The Love of the Dead (8 page)

Could he believe? Was he even capable of it?

The fact was, she didn’t know. Not yet. And she wasn’t quite ready for a long stint in a room with bars and all the starchy food she could eat.

With what he told her, and what the head had said, it made sense. It also meant the killer wouldn’t kill her.

But then maybe
he
was the fool. Maybe he was the liar.

And she’d be a hell of a fool herself to trust the word of a killer, wouldn’t she?

“A gift,” she said.

Coleridge nodded. “A sick gift,” he said. “He’s marked you. I just don’t know what he’s marked you for.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be comforting me?”

He opened his mouth, like he was going to call her ma’am. Shifted his weight from one chunky leg to the other.

“Beth, this is serious. Honestly, I haven’t got a clue what we’re up against, but I got you into this. I can’t let you...”

“Get killed? Detective, I’m not your responsibility. I can look after myself. It’s what I do.”

“I’m sure you can. You ever faced up to a killer who cuts off people’s heads and sends them as gifts?” he asked, and his voice was suddenly hard. Not comforting at all.

“Don’t.”

“Okay, I won’t. But don’t bullshit me, Beth. I’m full of it. I smell it every day, even when I’ve had a really long fucking shower.”

She burst out laughing at that, and he smiled.

“You should get some sleep,” he said.

“You can sleep in my boy’s bedroom. The bed’s made up.”

“I’m not sure that’d be appropriate.”

“He’s...he’s not here. I sent him away. It’s all right.”

“Well...”

“That’s settled then.”

“I’d be happier on the couch.”

She waved at him, swaying slightly in her chair. She was pretty drunk. “You’re making headway, detective. Don’t fuck it up.”

“Yes, ma’am. Coleridge, though,” he said with a smile.

“Coleridge, then. Night.”

“Shout if you need anything. I’m a light sleeper.”

“Okay,” she said. She felt like something else was required. She hadn’t had a man in the house since Peter. She’d always kissed him goodnight. In bed. Before they rolled over, or after he rolled on top of her.

The thought made her uncomfortable. She got up and walked past Coleridge, being careful not to touch him. He backed up, like he sensed she was uncomfortable. His consideration somehow made things worse.

Flustered, not really knowing why, Beth went straight to her room without bothering to brush her teeth. She laid in bed and watched the ceiling spin around and around. She listened to Coleridge in the toilet. The heavy splashing in the toilet bowl of pent-up piss. The sound of a toothbrush being used hard. A burp, the tap running. He blew his nose, flushed the toilet.

Miles’ bed groaned as he settled into it.

She listened to the sea in the distance and the occasional grunt as he rolled, the unhappy springs of her son’s old bed.

He fell asleep. The windows rattled a little in their frames. She couldn’t tell if it was because the wind was picking up or because of his snoring.

She found she didn’t mind. It was soothing, but in a way she couldn’t figure out.

Beth drifted off to the sound of Coleridge sleeping, and she slept like a log. She woke up with a bastard of a hangover, but she woke up, and that was always a pretty good start to a day. It was a shame really, because things had a tendency to go downhill fast after that.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Saturday 15
^th
November

Miles sat on the beach, sifting sand through his hands. Beth watched him with a motherly smile and felt like a fraud, but it was nice to see him happy. She thought she knew why he was happy. But she couldn’t quite figure out what it was about Coleridge that had settled Miles. He hadn’t been like this for so long. Surly, yes, uncommunicative, which is somehow worse when the child in question can’t even speak, and harder work than a bloody teenager.

Now he was playing in the sand like he was a normal eight-year-old kid—aside from the ribs sticking through his T-shirt and the gaping wound in his neck.

“Morning,” said Coleridge, making her jump. For such a fat man, he made surprisingly little noise.

“Morning.”

“I’ve got to go.”

“One night stand?”

He gave her a sad smile. “I’ve got a lot to follow up. You know. Be a detective. Some days it don’t feel like it, but it’s what I do.”

“You coming back?”

“They’re sending a car over, but I’ll be back. You’re a key witness.”

“An asset?”

“Sorry. That’s not what I meant. I mean you’re the closest thing we’ve got to a witness, so from the point of view of my bosses, they’re not taking their eyes of you.”

“And you?”

“Me either. It ain’t the way it should be, but you’re all right. I don’t make a habit of leaving a job half-done. Shit. I’m not very eloquent in the morning. I mean I’m going to try my hardest. It ain’t your fault all of this happened. It’s mine. I’m sorry, too. But I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“Well, Coleridge, you got there in the end.”

He blushed, right down to his chins. It made her smile. Made him human. Sober, he wasn’t as bad as she thought.

“You know, I know it’s not your fault. The article.”

“Partly. I spoke to her. I didn’t give her nothing about you, but she got to you because of me.”

“It was her, but it doesn’t matter. She paid enough, I think.”

“You’re right, it don’t matter. And yes she did. She did.”

“Didn’t deserve that,” she said. Stupid thing to say, but she wasn’t so hot first thing in the morning, either.

“Not many people do.”

Like, maybe some do. She liked that. He wasn’t all black and white, but he didn’t lie, either. At least, it seemed so, but her days of being a good judge of character had been drowned a long time ago.

But then there was Miles. He was rapt. Looking at the policeman, his game with the sand forgotten.

There was something, alright.

It might be that she could trust him, but she was basing it on her shaky reasoning and a happy little dead boy. It wasn’t the soundest way to go about making decisions.

She heard a car pull up in front.

“That’ll be my relief.”

“I bet it is, too.”

“No. I meant it. You’re all right, Beth. Some people in this job...well. They ain’t the best. But you didn’t do anything to bring this on. I’ll do right by you, if I can. I promise you that.”

That nearly brought a tear to her eye, but she didn’t usually cry unless she was drunk, and she was stone-cold sober this morning.

“Thanks. I mean, seriously. Thank you.”

He nodded. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

She heard him close the front door. She lit a cigarette and watched the tide come in. Miles, down by the water, feet in the surf. Running.

She could almost hear him giggling, as the breakers chased up the sand and wet his feet. It might only be her imagination, but it was sweet. She let it be, and smoked, and smiled.

Part Three

The Hermit

Chapter Twenty-Four

Sunday 16
^th
November

Coleridge ate a cold bacon roll for breakfast while he watched the pathologist, Donald Freeman, work on Sam Wright’s corpse. He couldn’t help thinking she looked pretty good for a chain-smoking hack. He didn’t reckon she’d been one for exercising, but everything seemed to be in the right place.

Well, mostly.

The bacon was pretty gross. He ate the roll, though. He was upset, and being upset made him hungry.

“Hmm.”

“Hmm, what?”

“Have a look at this.”

Coleridge stepped up and craned over Sam’s body. Freeman pointed at something stuck in the torn windpipe, right the way up her throat and probably into her mouth.

“You mind not dribbling crumbs on the evidence, detective?”

“Sorry, doc.”

He put the remains of his bacon roll on the instrument tray.

“These are clean, right?” he asked.

Freeman shook his head and ignored Coleridge.

Some people, Coleridge thought, had no manners.

“See?”

“I see, but...”

“It’s a feather.”

“I know it’s a fucking feather. What’s it’s doing in her neck?”

Freeman shrugged and took a camera from beside the body. He snapped a couple of photos, spoke into a mike for a while, then clicked the recorder off.

“Let’s have a look shall we?”

“Knock yourself out,” said Coleridge, pushing the last of his breakfast into his mouth.

Freeman pulled out the feather with a pair of long tweezers. Held it up. “A feather.”

Coleridge sighed. “What kind of bird?”

“I’m a pathologist, in case you hadn’t noticed the body of the decapitated woman I’m working on. I am not an ornithologist.”

“Fair enough, doc. I’m a detective. I’ll do some detecting, I guess. I reckon that might be what we call in the trade ‘a clue.’”

“I would surmise as much myself.”

“Stick to doctoring, Freeman. You ain’t got the lingo.”

“Not street enough?”

“Too damn smart,” said Coleridge. “Thanks, doc. That it?”

“That’s it. Same as the others, excepting the presence of the head. I’ll email you the report.”

“Alright. I’m off to find a bird watcher.” Coleridge hunted around for the last of his bacon roll.

“In Norfolk? I shouldn’t think it’d be too hard,” said Freeman.

“No. I suppose not. But then, that’s what phones are for. See, doc? I’m learning.”

“Wouldn’t hurt you to do a bit of leg work.”

“Funny. Don’t let me keep you from your golf, or whatever it is you doctors do.” He scanned the room again. “You see where I put my roll?”

Freeman shook his head. Sighed.

“McDonald’s, one shouldn’t wonder.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Coleridge really didn’t have the patience to wander about the nature preserves looking for a nerd with a pair of binoculars.

He used the phonebook instead. He could have used the Internet, he supposed, but he didn’t like it. It didn’t feel right, finding a phone number by tapping on a keyboard. He didn’t know why, but it was probably the same reason he didn’t like GPS or dishwashers or TVs that could record themselves. Maybe missing things was a good thing, sometimes, because when you missed something you invariably found something else instead.

Either way, it felt right picking up the phonebook, feeling the weight in his hands. Solid. Something real.

He propped the phone between his shoulder and his ear and put the number in. A nerd picked up on the first ring.

He wasn’t the only asshole working on a Sunday.

“Hello? RSPB.”

“Who am I talking to?” asked Coleridge.

“Leary. Wayne. Can I help you?” He sounded defensive already. It wouldn’t be the first time. Coleridge was well aware that his phone manner needed a bit of work, but he had better things to do. Like catch a murderer.

“Mr. Leary? I’m Detective Coleridge. You want my ID?”

“What for?”

“I’ve got a feather, ah, involved in a case.”

“You’ve got a feather involved in a case?”

OK, Coleridge, he thought. Could have put that better.

“I’ve got a feather I need identifying.”

“You want to give me ID for identifying a bird feather?”

Fucking smartass.

“You want my ID or not?”

“I don’t think the Freedom of Information act covers that.”

“Okay,” he said with a sigh. “I’m glad we cleared that up.”

“You have the feather with you?”

“Of course.”

“Can you let me see it?”

“Ah...”

He heard the nerd sniffing over the phone. It sounded pretty patronizing. Warranted, probably. Coleridge hadn’t thought it through.

“You want to email me a picture?” said Leary. Like he was talking to a child.

He might as well have been. Coleridge looked at the picture on his desk. Looked at the computer.

“Sure. Hold on.”

He pressed the hold button on the phone. “Mandy!”

“What? I’m in the middle of...”

“Come on. I need your expertise.”

Mandy huffed and put down whatever it was she was working on. Coleridge smiled sweetly at her when she stood over him.

“Stick that in there, would you?” he said, showing her the picture, gesturing at the computer.

“What are you talking about?”

“Some nerd wants me to email him that picture. Just do whatever it is you do, eh?”

“Seriously, Coleridge. You don’t know how to scan a picture?”

“Mandy,” he said, “I barely know how to turn the fucking thing on. Come on, the guy’s waiting.”

She shook her head and snatched the photo from him. Made it look like she was pissed off, but she was all right. She was one of the few people in the office he genuinely liked. Probably because she wasn’t a copper.

She came back after a couple of minutes and clicked a few times at his computer. The picture came up.

Coleridge whistled. “You’re a genius. Always saying so, ain’t I?”

“Coleridge, you’ve never paid anyone a compliment in your life.”

“Well, I’m doing it now.” He smiled again. She shook her head again. Like she’d had enough of him, but he knew she liked him really. He bought her a Christmas present every year. Well, for her kid. She probably chucked it. He didn’t have the faintest idea what kids liked.

“Right,” he said. “Nearly there.”

“What now?”

“Send it over to him.”

“Who?”

“The guy on the phone.”

“What’s his email address?”

“How the hell should I know?”

She sucked her teeth and looked at him.

“What?”

“You could ask him.”

“Yeah. Okay. Hold on.”

He picked up the phone again. “Leary? You still there?”

“Yes, I’m still here.” He didn’t sound too happy about it.

“What’s your email?”