No Bodies

by Robert Crouch

  I ring her, knowing she gets to the surgery early. She sounds a little breathless when she answers. “I know it’s a big ask,” I say, “but could you do the tests now? I have a feeling the press will be descending on us today and …”

  “I can’t possibly come until after surgery. I’m sure Brian would though. He is your vet, after all.”

  “Only because you walked out.”

  “Can you blame me after you seduced my little girl?”

  ***

  A dirty mist clings to the South Downs, obscuring the hills and the sky. The humid air seems to press the moisture to the ground, weighing down the leaves and cobwebs. I pick my way through the relentless bramble that’s determined to overwhelm the delicate plants and flowers in the shorter grass. I need to cut it back, but like the jagged nettles that narrow the path, it simply reminds me how much I’ve still to do.

  “We only need Birchill to give us the land and enough money to run the place,” I tell Columbo while he sniffs among the grasses. “Then I could pack in the day job.”

  He looks up at me, decides there’s nothing of interest, and wanders on, nose to the ground.

  He’s right. It’s not going to happen.

  Half an hour later, I go with Frances to the entrance and close the gate for the first time since I moved in. It takes a few clouts with a lump hammer, a can of WD40, and a rusty squeal that disperses the nearby wood pigeons, to move the gate. Once in place, I wrap a heavy chain and padlock around the post to secure it.

  “Shouldn’t we put up a closed sign?” she asks.

  “We don’t have one. We’re only closed to reporters. You rang everyone who needs to know?”

  She nods. “No one’s calling today except for Sarah. I thought you were taking the day off.”

  “If I’m not here, the reporters will go away.”

  “And you can avoid Sarah.”

  Frances and Sarah go to the same fitness class at Downland Leisure Centre. Of course they talk. Why wouldn’t they, sharing an interest in animals?

  “I always thought you and Sarah would get together,” she says as we walk back to the barn. “You were always protesting together, fighting the same causes.”

  “We were friends, Frances. Partners in crime.”

  “What pushed you apart?”

  Niamh calls down from the kitchen, saving me. “Alice just rang. The Colonel wants to see you.”

  ***

  Twenty minutes later, parked halfway up the hill overlooking the hospital, I discover I’ve no umbrella or coat in the car. The brooding clouds gather and darken, waiting for me to make a dash for it. The wind, growing stronger by the minute, encourages me down the hill and across King’s Drive into the grounds of the District General Hospital. My shoes squeak on the polished vinyl tiles as I make my way to the stairs at the back of the building to the rather swish Michelham Unit, where patients can pay for private rooms.

  I find Alice, dozing in an armchair at the side of the bed. A huge monitor hangs over the bed, showing details of heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen saturation and who knows what? I don’t need a machine to tell me the Colonel’s ill. The oxygen mask, his grey, lifeless face and stick-thin arms tell me all I need to know. He’s aged 20 years since I last saw him.

  Over at the window, I look down into the enclosed atrium with its trees and shrubs. Though pleasant enough, it’s not much of a view for the amount of money it must be costing the Colonel.

  A nurse comes in to check on the Colonel. She looks at the monitors, checks the pulse clip on his finger and straightens the oxygen mask. She takes a long look at his notes before replacing the clipboard in the slot at the end of the bed. The noise wakes Alice, who starts when she sees me.

  “He’s very weak,” the nurse says.

  Alice yawns and stretches her arms and neck before getting to her feet. She points to the door and leads me across the soft, green carpet into a small rest room, closing the door behind her. The beige upholstered chairs are low but comfortable, separated by a table, containing various magazines to help me spruce up my mansion home with its seven-acre garden.

  “He woke up in a bit of a state,” Alice says, whispering for some reason. “He kept saying your name, over and over. Then he drifted off again, waking with a start a few moments later. The monitors started to bleep and two nurses rushed in to calm him down.”

  She fiddles with a button on her beige cardigan, looking tired and lost. “Is it Mrs Witherington? The body they found.”

  “I don’t know.”

  She looks up, her eyes wide with worry. “Will they ask me to identify her?”

  I can’t tell her the body has no head. “I don’t think so.”

  “But he’s in no state to do it,” she says, gesturing towards the Colonel’s room. “I don’t think he’s got much longer.”

  She begins to sob and I sit there, not sure there’s anything I can do. I check my phone, wondering whether Danni will call as I’ve not shown for work. I ought to tell her where I am, but I can’t be bothered. Having seen the Colonel, lying there, helpless without the monitors and machines, my problems at work seem petty. In London, Charlotte Burke lies in the mortuary, her future stolen by a microscopic bug. Her family will never get over her death.

  “Let’s see how he is,” I say, taking Alice’s small hand.

  When we enter the room, his eyes flicker open. He looks through us at first, unable to focus or make sense of where he is. His mouth opens, but only a trickle of saliva dribbles out. A tired hand rises and flaps at the oxygen mask, failing to move it.

  Alice hurries over. “Let me.”

  She takes a tissue from a box on the bedside cabinet and then lifts the mask. She dabs the saliva from his chin, talking to him in a soft voice. Then she pours a small amount of water from the jug into a plastic cup and raises it to his lips. Swallowing seems painful, but he’s fully conscious now, staring at me. A crooked finger beckons me closer.

  His voice is little more than a hoarse whisper. “Is it my Daphne?”

  “It might be,” I reply, close to his ear.

  His hand grips my arm. “Do you think it’s her?”

  When I hesitate, his grip tightens. “I need to know,” he gasps, turning his head as Alice tries to replace the mask. “Find out!”

  She slides the mask back and gradually his breathing slows. His grip weakens until his hand falls away. His eyelids drop, obscuring the defiance in his eyes. I know it sounds crazy, but I’m sure he intends to stay alive until I uncover the truth.

  Outside the room, Alice turns to me. “You don’t think it’s Mrs Witherington, do you?”

  I’m about to shrug when my phone rings. Gemma’s voice is quiet but clear.

  “Chloe Burke’s in reception with a film crew.”

  Twenty-Eight

  “What does Chloe Burke hope to achieve?” I ask Gemma.

  We’re in the post room on the ground floor to avoid Danni.

  It’s a cramped, windowless room that smells of stale photocopier. The tired machine rests in a corner beneath an extractor fan that whirs and occasionally whines. On either side, wooden pigeon holes, dedicated to every team in Downland District Council, huddle above counters heavy with plastic baskets, crammed with franked envelopes bearing the council’s crest. Most of these rolled off the letter-folding and envelope-stuffing machinery that covers most of the floor.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Gemma brushes some dust from the sleeve of her cream polo neck sweater. “She wants your blood.”

  “Why isn’t Danni dealing with her?”

  She laughs. “Why do you think?”

  “Someone’s got to do something. A media release from Geoff Lamb won’t solve anything.”

  She puts a hand on my arm. “You can’t go out there. It’s not your problem.”

  “Then why did you ring me?”

  “You always know what to do.” She looks at me the way she did when she believed in me. “Management are hiding in their ivory tower, scared
shitless. They sent Chloe Burke a message to say she should contact you at the sanctuary. Can you believe it?”

  Of course I can. “It’s not their fight, Gemma.”

  “They could at least defend you.” She bangs a fist down on the counter, raising more dust. “I know the poor woman’s lost her child, but it’s not your fault.”

  Let’s hope not.

  “How does charging into the town hall with a film crew help?” she asks, her voice rising. “Is she trying to humiliate you?”

  “She wants to know why her daughter died,” I say.

  “Then why doesn’t she ask?” Gemma stares at me, bristling with frustration. “She won’t like the answer though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Her hands fall as her tension melts into a smirk. “I’m getting just like you,” she says as if it’s an incurable disease. “When I went to collect the poo samples for Samuel and his grandfather, they’d gone out and left the pots in an envelope by the kitchen door.”

  “What have you done?”

  “Used my initiative,” she replies. “I spotted some fresh bags of manure by the fence, so I went into the back garden and found more manure around the vegetables, along with a couple of children’s spades.”

  “You sampled the manure, right?”

  “We’re waiting for final confirmation, but it looks like the E. coli strains match. The bug came from the manure, not your goats. Isn’t that brilliant?”

  It’s hardly the best word to use under the circumstances, but I don’t care. “Thank you,” I say, hugging her as a mixture of relief and pride overwhelm me. “Thank you!”

  My goats might yet yield the same strain of E. coli, but I don’t mention that.

  She eases out of the embrace. “We’re not there yet.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Danni went ballistic when I told her. She said the results were invalid because I’d obtained them dishonestly.”

  “That doesn’t change the results.”

  “I know, but she’s refusing to release the results in case the Burkes sue the council. She’s forbidden me to tell anyone – especially you, but we need to take more samples, Kent.”

  “If the manure’s contaminated, other people should be affected, but we haven’t had any more cases, have we?”

  “I spoke to the lab about that. They said people can become resistant over time like farmers do. Charlotte, being young and vulnerable, couldn’t fight the bug, unlike her brother.”

  “Do you know where the manure came from?”

  “A smallholding outside Tollingdon with a few pigs, some goats and a cow. And get this,” she says with a grin. “It’s owned by Stephen Burke’s brother, Martin. He was out, but one of the neighbours said he gives the manure to his brother. That’s why no one else is affected.”

  “You need to confirm that, just in case,” I say.

  “I’ll check when I take samples this afternoon. Danni can’t object to that, can she?”

  “That’s what you think?” Danni steps into the doorway. I don’t know how long she’s been listening, but the glint in her eyes worries me. “My office now,” she says.

  I shake my head. “I’m talking to Chloe Burke.”

  “You’ll do no such thing.”

  “Why, are you going to talk to her?”

  She sighs. “Kent, we’re dealing with Miss Burke.”

  “By ignoring her? How does that help?”

  Danni folds her arms. “If you want to confront her at your sanctuary, be my guest. But not here. This is not the council’s fight.”

  Gemma cuts in. “But we can prove where the E. coli came from.”

  “From samples obtained by stealth?”

  “By initiative,” I say, losing my calm. “This isn’t a court case, Danni. This is about a four year old girl and her distraught mother.”

  “So distraught she marches in here with a camera crew?”

  “Don’t you mean desperate? She wants to know why her daughter died and we’re not telling her.”

  Danni folds her arms. “Have your goats tested negative?”

  “I’m still waiting to hear.”

  “Well, until they test negative, Kent, you could still be responsible. Do you want to tell Miss Burke that?”

  “We can’t leave her in reception, Danni.”

  “We never asked her to charge in here with TV cameras.”

  “We could at least talk to her.”

  “And tell her what? You can’t bring her daughter back, Kent. You can’t prove she got the E. coli from the manure.” She glances at the clock on the wall and turns to leave. “Go home, Kent before you do something we’ll both regret.”

  She leaves just as she arrived – without a sound.

  “Maybe she’s right,” Gemma says with a helpless shrug. “I should never have called you. I was angry because she wouldn’t release the sample results.”

  “Not as angry as Chloe Burke,” I say, pushing through the door.

  It’s a short walk to reception down a long corridor. By the time I reach the door to the foyer, my palms are sweating. I’ve no idea what I’m going to say, but I know I have to face her. Anything else will only confirm what she and the media are thinking.

  Trial by media, where you’re guilty until the papers print a tiny apology on Page Seven.

  I peer through the small glass panel into the foyer with its ornate high ceiling, chandeliers, and sweeping staircase, ideal for wedding photographs after a visit to the registry office. Chloe Burke and her parents are standing against the far wall. Nearby, the TV crew wait and watch. One man holds a camera, panning up the staircase. A second adjusts his microphone. The young, vaguely familiar woman, dressed in a dark trouser suit and spike heels, paces up and down, glancing at her watch.

  No one’s talking or looking at each other. They seem lost in this grand, pompous vault with its sumptuous carpets, polished marble banisters and handrails, and the portrait gallery of aldermen and mayors from the past to the present. Long velvet drapes, tied back with gold braided rope, hang either side of tall Gothic windows that cast a rather gloomy light.

  If the surroundings intimidate Chloe Burke, she’s not showing it. From the way she chews her nails, I imagine she’s dying for a cigarette. Dressed in a black trouser suit and grey blouse, she looks painfully thin, her face white and drawn. Her eyes hold a sadness and grief that’s drained the life and soul out of her, leaving only anger and confusion.

  Her mother and father look no better.

  I recall some of the aggressive encounters I’ve defused over the years, but none of them compare to this. None of them were captured on video. After a deep breath to calm the jitters in my stomach, I push open the door, retreating when I spot Tommy Logan, Adrian Peach and their photographers enter the foyer. They look around, nod to the TV reporter and take up a position beside them, ignoring the Burkes.

  I glance back, half expecting Gemma to be there to wish me luck, but the corridor’s empty. I adjust my chinos, straightening the belt buckle, and raise the zipper on my fleece to hide the stain on my polo shirt. After a final deep breath, I’m about to enter the foyer when I spot Gemma and Danni, sneaking down the staircase. They stop of the half landing, keeping out of sight of the reporters.

  I step back and flatten myself against the wall. For a moment, disappointment overwhelms the thoughts and fears churning in my head and stomach. I feel betrayed as Gemma exchanges a few intimate words with Danni.

  Did Danni ask Gemma to call me to the office, knowing I’d confront Chloe Burke?

  I push open the door and step into the foyer, surprised by the quiet. No one notices me at first, apart from Danni and Gemma.

  Then all hell breaks loose.

  People come to life. Fingers point. Reporters move forward. Photographers shuffle for the best position, their cameras whirring. Chloe wrenches her hand from Stephen’s. The determined click of her heels on the tiled floor echoes through the vast space, silencing the mu
rmurs behind. She strides into the middle of the floor and stops, her eyes focused on me like malicious lasers. She’s shaking, pain and fury tearing her apart.

  Two security officers by the entrance hurry up the steps and then stop, not sure what to do. They glance at each other and then spread their feet, standing there like officious guards with their chests puffed out.

  Chloe’s fingers curl into fists and uncurl as she watches me approach. Her chest rises and falls. Perspiration beads on her forehead. Her unblinking eyes stare into mine, focusing her anger. Her breathing increases as I stop about a yard from her.

  For what seems like minutes, we stare at each other, oblivious to everything around us.

  I clear my throat. “I’m so sorry about Charlotte.”

  She doesn’t move. She doesn’t blink. Her eyes seem empty, like her soul maybe. Time seems to stop as I wait.

  A strange, almost eerie smile starts to form on her lips. She takes a step closer. The smile transforms into pure hatred as her hand swings through the air. The slap stings my cheek and knocks my head sideways. I wobble, but stand firm, looking straight back at her.

  “You killed my baby. My poor, sweet, innocent little baby.”

  Her voice sounds hoarse and empty, trembling with emotions she can barely keep in check. I don’t know how she’s holding herself together, but I admire this young woman. I wish I could help her, ease the pain a little by giving her the answer she needs.

  But how will condemning her father and uncle help her?

  “Don’t you have anything to say?” she cries.

  “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

  “Talk?” She shrieks with hysterical disbelief. “I don’t want to talk! I want you to kill you!”

  This time, I catch her wrist before her hand makes contact with my face. I hold it there, a few inches from my face.

  “I hope someone you loves dies,” she says, her voice as chilling as the ice in her eyes. “I hope you have to watch someone you love fade away while you stand there, helpless to do anything.”