refusing to confirm that Anna Maria Klein’s body has been found, so for the moment –’ she glanced briefly at Jessie – ‘nothing is fact.’

  Jessie fell in behind Burrows, and they made their way slowly to the front where Jessie showed her badge once more. Waiting at the door was Sally Grimes. Burrows raised the crime-scene tape for Jessie to duck under and she went to join Sally.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Jessie whispered.

  ‘Carolyn Moore paged me.’

  ‘You know her?’

  Sally nodded. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘What did she want?’

  ‘They’ve found something they’ve never seen before. They want me to have a look at it.’

  “‘It”?’

  ‘That’s what the message said.’

  ‘How well do you know her?’

  ‘She’s a ball breaker.’

  ‘Any advice?’

  ‘Give her a wide berth,’ said the redheaded pathologist. ‘She wasn’t always like that.’

  The officers who had performed the search that morning milled around the foyer in silence. Somewhere a radio was on.

  ‘… Clinical psychologist Dr Martin Rommelt is here in the studio discussing the disappearance of Anna Maria Klein. Dr Rommelt, what effect do you think being rejected from Celebrity Big Brother, Jnr would have had on Anna Maria?’

  Jessie looked at Sally for explanation.

  ‘I heard this on the radio coming down here. Some journo found out that she’d put her name up for the Big Brother house, but was turned down because she wasn’t famous enough.’

  ‘And they think what exactly?’

  ‘They don’t think anything. All they can do is speculate until you lot make an announcement. Before the Big Brother story broke they were discussing what effect having an absent father and famous mother would have on a teenager.’

  Sally and Jessie walked back through the increasingly familiar network of subterranean passageways and doors. Outside the new boiler room another group of people stood listening to another radio.

  ‘… Friends are saying that Anna Maria was depressed recently. Normally a gregarious girl, she had become a little withdrawn, secretive. One schoolfriend who wishes to remain anonymous said that Anna Maria had been fighting with her mother more than usual. When asked what was usual, the friend replied, “Most days there was something …”’

  ‘I hope the poor woman isn’t listening to any of this,’ said Sally.

  Jessie experienced the same feeling of apprehension as they left the bright light of the boiler room behind them and approached the final set of doors. Sally pushed them open and they both felt a rush of cold air. It was Sally’s turn to shudder. The long narrow walkway came to an abrupt end where it fell away to darkness. Jessie could hear someone crying. A woman. They walked towards the sound. Sarah Klein was sitting at the bottom of the stone steps, her head in her hands. Jessie immediately changed her mind about the actress. She’d heard too many women cry not to know the difference between crocodile tears and the real thing. When she heard them approach, Sarah Klein looked up, startled.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Jessie. ‘We didn’t mean to f
righten you.’

  The woman started sobbing again. Sally carried on without stopping, but Jessie held back. Sarah Klein shouldn’t be on her own. There should have been a family liaison officer with her. Where was the tea, the hanky, the gentle arm on the shoulder, the offer to call someone, drive her somewhere? Why wasn’t she being looked after? Sally called her from inside the ancient boiler room. Jessie didn’t respond.

  ‘Jessie –’ it was Sally again, this time more insistent – ‘I think you’d better come in here.’

  Reluctantly, Jessie left the sobbing woman and walked into the dank and dimly lit room. Curled up on a piece of tarpaulin, on the dry earth between the tanks and the coal stores, was the body of a perfectly preserved middle-aged man.

  4

  His skin was yellow and pulled taut over the bones. His eyelids sunk over the empty sockets. His lips were stretched back over his blackened teeth. His dark hair was slicked back and held in a ponytail. It was a terrifying death mask. His clothes had stiffened as hard as armour; each crease in the jacket, each fold in the shirt as unyielding as bronze. He was not a man any more, he was a mummy. The sleeves of his jacket were rolled up to the elbow, revealing more yellowing flesh that bore the signs of a vicious attack. Worse still, the tip of each preserved finger was missing. His thumbs were nothing but stumps.

  ‘What is it?’ asked DCI Moore. ‘And how the hell did it get here?’

  ‘It’s the corpse of a Caucasian male, approximately forty years of age.’

  ‘Is it real?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sally pulled on a pair of synthetic gloves and began to feel around the body.

  ‘Are you sure? It looks plastic.’

  ‘The corpse is showing visible signs of preservation. The body has been drying out, not decomposing. The skin takes on a leathery consistency, like biltong.’

  ‘How long has it been here?’ asked DCI Moore.

  ‘Check the date,’ interrupted Jessie, peering over Sally Grimes’ shoulder. ‘On the watch.’

  Sally leant over so that she could get a better look. ‘That’s strange.’

  ‘What is?’ asked DCI Moore.

  ‘It’s today’s date.’ Sally put her ear to the timepiece. ‘It’s stopped.’

  Mark Ward was pacing the perimeter of the room like a caged beast. One of the lights flickered on and off, making his actions look jerky and disconnected. He stopped and barked at Sally: ‘What does that mean, if he didn’t die today?’

  ‘I don’t know, but he definitely didn’t die today.’

  ‘What the hell can you tell me?’ DCI Moore’s red lips were outlined by a faint trace of blue. She’d been standing in the cold room for some time.

  ‘I’d say he’s been here since the eighties,’ said Jessie, jumping to Sally’s rescue.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Mark. ‘A watch battery doesn’t last that long.’

  ‘Look at the clothes. My elder brothers used to dress like that – winklepickers, baggy trousers. Look how the jacket sleeves are folded and pushed up the arm. It’s the New Romantics: Depeche Mode, Nick Kershaw, Madness – remember?’

  He clearly didn’t.

  Sally bent down to get a better look. She carefully slipped her fingers into the back pocket of the jeans. She pulled. Nothing happened. After a few more attempts she took a pair of scissors and began to cut off the pocket. The square of stiff material came away in her hands. Sally turned it over. Stuck to the material was a canvas wallet of indeterminate colour. It was the type that folded over itself and fastened along a Velcro strip. She pulled the Velcro apart. The inside was orange. Bright orange with black edging.

  ‘I remember those,’ said Jessie. ‘They were very trendy. They came in all the fluorescent colours.’

  ‘So this man took his eighties retro look very seriously,’ concluded DCI Moore.

  ‘Not retro,’ said Sally. ‘This is genuine. Look at these –’ she held up some flimsy rectangles of paper – ‘one-pound notes.’ In the side zip pocket there was a collection of change. Sally ran her fingers over the coins. ‘I’d forgotten how big they were.’ The ten-pence pieces looked like giant money, filling her dwarf palm; the five-pence pieces were twice the size of the new ones, and there was something that Jessie had almost forgotten existed: a halfpenny.

  ‘Anything useful like ID in there?’ asked the DCI.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you telling me this man has been down there since the eighties?’

  ‘Not necessarily, but it looks as though he’s been dead since the eighties. He should have decomposed by now. Where did you find him?’

  Moore pointed to the cleared site of the fourth open pit. ‘It’s an old ash pit – lead-lined and sealed.’

  Sally touched the wall. ‘It’s very cold, but it would have to be dry, too.’

  ‘It was when we prised it open, but all four pits used to be connected to the sewers.’

  ‘And they’re not any more?’

  ‘We won’t know until the contractors have been down here. Something still is, you can smell it.’

  ‘What I can tell you is that he’s been in this foetal position for a long time. Either here, or a large domestic refrigerator. Because of his immaculate condition, the day he died, and therefore the way he died, is set in stone. I’ll get him to the lab and –’

  ‘No,’ said DCI Moore.

  ‘What? Why did you call me down here?’

  ‘As a favour.’

  ‘I don’t mind doing favours, Carolyn –’

  ‘DCI Moore.’

  ‘I don’t mind doing favours, DCI Moore, but I like to know when I’m granting them.’

  ‘I have to think about our budget,’ Moore replied tartly.

  Jessie stepped forward. ‘But, boss, this is a suspicious death. Look at his hands – someone cut his fingers off. No fingers, no ID.’

  ‘That may be, DI Driver, but according to you he could have died twenty years ago. Hardly the sort of case we want to blow a lot of money on.’

  ‘Unlike Anna Maria Klein, you mean, who guarantees the police much more press?’

  DCI Moore pulled herself up. ‘If you care so much about this, it’s yours. I’m putting you in charge. Identify him, find a match in Missing Persons and if any of his family are still alive you can let them know. But you don’t get Sally. Now that she’s a fully qualified Home Office pathologist she’s become far too expensive. Bad luck,’ she told Sally. ‘You’ve priced yourself right out of the market.’

  Jessie turned to the scenes of crime officers. ‘Can we get a sample of –’

  ‘Hold your horses, Driver,’ said Mark, suddenly bounding forward. ‘This is my crime scene, my search party, my lads from SOCO. Off you go, boys – time for a break.’

  ‘Don’t go anywhere. I don’t mean to state the obvious, but Anna Maria isn’t here,’ said Jessie. ‘You heard the boss, this is my crime scene now.’

  ‘You don’t know that this is a crime scene,’ said Mark. ‘And we haven’t finished the search yet. You may not have noticed, but there are four old coal stores we haven’t investigated and below this level are the foundations of the workhouse that was originally built on this site. We haven’t even started this search.’

  ‘You think this guy mutilated his own hands and dropped himself in a hole and pulled the lid over his head? Come on, of course this is a crime scene. I can’t have you lot trampling all over it – you’ll contaminate it.’

  ‘That is quite enough melodrama, DI Driver.’ DCI Moore moved towards the exit. ‘Mark has a point. This place may still be unsafe. Let’s keep going with what is essential: finding Anna Maria Klein. When Mark is finished, you can continue with your investigation. But, please, don’t move the body until the hyenas have moved on. Sarah Klein and I are going to make a statement.’

  ‘I bet you are,’ whispered Jessie under her breath.

  DCI Moore shot her a look, then left. Sally took out a card and quickly scribbled a name and number on it.

  ‘He’s
a doctor, but he’s studying forensic pathology. He’s got great potential and passion, and he’ll relish a challenge like this. Send him the body. That way we’ll get it examined without the cost of a coroner, and if he finds anything we’ll go down the normal channels.’

  DCI Moore reappeared as Jessie pocketed the card. ‘Sally, would you accompany me back up to ground level? There is something I’d like to discuss with you.’

  ‘It’s not balls this woman is after,’ whispered Jessie as Sally made to leave.

  As soon as they were out of the door Mark moved in. He started by picking up one corner of the tarpaulin and dragging it across the floor. The stiff shifted.

  ‘Wait,’ shouted Jessie. ‘Let’s at least take a photo of it.’ She reached out to the police photographer hovering by the rusty boiler tanks.

  ‘No,’ said Mark. ‘I need you upstairs, where they found that blanket. Quick, before we lose this light.’

  ‘She isn’t here and you know it.’

  He raised his heavy lids to meet her eyes then slowly rubbed his chest.

  ‘Fine,’ she retorted. Placing herself between the body and the hole in the ground, she pulled her backpack off her shoulder. ‘I have my own camera. So go to hell.’

  The flickering light stopped flickering, popped and then went out, taking all the other lights out with it. A soupy darkness wrapped itself around them.

  ‘Shit,’ said Mark. Jessie heard a thud. The corpse of an unknown man being unceremoniously dropped.

  ‘No one move,’ shouted Jessie. ‘Torches, anyone?’

  ‘Someone go and find out what’s going on!’ shouted Mark.

  ‘No, don’t move. You don’t know where you’re walking. Burrows, you’re nearest the door, you go.’

  Jessie heard a rustle.

  ‘No one else move, the pits are open!’

  ‘We’re not,’ came the chorus.

  ‘Someone is moving!’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Mark. ‘Fucking pussies, the lot of you.’ Jessie heard the strike of a flint. Mark was holding up a lighter. Two more strikes. Two more lighters. Then another, then another.

  Mark started waving his lighter in the air. ‘It’s like a fucking Barry Manilow concert.’ There were a few laughs.