Games with the Dead

by James Nally

  Chapter 7

  The Lamb, Pyecombe, East Sussex

  Thursday, June 16, 1994; 16.00

  Fintan whisks Sandra’s Cherubs back to Angel Islington while I set about getting slaughtered in the Lamb where, mercifully, the hobbling, russet-faced locals leave me alone.

  Before we’d left Pyecombe cemetery I’d run into Dr Edwina Milne, a forty-something, no-nonsense pathologist straight out of a mail order ‘Tory Wives’ catalogue.

  ‘You’re always finding bodies, Donal,’ she’d bellowed across the headstones. ‘Is there anything you need to tell us?’

  ‘Yes, there is something I need to tell you, Edwina, or anyone else who’ll listen, but I’m too scared,’ I screamed internally, before scampering off through the headstones, like Michael Stone after he ran out of grenades.

  Whiskey’s peaty warmth soothes my nerves, melding all sparking thoughts and sizzling fears into a toasting glow of ambivalence. The burnt aftertaste spirits me back to Mam’s funeral; my most recent and somewhat more controversial flit from a cemetery. Only I know what I was really running from. And that I won’t be able to run from it for much longer.

  It’s almost time …

  Those entire two days, Da couldn’t bring himself to talk to me, or even look at me. When they finally lowered her into the dirt, Da earthed his grief by grabbing Fintan’s arm. Why couldn’t he have grabbed my arm too? Just for once?

  I sling back the last of my Jameson and imagine the galvanising heat forging my iron will; I’ll be a better father to Matt. A proper dad.

  My mind drifts to the visions of Julie I’d experienced last night. The church bells and shepherd’s crook have already paid off, leading me to her body. The silver block must be crucial in some way. What the axe, deranged ravens and tiny fish signify, I can’t even begin to speculate.

  Once again, I reassure myself that I don’t possess some inexplicable telepathic hotline to the recently murdered. These performances can come from only one place – my subconscious – which has been obsessively gnawing away on this case for several long days now. My mind must process all the information, then present clues to me through my lurid, sleep-paralysis dream episodes. It’s not that I soak up the spirit of the deceased so much as the essence of the case. That must be what’s happening here … right?

  Unless what Mam said is true … that it’s all wrapped up in a family curse. But who could ever validate such a thing? I’ll cross that bridge soon, when I’m good and ready.

  Edwina’s periscopic peer around the corner promptly torpedoes all thoughts. She’s actively seeking me out; for what, my booze-fogged brain cannot even begin to fathom.

  ‘Donal,’ she hisses, as if secretly rousing me from deep slumber.

  ‘Edwina, how are you?’ I say, making to get to my feet but somehow failing.

  ‘Er, stay where you are,’ she laughs. ‘I trust that’s a double Scotch?’

  ‘Jameson, thanks.’

  Edwina and I go back to the very first murder scene I’d attended as a PC, the brutal stabbing of a girl aged twenty-one. I’d tried hard not to get upset, but failed, much to the glee of my emotionally stunted older colleagues. Edwina’s regal upbraiding of them still makes me smile: ‘You may be surprised to learn, gentlemen, that to the fairer sex, male vulnerability is a very sexy quality indeed.’

  Since then, she’s sought me out at murder scenes to check on my progress and educate me about her craft. I’ve even been teased about it by female colleagues, who rather cruelly dub her my ‘Crime Scene Cougar’.

  She stands at the bar with her back to me, her right boot perched on a foot rail running six or so inches off the ground. This uneven stance lifts one side of her white blouse to reveal a denim-clad buttock. On closer inspection, it’s a textbook half-moon arse cheek that should belong to someone twenty years her junior. I’d never even considered Edwina as a sexual being before and blaze like a KKK cross.

  Christ, Donal, I scold myself, I know you’re not getting any at home, but she’s old enough to be your mother …

  Double Christ, Donal, is this some form of twisted Oedipal grief? Banish such thoughts at once!

  ‘You look a little flushed,’ she teases, and I notice her brandy snifter clasped classily between upturned fingers. I then notice perhaps one button too many undone on her cotton shirt, so shift my gaze swiftly up to her half-amused eyes.

  ‘That’ll be the old uisce beatha.’

  ‘Ah, the one Gaelic phrase I know. The water of life, or whiskey as we inelegant Anglo Saxons call it. To poor Julie.’

  ‘Julie,’ I say and we clink solemnly.

  She sits and sips reverentially. ‘Watch this,’ she says, tilting the balloon-shaped brandy glass. ‘Don’t worry,’ she giggles, sensing my rising panic as she tips it all the way down onto its side. ‘See how it comes right up to the rim but doesn’t spill out? That’s how you measure the perfect single shot of cognac. And that’s the only thing I remember from my three-grand-a-term finishing school.’

  ‘Sounds like the kind of school I should’ve gone to.’

  ‘I heard about the kidnapper making off with the ransom money last night. The good news for you, Donal, is that Julie’s been dead for longer than twenty-four hours.’

  I’d already guessed, but now it’s official, tension escapes me like air from a pricked balloon. ‘Thank God,’ I gasp. ‘And thank you for letting me know, Edwina.’

  She puts her hand on mine and I convulse violently, like a flatliner receiving an electric shock. It’s all I can do not to bellow ‘CLEAR’. My God, is she coming onto me?

  ‘What else can I tell you?’ she husks, the minx, giving my stunned, immobile hand a squeeze, then slowly withdrawing. Reluctantly perhaps? Has she got some sort of weird crime scene horn? ‘The ground where she lay has no grass discoloration or flattened vegetation, so she hadn’t been there very long. She was completely naked inside the blanket.

  ‘There were two obvious fracture injuries to the back of her skull, both about a week-old and caused by a blunt instrument. I’ll be suggesting these were inflicted nine days ago when she was first abducted.

  ‘I found chain-like marks around her right ankle; she had been forced to wear some sort of restraint or leg iron. The redness of the injury shows it was caused before death. I found no chafing marks around her wrists though, which seems odd as this is universally the preferred method of restraint.

  ‘I found another ligature mark running along the back of her neck. Her tongue was protruding through clenched teeth which you normally find in people who’ve hanged themselves. She must have been throttled very violently at the end.

  ‘Her fingernails were undamaged and there were no marks on her forearms, the sort of defensive injuries that you’d expect if a victim had fought for her life. In other words, when the time came, she must have been restrained and strangled from behind, quickly and cleanly, which will provide some small comfort to her family.’

  We both need a drink after that. But Edwina’s not finished.

  ‘Now here’s an odd thing. The changes to Julie’s flesh show she’s been dead for about two days. That makes it impossible for me to determine if she’d been raped or sexually assaulted. But the insects in her body suggest she’s been exposed to air for a lot less time, I’d say between twelve and twenty-four hours.

  ‘There was also something really striking and bizarre about her appearance.’

  She squints at her drink, as if still trying to make sense of it herself.

  ‘She was completely bald.’

  ‘How?’

  She shuffles in her seat, theory still percolating. ‘For several hours after she died, her body must have been stored in some sort of sealed container which kept the flies and insects out. If he wrapped her in a sheet or towels and this place got very hot, her hair must have stuck to the bloody sheets or towels. When he unwrapped her, it came away from her head.’

  ‘Or he shaved her?’

  ‘No. Its ripped out at the r
oot.’

  ‘God, her poor family, having to see that …’

  She smiles. ‘You’re a sensitive old soul, Donal. I’ve instructed the mortuary to prepare a hairpiece.’

  She takes a bigger swig than me this time.

  ‘Other things of note, no food in her stomach, which suggests she hadn’t eaten for at least eight hours prior to her death. And the sheet she came wrapped in today bears a laundry mark – MA 143 – so if you chaps can find the origin of that laundry mark, you may find her killer.’

  She takes a final gulp as I consider how to even word my only question.

  ‘We had a tip-off,’ I lie, because the truth might get me sectioned. After all, I’m basing this on last night’s bonkers visions of Julie. ‘Look, I won’t bore you with the details, Edwina, but there’s been a suggestion that an axe is involved in Julie’s murder, somehow.’

  She frowns and I visualise my question grinding through her red-hot brain engines. She shakes her head finally. ‘I’ve only ever known Triad gangsters to use an axe. Or Irish travellers, I’m sorry to say. How exactly is an axe involved in this?’

  ‘Truthfully, I’ve no idea. I just thought I’d better mention it.’

  She shakes her head some more. ‘None of Julie Draper’s injuries could’ve been inflicted with an axe.’

  ‘Well, thanks so much for taking the trouble to find me, Edwina. I’m really touched,’ I say. ‘If I can ever buy you a drink back …’

  ‘Well, I’m frequently alone in London on Sunday evenings, when all my pals are doing family things. You can treat me to a convivial supper some time.’

  ‘I’d love that,’ I blurt, not giving myself time to fluster or dither or ruin the moment.

  She gets to her feet, and I wonder what the hell I should do if she presents herself for an embrace. My finishing school didn’t cover that.

  ‘Well, it’ll make a nice change from Antiques Roadshow,’ I say, standing up.

  ‘Not for you, it won’t.’

  She smiles and lingers there, eyes glinting. Is this some sort of cue for me to move in?

  ‘See you soon then, Donal,’ she smiles, searching my eyes.

  What should I do?

  She turns to leave, then, Columbo-style, spins at the door.

  ‘There is one case you might want to check out, from five or six years back, still unsolved. A bailiff named Nathan Barry.’

  She lifts her open palm to the left side of her face and starts karate-chopping her cheek. I try not to look alarmed or confused.

  ‘Axed in the face. Really nasty. That’s the only one I know of. Worth checking out.’

  Chapter 8

  Pyecombe, East Sussex

  Thursday, June 16, 1994; 20.00

  I set off home whiskey-bleak, intent on avoiding Zoe until the morning. At least I can count on the combined ineptitude of Southern Rail and London buses on that score. I’ll be lucky to make it home by midnight.

  The trouble is, I know exactly how it will play out. At first, she’ll greet news of my dismissal from the Kidnap Squad with stoic, purse-lipped disappointment. She’ll get busy with something to avoid me – ironing, sticking labels onto Matt’s clothes, that damned dishwasher – humming in that way that makes me want to strangle her. Every now and then, she’ll stop suddenly to stare sadly into space, and sigh.

  All the while, her forensic brain will be feverishly constructing the case for the prosecution. She can’t help herself. Soon the questions start. Did Crossley specifically say x? Did you consider all other options before you did y? She’ll shift, gradually, until it becomes clear that she’s entirely on Crossley’s side, albeit in her infuriatingly factual, reasonable and logical way. Indeed, her devout commitment to be ‘totally fair’ to all parties involved is what makes me apoplectic.

  ‘Why can’t you just take my side and support me, for once?’ I’ll snap.

  And then she’ll launch her trusty cruise missile; the ‘shock and awe’ hate bomb that obliterates every penis over a radius of one square mile.

  ‘I just thought we’d be living closer to Mum. By now.’

  Her mother, Sylvia, takes care of Matthew while we work. That’s his name when he’s over there, after she declared Matt ‘too communal garden’. For all her snobbery, Sylvia’s ability to mangle common phrases is her unwitting Achilles heel. Just last week, she complained that her new spectacles were impairing her ‘profiterole vision’.

  Late last year, Zoe found ‘the perfect flat’ for the three of us in Crouch End, just two streets from her family home. Perfect, that is, if I’d been on a DC’s salary. I pointed out that we couldn’t afford it. Her parents offered ‘to help’ until I got my promotion. I refused – out of bullish, old-fashioned and foolish male pride, of course – forcing us to not so much downsize as capsize from cosy Crouch End to grungy Green Lanes, Haringey; home of the Turkish heroin trade, leering Albanian/Kosovan cigarette hawkers and heaving 24/7 traffic.

  She’s never got over it, especially now that each working day is bookended by the Matt drop-off/pick-up, a tedious forty-minute walk to where we should be living. It’s as if I’ve failed in some fundamental, primeval, manly obligation that can never be reconciled. Postcode emasculation.

  At least the grocers of Green Lanes never close. Hangover incoming, I snaffle two bottles of rancid Transylvanian Shiraz and shuffle home for my nightly ‘couched grape’ solo session.

  I unlock the front door, quickly check on Zoe and Matt – both out cold – then open bottle one. As the cork pops my mind snags on my mother-in-law Sylvia’s cutting observation. ‘Failed relationship’ … why does that rankle so? Is it the non-attribution of responsibility – blame – as if our status as a couple is so doomed that Zoe and I are powerless to save it? Or is it the shock realisation that, were we to split up, our incompatibility will be judged by the world at large as a personal failing on both our parts?

  As I wince through the first aquarium-scale glug, I decide it’s time to pinpoint where this ‘failing’ began, and which of us is to blame. Top of my list: the chronic lack of sex.

  By her own admission, Matt’s birth marked the death of Zoe’s sexual appetite. Of course, I wasn’t there – I didn’t even know Zoe then – but her oft-repeated, harrowing descriptions of the thirty-four-hour fanny-buster does little for either of our sex drives, in truth.

  She lays the blame squarely on the National Childbirth Trust (NCT). It was the ‘Nipple-Cracked Tyrants’ – Zoe’s term – who convinced her to undergo childbirth without drugs. As someone who won’t clip a toenail without a tub of Savlon to hand, the notion of ‘natural childbirth’ boggles my mind. Ever since, she’s suffered crippling bouts of thrush, so we just ‘don’t go there’ any more, or even talk about it.

  So imagine my surprise when I pick up her flashing mobile, on charge in the kitchen, click on a message from ‘Charles’, and read the words: Z, when can I see you again? Missing you every second!

  My first reaction is disbelief. It’s been sent to the wrong number. Or it’s a prank. Or she’s being stalked by some loon. We’ve had that before – a hazard of her job as a forensics officer. Crime scene weirdos find out her name, rank, place of work and won’t stop calling her. But they’d never get hold of her mobile number …

  I walk into our bedroom. She’s a snoring bed hump. A human landslide. It is 11pm after all.

  It can wait until morning. There has to be a simple explanation, surely. I tip toe into Matt’s room. As usual, he’s face down in the cot, bum-in-the-air. I touch his hot little back, my hand earthing the familiar beats of his busy little heart. We always joke how we never want that tiny heart to be broken. Whatever her feelings for me, Zoe wouldn’t do it to him. Never.

  I pad back into the sitting room, click off the TV and the lamp, pour a greedy red and fidget in the street-light orange gloom. For some reason, the Kübler-Ross model flashes into my mind. This is the Five Stages of Grief we’d been taught about – useful knowledge to any murder detective. DABDA �
� Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression. Then, finally, Acceptance. In a murder case, any close associate of the victim failing to adhere to the DABDA protocol becomes a suspect. It’s not murder suspects I’m worried about here, but me. Am I in denial?

  I’ve no idea how long it is before her phone flashes a second time. Charles again, still up, in more ways than one: Z, about to hit the hay. Won’t be able to resist touching myself thinking of you x x x

  Denial leaves town without packing. Anger stares at the number, wanting to call this fucker up, have it out. My forefinger quivers over the green button. Hang on, I tell myself, I need to be smarter than this. I jot down the number, cross-reference it with the contacts in my phone. Nothing. I check Zoe’s calls and texts records, in and out. No sign of Charles. Then I notice how scant these records are. She’s already been busy deleting.

  Anger hatches a plan. I deposit her phone discreetly behind the empty flower vase, taking considerably more care to hide it than philandering Zoe. I don’t want her to have any inkling that I know. I need to spring it on her in the morning, catch her cold, so that I can read her eyes.

  I sit there stewing, unable to stop speculating: who is Charles? How long has this been going on? What have they done together? Who else knows about it? The thing that really bamboozles me; where has she found the time or the energy?

  Hang on a minute, I remind myself, she goes out two nights a week. It was her childless former work colleagues who persuaded her to resume her pre-Matt social life.

  ‘I want to get back to my old self,’ she’d announced. Not as badly as me, so I agreed to babysit a couple of nights a week, hoping that ‘the girls’ could do something I clearly couldn’t – make Zoe happy again.

  I went out with them once, watched them guzzle bone-dry Chardonnay by the half-pint and become feral, so I fled. I now call them the WWF, the White Wine Fiends, and sit in quivering dread of her return, just like we used to with Da.