Post Mortem (17 page)

Hadley switched off the engine. Lizzie, resisting the civilian's pressure to act without thinking, got out of the car trying not to betray undue haste and said, ‘What did you see?'

‘Nothing . . . just a man came out of the house and walked off. He was wiping his hands on his trousers. Sounds ridiculous but I thought it was blood. But it wasn't that. It was the screaming . . .' The witness shook himself, as if coming back to the present. ‘It sounded as though someone was being murdered.' He paused
before going on. ‘No one's come out since. It's completely silent. She must still be in there. What took you so long—'

Lizzie cut him off, dismissing the thought of the call that had gone out several times over the radio. Nobody had wanted to get tied up with a DV incident.

‘I'm sorry, Joe,' she said, resisting the instinctive lie – no cars available, too many calls. ‘It is Joe, isn't it?'

He nodded.

‘Joe, do you know if there's anyone else in there?'

‘I don't know. There's a lot of them normally. Eastern Europeans, I think. There's always trouble.'

It was said without acrimony. He stood beside her like a dog straining on an invisible leash. Hadley shuffled off, mumbling something about checking out the door. Lizzie requested another unit over the radio, silent approach. DW27 put up. She switched to support to check an ambulance was running and to request the enforcer for the door. Back on the main channel, the radio, suddenly busy, chattered with other calls. A fight in the park. At the Arcadia shopping centre, a shoplifter detained.

Joe stood silently, insistent that something should be done
now
. He was young, good-looking. Short corkscrew hair, blue jeans, a checked shirt. Looking through the basement window of his flat, Lizzie could see the light from the screen of his computer. He had been distracted from something.

She said, ‘You a student?'

‘Yes.'

She glanced at him, aware amid the rush of imperatives that this man was that uncommon thing – someone who was prepared to get involved. He couldn't stop himself. He had been outside waiting for them. Something had prevented him from returning to his computer screen. She couldn't help but feel sorry for him, knowing that such people were always regarded with ambivalence by police and, indeed,
everyone else. What was he? A nosy parker, an adventure hound, or that other much rarer and scarcely believed-in thing? One came across them: random individuals with their moral codes, people who couldn't stop themselves. The one in a hundred who gave a statement, who stood up in court. They could be young, old, black, white, fat, thin: the only thing that united them was their sense of obligation to complete strangers. Their nearest and dearest claimed to be proud of them, but there was always a nagging feeling that they would still rather they didn't do these things, put themselves in this place that made everyone uncomfortable and uneasy. Elsewhere, she and this young man would have nothing in common, but standing next to him on the street, she felt a link as deep and as troubling as DNA. She had an urge to reach out to him, even to thank him, but realized that this was out of place – anything so human would only cause him more apprehension. She was the police. He needed her to appear unmoved, in control.

‘The other unit will be here in a minute.'

‘You need to get to her quickly.'

Lizzie glanced towards the building. Hadley was sliding a piece of plastic from a weapons tube down between the lock and the door.

‘Bloody thing,' he mouthed at her.

Lizzie turned back to the witness. ‘Don't worry. We'll break the door down. I'm just waiting on the enforcer – you know, the thing we use to put the door in – and a couple more officers.'

Joe's eyes narrowed, as if he had had a brief glimpse into her world with its risk-assessed dangers. She smiled at him, feeling like a fraud but hoping to convey something capable and reassuring. It was, she thought, peculiarly like waiting for a very important bus. As a way of passing time she said, ‘It was you gave us her name?'

‘Yes. I spoke to her once on the steps. She didn't look too good then either. Had a black eye. Look, I hear what you're saying, but you should hurry—'

‘Will you give us a statement?'

‘Of course.'

‘Don't worry. We'll be going in just as soon as another unit arrives.'

She scribbled down his details.
Joe Macintyre. Date of birth 22/05/89
. They continued to wait. She pressed the transmit button on her radio. ‘DW27 receiving?'

There was silence. She repeated the call.

She realized that her mouth was dry. This Joe Macintyre had got her adrenalin going and she too was impatient to get inside the house. Load of bollocks, she told herself. There'll be no one inside, or she'll be fine – watching TV and drinking lager out of a can.

‘Control receiving?'

‘Unit calling, go ahead.'

‘Yeah, sorry, we're trying to raise DW27.'

‘Didn't you hear? The channels have been split. Shooting at Ludlam Court.'

‘DW27?'

The command was peremptory. ‘Change channel.' She felt embarrassed. She switched channel, her fingers jumping over the buttons. ‘DW27 receiving? DW27?'

Joe said, ‘Officer—'

‘Excuse me for a moment.'

Lizzie turned and walked away up the stone steps. Hadley had his hands on his hips. ‘Yes?'

‘Twenty-seven aren't answering. They've probably been diverted. There's some big firearms incident.'

‘Bloody hell.'

Lizzie glanced towards the witness. ‘He says the victim's still inside. He thinks she might be in a bad way.'

Hadley gave a little cough – of course, she was stating the bleeding obvious and getting herself excited to no purpose.

Lizzie considered the property – a Victorian town house with two bay windows either side of the front door. The door was some squatter's expedient – palely washed in peeling grey paint, with a white steel lock. She slipped on her plastic gloves and lifted the letter box to see only a silent entrance hall abandoned in darkness. ‘Police!' she shouted. ‘Police. Open the door!'

‘It's a shit door but a good lock,' Hadley commented. ‘Stand back, Lizzie.'

He kicked the door, aiming his foot below the lock. There were a couple of loud bangs. The door shuddered but did not give. He stopped and, hands on knees, bent over, catching his breath and swearing quietly.

‘It's no use. The door's too strong for me. I'm too bloody fat.' He gestured in the direction of the witness. ‘What's his name?'

‘Joe.'

They both looked at Joe, who gazed back up at them, less confident now as he observed the Old Bill, stripped to the bone, going about its business.

‘Joe, come on up here, fella,' Hadley said.

Lizzie said quietly, ‘You can't ask him . . .'

‘Of course I can.'

Joe Macintyre hesitated. Perhaps, with a sixth sense, he was sensing his role shifting imperceptibly. Then he started slowly up the stairs, almost giving the impression of going backwards. He tipped his head back as if in query.

Hadley said, ‘Joe, you look like a strong fella. Work out, do you?'

He grimaced, unconvinced. ‘Sometimes . . .'

‘Joe, the guys with the enforcer have been diverted. Do me a favour and give the door a good kick.'

‘I'm not sure . . .'

‘It's perfectly legal. You're assisting a constable in the lawful execution et cetera. Section 17 of the Police and Criminal Evidence
Act. That's all you have to do – give it a bloody good kick. You're a younger man than me, and in better shape. Shame to waste all that time at the gym, don't you think? You're not just doing it for the ladies, are you? The door'll give easily enough. And Lizzie here will be greatly impressed, won't you?'

Lizzie couldn't help smiling. ‘I suppose so, yes, I will.'

Joe was not taken in by the humour. He wiped his hands down his thighs as though drying them from sweat.

‘I dunno . . .'

But Hadley was in earnest. ‘Listen, Joe, you seem like a good man. You said it sounded like she was being murdered. Someone's been shot somewhere else and there'll be no backup for a while now. Old Bill's a bit thin on the ground and we've got to do the best we can. It's perfectly fine. Just give the door a good kick and we'll do the rest. As I've said, you're assisting a constable in the lawful execution of his duty.'

Joe was studying his own feet. Hadley put his hand on his shoulder.

‘Come on, lad. There's no one else. You said yourself she might be dying.'

Joe sucked his cheeks for a second. ‘How long will they be?'

‘Anybody's guess.'

His eyes moved from Hadley to Lizzie. ‘What do you think?'

Her mouth was dry – they were going in on their own, then? – but she tried to sound cool, as though this kind of thing happened all the time. ‘Like Hadley says, we'll do the rest.'

Hadley cut her off. ‘There's a good lad. Just give it a kick here, mate. Just below the knob. Should shatter quite easily.'

‘OK . . .'

Joe turned and faced the door. Hadley drew Lizzie to the edge of the steps and said quietly, ‘Call Control again. Say we're going in and we need backup urgently. That'll force them to send another unit.'

As Hadley had said, Joe Macintyre was a strong lad. The door gave with two kicks. Hadley flicked the hall light but there was no electricity. The house was utterly silent but uncannily weighted with the lives of its absent occupants. The street lamps threw orange light on packing cases and cardboard boxes. It was a makeshift place, an encampment. The banisters had been broken. Hadley and Lizzie unshipped their torches and peeled off, following the narrow beams of light, each checking a room as they went. Hadley had the sitting room. Lizzie went ahead up the stairs' bare boards. Her breath sounded so noisy to her in the uncanny silence that she felt as though she were wearing a spacesuit. As she reached the landing she saw, through an open doorway, a woman motionless on a sofa. Her head was thrown back, her face catching the tungsten street light from the window.

For a brief moment Lizzie just stood. The woman's skin was green and blue and orange in the artificial light, the tones of oil paint in a modern American masterpiece. There was no movement. Christ, she's dead: that was the thought.

She remembered herself and shouted out, ‘I've found her.' She called Control and requested an ambulance on the hurry-up. Then she moved towards the woman. ‘I'm a police officer. Can you hear me?'

The left side of the woman's head was enormously swollen. It was a nonsense – the right side normal, the left side huge, like, like what? Like a movie make-up job, a medicine ball, a pillow, both hard and soft, the skin stretched over a tight swelling that came to a ridiculous point far higher and further out to the side than a head should ever be. It was a strangely captivating sight and Lizzie stared as if waiting to come to terms with the fact that it was real. How could the human body become like this? Why would it do such a thing? Was it part of the body's defence, and if so, what benefit could there be in such monstrosity?

In the pallid light from the street, it was hard to judge the ashen shade of the woman's skin. Lizzie did not know whether she was alive or dead. The need to know was urgent, but respect or awe or plain inexperience slowed her. Touching this woman was like touching a shrine, a sacred object, a cracked plaster saint. The skin of the woman's chest was exposed by a round-neck T-shirt, and Lizzie gently put the flat of her hand against this exposed, uninjured skin. The body was warm. It was an intimate sensation – touching this stranger made unearthly by the room, the silence, the injury. Was this warmth vitality or just the fleeting imprint of a departing life?

Lizzie remembered with horror how she had sat in the canteen and not taken the call. Like the sea flooding in, she felt a sudden rush of pity for the woman. And then an immense regret that people did such things in darkened houses. She wanted to say, ‘I'm sorry someone has done this to you,' but instead she said, ‘I'm a police officer. I'm here to help you. The ambulance is on its way.'

She was aware suddenly of the witness, Joe, standing at her side. He had followed her up the stairs. He said quietly, ‘Is she alive?' Lizzie wanted to reach out and take his hand. Instead she felt the side of the woman's neck, and there, beating, was the pulse of existence.

‘Yes, she's alive.'

They both laughed, as if it was somehow funny.

Hadley, Lizzie realized, was still searching the property in case anyone was lurking in its unlit corners. Thank God for the experience of Hadley, who knew to make sure they were safe before worrying about victims. Thank God for Hadley, who, for all his palaver, had put up for the call. Lizzie pinched the woman's ear lobes. When this didn't work, she ran her knuckles across her collarbones to try and revive her. She remembered the woman's name from the dispatch. ‘Cosmina. Cosmina. You've got to wake
up.' She tried again, more savagely. The woman stirred and groaned. ‘Cosmina, it's the police. An ambulance is on the way.'

The woman stirred again. She rolled her head slightly towards Lizzie and her right eye opened. She croaked something.

Lizzie leaned into her. ‘I'm sorry, Cosmina, I didn't hear that.'

She croaked again, but this time it was more insistent and decipherable. ‘Has he gone?'

The impulse to reassure was overwhelming. ‘Yes, he's gone. He's gone. We're police. You're safe now.'

‘Police?' She turned away and groaned. ‘Shit.'

Lizzie was silent.

Cosmina turned back slowly and fixed Lizzie with her open eye. ‘He's gone?'

‘Yes, he's gone.'

She groaned again. ‘Shit.' And then, ‘I love him.'