Post Mortem (8 page)

The girl's face was spattered with dried blood, which ran down her neck. They swabbed her skin. It was chilled from the mortuary fridge, and stiff. The T-shirt, with its cat's face, was soaked in blood at the back and was still damp. The fabric peeled away from the cold skin as if it were a kind of thinly rolled sour pastry. Slowly they stripped the girl to nakedness, packaging the exhibits and making notes as they went. Farah's skinny jeans were cut away, the medical scissors drawn carefully to not damage her. Steve searched the pockets. A Zip card. In the other pocket, a torn piece of spiral-leaf notepaper. The paper was stained with blood, but the markings of black biro handwriting could just be made out: a telephone number. He made a note in the exhibit book and bagged the scrap of paper.

Finally Farah lay naked on the table. Collins felt an urge to shield the girl from her gaze, which reduced the body to mere evidence.
Farah's skin had the blue-grey pallor of death. Blood had pooled along her back. Still she remained an effigy of womanhood just beginning. On the left of her flat stomach, just above the crest of her pelvis, was a small dark mole.

Steve lifted her left hand and rotated the wrist. On the inside of the forearm were five tiny parallel silver scars. Next to them, three fresh cuts.

Collins and Steve smoked in silence outside the morgue.

Collins' doctor had recently shown her a clear plastic cube containing a viscous brown liquid that slid about like poisonous treacle. ‘That's how much tar you are putting in your lungs every month,' the doctor had said. There had been photographs on the wall of the doctor's children. Collins had no children to consider, and none of the deaths she had seen had much to recommend them. Cancer was probably as good as anything, she had concluded.

Finally Steve remembered something funny one of the uniformed officers had done and they both laughed. Collins wiped a tear from her eye. Anyone watching them would have thought them indifferent to the systematic undoing of the teenage body they had just witnessed.

14

L
izzie zipped her jacket and walked along the seafront. Fog had fallen across the town and the view out to sea was a sheet of grey. It was not possible to make out where the water ended and the sky began. The pebbles were blue and grey and brown. The tide had swept the stones across the tarmac path that lay beneath the sea wall. Down the beach, Lizzie noticed, like a sleeping puppy, a fish balanced on one of the rocks. She walked towards it. The rock on which it lay was smoothed and sculpted by the tide, hollowed out into little pools empty of life. The fish was silvery grey, with brown spots along its spine. It seemed untroubled, as if merely resting on the stone. Out of its right side a red substance bloomed into the water like coral. Lizzie made herself look over and saw where the eye had been pecked out, an unflinching hole. She imagined the fish flung out of its element on to the sudden rock. Had death been instant? She pushed away the thoughts that came unbidden like rising nausea: the bodies falling, the white scene tents she had glimpsed as they took her to the ambulance, like euphemisms concealing the shattered bodies of Hadley and Farah. And she thought of the ambulance, of Shaw moving around, looking after her, arranging for her to go home. She reached for him, as if to know him.

After the arrest inquiries at Mehenni's house, she remembered, Shaw had sent a message asking to speak with her before she went off duty. On the stairs up to his office she had heard someone requesting
him, and she had paused on the stone treads and cocked her head towards the radio on her stab vest to listen. She remembered the busy transmissions of a live firearms incident, the updates from the officers on scene, Control asking the inspector to agree the rendezvous point. Not wanting to disturb, she had not knocked at the door of the office but had instead slipped quietly inside. He had been standing, leaning over his computer screen.

‘Yes,' he said to his radio, ‘I'm reading it right now.'

She took the opportunity to observe him. His capable hands with clean moon nails, the firm jawline, a streak of grey in his hair. His collar was open, revealing the warm skin of his neck.

‘In the forecourt of the BP, then.'

Aware perhaps that he was keeping her waiting, he looked up and she felt suddenly self-conscious, as if caught in the act of looking at him. She gestured that perhaps she should go and come back another time, but he smiled and shook his head. He gestured towards the chair. She sat and waited. His stab vest was sprawled out on the table and his radio chattered with the continuing call. On the ring finger of his left hand was a gold band: she knew he had a young daughter.

He stood up and logged off his computer. He smiled at her again.

‘Sir, you're busy. I'll come back later.'

‘No need, I'll be quick.'

He stepped out from behind the desk. She stood up and handed him his stab vest. He started to pull it on. ‘You made unsuccessful arrest inquiries earlier today?'

‘Yes, sir. Younes Mehenni. Criminal damage. He made off.'

He slotted his radio into the plastic grip on his stab vest. ‘Bit of a drama, was it?'

‘Sir—'

He waved his hand. ‘No, don't worry, Lizzie. It's fine. Hadley said you wrote it up. Anyway, a couple of things. I had
Mehenni's solicitor at the front desk earlier on. There's been a complaint.'

‘Oh. OK. What was it about?'

‘Walk with me.'

Shaw was zipping his stab vest as he walked quickly out of the office and down the stairs. She kept pace with him.

‘Were you there when Hadley was talking to the girl?' he asked.

‘What, the daughter? Farah? I was there for most of it. There was a bit when I was in the garden on my own.'

‘OK. Have you covered what was said in your notes?'

‘Well, I didn't hear it all.'

A pause

‘Anything else, sir?'

They were already at the door to the yard.

‘No, that's it. A shame. I'd hoped to bosh it. The family's alleging you entered the property unlawfully and that Hadley said something racist to the girl. Apparently she was very upset and they say that's why she acted the way she did. Doesn't make much sense to me. Have a think about it, see if you can, um, remember exactly what happened. I've got a lot of confidence in you. I'm sure you can shed some useful light on it all.'

She had almost lost the thread of what was being said. Her thoughts were whizzing, struggling to remember. What exactly
had
happened? There had been a period, she remembered, when she and Hadley had been separated – she had been in the garden and talking on the phone, Hadley had been in the corridor with Farah. Or was that later? In any case, what had happened subsequently – when they had chased the father – had seemed much more important. That had been the focus of her statement. Was there perhaps, she wondered, an expectation here? She wanted to ask the inspector exactly what he meant – if she couldn't remember it, had heard nothing, was that going to be a problem? But he had to go to the
firearms incident. They couldn't talk. She'd look at her statement, check what she had written.

Shaw had paused with his hand on the open door of the car. He met her eyes and smiled, and Lizzie felt for a moment ridiculously happy. In spite of the wedding ring, she couldn't help wondering. She'd heard his family lived somewhere near the south coast: he kept a flat for himself in London for when he was on duty.

‘Don't worry,' he said. ‘Storm in a teacup. You want to come to this call?'

There was a moment's regret: it would, at the very least, have been a pleasure to sit next to him in the response car.

‘No, sir, I can't. I've got a shoplifter to deal with.'

‘Oh, good. Well done, you have been busy. Never mind. Another time.'

She had stood, she remembered, and watched as his car pulled out of the yard with its blue lights on.

15

C
ollins' phone started ringing. She glanced down to where it sat in the plastic moulding by the handbrake and saw the name across the screen.
DCI Baillie
. She pulled over.

‘Boss.'

‘Any news for me?'

‘We've released the body of the girl to the family.'

‘Good. Well done.'

A pause.

‘Did you get anything from the autopsy?'

‘Looks like she self-harmed. Nothing dramatic. Just a few scars on her left arm and some recent cuts.'

‘Makes sense. Anything else?

‘A phone number. Could be nothing. We don't know whose it is yet.'

‘OK. What about PC Griffiths? Any news on her?'

‘Nothing new since we last spoke, sir.'

There was a pause. Baillie said, ‘Well, I'll leave you to get on. Call if you've got anything new for me.'

‘Yes, sir.'

Collins flashed her warrant card at the gate. She drove past a group of new recruits marching quickly towards the main building, their breath frosting in the morning air.

Training school: she still recoiled at the memory of it. In the dawning sunlight she had stared out across the playing fields and imagined herself elsewhere. A young ex-military man, Ian, had been put in charge of them. He was a recruit like the others, but because of his two years in the army, he knew how to march. Every morning he had shouted at her. ‘Retard!' he called after her. ‘Fuck-ing Christ!' The ordeal had not been the abuse, as some would think, but rather the uniquely stupid experience of being insulted while being made to stand to attention. She had passed out top of her class in tests and somewhere near the bottom in terms of popularity. She didn't like marching, she was bored by drunkenness and she wouldn't pretend to be like them. As soon as she could, she had stopped wearing the uniform. Nothing would ever convince her to put it on again. She would live and die in investigation even if it meant she never achieved any rank beyond sergeant.

She found her way along the corridor and knocked on the trainers' door. Even the waiting, she remembered bitterly, had been part of the experience. Trainee officers were not to put their hands in their pockets, not to lean on the wall. Today she opened the door without waiting for a response to her knock and stepped into the room. Three men in uniform were crowded together round a desk, staring at a computer screen. She wondered what could be so interesting. One of them clicked on the mouse. The others looked up, ready to deliver a bollocking.

She took another step forward and said, ‘DS Collins.'

One of the men – short and somewhat fat, with the blotched skin of someone who ate too much red meat – came over to her. He did not offer his hand.

‘Sergeant Hill,' he said. ‘Alan.'

The tips of his shoes shone with a terrifying patina. His shirt was starched brilliant white. She guessed he must be ex-army,
one of those Para types who had spent his whole police service in uniform and for whom it was a badge of honour to despise CID. He regarded her evenly – he had probably already identified her as a possible troublemaker. ‘Sarah, isn't it?'

‘That's right. Can we talk in private?'

The other two moved away from the desk and exited, stuffing their hands into their pockets. She noticed one of them catching the eye of the sergeant as he left. The door shut behind them.

‘Thanks for the email,' Hill said. ‘I was her training sergeant. She's not in any trouble, is she?' Collins made no reply, happy for him to lead the conversation. ‘I saw it on the news,' he continued, somehow suggesting by this statement that he already knew as much about the incident as she did. ‘Terrible. A few of the guys here knew Hadley. They say he was a decent cop.'

He was only marking out his territory – no different from a dog pissing on a post. Nevertheless, fifteen years in the job and Collins still struggled to hide her feelings from such men.

‘Have you any idea yet exactly what happened?' he asked.

‘We're still investigating.'

He looked at her and nodded as though he had anticipated this response. There was a pause. Then he said, ‘I don't know how I can help you really.'

‘I'm grateful for your time, Alan. I appreciate you're busy. I won't be long. I wondered, did Lizzie have any special friends? A boyfriend, perhaps?'

‘Interesting question. Can't you ask her yourself?'

She cursed herself for not sending Steve. He would be sitting with one cheek perched on the desk by now, dishonestly hinting that he too had served a couple of years in the army and agreeing that the job wasn't what it used to be.

‘Alan, I'd really appreciate you helping me out with this.'

‘I'll get the class list.'

She watched as he pulled up the list on his terminal. He printed it out and started to underline some of the names. ‘This was her class. She was friends with her, yes . . .'

He handed the sheet over. Collins was aware that he was studying her as she scanned it. ‘Thanks for that.' She put the paper in her bag and crossed her arms over her chest. She looked at the sergeant. Well, no harm in trying.

‘Can you tell me anything more about her? I won't be taping this or recording it in any way. It's not hard evidence. I just want to get a sense of her. I'm sure you'll understand that. She was the only other adult on the roof when they fell and I haven't spoken to her yet.'

‘You haven't spoken to her yet?'

‘That's right.'

He paused.

‘Missing, is she?'

Collins didn't answer. Hill smiled, pleased with himself.

‘That must be a right hot potato.'

Collins nodded.

The piece of inside information did the trick. Sergeant Hill became much more forthcoming. He warmed to his theme. Idealistic: that was how he described Lizzie Griffiths. He gave an example. The group had spent the afternoon learning how to fill in a report. The afternoon had dragged on in the hot classroom. The sun had poured through the windows. The metal blinds were pulled but many did not shut properly: their slats were bent out of shape. The recruits moved their desks out of the blazing sunlight and took off their cravats and ties. They struggled over the horrid little forms: the small boxes that must all be filled. The lines that must be drawn with a ruler. The liturgy of paperwork. The sheer mindlessness of it, the detail. One of the recruits had made a joke. It was a bit off, no doubt about that, but at the same time . . . He broke off.