An X-reg. Volvo estate was parked outside Givens’ flat when Winter and Dawn Ellis arrived. The tailgate was open and Winter could see a stack of cardboard boxes inside. He got out of the Peugeot and bent to inspect the contents of the nearest box, recognising items from Givens’ kitchen.
A shadow fell over him.
‘Can I help you?’
Winter turned to find himself looking at a tall individual in jeans and a faded check shirt. He had yet another cardboard box in his arms and he bent to lodge it in the back of the Volvo before inspecting Winter’s warrant card.
Winter was looking at the new box. More of Givens’ stuff.
‘And you are?’
‘My name’s Wilson. I own this property. I’m the landlord.’
‘And all this?’ Winter nodded at the boxes.
‘Belongs to Mr Givens. I’d have been prepared to cut him a little more slack but I understand there isn’t much likelihood of him coming back.’
He said he’d been on to Givens’ employers at the hospital. Reading between the lines, he’d concluded that the man had gone well and truly missing. Last month’s standing order for rent hadn’t been paid because his account was evidently empty, and there didn’t seem much prospect of payments in future. Rather than let the situation drag on any longer, he’d decided to look for a new tenant.
‘So where’s that lot going?’
‘To the hospital. Apparently a friend of his has volunteered to look after it. A Mr … ’ He frowned. ‘ … Tarrant?’
Ellis and Winter followed the Volvo to St Mary’s. Young Simon was on a half day and Jake Tarrant was by himself in the mortuary. He opened the door when Winter rang the bell, peering into the hot sunshine. Wilson was already piling the cardboard boxes on the tarmac beside the Volvo. The contents of Givens’ wardrobe lay heaped on the back seat.
‘What’s all that?’
‘It’s Givens’ gear.’ Winter was laughing. ‘This must be novel for you, son, this kind of delivery. It’s normally just the body, isn’t it?’
Winter and Ellis helped Tarrant carry the boxes into the mortuary. Tarrant told them to use the big post-mortem room for the time being. Ellis, who loathed mortuaries, lodged her box on one of the stainless-steel tables and looked round. On the window side of the room were two sinks for scrubbing up and a litter of surgical instruments awaiting a sort-out. She looked at the scalpels and forceps, the big blunt-ended scissors and a single thin stainless-steel probe. Tarrant joined her, laden with two more boxes.
‘What’s that?’ She pointed at something that looked like a power tool.
‘It’s a bone saw. We use it for taking the skull off.’
‘Nice. And what’s this lot doing here?’ She was looking at a row of pot plants on the window sill.
‘My babies.’ Tarrant dumped his boxes. ‘This place might be knackered but the air con still works a treat. Seventeen changes of air an hour. The plants love it.’
Winter was at the door with the last of the boxes. The tables were full now, so he left it on the side beside a pile of yellow bags marked DANGER OF INFECTION.
‘What happens to those?’ Winter was looking at the bags.
‘Clinical waste. Goes for incineration.’
‘So you still use this place then?’
‘Only for fridge storage and the odd bit of tidying up.’
‘Tidying up? What’s that about?’
‘We take bodies from QA after post-mortem. They’re shipped down here in packs of ten to make it easier at their end. Mondays are favourite, start of the week. The state of some of them … ’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not saying reconstruction’s easy, not after a full post-mortem, but you deserve a bit of dignity, don’t you?’
Some of the bodies, he said, still had their eyes open. Same with mouths. Then there was the issue of hair.
‘Hair?’ Winter was fascinated.
‘Yeah. Do it properly, and it should be towel-dried and brushed back. Some of the people we’re getting now, they look like they’ve been left out in the rain.’
‘So you tidy them up? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yeah. Of course. Bit of respect.’
‘And that happens here?’
‘Yeah. Normally it’s just a cosmetic thing. Takes no time at all. Though sometimes you get a really shit job from QA so you have to take them to bits and go through the whole reconstruction thing again. That’s rare though, to be fair.’
Winter nodded. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d watched Jake Tarrant slice up a body for the Home Office pathologist. His skills were awesome, especially when it came to putting everything back together again.
‘You still do that? Hands-on post-mortems?’
‘Up at QA.’ He nodded. ‘Yeah.’
‘But not here, obviously.’
‘No. Like I say, this place is just a dump bin. Overspill from QA.’
‘How many can you take?’
‘Thirty-six, max.’
‘And it’s normally full house?’
‘Give or take. At the moment we’re looking at thirty-one. ’
‘Easy though, eh? Not big eaters, are they?’
Ellis, who’d been listening to the conversation, turned away in disgust. Winter and Tarrant exchanged glances. This was no place for a veggie.
Winter wanted to know what happened to the bodies after they’d arrived from QA.
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Nosiness, mate. Comes with the job.’
‘Sure.’ Tarrant shrugged. ‘We check with the undertakers. We need to know whether they’re down for the crem or for burial. If they start asking about body size we know they’re going to the crem.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Affects the amount of gas they use. Big buggers take a bit of burning. You’d be a nightmare, mate. Take it from me.’
‘And you’re saying most go for cremation?’ Winter ignored the dig.
‘Ninety-five per cent. Burial’s rare.’
‘Embalming?’
‘Even rarer. And barbaric, says me.’
‘So how long do you hang onto the bodies then?’
‘A week, maybe longer. Most funerals are organised within a fortnight.’
‘So the bodies go from here to the undertakers?’
‘That’s right. They’ve got fridges too, obviously, and chapels of rest, all that.’
‘So chummy dies. He has a PM. He gets sewn back up. He comes down here. Then the blokes from the undertakers call by and pick him up. Is that the way it goes?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And the rest is down to them? The viewing of the body? The hearse? Organising the crem? All that?’
‘Yeah.’ Tarrant nodded, braced for the next question. ‘This is worrying, Mr W. Are you sitting an exam or something?’
Winter laughed, clapped him on the shoulder.
‘Fat chance, mate. Far too busy. Now then, this lot.’ He gave Dawn Ellis a shout. ‘Are you fit, love? Only we should make a start.’
Tarrant was staring at the boxes. He looked aghast.
‘Make a start on what?’ he said.
Faraday was on the phone to Jerry Proctor when one of the Management Assistants appeared at his office door. Something in her face told him it was urgent. He signalled her to wait, bent to the phone. He’d just given Proctor Jenny Mitchell’s address. He wanted someone round there sharpish to take a cast of the tyres on her car.
He brought the call to a close. The Management Assistant had someone on the line.
‘Who?’
‘A lady from Buriton. Her name’s Bullen. She says she needs to talk to someone in charge.’
‘About Coppice?’
‘I think so. OK if I transfer the call?’
Faraday nodded. When the call came through he was still trying to remember if the name Bullen had figured in the house-to-house reports. He thought not.
‘You are Mr … ?’
‘Faraday. DI Faraday. How
can I help you?’
She explained that she’d been away for a while. Got back a couple of days ago. Half the village was talking about what had happened in the tunnel and a neighbour had kept a copy of the newspaper coverage. Last night she’d popped next door for a drink and had gone through the various bits and pieces. After some thought, and another look this morning, she’d concluded that it had to be the same person.
‘Who?’
‘The man in the tunnel.’
‘Of course. But the same as who?’
‘Young Mark.’ She excused herself for a moment to stifle a cough. ‘Mark Duley.’
It took Winter and Ellis most of the afternoon to trawl through Givens’ possessions. Tarrant was with them at the start, lurking on the edges of the post-mortem room, inventing little tasks for himself, watering his plants, tidying up stray items, offering to make coffee - any excuse to keep an eye on proceedings. Winter tolerated this covert supervision with the broadest of smiles, sharing discovery after discovery with Tarrant.
Early on, tucked down the side of one of the boxes, Dawn found the brochure for Venice. There wasn’t just one of them but three, different companies but all top of the range. She passed it to Winter, who showed it to Tarrant.
‘Your oppo Si says Givens wanted to take you all. Is that right?’
‘Yeah.’ Tarrant nodded.
‘Didn’t fancy it?’
‘Couldn’t get the time off.’
‘Shame, eh? Especially since he was paying.’
Winter put the brochure to one side without further comment. Minutes later, he found some correspondence tucked into another brochure, this time for a cruise round the Galapagos Islands. The company responsible was answering Givens’ request for a quote: two cabins on the Christmas cruise, one for two adults and a couple of kids, the other for a single adult.
Winter called Tarrant across again.
‘Was this for you lot as well?’
‘That’s what he wanted, yeah.’
‘What did Rachel think?’
‘She wasn’t fussed, to be honest. She gets seasick.’
‘But he was keen, wasn’t he?’ Winter’s finger found the quote at the bottom of the letter. ‘Thirteen grand’s a lot to spend on a Christmas present.’
‘He had the money.’ Tarrant shrugged. ‘He thought it might be a nice idea. I told you, Mr W., he was a generous bloke.’
‘Yeah but thirteen grand? He could have sent a card, couldn’t he? Taken you all down the pub?’
‘He didn’t drink.’
‘OK, then. MacD’s, Burger King, nice Chinese, whatever. Thirteen grand? You’re kidding.’
‘Not me, mate. Him. His idea. His money. Me? I just kept my head down, got on with the job.’
‘And what about the missus? She’d have known by now, wouldn’t she?’
‘Known what, Mr W.?’
‘Known he was minted. A bloke with that kind of money to chuck around obviously had lots more. Was it her idea? The loan for the Southsea place? Or yours?’
‘I honestly can’t remember. She was always banging on about us having to move. You know what she’s like. It was something she’d got in her head. I’m sure she even talked to the bloody postman about it.’
‘She’d have mentioned it to Alan then? That new pal of hers?’
‘Bound to have done.’
‘And told him you couldn’t afford it?’
‘Something like that.’
‘So what was your take on all this? Once it was settled?’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘Yes, you are. You come home one night and she’s got the whole deal wrapped up. They’ve been to see the house down in Southsea. They’re both thrilled to bits. She’s even worked out the sleeping arrangements. For a hundred and eighty-five grand, Mr G. gets to kip in a bedroom in the back. Later, if he’s a good boy, you might tuck him away in the attic. But whatever happens, you’re down for a whole new life. Did you fancy that, mate? Sharing houseroom with Mr Givens?’
‘It never got to that.’
‘No, it didn’t. Fucking good point. And the question, my son, is why not?’
Tarrant had stared at Winter, trying to read the smile on his face, the cheerful bonhomie, trying to work out whether or not he was serious. In the end he’d settled for making another round of coffees rather than give Winter any kind of answer, but while he was out looking for the electric kettle, Ellis too had asked Winter quite what he was up to.
‘We’ve got him on the hop, love,’ he said. ‘You can call it an interview, if you like. You can call it any fucking thing. But just keep watching his face.’
Minutes later, from another box, Winter disinterred some literature on laptops. Givens, a careful man, had obviously looked at dozens before he’d settled on the Toshiba. After dishing out the coffees, Tarrant had retreated to the shelter of his office. Winter found him in front of his PC, compiling some kind of report.
‘This laptop of Givens’ … ’ Winter perched himself on the edge of Tarrant’s desk. ‘When did he first get it?’
‘Haven’t a clue, mate.’
‘Think. He seems to have shared pretty much everything else with you.’
‘No. I knew he had one. But I wouldn’t know any details.’ He looked up from the screen at last. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because no one seems to be able to lay hands on it. That and the camera.’
‘Maybe someone’s had it away.’
‘Maybe they did.’
‘Maybe he’s still got it.’
‘Yeah? And maybe I’m the man in the moon.’
Winter extended a languid foot. Tarrant heard the door click shut behind him.
‘Listen, my old mate.’ Winter’s voice had sunk to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘If there’s anything you want to get off your chest, now might be a good time. You’re a good bloke. There might be ways out of this.’
Tarrant stared up at him. The rabbit, Winter thought. Caught in the headlights. Full beam.
‘Out of what?’ he managed at last.
‘Out of all this shit you’ve got yourself into. There’s another side to my job, son. It’s called sympathy. I know what you’ve been through - Givens, Rachel, all the nonsense about the house - and believe me, I’d be the last person to blame you.’
‘For what?’
‘He was a cling-on, wasn’t he? He was a pain in the arse, coming round here all hours of the day, dropping in with his cakes and all those lovely photos he kept taking. You were just being friendly to begin with - polite, giving him the time of day - but he took advantage, didn’t he? And once he’d met Rachel, you were well and truly fucked. Am I right? Or am I wrong?’
Tarrant shook his head, wouldn’t answer. Winter changed tack. He wanted to know whether Tarrant had a key to Givens’ flat.
‘No, never.’
‘Had you ever been up there?’
‘Yeah. Once. He had stuff he wanted to show me.’
‘On the laptop?’
‘Yeah. It was photos, all the photos he’d done with the kids. He wanted me to make a choice, pick shots that I thought Rachel might like. Her birthday was coming up. He wanted to send off for some extra big prints, get them nicely framed, a present, like.’
‘And were you comfortable with that?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘This bloke, this virtual stranger, giving your missus all these presents?’
‘It didn’t matter what I thought. He’d do it anyway.’
‘Not if you told him otherwise he wouldn’t.’
‘Yeah, but … ’ Tarrant shrugged.
‘Yeah but what? Yeah but you needed the money? The hundred and eighty-five K? Or yeah but you couldn’t be arsed because you didn’t care a fuck for your marriage in the first place?’
‘Piss off, Winter.’ Tarrant was outraged. ‘Me and Rachel, you mean? Couldn’t be arsed? You have to be joking.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes, you fucking do. I love
that woman. She’s a pain in the arse sometimes but we’re all guilty of that. She’s gorgeous. She’s the mother of my kids. She loves me. We can be great together, really great. You think none of that matters? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?’
‘No, my son. I’m not saying that at all. I’m simply asking the question. And now that you’ve answered it, I’m a whole lot clearer.’
‘What does that mean?’ Tarrant was looking alarmed again.
‘It means that I had you right in the first place. It means that you’re a good bloke. It means there are some things that matter to you, really matter to you. And like every other bugger in your situation, you’d move heaven and earth to make sure they stay yours.’ He smiled. ‘Am I right?’
Tarrant held Winter’s gaze for a long moment, then he turned back to the PC. He had a report to complete. They got sticky about deadlines up at QA. If he didn’t ping this lot across by five at the latest, he’d be bollocked rotten.
‘What is it, as a matter of interest?’ Winter peered at the screen.
‘It’s a locator system I’ve developed. It’s for the new mortuary. It’s all computer-based.’
‘Locator system for what?’
‘Bodies, Mr W. We lose track of them sometimes. It might sound odd but it’s true.’
‘I believe it, son.’ Winter touched him lightly on the shoulder. ‘Sometimes we have the very same problem.’
Ellis and Winter left the mortuary shortly before five. The trawl through the boxes had confirmed what Winter already knew about Givens, but little else. The man was methodical to the point of obsession. He filed away all his correspondence, all his bills, every last item that might conceivably be important. This paper trail confirmed that he was diligent, self-contained and appeared to have absolutely no friends or relatives worth keeping in touch with. As far as the future was concerned, he had plans for installing broadband as well as building a shelter for his bike round the side of the house.
Once again, presented with evidence like this, Winter could only ask himself what had happened to Givens. These weren’t the actions of a man who planned to elope with his mate’s wife. Neither did they anticipate any sudden interruption to his solitary, impeccably ordered life. No, Givens had been killed. Of that he was certain.
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