Whispers of the Dead dh-3

by Simon Beckett

  Declining anything to eat or drink, she listened without comment as I explained in more detail about the call Tom had received.

  Now I was starting to wish I hadn’t bothered.

  ‘Do you have Dr Lieberman’s cell phone with you?’ she asked.

  I took it from my jacket and passed it over. I’d put it into my pocket at the last minute as I’d left my room. Just in case.

  ‘Any news about Irving?’ I asked, as Jacobsen examined the record of Tom’s incoming calls.

  ‘Not yet.’ It was obvious that was all I was going to get. She copied the number into her own phone, then put it away without comment. ‘What made you check Dr Lieberman’s phone in the first place?’

  ‘I was curious who’d called him. I wondered if it was connected with the heart attack.’

  Her face was unreadable. ‘You didn’t think you might be prying?’

  ‘Of course I did. But under the circumstances I didn’t think Tom would mind.’

  ‘Yet you didn’t bother to ask anyone first?’

  ‘Like who? Phone his wife while she’s by his hospital bed?’

  ‘I was thinking more of Dan Gardner.’

  ‘Right. Because he values my opinion so much.’

  Her smile seemed to take her by surprise as much as me. It lit up her entire face, changing her features from austerely attractive into ones that could grace the cover of a magazine. Then it was gone, leaving me wishing it had lasted longer.

  ‘This is just conjecture,’ she went on, the professional facade back in place. Though perhaps not so firmly as before. ‘The call could have been made by anyone.’

  ‘From a payphone right outside the morgue? At that time of night?’

  She didn’t answer. ‘Have the doctors said when Dr Lieberman might be able to talk?’

  ‘No. But probably not any time soon.’

  We broke off as the waitress arrived to clear my plate and offer the dessert menu.

  ‘Look, I’m going to have a coffee. Why don’t you join me?’ I said.

  Jacobsen hesitated, glancing at her watch. For the first time a hint of tiredness leaked through.

  ‘Maybe a quick one.’ She ordered a latte, with skimmed milk and an extra shot of espresso.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want anything else?’ I offered.

  ‘Coffee’s fine, thank you,’ she said, as though regretting even that much self-indulgence. I guessed that Jacobsen’s blood sugar would always come off second best to self-discipline.

  By tacit consent we put our discussion on hold while the waitress fetched our order. Jacobsen’s fingers tapped restlessly on top of the banquette where we were sitting. Her nails were cut short, devoid of any polish.

  ‘Are you from Knoxville originally?’ I asked, to break the silence.

  ‘A small town near Memphis. You wouldn’t have heard of it.’

  It was obvious I wasn’t about to now, either. I tried again as the waitress set down the coffees.

  ‘So what made you do a psychology degree?’

  She hunched a shoulder. The movement seemed stiff and forced.

  ‘It was an interest of mine. I wanted to pursue it.’

  ‘But you joined the TBI instead? How come?’

  ‘It was a good career move.’

  She took a sip of coffee, closing the topic. So much for getting to know her better. I didn’t think there was much point asking about a husband or a boyfriend.

  ‘For the sake of argument, let’s say you might be right about the phone call,’ she said, lowering her cup. ‘What would be the point? You’re not suggesting someone deliberately caused Dr Lieberman’s heart attack?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Then why call him?’

  Now we came to it. ‘To lure him outside. I think Tom was going to be the next victim.’

  The only outward sign of Jacobsen’s surprise was her quick blink. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Tom seemed confused immediately after the heart attack, convinced that something had happened to Mary. Even at the hospital he had to be constantly reassured that she was all right. It was put down to the attack, but supposing it wasn’t? Supposing someone called him and said his wife had had some kind of accident?’

  The furrow was back between Jacobsen’s eyes. ‘So he’d rush out to go to her.’

  ‘Exactly. When you get a phone call like that you forget about everything else. You don’t worry about being careful or not going to your car alone. You drop everything and go.’ I knew that only too well. The memory of hearing the policeman’s voice telling me of my wife and daughter’s accident still haunted me. ‘At that time of night most of the hospital’s pretty deserted, and the payphone where the call was made had a clear view of the morgue entrance. Anybody using it would have been able to see Tom come out.’

  ‘Why not wait for him to finish work?’

  ‘Because anyone planning to attack or abduct Tom wouldn’t want to risk someone leaving with him. This way they’d be able to pick their moment, knowing he’d be alone and vulnerable.’

  Jacobsen still wasn’t convinced. ‘They’d have to have got Dr Lieberman’s cell phone number somehow.’

  ‘Tom isn’t shy about giving it out. Anyone could get it from his secretary at the university.’

  ‘All right, but Dr Lieberman hasn’t drawn attention to himself like Professor Irving. Why target him?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ I admitted. ‘But you said yourself that whoever’s behind this has a grandiose opinion of himself. Perhaps he felt that mechanics and petty thieves weren’t getting him the attention he deserves.’

  Jacobsen stared into space as she considered that. I made myself look away from the full lips.

  ‘It’s possible,’ she conceded after a while. ‘Maybe he’s becoming more ambitious. Professor Irving could’ve whetted his appetite for more high-profile victims.’

  ‘Unless Tom was the main target all along.’

  I knew I was pushing my luck. Jacobsen frowned. ‘There’s no evidence to support that.’

  ‘I know,’ I agreed. ‘It’s just that I’ve been thinking about everything else the killer’s done. Deliberately accelerated decomposition, pig’s teeth substituted for human, and victims with apparently conflicting causes of death. All things guaranteed to get a forensic anthropologist scratching his head. Now it looks like Tom himself was nearly the next victim. Doesn’t it strike you the killer could have had that in mind all along?’

  She was still sceptical. ‘Dr Lieberman isn’t the only forensic anthropologist the TBI uses. There’d be no way anyone could be sure he’d be brought into this investigation.’

  ‘Then perhaps the killer just wanted to set his cap against whoever was brought in, I don’t know. But it’s no secret that Tom’s usually the TBI’s first port of call. Or that he was planning to retire later this year.’ Sooner than that. I pushed the thought of Tom and Mary’s shattered plans away and pressed on. ‘What if the killer saw this as his last window of opportunity to prove himself against one of the country’s leading forensic experts? We know he arranged it so Terry Loomis’s body would be found when the cabin rental expired, and Tom had only returned from a month’s travelling the week before. That means the killer must have hired the cabin within a day or so of Tom’s getting back. Supposing that wasn’t just a coincidence?’

  But I could see from Jacobsen’s frown that I’d gone too far. ‘Don’t you think that’s stretching things?’

  I sighed. I wasn’t sure myself any more. ‘Perhaps. But then we’re dealing with someone who planted hypodermic needles in a corpse six months before arranging to have it exhumed. Compared to that, making sure your next victim’s going to be in town wouldn’t be too difficult.’

  Jacobsen was silent. I took a drink of coffee, letting her reach her own conclusions.

  ‘It’s reading an awful lot into one phone call,’ she said at last.

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed.

  ‘But I suppose it’s worth looking into.’


  Tension I’d not even been aware of till then bled out of me. I wasn’t sure if I was relieved that a possible lead was being pursued, or just grateful to be taken seriously.

  ‘So you’ll check the payphone for fingerprints?’

  ‘A crime scene team’s there now, although after twenty-four hours I doubt they’ll find anything.’ Jacobsen’s mouth quirked slightly at my surprise. ‘You didn’t think we’d just ignore something like that, did you?’

  The brrr of her phone vibrating on the table saved me from having to answer. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, picking it up.

  Feeling easier than I had all day, I drank my coffee while she went outside to take the call. I watched her through the glass doors, her features intent on whatever was being said. The conversation wasn’t a long one. After less than a minute she came back inside. I expected her to make her excuses and leave, but instead she sat down at the table again.

  She made no reference to the call, but there was a new coolness about her. The slight thaw I thought I’d detected earlier had vanished.

  She moved the handle of her coffee cup minutely, repositioning it in its saucer. ‘Dr Hunter…’ she began.

  ‘The name’s David.’

  She seemed caught off balance. ‘Look, you ought to know…’

  I waited, but she didn’t go on. ‘What?’

  ‘It isn’t important.’ Whatever she’d been about to say, she’d thought better of it. Her eyes went to the almost empty beer glass that the waitress hadn’t yet cleared. ‘Forgive me for asking, but should you be drinking alcohol? Given your condition, I mean?’

  ‘My condition?’

  ‘Your injury.’ She tilted her head quizzically. ‘Surely you must have known we’d run a background check?’

  I realized I was holding my coffee cup poised in mid-air. I carefully set it down. ‘I hadn’t given it much thought. And as for alcohol, I was stabbed. I’m not pregnant.’

  The grey eyes regarded me. ‘Does it make you feel uncomfortable talking about it?’

  ‘There are pleasanter subjects.’

  ‘Did you have any counselling after the attack?’

  ‘No. And I don’t want any now, thanks.’

  An eyebrow cocked. ‘I forgot. You don’t trust psychologists.’

  ‘I don’t mistrust them. I just don’t believe that talking about something is always the best way to deal with it, that’s all.’

  ‘Stiff upper lip, and all that?’

  I just looked at her. A pulse of blood had started to tick away in my temples.

  ‘Your attacker wasn’t caught, was she?’ she said, after a moment.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does that worry you? That she might try again?’

  ‘I try not to lose sleep over it.’

  ‘But you do, though, don’t you?’

  I realized my hands were clenched under the table. They were clammy when I opened them. ‘Is there a point to this?’

  ‘I’m just curious.’

  We stared at each other. But for some reason I felt calm now, as though I’d stepped over a threshold. ‘Why are you trying to provoke me?’

  Her gaze wavered. ‘I’m only—’

  ‘Did Gardner put you up to this?’

  I don’t know where the question came from, but when she looked away I knew I was right. It was only for a second, but it was enough.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, what is this? Are you vetting me?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said, but without conviction. Now it was her turn to avoid my stare. ‘Dan Gardner just wanted to assess your state of mind, that’s all.’

  ‘My state of mind?’ I gave an incredulous laugh. ‘I’ve been stabbed, I split up with my girlfriend, one of my oldest friends is lying in hospital, and everyone here seems convinced I’m incompetent. My state of mind’s fine, thanks.’

  Twin patches of colour burned on Jacobsen’s cheeks. ‘I apologize if I’ve offended you.’

  ‘I’m not offended, just…’ I didn’t know what I was. ‘Where is Gardner, anyway? Why isn’t he here?’

  ‘He’s tied up with something else at the moment.’

  I wasn’t sure what annoyed me more, the fact he’d felt I needed assessing or that he hadn’t deemed it important enough to do himself.

  ‘Why bother with this now, anyway? The work’s all but finished.’

  The flush was fading from Jacobsen’s cheeks. She stared pensively into her coffee, absently running a finger round the rim of the cup.

  ‘A situation’s developed at Steeple Hill,’ she said.

  I waited. The grey eyes met mine.

  ‘York’s disappeared.’

  CHAPTER 16

  WITH LIGHTS BURNING in every window and TBI vehicles clustered outside, York’s house had the starkly surreal look of a film set. It was in the grounds of Steeple Hill, hidden well away from the cemetery behind a fold in the pine woods. Like the funeral home itself, it was a low, rectangular block of concrete and glass, a failed attempt to transplant Californian 1950s modernism to the deep south. Once upon a time it might have been striking. Now, surrounded by the shadowy pinnacles of the pine trees, it just looked decayed and sad.

  A crazed-paving path led to the front door, its slabs choked by straggly weeds. The crime scene tape that bracketed it gave the house an oddly festive air, although that impression was quickly dashed by the forensic agents searching it, ghost-like in their white overalls. At one side of the house, across an overgrown rectangle of lawn, a driveway led to a garage. The door was raised, displaying a patch of oil-stained floor but no car.

  That had disappeared along with its owner.

  Jacobsen had briefed me on the drive over. ‘We didn’t see York as a realistic suspect for the homicide, otherwise we’d have arrested him sooner.’ She’d sounded defensive, as though she were personally to blame. ‘He fits the standard serial killer profile to some extent—right age, unmarried, a loner—and his inflated sense of self-importance is a typical narcissistic characteristic. But he doesn’t have a criminal record, not even any warnings as a juvenile. No skeletons in his closet that we could find. Apart from the circumstantial evidence, there’s nothing to link him to the actual killings.’

  ‘The circumstantial evidence seemed pretty strong to me,’ I said.

  It was too dark in the car to see her blush, but I was sure she did. ‘Only if you accept he deliberately incriminated himself by steering us towards the funeral home in the first place. That isn’t unheard of, but his story about hiring a casual worker seemed to check out. We’ve found another former employee who claims to remember Dwight Chambers. It was starting to look as though Chambers might be a legitimate suspect after all.’

  ‘So why arrest York?’

  ‘Because holding him on public health charges would give us more time to question him.’ Jacobsen looked uncomfortable. ‘Also, it was felt that there were certain… advantages to taking a proactive approach.’

  And any arrest looked better than no arrest. Politics and PR were the same the world over.

  Except that York hadn’t waited around to be arrested. When TBI agents went to pick him up that afternoon, there had been no sign of him either at the cemetery or his home. His car was missing, and when the TBI had forced entry into his house they’d found signs of hurried packing.

  They’d also found human remains.

  ‘We’d have discovered them sooner, except for a foul-up with the paperwork,’ Jacobsen admitted. ‘The original warrant only covered the funeral parlour and grounds, not York’s private residence.’

  ‘Are the remains recent?’ I asked.

  ‘We don’t think so. But Dan would rather you see for yourself.’

  That had shocked me even more than York’s disappearance. It seemed that Paul had been unavailable. Sam was having a bad night. They’d thought she was going into labour, and while that had proved to be a false alarm he wasn’t prepared to leave her on her own.

  So he’d told Gardner to ask me inste
ad.

  Paul had sounded tired and frazzled when I’d called him. Not that I doubted Jacobsen, but I wasn’t about to go without speaking to him first.

  ‘I’ve told Gardner I’ll take a look first thing tomorrow, but if he wants an opinion tonight then he should ask you. Hope you don’t mind,’ he’d said. I told him I didn’t, only that I was surprised Gardner had agreed. He gave a sour laugh. ‘He didn’t have much choice.’

  He obviously hadn’t forgiven Gardner for siding with Hicks against Tom. While Paul was too professional to let his personal feelings get in the way of an investigation, that didn’t mean he couldn’t turn the screw a little.

  I wondered how Gardner felt about it.

  Jacobsen hadn’t stayed at Steeple Hill. After dropping me off she’d gone to check on the forensic team’s progress with the payphone. I’d been directed to a van where I could change, and then made my way to the house.

  Gardner was outside the front door, talking to a grey-haired woman in white overalls. He was wearing overshoes and gloves, and though he gave me a glance as I approached he didn’t break off his conversation.

  I stood at the bottom of the path and waited.

  With a last terse instruction to the white-clad agent, Gardner finally turned to me. Neither of us spoke. His displeasure was almost palpable, but whatever he was thinking he kept to himself. He gave me a curt nod.

  ‘It’s upstairs.’

  The house had the typical upside-down design of its style and era, so that the bedrooms were downstairs and the living quarters on the first floor. The once white walls and ceilings had been stained a dirty yellow by decades of cigarette smoke, and the same ochre patina clung to the doors and furniture like grease. Underlying the pervasive stink of stale tobacco was a musty smell of old carpets and unwashed sheets.

  The sense of neglect and dilapidation was made worse by the turmoil of the search that was under way. Forensic agents were poring through drawers and cupboards, pulling out the detritus of York’s life for examination. I felt their eyes on me as we went upstairs. There was an air of anticipation that I recognized from other crime scenes when a significant find had been made, but there was also open curiosity.