The Unquiet Dead Page 8

  ‘So you don’t believe in God?’

  ‘Mine or yours?’

  ‘Either. They are one and same, it’s just the semantics that are different.’

  ‘If only that were the case – there would be a lot less murdered people in the world.’

  ‘Religion isn’t to blame,’ said Niaz.

  ‘It’s killed more people than any disease.’

  ‘No. Men have killed in the name of religion; that is not the same thing.’

  ‘I don’t believe that.’

  ‘What do you believe, then?’

  ‘That’s a very personal question, Constable.’

  ‘I think it is a universal question, Inspector,’ said Niaz.

  ‘All right. I believe in upholding the law. I believe that killing is wrong, as is beating someone to a pulp, stealing a car and killing a baby through reckless driving, strapping a child to a radiator, injecting someone with the AIDs virus, robbing a house and raping the daughter while forcing the parents to watch … Shall I go on?’

  ‘You didn’t answer the question,’ said Niaz.

  ‘I thought I just did. And don’t give me that crap about God giving us freedom of choice, because I just don’t buy it. If he’s around, he isn’t listening.’

  ‘So you do talk to him.’

  ‘No, Niaz. Trust me, I don’t.’

  ‘Who do you go to for guidance?’

  My mother. ‘Myself.’

  ‘I concur on one point,’ said Niaz solemnly. ‘No one knows for sure whether we survive death. This is true. But belief in some kind of life after death provides the basis of religions that stretch far back into antiquity. Surely you are too intelligent to dismiss such overwhelming evidence?’

  ‘It was merely a way to suppress the poor and uneducated and scare them into submission.’

  ‘You are wrong. God is hope. Their belief is deeper because they have more to hope for.’

  ‘Please, God,’ said Jessie sarcastically, ‘I hope you will save me from this conversation with Niaz.’

  Niaz looked over Jessie’s shoulder.

  ‘What?’ asked Jessie, knowing a self-satisfied look when she saw one.

  ‘God works in mysterious ways, but rarely this quickly,’ said Niaz softly, before moving aside. Jessie turned. It was DCI Moore. She was being punished for her sarcasm.

  ‘DI Driver, you must be terribly sad that Jones is retiring.’

  A cunning question. One that required dexterity of mind. To agree meant insulting Moore and to disagree meant insulting Jones. ‘Surprised, more than anything. I thought he’d be commander of the Met one day. It is a great loss to the entire police force that he is going.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said DCI Moore. Jessie noticed that she had dressed up even more than usual for the occasion and applied a new coat of lipstick: red. Her hair, dyed and coiffed, had been pinned up in a chignon, and she wore a tight pencil skirt with a silk shirt. Her stockings and high heels were black.

  Jessie fiddled with her hair. Now her smart trouser suit felt dowdy. She couldn’t win with this woman.

  ‘I’m glad to see that the leather trousers you were wearing yesterday have been discarded. Not very officer-like.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint, but I wear them more often than not.’

  ‘Really? That’s fashionable, is it?’ she said as if she were talking to a sixth-form student.

  ‘No. But it’s safer.’

  ‘Safer for whom?’

  ‘Me. I ride a bike to work.’

  ‘Really. And you wear leather for a bicycle?’

  Jessie laughed. ‘It’s not a bicycle.’

  ‘Oh, I see, a moped –’

  ‘No, ma’am, it’s a motorbike. A Virago 750cc –41 horsepower, 0–60 in 3.2 seconds,’ she said, unintentionally puffing out her chest.

  DCI Moore eyed Jessie up and down. ‘You’re a biker,’ she said incredulously. Then she seemed to relax, looked at Jessie’s hair and nodded to herself. ‘OK, I see,’ she laughed. ‘They always say you shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers. My mistake. I should have known – the hair sort of gives it away.’

  Jessie was momentarily confused. ‘Gives what away?’

  DCI Moore didn’t respond.

  Then it washed over her, the horrible creeping feeling that she knew what Moore was referring to. But she couldn’t believe it. She repeated the question. ‘Gives what away – that I ride a bike? Is that what you mean, boss?’

  ‘It’s all right, Driver, settle down. Whatever your persuasion may be is none of my business. However, I think you should move away from the …’ She paused, seemingly unable to find the appropriate words for what was an entirely inappropriate comment. ‘No need to wear it on your sleeve. From now on I expect to see you in skirts. You can leave the leathers for the weekends when you’re out with your …’ she paused again, ‘… friends.’

  Jessie couldn’t believe it. As she watched the departing back of her new boss, she caught Jones watching her. Jessie shook her head very, very slightly. He mouthed the words, ‘You’ll be fine.’ He was wrong, thought Jessie, sneaking out of the room. Jones was wrong for the first time since she’d met him. She was now working with two bigots, and one of them was a woman. Worse, she was her boss. Her life at CID was about to become intolerable, she thought as she left the party, and intolerable wasn’t how she planned to live her life. She walked angrily down the deserted street. As she clicked open her phone to call Bill, it rang.

  ‘DI Driver.’

  ‘Jessie?’

  The line was unclear.

  ‘Bill, is that you?’

  ‘Who the hell is Bill?’

  It was P.J. Jessie was stunned into silence. Her heart did a decisive round in her chest.

  ‘Don’t put the phone down, please. Jessie, are you still there?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said meekly.

  ‘I’m back in London and I was wondering, I know it’s late, but how do you fancy dim sum and champagne? I know what you’re like about being seen in public with someone as sleazy as me, so I thought I’d pick up the food, pick up the booze, pick you up and we could order the driver to cruise around a bit. Before you turn me down, it’s a limo. Lots of leg room, the glass is tinted and the driver can’t see anything. What do you think?’

  No. No. No. No. No. ‘I’m tired, P.J.’ She was struggling to get the words out.

  ‘Well, I’d offer you a fat line of coke, but somehow I don’t think you’d be interested.’

  ‘Ha. Ha.’

  ‘Come on, Jessie. I’ve been surrounded by sycophants for weeks, no one to put me on the spot, insult me, tell me how it is. I’m in withdrawal.’

  If only. ‘You mean everyone thinks it’s a good idea you getting rich on the back of your murdered wife.’

  ‘Richer.’

  This was a really bad idea. ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘Come on, I was only joking.’

  ‘Well, I’m not. Sorry, P.J., but I am busy.’

  ‘No you’re not.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Don’t be so petulant. You’re walking down a dark street, alone, with no one to go home to since that flatmate of yours got famous on the back of her brush with death.’ Jessie turned around instinctively. A set of headlights flashed at her.

  The P. J. Dean ring-tone. ‘It was you!’

  ‘Me what?’

  ‘You’ve been following me.’

  ‘Sorry, wrong stalker. Must be another spurned lover. Who is Bill, by the way?’

  Jessie ignored the last question. She didn’t mind too much if he thought there was someone else. ‘How the hell did you find me then?’

  ‘The desk sergeant is a fan. I had to give her my T-shirt though. Come on, Detective. One dough ball and I’ll let you go.’

  ‘I really don’t like you,’ she said, melting faster than an ice-cream cone on a hot day.

  The door of the limo swung open. ‘Yes, I know, but it’s raining and you look like you need a ride.’


  P.J. emerged from the car, his phone still pressed to his ear. The streetlamp provided the international rock star with his own private spotlight. Typical, thought Jessie, resisting the temptation to start walking towards him. Very quickly his hair got wet and stuck in tendrils to his forehead; his worked-on, model-worthy chest glistened in the rain and his jeans hung loosely off his hips. Jessie smiled to herself. Even a lesbian would be hard pushed to resist. She took a step towards the car. Behind him a previously elusive orange light appeared. Jessie didn’t believe in signs, but she recognised good sense when she saw it. She stuck out her hand. The taxi pulled over.

  ‘Sorry, P.J., you’ll have to find someone else to suck on your dumplings.’ She flipped her phone closed and climbed in. This time no one followed her. This time, she didn’t look back.

  6

  Dominic Rivers was a doctor with a penchant for cadavers. Aged twenty-nine, he found his calling late in life. His first calling had been football. Then he broke seventeen bones in his foot, was admitted to hospital and caught a bug that no amounts of antibiotics could cure. The medicine bug. The desire to heal. He never played football again and still walked with a slight limp. He was limping now, as he made his way towards Jessie. She introduced herself. They studied each other. His tanned skin belied his ghoulish pastime and would not have looked out of place on a surfboard. He had large hazel eyes and fawn-coloured hair worn long around his ears. The limp was a curiosity on someone as fit as he was.

  ‘You look like you were expecting someone else,’ said the young doctor, catching her staring.

  ‘Sorry, it’s just that you don’t look like your average pathologist.’

  ‘You don’t look like your average DI.’

  ‘Compliment accepted,’ said Jessie.

  He smiled. ‘I’ve been pawing over your body all night.’

  ‘Not mine. Legally, I believe he belongs to the country. So it’s the Queen’s body you’ve been pawing over – or, if you’re more of a republican, Blair’s.’

  ‘I think I’ll go for the former, I like the regal ring of that. Any idea who Betty has on ice down here?’

  Behind him were a number of bodies laid out. Only one was uncovered: the man with the leathery skin and hollow eyes. Jessie shivered. Morgues were always too cold.

  ‘I was hoping you would be able to tell me.’

  ‘There was no form of identification on his person. No bank card, driver’s licence – nothing. The only thing I did find was a ticket to the pools. Not so much the ticket, but the imprint of its ink on his shirt pocket. However, I can tell you how he died.’

  The trainee forensic pathologist pulled the sheet back as far as the dead man’s waist. The skin on his torso was patched with black Dalmatian spots.

  He drowned. It was an accident. ‘It looks like he was beaten to death.’

  ‘Does, doesn’t it? But this man drowned.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘The ink from the ticket would only have transferred if it had at one point been wet, so I had a look at the guy’s lungs. I found evidence of waterlogging. The bruises could be the marks of an amateur attempt at resuscitation. Now, look at this –’ He pointed to the wrist. The withered skin had been cut away to reveal the preserved muscle below. ‘This tissue damage implies that the man was tied up at one point, or strung up. Either way, the wrists must have taken a lot of weight to cause this. Were there any chains found with the body?’

  ‘Chains?’

  ‘Rope would leave a more regular mark. This is sporadic, something that went in and out. My guess is that these are the imprints of chain links. His feet, however, were tied by rope.’ He ran his finger over the blue skin around the cadaver’s ankles. ‘I take it you didn’t find any rope either?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I think these injuries occurred before he drowned, not as he drowned.’

  ‘Well, it makes more sense than someone tying him up, throwing him in a pool, then attempting to resuscitate him.’

  The doctor shrugged. ‘Unless it was an accident that someone was trying to cover up. When resuscitation failed, whoever was responsible panicked and threw this guy in a hole …’

  ‘And what about the scratches?’ asked Jessie.

  ‘That could have happened as the man was drowning, flailing in the water, scratching himself against something or someone. To be honest, the scratches are a mystery. As is the damage to the fingertips, but I’ll do some more work on them. What I can tell you is that you should have found nothing but a skeleton. This man has been dead for about fifteen years.’

  ‘So why isn’t he a skeleton?’

  The doctor smiled and from beneath the bench produced a jar of brown jelly. Jessie swallowed nervously. ‘Contents of his stomach?’ she hazarded.

  ‘Very interesting they are too. The preservation of this man was much assisted by what he ate.’ Dominic held up the jar and jiggled it around. ‘Pot Noodle. This man lived off E-numbers and additives. He’s eaten so many preservatives he’d have taken an age to decompose wherever he’d ended up buried.’

  Jessie found this more disgusting than the jar.

  ‘He’s not alone either. We’re all taking longer to decompose these days. Preservatives are toxins that the body cannot always break down, so it stores them in our fat reserves – ergo, we are preserving ourselves. Human pickles, if you like.’

  Jessie grimaced. She did not like.

  ‘But this man was particularly unhealthy, eating processed and tinned food at a time when checks on quality and content were not as rigorous as today. I doubt a fresh vegetable passed his lips. That and the conditions of his impromptu burial resulted in mummification.’

  ‘The lead pit acting as a sarcophagus?’ said Jessie.

  ‘I presume the temperature in the room was even?’

  ‘Evenly cold, yes.’

  ‘And dry, it would have to be dry. Even then,’ said Dominic, looking back at the relic on the bench, ‘it’s very freaky.’

  ‘And you’ve found nothing that can help me ID him?’

  ‘Well, you can forget about trying to track him through dental records. This man took as much care of his teeth as he did his diet. I doubt he visited a dentist in his life.’

  ‘Not a rich man, then?’

  ‘No, not a rich man. I’d guess the clothes are second hand; they have a confusion of fibres on them.’

  ‘So what would a man who cared little about what he ate, and nothing about dental hygiene, be doing in a public swimming pool? Not taking exercise,’ said Jessie.

  ‘No. Muscle quality very poor.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Perhaps he was taken there to be drowned,’ guessed the young medic.

  ‘You can drown someone in a bucket, you don’t need to pay to go to the swimming pool.’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense, does it?’ said Dominic. ‘All the more strange when you think this guy should be long gone.’

  Jessie shivered again.

  ‘You get used to the cold eventually,’ said Dominic. ‘It’s preferable to the smell, I can tell you.’

  Jessie excused herself and turned to leave.

  ‘How do you feel about meeting me at the end of the day?’

  Jessie turned. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mix work and –’

  ‘I meant work. I can’t do anything else now, but I could get you some DNA that you could run through the system. I’ll see what I can find in those scratches. I have to squeeze it in between patients, but if you don’t mind burning the midnight oil, you’re welcome to come back and keep us company.’

  Jessie smiled, embarrassed. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be, I’m sure you get asked out all the time.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Dominic sympathetically.

  ‘I mean, I do sometimes.’

  He shrugged. ‘So, it’s just me then?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Then you would go out for a drink with me if I asked
?’

  Checkmate. Jessie smiled.

  ‘Great! It will be nice to talk to someone who isn’t a patient or dead.’ Dominic looked at his watch. ‘Shit, I’ve got to go. I’ll let you know when I’m off duty and we’ll take a closer look at Betty’s body.’ He moved past her and opened the door. He extended his hand to Jessie. ‘Great to meet you,’ he said. Jessie took his hand.

  ‘What is it that you do, when you’re not down here with these guys?’

  ‘Gynaecologist,’ he said.

  ‘Oh.’ Jessie unconsciously retrieved her hand.

  ‘But I’m thinking of changing.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘It’s a great career, but it’s ruining my love life.’

  ‘Funny that,’ said Jessie. ‘My love life is ruining my career.’

  ‘Well, you know what they say about opposites?’ He flashed her a smile.

  ‘Don’t go anywhere near them, they’ll make your life hell?’

  He nodded. ‘But being good isn’t fun.’

  ‘You’re right about that, Doctor.’

  Jessie walked into a muted police station. There was a faint whiff of alcohol on the air. She could hear the odd groan from behind closed doors; officers regretting the inevitable lock-in. Others were laughing, dissecting the night before.

  Burrows was coming out of her office as she approached. He was very tall, and had a lean but well-exercised figure. He carried himself like an athlete: sure-footed and consistent. There was something of the gentle giant about Burrows. He never raised his voice, he never told filthy sexist jokes, he didn’t swear at people and he treated everyone fairly. He wore his brown hair at a standard army length. His cropped hair could make him appear scary to someone who didn’t know him. He wasn’t at all scary to Jessie.

  ‘Hey, boss,’ he said. ‘Where did you disappear off to last night?’

  ‘Home.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘You sound relieved.’

  ‘I thought you might have got a lead.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, if I’d had a lead I would have informed you, you know that. I was just knackered, that’s all.’

  ‘Right. I got your message this morning. PC Ahmet has been going over back issues of newspapers to see if he can find any story relating to a drowning incident. I haven’t heard from him yet. Unfortunately DI Ward can’t spare any manpower because of the Klein case, so I think the poor lad is going to be at it for some time. What do you want me to do? Go and help?’