White Corridor

by Christopher Fowler

  Raymond Land sat in his office and tipped back his chair, balancing his heels on the edge of his desk. This was how he liked it, so quiet you could hear mice scampering in the skirting boards and Crippen straining in his litter tray. He had been right to keep his staff on at the unit. It was time to stop treating them with kid gloves.

  Only the angry traffic in the street below could remind him that he was still stranded here, in an ugly district of the city at a miserable time of the year. If only he had taken a post far, far away from the junkies and nutters of North London, somewhere in the southern hemisphere, where the sun remained visible even in the depth of winter, and the locals smiled respectfully instead of waving two fingers at you. Actually, he would have been grateful to find the Agincourt V sign still in use, but few of the street traders in Camden could manage English and only mustered a phlegmy expectoration as his officers passed.

  He tipped his chair back further and placed his hands behind his head, savouring the first moments of what he fully expected to be the calmest three days of his career at the PCU. No tabloid-baiting lunatics to track down, no white witches, weepy clairvoyants, or chanting necromancers to chuck out of Bryant’s room, nothing but the gentle drift of a half-empty office running on a skeleton crew. Faraday had failed to close the unit down entirely, but at least both Bryant and May were out of his hair for the first time in many years. For once there was no-one telling him what to do, or what he ought to have done, or completely ignoring him. Land felt in charge once more, and at a time when there was so little work on that even he could not be accused of making a mistake.

  Smiling to himself, he stretched and tipped his chair just a little bit too far.

  13

  HUNTING

  Madeline ran down the steep slope of the road, her trainers sliding on loose gravel. She knew that her head start would not last long.

  In the time it took Johann to dry and clothe himself, or even understand what she had realised about him, she could be back at the hotel. Steep staircases and flood gutters traversed the winding roads, allowing her to cut a path down the hillside to the palm-lined Basse Corniche. She reached sea level without a car passing her, and ran around the granite wall that lined the cliff in the direction of her hotel. Even though it was early, the village was dormant and lifeless. Only the occasional motorbike tore past her, waiters heading home from Monte Carlo to Nice.

  She was shocked to discover that she still had the envelope with the passport and photographs gripped tightly in her hand, the proof of his guilt that would protect her from harm. What could she do now? He knew where she was staying, and there was nowhere else to go in a place as small as this.

  She checked her watch and thought about the time it would take to rouse Ryan, pack, and check out. She could not remember how the winter train schedule operated, and did not want to wait on the exposed station platform, which could be seen from virtually everywhere in the village. The only alternative was to find a gendarme and convince him that this man was dangerous, but she could imagine how that conversation would go: ‘What were you doing with him in a house he’d broken into?’ ‘You made love to him while the owner lay dying in the upstairs room?’

  She had already been warned about the local police treating outsiders with suspicion. He had not just stolen passports; he had stolen whole identities. Perhaps if she threw the photographic evidence away, into the bushes beside the railway track, he would leave her alone—but they were her only weapon against him.

  Or he might ignore her, simply move on to another town and start again. How long had he been travelling about like this, burglarizing and killing? How many others had discovered his secret, and what had he done to them? He had shown gentility and thoughtfulness in her company. Or perhaps he had just been careful. Her husband had always demonstrated a capacity for violence, but Johann—or whatever his real name might be—had hidden his other self so completely that he had disarmed her natural inclination to suspicion.

  She thought back to the day that Kate Summerton had shown her how to kill the moth, using only the power of her unconscious mind. When she had first visited the refuge, Kate had healed her and cared for her like any hospital nurse. It was what she had done for so many other women who had been bullied and beaten by their men. But later, the art of her healing had moved beyond salves and sticking plasters to something more spiritual, a personal training program that had allowed her to understand why men had always troubled and deceived her. Yet it seemed that even Kate had not been able to prevent it from happening again…

  Heavy clouds far blacker than the night were rolling over the edge of the Savaric cliffs, and the first fat droplets of rain had started to fall, drawing up the scent of pine and earth. She reached L’Auberge des Anges and walked through the bright, empty bar. Mme Funes and her husband usually stayed in the back watching television when there were no diners or drinkers to serve.

  She unlatched the door of her room quietly and found Ryan folded up in the corner of her bed. She packed around the sleeping boy, shoving everything into two small bags, placing the envelope with the passport and photographs into her shoulder purse. It was 9:12 P.M. She thought there was a train at twenty-two minutes past, but could not be sure. There would probably not be another for an hour.

  Ryan remained heavy and unmanageable, drifting in a fugue state from pyjamas to sweater and jeans without fully awakening. She needed to leave without disturbing Mme Funes, who would keep her talking, and tell others that she had left. The room bill could be mailed at a later date. Getting out of the front door, on the other side of the bar, would be the tricky part.

  ‘Ryan, I want you to be very quiet, okay? We don’t want anyone to know we’re going out.’

  ‘Where’s Johann?’ the boy asked sleepily. ‘Can he come with us?’

  ‘No, he has to work tonight. We’ll call him later.’ She hoisted Ryan’s bag onto her spare shoulder and led him down the stairs. The floorboards were covered in threadbare carpet, and creaked horribly.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he whispered.

  ‘We have to catch a train. We can’t stay here.’ He was about to speak again, but she cut him off. He was at the age when he demanded explanations for everything. ‘I’ll tell you all about it once we’re on our way, I promise.’ She would provide him with some invented excuse; there was no point in scaring him further.

  At the foot of the stairs, she stopped and peered back through the hatch to the Funeses’ claustrophobically wallpapered lounge. She could hear the television playing, some announcer shouting ‘Qui gagnera le grand prix de ce soir?’—Mme Funes was addicted to game shows. When she opened the front door, a blast of rainy wind blew in, and she heard the old lady rising from her place before the TV. Pulling Ryan through the door, she closed it firmly and headed out across the forecourt in the direction of the yellow radiance marking the railway station. Streetlights obscured by branches caused patches of shadow to waver across the road like flittering bats.

  The station platform was deserted, a sign that the next train was not due for some time yet. The timetable was almost impossible to decipher, but it appeared that they had missed a train heading all the way to Marseilles. There was a connection to Nice due in fifteen minutes. Ryan’s hand had grown cold in hers, and she knew he would soon start protesting. She was still deciding what to do when a crackle of gravel heralded the arrival of the stolen Mercedes in the station forecourt. Lifting her surprised son into her arms, she abandoned her bags and ran through the underpass beneath the track, climbing the staircase back to the main road.

  Above them stood the village, its barred, unlit houses offering little refuge.

  He saw her moving and reversed the car, but the parking area was too narrow to offer a turning circle. Not daring to look back, she carried on up the slope to the grand white houses cut in against the base of the cliff. All the villas had barred gates, automatic floodlights and entry-phones. Setting Ryan down, she tried the first buzzer she reached, b
ut there was no answer. Someone must be in, she thought. They can’t all be summer homes; somebody must live here. She ran from bell to bell, slapping them with her palm, but they rang in darkened dead hallways, and no lights came on.

  Somewhere a dog began barking, the sound echoing around the hills, but every villa was shuttered and dead, ghost buildings in a village that could only be brought to life by the warmth of summer.

  Behind them, the sleek Mercedes coasted a curve and began its unhurried approach. There was nowhere for them to hide; the cliff rose on one side of the road, and bare walls lined the other. On their left, an alleyway overhung with pomegranate trees led to a pair of small houses built onto the steps, the remnants of the original village. Ryan resisted as she pulled him up towards the first front door. There was no doorbell or buzzer for the property, so she rapped with her knuckles.

  At the base of the alley, the Mercedes halted as Johann ducked his head and watched them through the passenger window.

  Madeline was sure she had seen a curtain twitch from the corner of her eye, but no-one came to answer her call. The sound of the car door opening propelled her to the second building, a lopsided two-floor house with peeling green shutters. She slapped at the door with her hand, calling ‘S’il vous plaît! Au secours!’ but there was silence within. He was striding up the alley stairs towards them now, calling to her, ‘Madeline, I have to talk with you.’

  The door before her suddenly opened, and a miniscule old lady peered up at her from the gap. ‘Please, do you speak English?’ Madeline asked. ‘There is a man following us.’

  ‘Alors, vous devez entrer.’ She slipped the chain and widened the door as Madeline pushed Ryan forward. The old woman remembered the village as it had been before the arrival of the foreigners, when residents still took care of each other. For centuries these hills had offered refuge to smugglers, and old habits were slow to die.

  ‘We don’t want to get you into trouble,’ she insisted. ‘Is there another way out of the house?’

  ‘Madeline!’ She heard the call from the street. ‘I know where you are. I just want to talk.’

  ‘Est-ce votre mari?’ asked the old lady, squinting suspiciously from the window.

  ‘No, he is a burglar,’ she said, searching for her schoolgirl French. ‘Un cambrioleur.’

  ‘Je comprends. Venez avec moi, il y a une porte arrière.’ She led the way through a small Provence-style lounge crowded with dark turned wood and overstuffed floral chairs. They reached the kitchen as Johann started hammering at the door. ‘Allez, allez avec votre beau fils. Je me débarrasserai de lui. Toute vite.’

  Madeline found herself in the dark rear garden of the house as the old woman closed the door on her. Gripping Ryan’s hand tightly, she pushed into the wet hibiscus bushes, searching for the back gate. As they slipped along the side of the house she could hear Johann arguing with the old woman at the front door, and prayed he would not hurt her. He was swearing loudly at her now, and she was shrieking back. Ryan yelled at her, complaining that she was hurting his arm as they hurtled back down the steps to the road.

  The train had left Cap-d’Ail and was already coasting the headland as they ran towards the station. The underpass to the correct platform was too far away. ‘We’ll have to go over the line,’ she told Ryan. ‘Can you run?’

  ‘Mum, the barrier’s down. I can see the train coming.’

  She swung him up into her arms before he could think further, and ran across the track as the light from the double-decked train illuminated the pine trees around them. Their bags were still lying on the platform. The sight of Johann appearing on the other side was cut off as the carriages flashed past and the train came to a stop. She prayed he would not have enough time to reach the underpass.

  They boarded the train without tickets and found their way to an upstairs seat. She watched anxiously from the window as the train stayed at the platform, its door wide open. Please, she prayed, let the doors close before he reaches us.

  As they finally pulled out of Eze-sur-Mer in the direction of Nice, she had no idea whether he had managed to board the train or not.

  14

  MORTIFICATION

  At five to twelve on Tuesday morning, DS Janice Longbright pushed open the door of the Bayham Street mortuary and entered the musty passageway that ran beside the former school gymnasium.

  She looked up at the narrow windows, paused, and took a slow, deep breath. Having resisted promotion from the status of Detective Sergeant for so many years, it now seemed that she was to have the responsibility of leadership placed upon her whether she liked it or not. An uncomfortable-looking Giles Kershaw was waiting for her outside the door. The young forensic scientist coughed loudly, but remained at the threshold of the room. He leaned around the jamb, reluctant to enter.

  ‘Giles, either go in or stay out,’ said Longbright, more in puzzlement than irritation. ‘What on earth’s the matter?’

  Kershaw looked sheepish. ‘Oswald didn’t want me here at all, so I’m not sure I should be intruding upon his turf.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so sensitive and territorial. I don’t understand what’s so important that you couldn’t talk to me about it on the phone.’ The sickly look on his face stopped her. ‘Tell me what’s happened.’

  ‘I think you’d better take a look,’ said Giles, running a hand through his lank blond hair as he stepped back to admit her first. ‘The door was locked on the inside. I had to use one of the spare keys to get it open. This is just how I found the place.’

  She moved carefully into a room that was still more like a gymnasium than a morgue. Most of it was below street level, with five short windows near the ceiling framing a dusty view of passing ankles on the pavement outside. An old wood-and-steel climbing frame still stood in the corner, the last surviving remnant of the St Patrick Junior Catholic Boys’ School gym. The bare brick walls had been painted gloss white, and the aluminium-cased strip lights that hung low across the steel desks added a forensic glare to a room which still smelled faintly of plimsolls and hormonal teens. The sprung wood basketball floor had been covered with carpet tiles. Longbright noted a folded pile of black micromesh sheets, a scuffed stainless steel dissecting table, several glass-fronted equipment cabinets, Finch’s old wooden desk and, at the rear of the room, a bank of four steel body drawers, but there was no sign of the pathologist.

  She had expected to find Finch in his usual spot, seated on a bentwood chair beside one of the sinks, reading a gardening magazine. He was now past the age when he could spend much of his day standing. She looked about, puzzled. ‘I don’t understand. Where is he?’

  ‘Look under the sink,’ Kershaw instructed her. Longbright slowly bent over, apprehensive of what she might find. Finch was lying on his back with his papery eyelids shut, his bony death’s-head face finally suited to circumstance. He looked for all the world as if he had decided to take a nap on the floor and then simply drifted beyond the vale of sorrow.

  ‘Seems entirely at peace, doesn’t he?’ Kershaw voiced her thought. ‘At a guess, I’d say he’s been dead for at least an hour. The exact time might prove difficult to pin down, but I’ll get to that problem later. There’s no blood, no outward sign of the cause. The only anomaly I can see is the angled bruise on the left side of his neck, about two inches long, just above his collar.’

  Longbright crouched beside the pathologist’s body and gently touched her hand against his skin. ‘Looks new. What do you think it is?’

  ‘I don’t know. I came here looking for Dan and found this instead. He’s cold to the touch. There’s a contusion on the back of his head, presumably caused by the fall. Ought we to call someone?’

  ‘I’m not sure if he has any surviving relatives left in this country. His wife and son went home to Poland.’

  ‘I’d heard he was depressed. John told me he’d changed his mind about leaving the unit, but Raymond Land wouldn’t take back his resignation. There’s a clear handprint on the stainless steel c
ounter, Finch’s own I’d guess, because there’s a band missing on his fourth finger, where he wears a ring. It would be consistent with him placing his left-hand palm down on the surface. It’s the sort of thing you’d do to steady yourself. My first thought was heart attack, but what about suicide?’

  ‘Surely a sudden illness is the most likely explanation,’ said Longbright.

  ‘Of course, that’s the first thing Dan will be considering after his examination of the room. The door was locked from the inside, and the only key in the room should be on the hook behind Finch’s desk, except it’s not. The windows require a pole to be opened, and have no external fastenings.’

  ‘There’s another way into the mortuary,’ said Longbright, looking up. ‘The ventilator shaft.’

  ‘Right, the cover’s missing from the front of the extractor fan.’

  ‘The pipe measures about forty-five centimetres,’ said Dan Banbury, walking in beside them. ‘So unless someone trained a monkey to come and attack him I think we can rule out that possibility.’

  ‘Murders in the Rue Morgue,’ said Longbright. ‘How on earth do you know what the pipe measures?’

  ‘You learn to make accurate measurements from sight-readings in this job,’ said Banbury casually. ‘My wife’s a district nurse. She does the same thing when she’s pouring me a beer, measures it out to the centilitre. Look further under the table.’

  ‘What is that?’ Longbright spotted the grey metal object, a double-ended aluminium blade.