Fever of the Bone

by Val McDermid

  ‘He left town after he sold up,’ Miles said. ‘I couldn’t find anybody that knew him personally, so I don’t know what lay behind him getting rid of the business and leaving town. You might want to check out the archives of the Triple H.’

  ‘The Triple H?’

  ‘Sorry. I’m forgetting you’re not from round here. The Halifax and Huddersfield Herald. They’ve been digitising their back numbers.’ Miles spoke the unfamiliar word as if it were in a foreign language. ‘My special interest is the wool industry and I’ve found quite a few gems with their “search engine”. They let you use “text strings” and the like. Regrettably I couldn’t get on the library computer to check this afternoon. We’ve not got the internet at home,’ he said. Carol sensed a wistfulness he was reluctant to admit to.

  ‘Thanks for the suggestion. I’ll take a look when I get back.’ If nothing else, she might find a better version of the photocopy Miles was folding up and replacing in its envelope. ‘You’ve been very helpful,’ she said.

  He made a self-deprecating face. ‘Nowt you couldn’t have found out for yourself.’

  ‘Maybe. But it would have taken me a lot longer. Believe me, I’m always grateful to people who save me time.’

  ‘It’ll be a hard job, yours,’ he said. ‘Hard enough for a man, but you women are always having to prove yourselves, eh, lass?’

  Her smile was wintry. ‘No kidding.’

  ‘So, has this helped you with your cold case?’ he asked, his glance shrewd.

  ‘It’s been very instructive.’ Carol finished her drink. ‘Can I give you a lift anywhere?’

  Miles shook his head. ‘I’m only five minutes down the road. Good luck with your investigation. I hope, like the Mounties, you get your man.’

  She shook her head, wondering where Tony was and what he was doing. ‘I’m afraid it might be too late for that. That’s the trouble with cold cases. Sometimes the people involved are beyond our reach.’

  Nobody ever volunteered for the last ID. No matter how many times you asked people to put a name to their dead, it still felt like shit. Every CID team had its own rules of engagement. Some left it to the Family Liaison Officer; some SIOs always insisted on doing it themselves. In Carol Jordan’s MIT, the same rule applied to this as to everything else - the person best equipped for the task was the designated officer. And so it was that Paula dealt with more than her fair share.

  Given that she was stuck with it, she always preferred to carry out the job alone. That way she didn’t have to concern herself with anyone but the grieving person who was going to have to confront a lifeless body and decide whether or not it was the remains they feared most.

  The FLO had been with the Morrisons since that morning. They’d been told the chances were that the body found earlier had been their son. But Paula knew that they’d still be in denial, still convinced there had been some grotesque muddle at the crime scene, that some total stranger had been misidentified as their beloved boy. Until they saw Daniel’s body for themselves, they’d be clinging to those shreds of hope. Paula was the one who would have to rip that prospect from them.

  The FLO showed her into the kitchen, where the air was thick with cigarette smoke. Jessica Morrison sat at a marble-topped table, staring out through the conservatory at the darkness beyond. An untouched cup of tea sat by her folded hands. Her make-up sat on her skin like the icing on a cake. Her eyes were bloodshot and wild, the only clue to the pain saturating her.

  Her husband perched on a high stool at the breakfast bar, a full ashtray next to his mobile and the landline handset. When Paula walked in, he couldn’t keep the look of bruised hope from his face. She shook her head slightly. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He took a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his crumpled shirt and lit up. ‘I haven’t smoked for the best part of twenty years,’ he said. ‘Amazing how it comes back to you as if you’d never stopped.’

  If there was an easy way to do this, Paula still hadn’t found it. ‘I’m afraid I need one of you to come with me. We need to be certain that it’s Daniel we found earlier today,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, but it has to be done.’

  Jessica got to her feet, stiff as an arthritic old lady. ‘I’ll come.’

  ‘No.’ Mike jumped off the stool and held up his hand. ‘No, Jess. You’re not up to this. I’ll do it. I’ll go with her. You stay here. You don’t need to see him like this.’

  Jessica looked at him as if he were mad. ‘It’s not Daniel. So it makes no odds. I’ll go.’

  He looked stricken. More in touch with reality, Paula thought. ‘What if it is him? I can do this, Jess. This is not a job for you.’ He put his hand on her arm.

  She shrugged him off. ‘If it is Daniel, which I don’t believe for a minute, then I need to see him. I’m his mother. Nobody else has the right to say goodbye.’ She walked straight past him, down the hall towards the door.

  Mike Morrison looked at Paula beseechingly. ‘She’s not strong enough to handle this,’ he said. ‘It should be me.’

  ‘I think you should come too,’ she said. ‘She’s going to need you. But I think she’s right. She needs to see him for herself.’ She gave him a fleeting pat on the arm and followed Jessica out to the car.

  Paula was thankful it was a short drive to Bradfield Cross Hospital, which housed Dr Grisha Shatalov’s pathology suite. The atmosphere in the car was grim, the silence swelling to fill all the space available. Paula parked by the bay reserved for the mortuary van and led the way into the building by the discreet rear entrance. The Morrisons followed her like beasts to the slaughter. She led them into a small room decorated in muted colours with a long couch facing a wall-mounted monitor. ‘If you’d like to take a seat,’ she said. ‘Once you’re settled, the screen will show you the image we need you to identify.’

  ‘I thought we would see . . .’ Mike’s voice tailed off. He didn’t know what to call the body Paula presumed was his son.

  ‘We find it’s less traumatic this way,’ Paula said, as if she believed it. What could possibly make this less traumatic was beyond her powers of imagination. She waited till they sat down. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

  She left the Morrisons and went down the hallway to the technicians’ room. ‘We’re ready for Daniel Morrison. The body that came in this morning?’

  ‘We’re all set up,’ one of the mortuary techs confirmed. ‘You just need to switch on the monitor.’

  Back in the viewing room, Paula checked the Morrisons were composed and ready. Then she switched on the screen. It turned silvery grey then Daniel’s face appeared. They’d done a good job, she thought. Asphyxiation didn’t leave pretty victims, but they’d managed to make him look less swollen and engorged than he’d appeared earlier. His eyes were closed, his hair combed. By no stretch of the imagination did he look peaceful, but at least he didn’t look nearly as fucked up as he had done when they’d found him.

  ‘That’s not Daniel,’ Jessica said loudly. ‘That’s not my son.’

  Mike put his arm round her shoulder and gripped her tight. ‘It’s Daniel,’ he said, his voice bleak. ‘It’s Daniel, Jess.’

  She pulled away and staggered to her feet, approaching the monitor. ‘It’s not Daniel,’ she screamed, clutching her chest. Suddenly her face contorted in terrible pain. Her body twisted and bent and her mouth opened in a silent cry of agony. She fell to the ground, her body in spasm.

  ‘Jess,’ Mike yelled, falling to his knees beside her. ‘Get help,’ he shouted at Paula. ‘I think she’s having a heart attack.’

  Paula sprinted from the room and threw open the technicians’ office door. ‘She’s having a heart attack, call a code.’

  They looked blankly at her. ‘We’re not on the system,’ one said.

  ‘Well, get her on a fucking gurney and into the main hospital, ‘ Paula shouted. ‘Now. Do it!’

  Afterwards, she’d have been hard pressed to catalogue the events of the next few minutes. The technicians were galvanised
into action, loading Jessica on to a trolley and racing through the corridors to A&E, Mike and Paula at their heels. Then the Casualty staff sprang into action with unflustered aplomb and Paula was banished to the family waiting area with Mike.

  Paula made sure he was settled and the receptionist knew where he was and where she would be, then headed for the ambulance bay and a nicotine hit. She had one hand on the door and the other on her cigarettes when a faintly familiar voice said, ‘Detective McIntyre?’ She swung round and found herself staring at warm grey eyes and a tentative smile.

  ‘Dr Blessing,’ she said, unable to resist the grin spreading across her face. ‘Elinor, I mean,’ she added, remembering that the last time they’d met she’d been granted that privilege.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ Elinor said, wrapping her white coat more tightly around her as they stepped out into the chill air.

  ‘You too.’ Meaning it more than she’d meant anything in a while. When the two women had met on a previous case, Paula had felt a frisson between them. She’d even thought Elinor might have been flirting with her, but it had been so long since she’d had to decode those messages and she’d been so tired; it had all been too hard. She’d planned to follow up later, but life had, as usual, got in the way.

  ‘You still working with DCI Jordan on the Major Incident Team?’ Elinor asked.

  ‘That’s right. Attached by an umbilical cord to the worst that human beings can do to each other. And you? Still on Mr Denby’s team?’

  ‘For now. Though I’m due a move soon. But right now I’m on my way to Starbucks,’ Elinor said. ‘If I drink another cup of junior doctor coffee I’ll need to have my stomach pumped. Can you join me?’ She caught sight of the cigarette pack in Paula’s hand. ‘They have tables outside.’

  Paula felt a flash of irritation. ‘I’d love to. But I can’t.’ She gestured back towards A&E. ‘Work. I need to stay close at hand.’ She spread her hands in defeat.

  ‘No problem. It’s only two minutes’ walk. How would it be if I brought you something back?’

  Paula felt a warm glow in her stomach. She’d been right, this was a woman after her own heart. ‘A grande skinny latte would be a beautiful thing.’

  ‘Coming up.’ Elinor hustled off down the driveway, a white blur in the streetlights.

  Paula lit her cigarette and took out her phone. Positive ID on Daniel Morrison. Mum had heart attack. Am @ A&E with Dad, she keyed in and sent the message to Carol. That should cover her back for long enough to have an exploratory coffee with the lovely Dr Blessing. Work might be shit, but it looked as if her personal life might just be taking a turn for the better.

  CHAPTER 19

  It wasn’t that she missed him when he was away. It wasn’t like they lived in each other’s pockets. When they were both busy, they could easily go for a week without spending an evening together. But Carol was always conscious of the emptiness of the house above her basement flat when Tony was away. Their lives were separate, their space private, the doors at the head and foot of the internal staircase creating a sort of airlock between them.

  And yet . . . She knew when he was not there. Maybe there was a genuine reason; perhaps his movements created a vibration at some subliminal level in the house’s fabric and whose absence unsettled her reptile brain. Or maybe they were, as Blake had implied, a little too closely in tune. Carol shivered at the thought. Her feelings for Tony were a complicated web whose strength and fragility she preferred not to test.

  So she told herself it was just as well that he wasn’t here, as if his presence would somehow hamper her exploration of his history. Certainly it would be more than likely to sharpen the nag of guilt she felt at continuing to go behind his back and against his expressed wishes. Nevertheless she logged on to Google and soon found herself on the home page of the Halifax and Huddersfield Herald. First she tried ‘Eddie Blythe’ but got no result. But when she replaced the first name with Edmund, a string of results unrolled on the screen.

  The first on the list, the most recent in terms of date, was the story Alan Miles had shown her in the pub. Frustratingly, the photograph hadn’t been scanned in. The next result was a story about the proposed sale of Blythe’s company to the Sheffield firm. Halfway through the story was a paragraph that stopped her in her tracks. ‘The factory’s owner, Mr Edmund Blythe, was unavailable for comment. Mr Blythe is recovering from a recent violent assault, as reported in this newspaper.’

  A violent assault? Alan Miles hadn’t mentioned anything about that. Carol hastily scrolled down the rest of the results, looking for something that wasn’t about the factory. A few stories down, she hit pay dirt.

  VIOLENT ATTACK IN SAVILE PARK

  A Halifax businessman was recovering in hospital last night after a brutal attack as he walked home through Savile Park with his fiancée.

  Edmund Blythe, 27, the managing director of Blythe & Co, Specialist Metal Finishers, was stabbed by a thug who attempted to rob him at knife-point.

  When he refused to hand over his wallet, the man struck out with his weapon and hit Mr Blythe in the chest. According to hospital staff, the blow came close to his heart and it was a matter of pure luck that the consequences were not fatal.

  Mr Blythe, of Tanner Street, and his fiancée were returning to her parents’ home after spending the evening with friends who live on the far side of the park.

  His distraught fiancée, who has asked not to be named, said, ‘It was a terrible shock. One minute we were walking along arm in arm, minding our own business. Then a man stepped out from the shadow of some bushes and brandished a knife. I could see the blade gleaming in the moonlight.

  ‘I was terrified. He told Edmund to hand over his wallet, but he refused. Then the man rushed at him and there was a struggle. I started screaming and the man ran off.

  ‘It was too dark for me to see him clearly. He was about six feet in height and wore a flat cap pulled down over his hair. He sounded local, but I doubt I should be able to recognise his voice again. It was all so frightening.’

  Detective Inspector Terrence Arnold said, ‘This man is clearly very dangerous. We advise members of the public to be on their guard when walking in secluded areas after dark.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Carol said aloud as she reread the article. Why on earth had Vanessa failed to mention this dramatic incident? It wasn’t like her to miss the chance for a touch of the limelight. Not to mention the sympathy she’d elicit for being involved in such a terrifying attack.

  It did go some way to explain why Blythe had decided to abandon Halifax for Worcester. An unprovoked assault like that would make anyone anxious about the place they were living. But she’d have expected him to want to take his fiancée with him. Of course, if Vanessa hadn’t wanted to leave Halifax, no amount of persuasion would have shifted her.

  Carol poured herself a fresh glass of wine. She checked the other articles, but there was no more about the attack. Clearly no arrest had been made. Not entirely surprising, with no description of any value. Doubtless the usual suspects had been dragged in and slapped around a bit, but nothing had come of it. And Blythe himself had clearly been unwilling to discuss it. It seemed he’d sold up and left town almost immediately. It was all very sudden.

  It was beginning to look as if Carol might have to pay another visit to Tony’s mother. Only this time, she wouldn’t be taking no for an answer. The only thing that stopped her heading straight back to Halifax and Vanessa’s lair was a text from Paula.

  ‘Oh shit,’ Carol said. Strictly speaking, she didn’t need to turn out on this one. But her sense of obligation was heightened by her earlier dereliction. I’ll be there within the half hour, she texted back to Paula. Hold the fort till then.

  Niall Quantick hated his life. He hated his useless mother. He hated the scuzzy streets round their spazoid flat. He hated never having any money. He hated school, hated that he had to show up every day, thanks to his arsehole mother’s deal with the head teacher that, if he didn�
��t show, he wouldn’t get even his pitiful allowance from her. OK, so he planned to play the system to get away from her and her fucking hateful little life, but he didn’t want her to know that. He would have gone to school anyway, but his small rebellion against the machine last term had totally paid off. Pretty much the one thing he didn’t hate about his life was that he was clever enough to outsmart everybody who tried to get one over on him.

  He took a toke off the joint he indulged in every day after school when he walked the stupid dog to get out of the flat so he could chill out in the crappy park with its used needles and scumbags and glue bags and dogshit. What a fucking life.

  Most of all, he hated his fuckwit arsehole father for turning his life into this drudged-out hell. His life might not feel so shit if he couldn’t remember a time when it had been different. The other kids he hung out with didn’t seem as pissed off with their lives as he was and he thought that might be because they didn’t have anything better to contrast it with. Oh sure, they thought they knew what it would be like to have a flash car and a big gaff and holidays where the sun shone every day. But that was just fantasy footballer world to them. Not to Niall. Niall remembered what it was like to have all of those things.

  Before this scummy flat in a part of Manchester so bad that jobseekers had to lie about their postcode, they’d lived in a detached house on the outskirts of Bradfield. Niall had had his own bedroom plus a playroom. He’d had a PS3 and an Xbox. There had been a room full of gym equipment with a plasma-screen TV at the end of the treadmill. His dad’s Mercedes had sat in the double garage next to his mum’s Audi. They’d had season tickets for Manchester United, they’d gone abroad on holiday three times a year and Niall couldn’t keep track of his Christmas and birthday presents.