Whispers of the Dead dh-3

by Simon Beckett

  ‘So… where’s Summer?’ He did his best to sound casual, but the attempt was no more convincing than before. It wasn’t hard to guess the real reason he’d come to see us.

  ‘I’m afraid Summer won’t be helping us any more.’

  ‘Oh.’ His disappointment was obvious. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Thanks, but David and I can manage.’

  ‘Right.’ Kyle nodded emphatically. ‘Well, anything you need, be sure to let me know.’

  ‘I will. You take care now.’ Tom’s smile lasted only until the door had closed. ‘Lord…’

  ‘He’s right,’ I said. ‘He was doing his job. It’s no good blaming yourself. And if it comes down to it, it should have been me helping Summer, not him.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault, David.’

  ‘Or yours either. Besides, we don’t know yet that the needle was contaminated. He might be fine.’

  It was a faint hope, but no good would come from Tom’s torturing himself. He drew himself up.

  ‘You’re right. What’s done’s done. Let’s just concentrate on catching this son of a bitch.’

  Tom rarely swore, and it was a sign of his agitation that he didn’t seem to realize he had. He went to the door, then paused.

  ‘Almost forgot. Mary wanted me to ask if you eat fish.’

  ‘Fish?’ The change of tack threw me. ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘You’re coming over for dinner tonight.’ The eyebrows climbed as he enjoyed my discomfort. ‘Sam and Paul are coming as well. Don’t tell me you’d forgotten?’

  It had completely slipped my mind. ‘No, of course not.’

  He grinned, some of his usual humour returning. ‘Perish the thought. Not as though you’ve had anything else to think about, is it?’

  * * *

  There are two hundred and six bones in the adult human body. They vary in size from the femur, the heavy thigh bone, to the tiny ossicles of the inner ear, the smallest no larger than a grain of rice. Structurally, the skeleton is a marvel of biological engineering, as intricate and sophisticated as anything designed by man.

  Reassembling it isn’t a straightforward task.

  Stripped of any last vestige of decaying tissue, the bare bones of the man buried in Willis Dexter’s casket told their own story. Their African ancestry was now unmistakable, immediately evident in the slightly straighter, lighter bone structure and more rectangular eye orbits. Whoever this was, he’d been of medium height and build, and judging from the wear to his joints he was between his mid-fifties and early sixties. There were long-healed breaks in the right femur and left humerus, both probably the result of childhood accidents, and signs of arthritis on his knee and ankle joints. The damage was more evident on the left than on the right, which meant he had favoured that side when he walked. And the left hip was also badly eroded, the ball and socket pitted and worn. If he hadn’t been contemplating hip replacement surgery when he died, then he would have been all but crippled before much longer.

  Not that it made any difference to him now.

  Like Terry Loomis’s, the man’s hyoid was still intact. That didn’t mean anything either way, but when I lifted the dripping skull from the vat I smiled grimly to myself. The teeth were still brown and stained, but below where the gum had once been a band of clean enamel was now exposed.

  There was no mistaking the pink discoloration.

  I was still examining the skull when Tom came in. A short, paunchy man in his fifties was with him. His thinning ginger hair was swept half-heartedly over a reddened crown, and he carried a battered leather briefcase that fairly bulged with books.

  ‘Josh, I’d like you to meet David Hunter,’ Tom said as he entered. ‘David, this is Josh Talbot. What he doesn’t know about bugs isn’t worth knowing.’

  ‘He knows I hate that word,’ Talbot said affably. He was already looking round the room, bright-eyed with anticipation. His gaze lingered on the bones, but not for long. They weren’t why he was here.

  ‘So where’s this mystery insect you’ve got for me?’

  When he saw the specimen jar his entire face lit up. He bent down to study it at eye level. ‘Well, now, this is a surprise!’

  ‘You recognize it?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. Quite a find, too. There’s only one other part of Tennessee where this species of Odonata has been confirmed. There’ve been sightings round here before, but it isn’t every day you come across one of these beauties.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Tom said. ‘Do you think you could tell us what it is?’

  Talbot grinned. ‘Odonata are dragonflies and damselflies. What you’ve got here is a dragonfly nymph. A swamp darner, one of the biggest species in North America. They’re widespread across most eastern states, although less so in Tennessee. Here, I’ll show you.’

  He rummaged in his briefcase and produced a thick, dog-eared old textbook. Humming to himself, he set it on the workbench and began flicking through its pages.

  He stopped and tapped on one. ‘Here we go. Epiaeschna heros, the swamp or hero darner, as they’re sometimes called. Migratory, generally found by wooded roadsides and ponds in summer and fall, but adults can hatch in spring in warmer regions.’

  The page showed a photograph of a large insect shaped like a miniature helicopter. It had the familiar double wings and streamlined body of the dragonflies I’d seen at home, but there the resemblance ended. This one was as long as my finger and almost as thick, its brown body tiger-striped with bright green. But the most striking features were its eyes: huge and spherical, they were a vivid, electric blue.

  ‘I know dragon hunters in Tennessee who’d give their hind teeth to see an adult hero,’ Talbot enthused. ‘Just look at those eyes! Incredible, aren’t they? On a sunny day you can spot them a mile away.’

  Tom had been examining the book. ‘So what we found is the nymph of one of these?’

  ‘Or naiad, if you prefer.’ Talbot steepled his fingers, warming to his theme. ‘Dragonflies don’t have a larval stage. They lay their eggs in still or slow-moving water, and when the nymphs hatch they’re completely aquatic. At least, they are until they mature. Then they crawl out on to a plant or grass stem to metamorphose into an adult.’

  ‘But dragonflies aren’t normally attracted to carrion, are they?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, Lord, no.’ He sounded shocked. ‘They’re predators. They’re sometimes called mosquito hawks, because that’s their main diet. That’s why you generally see them near water, although swamp darners are partial to winged termites, too. You say this specimen was found in a casket?’

  ‘That’s right. We think it was probably bundled there along with the body,’ Tom told him.

  ‘Then I’d say the body had to have been left close to a pond or lake. Probably right by the water’s edge.’ Talbot picked up the jar. ‘When this little fella crawled out to metamorphose it obviously got scooped up as well. Even if it wasn’t crushed, burying it in the cold and dark would have killed it.’

  ‘Are there any particular areas where this species is likely to be found?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Not in fast-running streams or rivers, but pretty much any woodland where there’s standing water. They’re not called swamp darners for nothing.’ Talbot glanced at his watch, then packed the book back into his briefcase. ‘Sorry, have to go. If you find any live specimens, be sure to let me know.’

  Tom went to see Talbot out. He returned a few minutes later, his face thoughtful.

  ‘At least we know now what it was we found,’ I said. ‘And if the body was left near a pond or still water it gives Gardner a little more to go on.’

  Tom didn’t seem to have heard. He picked up the skull and examined it, but absently, as though he wasn’t really aware of what he was doing. Even when I told him about the intact hyoid and pink teeth of the exhumed remains, he still seemed distracted.

  ‘Is everything OK?’ I asked at last.

  He put down the skull. ‘Dan Gardner called just before Josh arrived
. Alex Irving’s missing.’

  My first thought was that there must be some mistake; I’d only seen the profiler on TV that morning. Then I remembered that the interview had been shot the day before: what I’d watched had been a repeat. ‘What happened?’

  ‘No one’s sure. Apparently he went out early this morning and didn’t come back. He hasn’t been seen since.’

  ‘Isn’t it a bit soon to say he’s missing if he’s only been gone a few hours?’

  ‘Ordinarily. But he’d taken his dog for a walk.’ Tom’s eyes were troubled. ‘They found it with its skull smashed in.’

  The blood swirls down the sink, marbling the fast-flowing cold water with carmine strands. A piece of meat, drained to a pale pink now the blood has been washed from it, catches in the plughole. You jab it with your finger until it’s been forced through.

  Whistling absently to yourself, you chop fresh chillies and drop them into a pan with a handful of garlic salt. When they’ve started to sizzle you scoop up the meat and drop that on it as well. The wet flesh spits and hisses when it hits the hot fat, sending up a blast of steam. You give it a quick stir, then leave it to brown. Opening the cold cupboard, you take out a carton of orange juice, cheese and mayonnaise. You select a glass that looks reasonably clean and wipe it with your finger. Dust covers every surface, but you don’t notice. If you did you wouldn’t care. Occasionally, like a veil lifting, you’ll register the dilapidation of your surroundings, the way every corner is furred with the detritus of years, but it fails to bother you. Decay is part of the natural order of things, and who are you to deny nature?

  You drink a glassful of orange straight off, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand before you spread mayonnaise on two slices of processed white bread and top it with thick chunks of cheese. Pouring yourself more orange, you go to the big table in the centre of the kitchen. There isn’t much room left on it, so you balance your plate on a corner and pull up a chair. The sandwich tastes of nothing, as usual, but it’ll fill your stomach. You don’t really miss not being able to taste or smell anything, not any more.

  Not when there’s so much else to savour.

  Things are going to move fast now, but that’s OK. It’s only what you expected, and you’re at your best under pressure. Everything’s going exactly like you knew it would. Just like you planned it. Leaving everything at the mountain cabin was a risk, but a calculated one. It had felt strange, working out there away from your own environment. The film canister was an inspired move, but leaving the body there for them to find had gone against the grain. Still, it had been necessary. You wanted to make an impact, and how better than to give them a kill site to play with? Let them run themselves ragged trying to guess what you’re going to do next. It won’t do them any good.

  By the time they realize it’ll be too late.

  You finish the sandwich, washing it down with orange juice that tastes of nothing but cold. A patch of mayonnaise flecks one corner of your mouth as you go to the stove to check the pan. You lift the lid and inhale the sudden belch of steam. You can’t smell it but it makes your eyes water, and that’s a good sign. The meat is starting to brown nicely. Pork rather than beef, same as always. Cheaper, and it’s not like you can tell the difference anyway.

  You pick up a spoon and try some. Even though you can’t taste anything, it’s so heavily spiced that it burns your mouth. Just like a good chilli should. You throw in a couple of cans of tomato, then take the pan off the heat and cover it. It’ll cook slowly on its own now, and by the time you get back it’ll be just right.

  You’re a great believer in leaving things to stew in their own juices.

  You pick up the plastic bag of dirty clothes you need to drop off at the laundry, reminding yourself that you need to stock up on supplies again, too. More cans of tomato, and you’re getting low on batteries and flypaper. You examine the sticky strips hanging from the ceiling. At least, they used to be sticky; now they’re matted black with dead flies, as well as the husks of larger, more colourful insects.

  For a moment a blankness comes over your face, as though the reason for the strips has momentarily escaped you. Then you blink and come back to life. On your way out you pause by the table. The man lying trussed on it looks up at you with terrified eyes, snuffling round the gag in his mouth. You give him a smile.

  ‘Don’t you worry, now. I’ll be back soon.’

  Hoisting the heavy bag of laundry, you go out.

  CHAPTER 10

  GRADUALLY, A PICTURE emerged of what had happened. Irving lived out near Cades Cove, a beauty spot in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains. Each morning before breakfast he would take his dog, a black Labrador, out walking on the trail in the woods behind his home. It was an established part of Irving’s routine, and one that he’d mentioned more than once in the profile interviews he was so fond of giving.

  At around nine o’clock his PA had let herself into his house, as she did most mornings, and started the coffee percolator, so that Irving’s favourite French roast would be ready for him by the time he returned.

  Except that this morning he hadn’t. The PA—his third in two years—had tried calling his mobile but received no answer. When there was still no sign of him as lunchtime approached, she’d gone out along the trail herself. Less than a half-mile from his house she’d seen a policeman talking to an elderly couple, whose Jack Russell was yapping excitedly on its lead. As she’d passed she’d overheard them telling him about the dead dog that their terrier had found. A black Labrador.

  That was when she realized her employer might not be back for breakfast after all.

  A search of the area revealed a bloodstained steel bar lying near the Labrador’s body, and the muddy ground by the dog’s body bore evidence of a struggle. But while there were several sets of footprints, none of them were distinct enough for casts.

  Of Irving himself, there was no sign.

  ‘We don’t know for certain what’s happened to him,’ Gardner admitted. ‘We think all the blood on the bar is from the dog, but until it’s been to the lab we can’t be sure.’

  We were in one of the morgue’s offices, down the corridor from the autopsy suites. Windowless and small, it could have belonged to any anonymous business. Gardner had come at Tom’s request. This time Jacobsen was with him, cool and unapproachable as ever in a knee-length charcoal grey skirt and jacket. Except for the colour, it looked identical to the blue one I’d seen her in before. I wondered if she had a wardrobe full of identical suits, running the dark spectrum of neutral shades.

  Although no one had broached the actual reason for the meeting, we were all aware what it was. Even unspoken it created a palpable tension in the small office. Gardner had restricted his un-happiness at my presence to a disapproving glance. He looked even more careworn than usual, the creases in his brown suit matching those in his face, as though he were subject to a heavier gravity than the rest of us.

  ‘You must have some theories,’ Tom said. He sat behind the desk, listening with a brooding expression I knew meant he was biding his time. He was the only one seated. Although there was another chair in front of the desk no one had taken it. The rest of us stayed on our feet, the chair remaining vacant as though awaiting the arrival of a late visitor.

  ‘It’s possible Irving was the victim of a random attack, but it’s still too soon to say. We’re not ruling out anything at this stage,’ Gardner said.

  Tom’s exasperation was beginning to show. ‘In that case where’s his body?’

  ‘We’re still searching the area. For all we know he could have been injured and wandered off. The dog was found in woodland half a mile from the nearest road. That’s a long way to carry a grown man, but there’s no other way anyone could’ve got Irving out of there. All we’ve found so far are footprints and cycle tracks.’

  ‘Then maybe he was forced to walk out himself at gun or knifepoint.’

  Gardner’s chin jutted stubbornly. ‘In broad daylight? Unlikely. But li
ke I said, we’re considering every possibility.’

  Tom considered him. ‘How long have we known each other, Dan?’

  The TBI agent looked uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know. Ten years?’

  ‘It’s twelve. And this is the first time you’ve ever tried to bullshit me.’

  ‘That isn’t fair!’ Gardner shot back, his face darkening. ‘We came here today out of courtesy—’

  ‘Come on, Dan, you know what happened as well as I do! You can’t seriously believe it’s coincidence that Irving’s gone missing the morning after he bad-mouthed a serial killer on TV?’

  ‘Until there’s proof I’m not going to jump to conclusions.’

  ‘And what if someone else on the investigation goes missing? Will that be jumping to conclusions too?’ In all the years I’d known Tom I’d never seen him so angry. ‘Dammit, Dan, one person was injured here yesterday, perhaps seriously, and now this! I have a responsibility to the people working with me. If any of them are at risk then I want to know about it!’

  Gardner said nothing. He looked pointedly across at me.

  ‘I’ll be in the autopsy suite,’ I said, heading for the door.

  ‘No, David, you’ve got as much right to hear this as I have,’ Tom said.

  ‘Tom…’ Gardner began.

  ‘I asked him to help, Dan. If he’s going to share the risk he has every right to know what he’s got himself into.’ Tom folded his arms. ‘I’ll only tell him what you say anyway, so he might as well hear it from you.’

  The two of them stared at each other. Gardner didn’t strike me as the type to be easily browbeaten, but I knew Tom wasn’t going to budge. I glanced at Jacobsen and saw she looked as uncomfortable as I felt. Then she realized I was watching her, and quickly blanked any hint of emotion from her features.

  Gardner gave a resigned sigh. ‘Jesus, Tom. All right, it’s possible there’s a connection. But it isn’t that simple. Some of Alex Irving’s students had complained about his behaviour. Female students. The university’d been turning a blind eye because he was a celebrity professor who could walk into a job anywhere in the state. Then a student accused him of sexual harassment and that opened the floodgates. The police were brought in, and it looked as though the university was going to cut him loose rather than risk being hit with lawsuits themselves.’