by J. F. Penn
"First impressions?" Jamie asked.
"Drowned, I'd say," Mike replied, his curt response purely professional. "But I'll know more after I check his lungs back at the morgue."
Missinghall moved to the gurney and with gloves on, opened the man's jacket. From the top pocket, he pulled out a thick envelope and placed it in a clear plastic evidence bag, a wad of cash visible inside.
"This wasn't theft, that's for sure," Missinghall said, delving back into the man's pockets. He pulled out a thin leather wallet containing a couple of bank cards and a driver's license.
"Doctor Christian Monro," he read. "That makes things easier." He looked over at Jamie, one eyebrow raised. "Guess I'll get on with the preliminary statements then. I'll start with the security team."
A bustling came from the door, and one of the uniformed officers beckoned Jamie over to the edge of the crime-scene markers. A man stood there, shuffling from one foot to another, wringing his hands, eyes darting to the gurney inside the room.
"I'm Michael Hasbrough, the curator of the museum," he blustered. "This is terrible, terrible. You have to keep the press away. The centennial is only in a few weeks, and there's a Fun Run today, as well. It's going to get busy outside soon. You have to hurry up. Please."
Jamie put out a hand to calm the man.
"We need to process the scene properly, Mr Hasbrough. It will take some time, but of course, we'll try to be discreet."
He shook his head violently. "How can you be discreet with a damn body and all those uniforms outside?" Hasbrough seemed to realize what he had said. "With respect to the dead, of course." He glanced into the room again, his eyes taking in the scene more fully. "Perhaps I can help." He pointed towards the box on the floor next to the unusual chair. "I can tell you what that is."
"Go on," Jamie said.
"It's called a Tranquilizer. The device was used on mentally ill patients to calm them down back when this place was the old Bedlam Hospital. They were strapped in and the box placed on their head. The padding stopped any light or sound, like a primitive sensory deprivation tank. Water was sometimes poured over the head of the patient while they were in the box. Apparently it was meant to relax them." He grimaced. "Can't see why though."
"Sounds more like a kind of waterboarding," Jamie said, wondering what the victim might have done to deserve such treatment.
The curator nodded. "There are reports of people dying in the device, of course, but then much of the early treatment for mental illness was inhumane by today's standards. It was designed for control and restraint rather than rehabilitation of any kind."
"Do you have those reports here?" Jamie asked.
Hasbrough shook his head. "No, everything to do with Bedlam is at the hospital. It has moved a number of times over its dark history. Now it's at Beckenham in Kent, a lovely campus, nothing like the cold Gothic place this would have been."
"And this room?" Jamie asked. "Was it part of the old hospital?"
The curator nodded, relaxing as he shared his field of expertise. "Yes, the museum has been substantially altered since it was a hospital but this is one of the old wings. It could have been a treatment room, but we'd have to check the old plans to make certain."
Jamie turned to look back into the room. "So where did the chair come from?"
"We still have some old artifacts in the basement storerooms, and many of them have been cleared out recently for the renovations. This chair could have been easily moved within the museum. It's not a heavy device, as you can see."
Jamie glanced around at the corners of the surrounding corridor.
"Are there any cameras in this part of the building?"
Hasbrough shook his head. "Unfortunately not. We're redoing all the security but because this is under renovation, the cameras were all taken down."
"Someone must have seen this man come in," Jamie said.
The curator nodded. "Perhaps, but we've never had any problems here before. You can't just walk off with a tank or a plane, after all."
Mike Skinner finished the initial processing of the body, covered it and fastened the straps on the gurney. As he rolled it towards the door, the wheels squeaked on the tiled floor. Hasbrough moved back, his nostrils flaring like a skittish horse, as if the mere presence of the body could contaminate him somehow.
"Can you at least take it out the back way?" he asked as the body was rolled past. Skinner ignored the man, heading towards the main entrance. "There are children out there," Hasbrough called. "Bloody half term. Always a crazy time."
"What's going on today?" Jamie asked.
"It's a charity Fun Run for Psyche – you know, that politician Matthew Osborne's thing. Advocates for equality and justice for the mentally ill, or something like that. They got permission for the event months ago. Thought it might be an appropriate place given the history here, and the new hospital is too far out for the press to bother going. But here, there will be some attention and Osborne knows the strings to pull, for sure. I think he's even running today, along with a load of yummy mummies and their brats, no doubt. There are hundreds of people due to turn up, raising money for charity. Be hell to shut it down now."
Jamie glanced down at the plans of the museum she had on her smartphone.
"It looks like the field is far enough away from the crime scene that we don't need to stop it, but we'll need statements from all the people who were here early, including your staff."
Hasbrough nodded. "Of course."
Jamie turned back to the room, watching the SOCOs go about their work, seeing Missinghall on the phone. He waved his hand at her as he began to read the registration details from the driver's license, clearly not needing her right now.
"Can you show me the outside of the building?" she asked Hasbrough.
"Sure, follow me."
Walking out into the fresh air, Jamie breathed in deeply. The sun was peeking through the clouds and it looked like the day might brighten up. Volunteers were hanging bunting around the bushes, putting up Psyche signs and big arrows pointing to the field beyond the museum where the Fun Run would be. A blast of rock music came from the speakers, swiftly muted. Heads turned briefly and then returned to staring at the police vehicles in the forecourt. Jamie had no doubt that gossip about the murder would be round the group in no time.
"There's a back way into the museum," Hasbrough said, walking left from the main building.
"What time would this lot have started setting up?" Jamie asked, counting more than twenty volunteers across the field.
"Some of them were already here when I arrived at six," he said. "That Petra Bennett is some kind of superwoman, I swear it. She was ordering the lads around, getting the stage set up." He pointed across the field towards a figure in shades of moss green and gold, the colors of the charity. Her mousy hair caught a ray of sun, and she brushed an almost-blonde strand from her face, the gesture impatient, as she bent to lift another box.
"The Fun Run starts at ten a.m., so they'll be packing up again by two. Will you have to disturb them?"
Jamie watched Petra speaking to a young volunteer, her hand gestures fast as she pointed down the field. Here was a woman who knew what was going on, and a potential suspect.
"We'll need a list of everyone who was onsite this morning, and then the team will be taking some statements." Jamie saw his disturbed glance. "But we'll try to keep it low key."
They walked on a little way.
"This is the back entrance and the one I use." Hasbrough pointed at a cream safety door. "It was unlocked this morning, but to be honest, it usually is. George, the main night watchman, comes out for a smoke now and then. You can keep time by his addiction."
Jamie clenched her fists as the wave of longing for her own cigarettes swept over her.
"What time does he usually come out here?"
"Every hour on the hour. You can check that with him, but I reckon it gets him through the nights when nothing happens. And nothing ever happens, Detective."
Hasbrough paused. "At least, it didn't use to."
As they walked back to the main entrance, Jamie saw a man arrive on the other side of the field, his arms laden with bags and balancing a box in one hand. Petra ran to help him, and a smile lit his face. Jamie had seen Matthew Osborne before on TV, that slightly crooked smile flashed for the press, the gaunt jaw highlighted by an artful line of stubble. He was Secretary of State for Health, but the papers were more interested in his love life. Jamie didn't pay too much attention to politics, but she could see how this man fit right in, as he leaned into Petra and kissed her cheek. She was like a dull little bird, eager to help him, fluttering around his bright plumage. She wondered if he had that effect on all women.
For a moment, Jamie envied Matthew's easy way with people, thinking of her own inability to get close to anyone. It used to be her and Polly against the world, mother and daughter bound together, but now Polly was gone. Fighting the world alone was like standing under a freezing shower all day every day, and sometimes she was beaten to her knees by its force.
Jamie's phone buzzed and she turned from the field to check the text. Today's picture was a clear milk bottle on a red brick step, a daffodil sticking out at a jaunty angle. As usual, Blake had signed it with a smiley. Jamie grinned. For a moment, she felt the darkness in her mind lift a little. Since Polly's death, Blake had kept his physical distance, but every day he let her know he was thinking of her. That alone meant a lot, but she still couldn't see him, for he had a gift. Blake's ability to read emotions in objects meant he would feel the depth of her loss, and she was afraid she would break if he knew.
"Jamie, I've got an address. It's in Harley Street," Missinghall called as he left the museum entrance, walking towards them. "The guy was a psychiatrist. His housekeeper can let us in."
"OK," Jamie said. "Let's go check it out."
Chapter 2
Blake Daniel smiled as he walked across Great Russell Street into the courtyard of the British Museum. He put his phone in his pocket and pulled his thin gloves back on, covering the scars on his hands. It pleased him to send Jamie jolly pictures each day and, although she only ever responded with a smiley in return, he knew that at some point she would emerge from her grief. He wanted to be there when she did. Jamie had become a talisman against his own oblivion, and the nights when he craved the tequila bottle were becoming ever more rare. She was worth waiting for.
Blake looked up at the facade of the British Museum, the tall Ionic columns stretching to the Greek-style pediment, a fitting entrance to the myriad wonders within. The glass roof to the Great Court was now fully repaired from the Neo-Viking attack last month, and the public were streaming in again. The day he stopped loving this place was the day he ought to retire, Blake thought.
He bounded up the steps into the tourist throng, eyes wide and clutching maps as they wondered where to start their day's adventure. Blake loved to try and guess where people came from. Those who journeyed here to stay in multicultural London had intermingled into one great family that managed to rub along together most of the time. Sporadic fights broke out, of course, for a family must hate as well as love, as in all the best Shakespeare plays. But that made life more interesting. Blake's own features were mixed, just as his cultural heritage was. He had the tight curly hair of his Nigerian mother, which he kept at a military number-one cut, and blue eyes of the northern ocean from his Swedish father. With his darker skin tone and boy-band features, he could walk with confidence in any part of London.
Swiping his pass by the door, Blake walked downstairs to the offices of the museum, where researchers worked on artifacts for the exhibits above. There was a sense of excitement here, overlaid with the calm of academia, as the minutiae of past civilizations were dissected. Blake was one of a number of researchers, but his work was supplemented by his peculiar sensitivities. It was called clairvoyance by some, or psychometry, although Blake preferred extrasensory perception, and for him, it manifested as a series of visions gleaned from an object. Their intensity was dictated by the emotions that had attached themselves to the artifact over time, so the more personal the item, the more clearly he could read it. He habitually wore thin gloves to cover his skin so as not to be overwhelmed by the visions from daily life, those gloves serving the dual purpose of hiding disfiguring scars from a childhood of abuse.
Walking through the office towards his own workspace, Blake's eyes fixed on the object that lay upon a white cloth on his desk. He had been assigned the fourteenth-century Nubian cross of Timotheus, and he couldn't get a reading on it at all. Perhaps it was a good thing – perhaps he had been relying on the visions too much, before trying to back up his claims with proper research. But his vivid writing certainly brought in the grants, as it captured the imagination of donors with his description of characters who might have been involved in the object's history. They weren't to know how much of it was truth discovered through emotional perception.
Blake sat down in front of the cross, studying the clover-leaf ends, triple hoops of iron in a simple, functional design. Maybe the passage of time had somehow cleansed the cross of its resonance, or perhaps the priests had worn gloves as part of devotional garments. Nubia had been converted to Christianity in the sixth century and had a rich cultural heritage, although the area was now split between Egypt and Sudan, both Muslim countries. This cross could give an insight into an area of Africa that had once been dominated by Christianity, with powerful empires that many would not believe of the fractious continent these days.
"How's your paper going?"
The voice startled Blake and he turned to see Margaret, his boss, standing behind him. She held a small package in a white padded bag.
"I'd like a draft by the end of next week."
Her face was pinched, but that wasn't unusual. Blake knew he skated near the edge with her, and his frequent absences due to hangover recovery had been noted. Tequila and a string of empty one-night stands had made him almost a part-time employee, but in the last few months he had been a lot more reliable. Perhaps Margaret was softening towards him.
"Of course," he said. "I'm still working on researching Timotheus from the Coptic scrolls. I found a new translation yesterday so I'll use that as part of the paper."
Margaret nodded, and held out the package.
"This came for you. But you really shouldn't have personal items delivered to the museum." She frowned. "You know what a nightmare security is with all the random objects we're sent."
Blake took the parcel. "Sorry, I didn't order anything, so I don't know why …"
His voice trailed off as he recognized his mother's sloping handwriting on the front.
"I'll leave you to it then," Margaret said after waiting a beat too long, clearly interested in what was inside.
Blake laid the package down on his desk. Why would his mother post anything? They hadn't spoken in years, and although he sent cards now and then, telling her he was OK, he hadn't mentioned his address or where he worked. Of course, Google meant that everyone was discoverable online these days: his academic papers had been in some journals and his photo was on the museum website. Blake wanted to rip off the paper to find out what was inside, but some part of him held back. Whatever this was, it drew him to a part of his life he had left behind long ago.
One of the meeting rooms was empty, so Blake took the package and walked inside, shutting the blinds and closing the door. He took his gloves off and looked at his hands, the ivory scars on his caramel skin like an abstract painting. Scars his father had inflicted in an attempt to beat the Devil from his son, believing the visions to be diabolical possession and Blake's hands a portal to Hell. But the bloody whippings had only curbed the visions until the scars began to heal, and then they returned, a curse that no amount of pain could stop.
It had been fifteen years since he had walked out on the abuse, turning away from his father and the religious community that he ruled with an iron rod, like the Old Testament prophets he had preached
of in his sermons. But his mother … Blake blinked away the tears that threatened as guilt rose inside. He had to leave her, for there had been no other way. His father would rather have killed him than let the Devil take his son, or at least cut off his hands to stop the visions. And, as much as his mother loved him, she had been a devoted wife and servant, believing that it was God's will Blake be delivered from the curse by His prophet. Perhaps there was a trace of her here.
Laying his hands on the parcel, Blake closed his eyes to let the visions come. He was clean, no tequila for days, so his sensitivity was acute. He felt a rising anxiety, like a high-pitched note that hurt his ears, but under that lay a deep acceptance, a sense of peace in a faith he had no connection to. He saw a front door, the same one he had walked out years ago, and a woman's hand, older now, clutching the envelope. He wanted to see her face, wanted more than this brief glimpse into her world. Then he saw a drip, a series of medical machines, and heard a rasping gasp. He knew that voice. Blake pulled his hand away, heart pounding in his chest.
He ripped open the package and looked inside. A white cloth was wrapped around an object and there was a note, just one page. He pulled it out.
My son. There's too much to say and no time left anymore. I'm sorry. Your father has had a series of strokes. Please come. We love you.
Blake read the note again, unsure what he was supposed to feel. He wanted more from her, more than just these few lines after so long. Why do children read so much into the words of parents? he thought. Why expect so much, when they are just people, damaged and desperate, just as we are? Blake shook his head – the years apart should have given him more perspective.
The old man was dying, that much was certain. Maybe he was dead already, but the thought didn't leave Blake feeling any lighter. On the day he had walked out, Blake had sworn to dance on the old man's grave, wanting to stamp his boots onto the earth as if it had been the prophet's face. But over time, those feelings had hardened into a tight ball of anger that he kept locked up and buried within. The tequila helped soften it, helped him to breathe, but it was a bitch of a mistress that brought as much pain as it did relief.