Remember, Remember

by Lisa Cutts

  I found Clint in his office. He shared it with another DI but she wasn’t about. I waited at the door, about to knock, when he looked up.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Take a seat.’

  That seemed a good omen – we were making a break from sign language. I shut the door behind me and sat facing him. I’d spent the entire journey back from prison wondering how I was going to formulate the words that would stop Clint from laughing in my face and telling me to sever all ties with Joe. I owed Joe, and I was keen to get my hands on the list of names he was prepared to swap for my assistance.

  ‘I’ve been to see Joe Bring today,’ I said.

  Clint raised an eyebrow. I guessed that he was wondering why I hadn’t gone to Ian Hammond with the update.

  I shifted in my seat. ‘The reason I haven’t gone directly to Mr Hammond is that I could do with your advice.’ Clint had once told me on a disastrous date that the best way to get someone to do something for you was to make them feel valued, and asking for their advice usually did it.

  Clint nodded. He had a short memory; I had not.

  ‘Whatever you need,’ he said.

  ‘Joe’s offered to give me some information in exchange for something a little unorthodox.’

  ‘Not money, then?’

  ‘No. He wants me to make sure his son doesn’t get into trouble, particularly where drugs are concerned. He thinks that there’s a way around that.’ I paused, took a deep breath and told Clint what I’d spent the last half-hour going over in my head. ‘Joe seems to think that if I get his son enrolled on a training boot camp for juveniles it’ll show him some discipline and in some way protect his boy.’

  I studied Clint’s face. It remained unchanged. I’d dropped this ludicrous bombshell, so I thought I needed to fill the conversational gap.

  ‘I have pointed out to him that I can’t simply arrange it. I’m well aware that these courses are few and far between and cost the earth. Am I asking something ridiculous here, or is it doable?’

  Clint nodded, pondering, I suspected, how he was going to tell me not to be such a gullible fool, without using those actual words.

  At last, he spoke. ‘I’m guessing that, even if Joe didn’t actually remind you that he saved your life, you’re feeling torn between helping him somehow and not getting yourself into bother for arranging favours for his kid.’

  I couldn’t have summed it up better myself. ‘In a nutshell, yeah.’

  Clint glanced at his watch. ‘Got your purse on you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Come on, then, let’s get a pint and we can talk it over properly.’

  It was a little early in the day but I wasn’t one to argue with officers of rank. We walked over to the Dog and Gun. I wasn’t comfortable having an alcoholic drink so I stuck to orange juice, much to Clint’s surprise. He ordered himself a pint of bitter. Once settled in a quiet corner of the pub, we discussed Joe’s request. We both agreed that we couldn’t do what he asked: there was no way police officers should be doing favours for criminals in any circumstances. Clint had a bit of a faraway look in his eyes as he listened to me insisting that there was no way we could do it. He had joined the force about ten years earlier than I had, so I wasn’t sure if his dreamy look was due to nostalgia for a bygone time in policing when deals could be struck, or whether he was bored with my company. I didn’t think I’d like the answer to either question, so I asked for his professional opinion. This seemed to follow on nicely from asking for his advice.

  ‘As you’ve pointed out, we can’t give him what he wants, and we want the list of names he has about the train crash. Do you think what he actually wants is a reduction in his prison sentence?’

  I took a sip of my fruit juice, regretting my choice of beverage. ‘No, I don’t, and I’ve told him that won’t happen. I get the feeling that he doesn’t want to get out at the moment. He has nowhere to go, anyway. I think he wants to help, but he’s had the information all these years and made no attempt to pass it on. Why now?’

  ‘His son,’ suggested Clint. ‘Joe gets banged up and then people start overdosing all over the place, including his son’s mate. It would be enough to make anyone take a stand. Some people need a catalyst to do the right thing.’

  ‘Do you reckon?’ I asked. ‘Joe did the right thing when he helped me last year. I doubt that anything was driving him then. All that he got for his troubles was eighteen months inside.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s found God.’

  We both laughed at that.

  ‘Best plan of action,’ said Clint, finishing his pint, ‘is for you to make a statement covering your visits to Joe and everything he’s told you, including what he’s asked you to do. Then put in an intelligence report stating that Joe has asked you to arrange a week at boot camp for his son in exchange for information. Leave the rest with me. Don’t visit him again on your own.’

  I knew that Clint was right, but it seemed like a massive backside-covering exercise without actually achieving anything. After eighteen years, though, I shouldn’t be surprised any more. And I didn’t have time to think it over for too long: I had a post mortem to get myself to. Despite my hangover being long gone, I was feeling a bit nauseous at the thought of it.

  37

  I arrived at the hospital in plenty of time and found my way to the mortuary. I didn’t really want to do this. I pressed the buzzer, gave my name and walked in. It wasn’t what I was expecting.

  There was no smell. I’d been in mortuaries many times in the first couple of years of my service, when I was a probationer, and I remembered what it was like. I couldn’t call it the smell of death or anything as drastic, but nevertheless it had been thick in the air. It probably simply came down to those experiences being in very old and badly ventilated buildings, and this was in a brand new one with air-conditioning. I hadn’t expected the radio to be playing so loudly, either, blaring out a cheery song about love and forgiveness.

  I was greeted by the attractive CSI I’d seen Bill talking to on the station a couple of days ago after the drugs warrant. She introduced herself as Elaine Day. I chatted to her as she laid out the pots, evidence bags and paperwork she needed for taking the samples. I noticed a silver band on her wedding finger.

  ‘This is my first post mortem,’ I felt the need to confess.

  She smiled and said, ‘You’ll probably find it fascinating. If you feel a bit ill, take yourself outside to one of the offices the other side of the door. It does happen from time to time. I like coming to them, but the first one can be overwhelming. There’s not that many Home Office PMs, so you were lucky to be on duty for this one.’

  Right at that moment, I wasn’t feeling very lucky.

  I heard the outside door open and Janice Freeman’s voice. She was talking to a man and it was clear that they knew each other. He was asking her about the sentencing at Crown Court of the murderer of another victim he’d carried out the PM on. While I waited for them to come in, I had a look around the room. It was about fifty feet by forty and held four empty fixed metal tables, all slightly larger – funnily enough – than a body. Elaine had covered one with syringes, bottles and bags. The rest of the room housed sinks and equipment, knives, and a set of silver scales suspended on a trolley.

  ‘You may want to put your stuff outside,’ said Elaine, pointing at my handbag. ‘It’ll get blood on it in here.’

  I glanced down at the floor. Although spotless, it was still wet from the last PM. I was still trying to act casual about the whole thing but I didn’t think Elaine looked easily fooled.

  Janice Freeman smiled when she saw me. ‘Hello, Nina. This is Dr Philip Fleischer. He’s carrying out the PM today. Shall we all go and have a couple of minutes before we get started?’

  The doctor and I exchanged nods, not before it registered that he was a very good-looking man. That was a totally inappropriate feeling, especially as I saw a mortuary assistant right behind him, wheeling in a trolley. On the trolley was Lea’s shroude
d body.

  We ran through some paperwork, such as suspected cause of death and who was going to be present. By this stage we’d been joined by Jo Styles, senior CSI, and the coroner’s officer, a middle-aged woman whose name I never found out. She was very pleasant and filled me in on what was going on throughout the whole procedure. Then the time came for everyone to fulfil the role they were here to do. All except me. I was here because I had previously expressed an interest in learning more about forensics and recognising causes of death, and had made the mistake of putting it on my staff appraisal. I had also been determined to find out what had happened to Lea Hollingsworth. What I hadn’t banked on was the two meeting in the mortuary.

  Elaine handed me a pair of plastic overshoes and a plastic apron. I glanced down at my feet. I’d worn heels. What had I been thinking? I didn’t doubt it would be only minutes before I went straight through the coverings and got blood all over my Marks and Spencer shoes.

  The first half-hour consisted of the pathologist examining Lea’s body in the body bag and Jo taking a number of photos. All the while this went on, Elaine got her exhibit bags ready, Janice Freeman caught up with her endless paperwork and I stood transfixed.

  Three and a half hours later, I was grateful for the shoe protectors but cursing wearing high heels. The whole thing held a morbid fascination for me and I surprised myself by not feeling sick, but my determination to see it through was born more from a desire to find out what had happened to Lea. I watched as the doctor frequently stopped to make notes on his clipboard and from time to time called over Jo to take photographs, or Elaine to hand him a pot, bag or syringe so that he could deposit a sample from Lea. On a couple of occasions he beckoned to Janice. I was shifting from foot to foot, as my knees were locking up from standing still for so long, something I didn’t think had happened since I was in uniform – and then I’d been wearing Magnum police boots.

  The post mortem had got to the part that everyone warned me about. I had seen the hand-held electric rotary saw brought out by the mortuary assistant, connected to a huge, wheeled mobile power base. He’d plugged it in underneath the trolley holding Lea. The same trolley that was being constantly hosed down. I had already refreshed my first aid knowledge from the sign on the wall warning what to do in case of an electrical shock, and was torn between watching what the doctor was doing to Lea’s head and hoping he wouldn’t also end up dead from standing in a puddle while operating electrical equipment. I figured Health and Safety didn’t drop by all that often.

  I was so mesmerised by the sound of the drill on Lea’s skull and the trickle of water on to the trolley, sluicing her blood to the drain on the floor, that it took me a second to realise that the doctor was calling Janice over to the table once more. I edged closer. Philip Fleischer was pointing to the inside of Lea’s skull. As he moved his hand away, I saw that there was more blood to come.

  ‘What this indicates,’ said the pathologist, ‘is that she suffered massive head trauma. Can you see these marks here? They show that her skull was hit by something with a rounded or tapered end. Someone or something struck her on the head, possibly a number of times.’

  38

  The doctor’s revelation seemed to come as little surprise to anyone in the mortuary, except myself. The pathologist peered very closely at Lea’s skull and then stood up straight, looking around the room. He caught Jo’s eye and waved her over. This got everyone’s attention.

  ‘Here, by the larger abrasion to her head, you can see a small fragment of something,’ he said, eyes so close to Lea, his breath must have been on her skin. He stood back to allow the CSI to photograph the fragment, before removing it and passing it across in an evidence bag.

  I watched Janice as she made a couple of phone calls, no doubt attempting to summon some staff to work on the suspicious death of Lea Hollingsworth. She glanced my way a couple of times as she spoke into her mobile. She was too far away for me to hear what she was saying, leaving me unclear whether she was talking about me or wondering if I was about to faint. I had taken to fidgeting about, but it was due to my legs aching, and I had to be honest, I was wondering how much longer this was all going to take. I felt truly awful about Lea’s death, which was looking now like a murder, but I had worn the wrong shoes. I wanted to go home.

  While the mortuary assistants saw to affording her some dignity again, I looked away and got ready to park what I’d witnessed as Janice went off to speak to the doctor about the cause of death. I threw my plastic apron in the hazardous-waste bin, along with my shoe covers, and made a call to Bill. I told him that I wouldn’t be much longer, and, much to my shame, that I was hungry and would like some dinner.

  ‘How about we go out to eat?’ he suggested. ‘I thought it would do both of us good to get out and have a meal, spend some time together.’

  I really didn’t have to think about it. ‘Fantastic idea,’ I said. ‘Do you still fancy the new Thai restaurant?’

  ‘Good idea. I’ll see if I can get a table for nine o’clock. Will that give you enough time?’

  I glanced down at my clothes. ‘Make it half-nine. I think I may need it.’

  I rushed home to Bill, pleased that we were managing at least half a night out together. He ordered a cab as I dashed from bathroom to bedroom, trying to remember the last time we’d gone out for a meal. And before I knew it we were sitting next to each other in the back of the cab, holding hands in a comfortable silence.

  As we walked into the restaurant and a rush of aromas, I heard Bill say to a beautiful waitress wrapped in red and gold silk, ‘I’ve booked a booth at the back. Bill Harrison.’

  I couldn’t fail to notice that the restaurant was almost full and the booths at the back were few in number. I got the feeling that, despite Bill having given me the impression this was last-minute, he had in fact had booked the table some days ago.

  The meal, restaurant and evening were all but perfect, and, even though we had room for another two people at our table, we sat inches apart. Bill told me about a backpacking holiday around Thailand that he’d gone on when he left school. I hadn’t thought of him as the sort to sleep in hostels and tents, but it reminded me that there was a lot we didn’t yet know about each other. I was having such a relaxing time, I didn’t even pretend to insist that I contribute when the bill was brought over.

  We opted to stroll home, once more hand-in-hand, barely exchanging a word as we made our way through the warmth of the night. An evening free of arguments and terrible television couldn’t have come at a better time.

  39

  Feeling relaxed and content after an evening with my boyfriend, I went in to work the next day looking forward to another shift with Winsgy. We were due to see Tommy Ross to get him to make a statement covering everything he had told us, filling in as much detail as he could manage. I liked Tommy. He had suffered enough, partly because of his own foolishness, but it had come back to him tenfold. We all made mistakes. Some of us drank too much and went to work feeling slightly the worse for wear; other people covered up train crashes and murder. It put my problems into perspective. There was always someone worse off.

  On the way to Tommy’s, Wingsy and I talked about how we would use the former footballer’s evidence if he didn’t make it as far as a trial: whether we’d be better off recording him on DVD in case he didn’t live long enough, and whether it would be admissible in court. Wingsy had made some enquiries with the Crown Prosecution Service but they had seemed to think that a statement was the correct way forward. We went along with what they wanted and hoped it was the right decision in case we didn’t get a chance to do it any other way.

  As we pulled up outside the front of Tommy’s house, a cat sat by the front door, meowing loudly. ‘I don’t remember seeing a cat when we were here on Monday,’ I said as we grabbed our stuff from the back seat. When had everyone taken ownership of a cat?

  ‘Perhaps Tommy was so pissed, he forgot he had one.’

  I stopped myself from la
ughing in case Tommy was watching from one of the windows. I needn’t have worried about being spied upon by our witness. It took him a while to come to the door, and when he did eventually open it I was temporarily stunned into silence at the sight of him. He hadn’t looked the picture of health two days ago, but today he looked as if he’d joined the living dead. Despite the coolness of the day, he was sweating, and his skin had taken on a grey hue. As he welcomed us inside, I noticed the increased tremble to his hand as he held on to the door latch. The cat ran inside straight to the kitchen, cutting across our paths as it did so. I hoped it was a good omen.

  ‘Sorry for my appearance,’ he said. ‘I’ve not been out of bed long. I’ve had trouble sleeping since your last visit.’

  ‘We’re sorry if we unsettled you, Tommy,’ said Wingsy. ‘That was never our intention.’

  Tommy waved a shaking hand in our direction. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘The reason I’ve had problems dropping off is that, since you were here, I gave what you said a lot of thought and I want to make sure I see a trial out. I’ve not touched a drop since you left here on Monday.’

  I wasn’t sure how to respond to this. For some reason this chilled me more than his acceptance of death and refusal of medical treatment. I wasn’t the best person to give alcohol consumption advice, but I felt sure that sudden withdrawal could be medically dangerous.

  Tommy led us through to the living room where we’d sat two days ago before he headed off to the kitchen to put the kettle on. I raised my eyebrows at Wingsy as we got our notebooks and paperwork out. He replied with a shrug. Keeping my voice low, I said, ‘What do you reckon about his abstinence? Isn’t it dangerous?’

  ‘What do you suggest we do, pour vodka down his throat? We’ll speak to him before we get started. I think he should at least see his doctor or something.’

  We left our whispered concerns there as Tommy returned with three mugs of tea. As he placed them down, I noticed that he’d only half-filled them. I put that down to his tremors and the cat which nipped in front of him as he tottered across the room. This was a man who didn’t need any more obstacles in his way, especially darting feline ones.