For the Love of Luke

by David C. Dawson

  THE SCREAM of a police siren and the insistent hammer of a pneumatic drill hit Rupert’s ears when he walked out of the BBC’s news headquarters in Upper Regent Street that lunchtime. London was packed with summer tourists, and noise was all around him. He paused at the side of the street, waiting for the traffic to clear so he could cross to the middle where the taxis waited.

  “Mr. Pendley-Evans! Mr. Pendley-Evans!”

  Rupert avoided looking behind to see who was calling him. From time to time, fans would stop him in the street. Usually, the attention flattered his ego. But today he was late for his meeting with Rosalind, and he knew she would seize the opportunity to pour scorn on his timekeeping. Rupert stared at the faces of the drivers in the cars, willing them to stop. As he spotted a gap in the traffic, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see a man, out of breath, standing at his side.

  “Mr. Pendley-Evans,” said the man. “I need a few minutes of your time.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Rupert, irritated when the man continued to rest his hand on Rupert’s shoulder. “I’m late for a meeting. You can write to me at the BBC if you want.”

  “It’s about Luke.”

  Rupert turned. The man was as tall as Rupert, well-built and smartly dressed in a dark suit and crimson tie. He spoke with an American accent.

  “What about Luke?” asked Rupert.

  “Can we go for a coffee somewhere?” asked the man. “I need to explain some things to you.”

  “I told you. I’m going to be late for an appointment. What about Luke?”

  The man’s grasp on Rupert’s shoulder tightened. “I want you to stop seeing him. You’ll damage him if you don’t.”

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” asked Rupert angrily. He pushed the hand from his shoulder and stared at the man as recognition dawned. “Hey. You were at the apartment the other morning. I saw you try to break in.”

  The crowd around them surged forward as the traffic cleared, and a stream of people pushed in front of Rupert. When the wave of bodies finally thinned, the man had gone. Rupert stood at the side of the street for a few moments longer and scanned the sea of faces around him. At last, irritated and confused, he looked back at the clock on the front of Broadcasting House. Half past one. He was going to be very late.

  “I’M NOT sure I’ve got time for you now,” said Rosalind, her back turned to Rupert. “You never were on time. Every bloody Pride committee meeting, you turned up half an hour late.” She spun round in her swivel chair and looked over the top of her pink half-moon glasses. “Is it an affectation, or are you just terminally rude? I can’t imagine how you survive in a newsroom, surrounded by deadlines.”

  “Come on, Rosalind,” said Rupert, breathless from his sprint up four flights of stairs in the crumbling Victorian hospital wing at the back of Fulham Town Hall. “I’m only twenty minutes—”

  “Do you know how long it takes for a corpse left out of the icebox to lose vital evidence through decomposition? Twenty minutes. Do you know how long it takes for a brain to lose all chance of recovery after the heart stops beating? Half that time.”

  Rupert slumped into a battered high-back armchair, curiously out of place in Rosalind’s cramped, shabby office.

  “And I’d be careful what you’re sitting on,” she continued. “I dropped a spleen on that chair by accident this morning.”

  Rupert hurriedly lifted his freshly laundered chinos off the seat of the chair and gingerly felt around with his hand. It seemed dry enough, but through the pungent scent of formaldehyde that permeated the office, there was a distinct, ever-present smell of putrefying flesh. The carpet was threadbare and covered in suspicious-looking stains. The walls were pockmarked with holes and dents and painted a shade of green never featured on a designer’s paint chart.

  Rosalind reached behind her for a thin brown folder and tossed it over to Rupert.

  “Here you are,” she said. “It’s the draft of the report and the evidence photos. I printed them off for you in case you get all squeamish on me and back out of going down to the morgue.”

  Rupert opened the folder, and eight large-format photographs slipped out.

  “I hope you haven’t had any breakfast,” Rosalind added. “I know how delicate you are.”

  “What happened to him?” asked Rupert, breathing through his mouth to stop the smell of formaldehyde adding to his growing nausea.

  “He hanged himself. I thought you knew that.” She leaned forward to look at the photograph Rupert was holding. “Oh. You mean the damage? Well, he wasn’t very good at it. Most suicides aren’t. The beam he hanged himself from wasn’t high enough. If it’s a short drop, then the neck doesn’t break. Death by slow strangulation. Did himself a lot of damage in between.”

  Rupert shoved the photographs back into the folder and dropped it on the floor next to him. He put his head between his knees as the wave of nausea threatened to engulf him. After a moment, he sat up and rested his head against the high back of the armchair.

  “You’ve gone a funny shade of ashen,” observed Rosalind. “Do you want some water? It’s only a little stale.”

  She reached for a glass jug clouded with limescale, and a chipped china mug. Written on its side was A Corpse is for Life, Not Just for Christmas.

  “Forgive the lack of bone china,” she said, handing Rupert the mug. “The NHS doesn’t have the same budget for luxuries as the BBC.”

  She turned back to her desk and pulled up a report on her computer screen.

  “They’re still getting confirmation on the toxicology report,” continued Rosalind. “But it looks like this chap had the same drug coursing through his veins as the other ones.”

  “Yes, I know about the other three.”

  Rosalind turned to look at him with a puzzled expression.

  “How?” she asked. “I only found out because of my little network of pathology chums.”

  “A friend of mine tipped me off,” Rupert said without elaborating on the details. “He says there was one in Scotland, one in Northern Ireland, and one in the South West.”

  “And presumably you won’t tell me who your knowledgeable source is,” she said with a sniff. “Have you seen the other autopsy reports?”

  Rupert’s stomach was still in a turbulent condition. He kept his mouth shut and simply nodded. Breathing deeply, he hoped he would not embarrass himself in front of Rosalind.

  “Well, with young Richard Barnett, that makes four dead. All by hanging. All across the country. No pattern. If it’s a serial killer, then he must have a Megabus season ticket.”

  “The other autopsy reports mentioned some religious artifact found on the victims—”

  “Ah, yes,” said Rosalind. “The ‘Liberated’ crucifixes.” She reached across her desk for a small plastic evidence bag and tossed it across to Rupert. “This one’s different. I need to give it to the police when they roll up next. Found it in his underpants, of all places.”

  Rupert examined the object secured in the bag. It was a silver crucifix, just over an inch long. The words Liberated, VA were embossed on the crossbar.

  “The other reports said they found a silver coin with Liberated First stamped on it concealed on the body,” said Rupert. He took out his mobile phone and searched for Liberated, VA.

  “Here we are,” he said, reading from the screen. “Liberated’s a right-wing university in Virginia. It’s funded by the televangelist who blames us gays for the world’s changing weather system.”

  “Nat Jefferson? Oh, he’s a sweetie,” said Rosalind. “He’s the one who believes women shouldn’t have the vote, and a husband has the right to ‘take’ his wife, as he quaintly puts it, whenever he wants.”

  Rupert took out his phone and photographed the crucifix. He looked up and raised an eyebrow at Rosalind.

  “When did you say you’re seeing the police next?” he asked with what he hoped was his most beguiling smile.

  “Rupert Pendley-Evans. Are you suggesting I dela
y handing vital evidence to our brave boys in blue so you can steal a lead in your shabby little media witch hunt?”

  Rupert laughed but said nothing.

  “I finish at four today anyway,” said Rosalind. “Well, a bit after four, now you’ve made me late. They probably won’t get it until tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Thanks, Rosalind,” said Rupert. He stood up and kissed her on the cheek. She pushed him away and reached across her desk for a bunch of keys.

  “How’s your stomach?” she asked. “There’s a body in the morgue waiting to see you. I’d better get you a sick bag before we head downstairs.”

  Chapter 15

  ROSALIND SLAMMED the office door behind her and turned the key.

  “God knows why I lock it,” she said. “It’s got be someone with a pretty warped sense of pleasure who’d want to steal my collection of human anatomy souvenirs.”

  She led Rupert through a battered green fire door and back down the windowless stone staircase of the Victorian hospital building. Partway down the second flight of stairs, Rupert’s mobile rang. He stopped on the half landing, pulled the phone from his pocket, and answered it.

  “Hey, Luke,” he said. “What’s up?”

  “There’s a man here looking for you,” replied Luke. “He’s from the insurance company.”

  “Oh shit.”

  Rupert’s voice echoed up and down the deep brick stairwell. Rosalind leaned against the wall, folded her arms in front of her, and glowered at him.

  “I completely forgot about that,” said Rupert. “I guess you can’t let him in?”

  “I don’t have a key, Rupert,” replied Luke. “At least, not yet.”

  “Oh yes, of course,” said Rupert and scratched his head. “Okay. Can you ask him if he’ll hold on for me? Or come back? My dear friend Rosalind is about to show me a dead body.”

  Rosalind rolled her eyes and sighed loudly.

  “Hang on. I’ll check with him,” said Luke. Rupert heard snatches of conversation in the background.

  “He says he can come back in an hour if you like,” said Luke finally. “What do you want to eat tonight?”

  “That’s great,” replied Rupert. He looked at the time on his phone. It gave him over two hours to get back home. “Are you cooking again? Or we could go out. Do you like sushi?”

  “Love it,” said Luke. “There’s a new place in St. George’s Wharf. We could sit by the river and watch the sun go down.”

  “You old romantic, you.” Rupert laughed. He looked across at the thunderous expression on Rosalind’s face and hurriedly turned away from her. “I’ll see you in a while,” he whispered. “Can’t wait to see you again.”

  “Me too,” replied Luke. “You going to fuck me before dinner or after?”

  “Both,” whispered Rupert. “I’ll make sure we’re better prepared this time.”

  He ended the call and looked across at Rosalind.

  “So,” she said. “It seems the love life has picked up.”

  “That’s the guy who lives upstairs,” replied Rupert. “His bath overflowed and brought my ceiling down. So I’ve had to—”

  “Spare me, please,” said Rosalind. She unfolded her arms and reached for the handrail of the next staircase. “Let’s get you down to the morgue before you make me any later.”

  “Ah,” said Rupert.

  In truth, he had plenty of time before he needed to return to see the man from the insurance company. But Rosalind had already given him the autopsy report. The unveiling of a dead body under his nose was not something he relished. And the one time she had shown him the morgue, she had been very theatrical, relishing his discomfort.

  “I’m so sorry, Rosalind,” he said. “Luke was ringing to say the insurance man is waiting for me back home. If I don’t leave now, I’ll miss him.”

  “Well really, Rupert,” said Rosalind. “I put myself out for you time and time again. And what do I ever get—”

  She was interrupted by Rupert’s phone ringing again. Rupert looked at the screen. It was police officer Will Sutherland.

  “I’m sorry Rosalind, I’m going to have to—”

  “Oh, fuck off, Rupert,” said Rosalind, and she stomped back up the stairs.

  Rupert answered the call and hurried down the stairs. He desperately needed some fresh air.

  “Hi, Will, what have you found?”

  “Not a lot,” replied Will. “He’s got a student visa, valid for another year. His address checks out as the apartment upstairs to your place, and he’s got an international driver’s license. No criminal convictions. He’d be deported immediately if he did something dodgy anyway.”

  “Does it say where he’s from in America?” asked Rupert.

  “I can’t pursue the inquiry much further than this, Rupert,” said Will. There was a hint of irritation in his voice. “I’d have to put in requests to the Home Office and the US authorities. It would be too risky for me.”

  “How come the police released him if he’d lost his memory?” asked Rupert. “Surely he’d be handed over to a hospital for a psych check?”

  “It seems a woman came into the police station to vouch for him. She was his psychiatrist. It all checked out, so they released him.”

  “What’s her name?”

  Will hesitated. “I’m not sure I can give that to you. It’s a major breach of confidentiality. If you were to follow through and talk to her—”

  “Is she based at London Psychiatry Partners?”

  Again Will hesitated. Rupert tried a different approach. “You don’t have to say yes or no. I’ll ask the question again. If you hang up the call, then she’s based there. If you stay on the line, then she’s not.”

  Rupert reached the bottom of the stairs. He pushed open the heavy fire doors and breathed in the fresh air.

  “Was the person who vouched for Luke from London Psychiatry Partners?”

  The line went dead.

  IT WAS another scorching-hot afternoon, and Rupert decided to take advantage of the good weather. There was a rental cycle rack a few minutes’ walk from the hospital, and it would be a pleasant twenty-five-minute ride along the River Thames back to the apartment. He set off for the cycle rack at a brisk pace and brought up the cycle app on his phone to confirm there were cycles available.

  He had just arrived at the cycle rack when his phone rang.

  “Where the fuck are you? The afternoon editorial’s about to start, and iron knickers is gunnin’ for yer.”

  “I’m at Fulham mortuary, examining a dead body,” Rupert replied. It was almost true. “Why does she want me there? I’m on the suicide assignment for Special Reports. Remember? She took me off news.”

  “’Course I fuckin’ remember,” replied Sandra loudly. “I was there when she did it. But she says you’re followin’ up some story about mass killin’s from the NCA. So she wants you to brief everyone on it. Is that right?”

  “Yes,” he said. “And you can tell the charmless Eileen that pathologists don’t plan their diaries around the BBC’s afternoon editorial meetings—”

  “Don’t take it out on me, darlin’,” said Sandra. “I’ll tell her you’re fuckin’ the arse off your gorgeous American and can’t be bothered to come in.” The line went dead.

  Rupert was furious. He shoved the phone in his pocket, unlocked one of the red cycles, and jerked it from the stand. He had not planned to share Jerry’s information with the rest of the hacks in the newsroom. Angrily, he mounted the bike and set off along the street. It was his scoop. How dare the news editor tell everyone about it before he had time to complete his research and write the synopsis for the story? Now his colleagues would be reaching for their phones and calling their contacts around the country. Thanks to Eileen, some of them would steal a lead on the story from him.

  A lone taxi driver honked his horn furiously and overtook Rupert at breakneck speed. Lost in his thoughts, Rupert had let his cycle drift across the otherwise empty street. He veered to the side o
f the road and stopped. His heart pounded. The taxi screeched to a halt, reversed until it pulled alongside, and the driver directed a torrent of abuse at Rupert through his open window.

  As Rupert breathed deeply, the taxi roared off. Rupert tried to shift the anger he felt for his newsroom colleagues onto the belligerent taxi driver. But the face of Eileen Jones kept reappearing in his mind. He resented her attempt to share his investigation with the rest of the journalists. He suspected he was heading for another showdown with Eileen. And he knew in his heart he would lose, because of her seniority. Whatever the prestige of the BBC and the attractions of living in London, having a bully for a boss was no picnic. Maybe he should simply cut his losses and go for the CNN job. A couple of years out of London might not be so bad.

  RUPERT PULLED up at the entrance to the cycle docking station beneath Vauxhall Arches. He dismounted and walked the length of the gloomy Victorian archway in search of a free space in the rack. A lone busker with a guitar sang a mournful rendition of Ralph McTell’s classic “Streets of London.” The singer was probably no more than twenty. His long tangled hair hung down beneath a battered black porkpie hat. Rupert fumbled in his pocket for some loose change and threw a few pound coins into the open guitar case in front of the young man. Rupert had been a busker himself in Barcelona the summer after he finished university. It had been more a show of rebellion against his parents than a desire to rehearse his musical ability. His talent, he knew, was limited, certainly by the standards of the young man busking under the Vauxhall Arches today.

  He parked the cycle in a space near the end of the docking station and walked away from the arches. As he walked along South Lambeth Road, he texted Luke: Five minutes away

  He hesitated before he added two kisses and sent the text. Was he the only one who regularly pondered the subtext of the messages he sent? A moment later, his phone vibrated with a response: Great. I couldn’t say on the phone, but the guy’s hot! XOXO