by Rick Murcer
‘Post mortem.’
He looked at the clock again – of course, four o’clock. Maybe he needed to start writing things down again. ‘Crap. I’ll go along to the post mortem then. You visit forensics and see if they’ve found out anything. Even if the footprint does belong to the killer, it won’t be of any use until we have something to compare it against.’
‘Foot size indicates height.’
‘That’s not the way I heard it.’
‘Don’t be dirty.’
He grinned.
‘Find out whether anything came back from the house-to-house, but we probably need to re-visit that now that Verona Izatt isn’t Verona Izatt. Maybe we’ll have a chat with a few villagers tomorrow after we’ve been back to the cottage.’
‘Post mortem.’
The clock showed eighteen minutes to four. He’d be out of breath by the time he got to the mortuary. ‘I’m going. Ring me if...’
She pushed him out of the door.
***
Chief Superintendent Paul Northfield collared him as he was hurtling along the corridor towards the stairs.
‘Inspector Morgan, I’ve been looking for you.’
Inigo wondered how a boy – barely out of his teens – could be a Chief Superintendent. If it weren’t for the uniform and the shoulder tabs with the crown and pip on them, no one would give him the time of day. He was thin and pale, with spiky hair, and a know-it-all attitude. Inigo was sure that he used gel, but proving it without actually touching the hair was another matter.
‘I’ve been around, Sir.’ There should be a law about old people calling young people ‘Sir.’ It lodged in his throat like a chicken bone. He wanted to cough it up and spit it out.
‘Well, anyway...’
‘I’m in a rush at the moment... Sir. On my way to the mortuary...’
‘You don’t want to be rushing there at your age, Inspector.’
‘Very droll.’
‘The murder at Little Haven. How’s it going?’
‘Confusing at the moment. Can I brief you when I come back from the mortuary?’ He checked his watch. It was five to four. Jess would give him a hard time. She’d use it as an excuse to wax lyrical about his unreliability.
‘We need to talk about your pension as well.’
His brow furrowed, and a wave of nausea washed over him. ‘Oh?’
‘Not now, when you come back. I’ll be leaving at six though, I have a dinner engagement this evening.’
As he reached the door to the stairwell, he said over his shoulder, ‘I’ll be back long before then.’ Why didn’t the Chief say there was nothing to worry about? A year to go, and now there’s a problem with his pension. There’d better not be, that’s all he would say. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. If there were a problem, he’d say a hell of a lot more.
Jess had already started the post mortem when he reached Withybush mortuary at nine minutes past four. The killer had done some of her job for her, and all she had to do was cut the top V of the Y-cut.
‘Never could be on time. I say four o’clock, and you translate that as ten past, or some other God-forsaken time.’
He wasn’t going to get drawn in like a trout. In the past he would have swallowed the hook, line, sinker, and fishing rod, but he’d learned his lesson at last. ‘Well?’
‘Here.’ She passed him a plastic evidence bag with a small, silver object inside. ‘It was in her mouth.’
‘What is it?’ He said out of habit. Hadn’t even noticed that she’d removed the sutures from the victim’s mouth.
‘I could tell you, but then I’d be denying you the pleasure of finding out for yourself.’
Sometimes, when he didn’t love her, he hated her. She wound him up like a cheap watch off the market. He lifted the object up to the light and examined it. ‘Two hearts entwined.’
‘The obvious is usually the right answer. See, you can do it when you really try.’
She was good; he had to give her that. A lesser man would have crumpled under the weight of her sarcasm. ‘Have you heard from Marielle recently?’
Jess stopped rummaging around inside Verona Izatt’s abdomen and stared at him. ‘Why don’t you ring her?’
‘Why doesn’t she ring me?’
‘Same old Inigo. She’s your daughter.’
‘Daughters ring their fathers. She doesn’t ring me because she’s ashamed.’
‘Of course she’s ashamed; you’re her father.’
‘She’s ashamed because of what she does.’
‘You’re just a prude. She likes what she does.’
‘A father should not have to open up a newspaper and see his daughter naked in front of him. Nor should he have to listen to men making lewd comments about her over coffee and biscuits. She could have been anything she wanted. Instead, she flaunts herself like a whore.’
‘Do you know how much money she makes as a model?’
‘Money isn’t everything.’
‘When you haven’t got any, it is everything.’
‘We could have given her money.’
‘You’ve never had any money to give her, but she wants to make her own way in life.’
‘She could have finished university – something to fall back on.’
Jess laughed behind her mask, but there was no humour in the laugh. ‘You know nothing about her, do you? Our daughter is a millionaire. She’s beautiful, and she’s using what we’ve given her to make her own way in life. Times have changed, Inigo.’
‘Not for the better.’ When they discussed Marielle’s career choice, he always felt as though he came out second best. A millionaire! Surely an exaggeration, but even if she had half of that, what else was she doing to earn that kind of money? He knew he shouldn’t be thinking that way about his own daughter, but she’d broken his heart, and he couldn’t help himself. He had become everything he despised in his own father – a bitter and twisted old man.
An uneasy silence filled up the chasm between them like a fog that had drifted in from the sea.
Once she had completed the post mortem she said, ‘The drug he used is called Tetrodotoxin, or TTX for short. It’s a neurotoxin, and there’s no known antidote. It’s extracted from pufferfish, toads, and the blue-ringed octopus, but it has also been synthesised. At near-fatal doses it can leave a person close to death, but they remain conscious. You might try and find out where he got the drug from.’
He gave her a begrudging thanks, and left. In another year he would never have to see her again. He didn’t know whether that would please him, or destroy him.
He forced himself to think of the two hearts entwined. Unbidden, a quote from Suzanne Chapin jumped into his brain: All that is worth cherishing begins in the heart, not the head. As he was walking through Reception towards the main entrance, he realised he was a fool, turned around, and returned to the Mortuary.
She was cleaning her instruments, even though she had technicians to do that for her. When she turned to see who had entered, he saw that she’d been crying.
‘You do have a heart then?’ As soon as he said it, he knew he shouldn’t have. Force of habit, a defence mechanism. Throw the first barb and then run. ‘Sorry, I didn’t come back for another argument.’
‘But you thought you’d start one anyway?’
‘No, I came back to apologise, and to tell you I’ll ring Marielle.’
She stared at him as he left, stunned into silence by his softening.
***
‘There’s a shortfall,’ the Chief said.
They were sitting in the boy-Chief’s plush office. Behind the Chief stood a bookcase full of books that Inigo wondered if he had ever read. Probably for show, he thought. On the walls were framed awards, certificates, and photographs – the type of things thirty-year officers collected during an illustrious career. What had this boy ever done?
‘What do you mean, a shortfall?’ He knew exactly what the boy-Chief meant by a shortfall, but he wanted him to explain it anyway.
It would give him time to think.
‘You’ve applied to leave at sixty – five years earlier than usual. When you first applied for early retirement three years ago, the market was buoyant. Now... well, you know as well as I do what the economy is like.’
‘Let’s get to the bottom line. What are the figures?’
‘You’ll lose £500 a month, £6,000 a year, and your lump sum would be reduced by £10,000.’
‘The bastards.’
‘It’s hardly anybody’s fault, Inspector Morgan.’
‘It’s somebody’s fault, and I’d like you to bring the bastard who is responsible here, so that I can torture him for a very long time.’
The Chief ignored his outburst and passed him a piece of paper. ‘This letter explains the changes in detail as it affects you. You’re not the only one, you know. There have been thousands of officers affected. Also, the changes have been backdated to 2010.’
‘Somebody should be shot, Sir. Tell me a firing squad is being organised?’
‘Unfortunately, unless the changes are put in place, the pension fund would become insolvent. Do you still think you can take early retirement with the reduced benefits?’
‘Don’t worry, Sir, I’m still going. If necessary, I’ll work down the coal mines.’ He was being facetious, since they both knew there was no coal mining in Pembrokeshire anymore. He stood up to leave.
‘You were going to brief me on the murder in Little Haven?’
‘I’m not in the mood now, Chief. Can it wait until the morning?’
‘I suppose so, but make sure you leave your phone on tonight in case I’m asked some awkward questions at the dinner party.’
‘I’ll try and remember,’ but they both knew he wouldn’t.
He left the Chief’s door open, and felt guilty about ignoring Sharon Richards’ smile. The Chief’s secretary had always been pleasant to him.
After he’d paid his bills, he wouldn’t be able to live off what was left. At that moment, if he’d come face to face with the person responsible for his predicament, he would have murdered them with a smile on his face. Her Majesty could have had the pleasure of paying for his board-and-keep in his dotage.
He trudged up to forensics and tried to push the retirement disaster into a dark corner of his mind. Why people referred to ‘corners’ in the mind he had no idea. Nobody had a square brain or right angles in any shape or form. A recess or a fold would be more appropriate. Anyway, wherever the pension news was, he wished the Chief hadn’t told him. He stopped outside the connecting door into forensics and kicked the wall. ‘Shit.’
‘I’ve often said that wall deserves a good kicking, Sir.’
He didn’t realise there was anyone in the corridor with him.
Constable Christine Walsh was leaning against the opposite wall, smiling at him.
He’d heard about football being a game of two halves. Well, Christine Walsh had a body of two halves. The top half was lovely – lustrous black hair, a shapely attractive face, and breasts that would fit snugly into a swimming hat. The bottom half, though, belonged to someone else. Hips ballooned out from her waist, and her legs resembled thick, knotted tree stumps.
‘You’ve heard about the pension changes?’ he said.
The smile disappeared. ‘You obviously have. There’s a meeting tomorrow lunchtime to decide what we’re going to do about it. I don’t think wall kicking is on the agenda.’
‘I didn’t know you were so funny.’
‘I have many talents, Sir.’
‘Well, it’s been nice talking to you, Constable Walsh, but I have places to be and people to see.’
‘Have a nice life, Sir.’
‘And you, Constable.’
He opened the door into forensics, and left another embarrassing moment behind him. So, they were having a meeting. Mind, they could have meetings until the sheep came home, it wouldn’t make any difference. Some bastard had mismanaged the pension fund, and now Inigo Morgan had to pay for it – all very simple and straightforward. They’d never know the complete truth behind the catastrophe. It would be covered up. The money that had been siphoned off would be sitting in a bank in the Cayman Islands, while the bastard responsible for re-allocating Inigo Morgan’s pension fund would be sunning himself by a heart-shaped pool, and drinking Black Widow Martinis to the sound of ‘Mr Saxobeat.’
***
Dr Alexis Walker was the Chief Scientific Officer in charge of Forensics, and Inigo didn’t like her. In fact, there weren’t many people he did like – in forensics or otherwise.
‘Are you lost?’ Dr Walker asked.
Lynda Phillips – the bottle-blonde receptionist – had been flirting with a deliveryman when he’d arrived, so he’d hunched his shoulders into his jacket and aimed himself in a purposeful manner along the corridor.
‘Lost is such a depressing word. I prefer to think of myself as drifting between unknown points on the landscape.’
‘Your partner’s already been up here annoying me. Now, I’m busy, so go away.’ Alexis Walker was in her late forties and overweight. She had dark brown hair past her shoulders, the split ends making the last couple of inches frizzy. She was at that time of life when her hair colouring should have been getting lighter, not darker.
‘I bring you the find of the century, and you treat me like a plague victim.’
She held out her hand. ‘You with the plague! We should be so lucky.’
He passed her the evidence bag with the silver interlocking hearts inside. ‘Dr Reese found it inside the victim’s mouth, usual tests.’
‘Are you still here?’
‘I always enjoy the welcome I get up here.’
He ambled back along the corridor, and smiled at a surprised-looking Lynda Phillips. ‘You were sleeping,’ he said.
‘You’ll get me into trouble.’
‘I think I’m a bit old for that.’
‘Charlie Chaplin was eighty-two.’
‘There’s still hope for me yet then, doctor?’
‘Next time, don’t sneak past me like a criminal.’
‘Would you have let me in if I’d have stopped?’
‘No. I have strict instructions from Dr Walker not to let you in under any circumstances.’
‘There you are then. No point in me stopping if you’re going to treat me like an unwanted guest.’
‘But that’s what you are.’
‘Have a nice day, Lynda,’ he said, as he pushed open the door.
***
Tig was at her desk talking on the phone.
‘Well?’ he said to her when she’d finished.
‘Verona Izatt died in a hit-and-run. Never caught driver. Have to go to London to talk to her friends, find out what happened.’
‘Why London?’
‘Worked at the Transmarine Shipping Company as an Insurance Broker. Offices at 121 Westminster Bridge Road, which used to be the station and terminus of the London Necropolis Company.’
His back was aching, so he perched on the side of her desk to ease it. ‘Okay, let’s deal with this Necropolis Company first – what is it?’
‘Used to transport the dead of London to Brookwood Cemetery in Surrey using own railway line.’
‘But they’re not operating now, are they?’
‘No, 1852 to 1927. Found it interesting.’
‘It’s not. Tell me about the Transmarine Shipping Company.’
‘They insure ships.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Yes. LNC was more interesting.’
‘So, the hit-and-run driver could have been the woman who’s been masquerading as Verona Izatt?’
Tig shrugged. ‘Possible.’
‘Something for you. When Doc Reese unpicked the sutures in the victim’s lips, she found two silver interlocking hearts inside the mouth.’
Tig’s eyes narrowed. ‘Old lover?’
‘Could be. Maybe someone she rejected. First, we need to find out who this woman was. Okay, here’s what we
’ll do. I’ll go to London tonight and stay at my daughter’s place. In the morning I’ll visit the Transmarine Shipping Company offices and find out as much as I can about Verona Izatt. I’ll take a picture of the victim with me, show it around, see if anyone recognises her. I’ll come back tomorrow night, and we’ll go from there.’
‘Not been to London for a long time.’
‘And you’re not going tonight either. You go back to the cottage in the morning and turn it inside out. Question the villagers about the woman they knew as Verona Izatt. Anything from the house-to-house?’
Tig shook her head.
‘Any similar murders in the UK or abroad?’
She shook her head again.
‘Are you not talking to me?’
Her head shook vigorously.
He stood up. ‘Well, I’m going home to pack then. I’ll ring you about lunchtime tomorrow, and we can update each other. That doesn’t mean you can’t ring me at other times if something important comes up. I also don’t want you shaking your head over the phone when I do ring.’
***
‘Hello.’
‘It’s your father.’
He’d just arrived at London Paddington. It had taken him over five hours so far. After catching the quarter-to-seven train from Milhaven, he’d had to change at Swansea. Now, he needed to descend into the bowels of London and catch the tube to Knightsbridge.
‘Mum said you’d be ringing. Everyone else has a dad, I have a father.’
‘I’m on my way to London.’
‘Mum didn’t say you were coming to see me. I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’
The last time they’d met was three years ago. It had ended in disaster, and they hadn’t spoken to each other since.
‘I didn’t know I was.’
‘You’re coming because of work, not to see me?’
‘I could have sent someone else. I’m coming to see you. The work is something I have to do as well.’
‘So, you feel obligated to see me while you’re here doing your work?’