The Reviver (6 page)

Nikki Wood,
the girl’s name. Minor head trauma. ‘Shit. She was unlucky to die from this. So why not straightforward?’

‘There’s some suspicion about the father.’

Jonah drew in a breath.

‘Bob Crenner’s the detective on it,’ Never said. ‘Good cop, I’ve worked with him before. The begging email’s from him. If we can’t send anyone immediately, North East will do it in-house the day after tomorrow.’

The unpredictable ebb and flow of revival work sometimes meant that on-site revivals were impossible to staff; all the FRS offices had revival suites, rooms where revivals could be done in-house in more controlled surroundings, with cold rooms to keep the body in good condition and observation areas for interested parties. It all took more time, of course, and the revival chances took a hit, but often there was no other option.

‘And Sam’s sending Jason?’

‘Sam’s not in until the afternoon,’ said Never. ‘So it’s Hugo’s call and he’s not in yet either. I’m sure he’ll send Jason. The only … Ah.’ He stopped, recognizing Jonah’s tone. ‘The only options are Jason and you. And he won’t send you.’

Jonah glanced around the office, a gentle bustle of morning coffee and gossip. His voice was low. Conspiratorial. ‘Shepperton in yet?’

‘No.’ Never frowned. ‘But any minute.’ A brief pause, and the light dawned in Never’s eyes. ‘Uh uh,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘No way.’

Jonah smiled. ‘With Sam and Hugo out of the office, the decision’s left with the senior reviver and senior technician, right? Me and you.’

‘I’ve been told to keep you away from anything tricky.’

‘It’s not severe trauma. Nothing to suggest it’ll be a difficult revival.’

‘Apart from the fact that it’s a
nine-year-old girl?
’

‘We’re talking about a family who’ve lost a child, a child who may have been killed by her father. A father under suspicion who may be innocent. You want to send Shepperton into that?’

While Never didn’t have quite as strong an opinion as Jonah about their colleague, he had been the technician for Shepperton many times. He knew that subtlety and compassion were not the reviver’s strong points. The thought of Shepperton handling this case made him uneasy.

Torn, he took a swig of coffee and looked Jonah in the eye. ‘Fuck it,’ he said. ‘You win.’

*   *   *

They took one of the six FRS cars, Never driving. Two hours later, they arrived at the scene, a cosy street of semi-detached homes, the road outside swamped by vehicles and a large white forensic tent. They’d taken an angry call from Hugo Adler by then, but Jonah had talked him round.

It was ten-forty in the morning and the heat was already oppressive, the sunlight harsh.

A crowd of onlookers was being held at bay three houses back on both sides by metal barriers and tape, guarded by a handful of young uniformed cops.

Jonah observed the people watching with fear and intrigue as paper-suited investigators searched the front garden, and one by one, turning to see the dark green car with ‘FRS’ in discreet white lettering on the doors. A ripple of interest spread through the crowd, and more and more eyes were directed his way. They know, thought Jonah. They know what I am.

He met some of those eyes, and hated the look they gave him now, awe and fear combined. That look had changed little through the years. Public perception of forensic revivers had always been confused – intrigue and aversion battling it out with pragmatism – but up close the deep unease returned. He often thought it had been almost miraculous, how widely revival had been accepted, given the way people felt when it was right in front of them. He supposed it was just the same in other parts of life. People were fine with some things as long as they didn’t
encounter
them.

He looked down to avoid the stares, but in his head he heard the words spoken by the corpse of Alice Decker, sudden and close: ‘
We see you.
’

His left hand gripped the side of his seat and squeezed. He tried to slow his breathing, feeling the rising panic in his chest that always preceded his work. It had hit early, brought on by the memory of those hissed words, and it was stronger than usual. He could hear the murmuring of the onlookers grow louder.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing, trying to shut out the noise, but it grew relentlessly, an overwhelming drone pounding at his head. Again he heard the words, buried in the din: ‘
We see you.
’ He
knew
that if he opened his eyes and looked, Alice Decker would be there outside the window, an inch from his face, grinning at him with bloody teeth – torn from his nightmares and thrust into the real world.

A hand gripped his shoulder. Startled, he looked up to see Never’s concerned face. He realized that the car had stopped.

‘You OK?’ asked Never.

‘I don’t like crowds,’ he said. ‘Let’s get inside.’

5

As they approached the house, Detective Bob Crenner came out of the side flap of the forensic tent; paper-suited, hand up in greeting, the sun glinting off his reddening bald patch. He was in his mid-forties and overweight, with a smile in his eyes that Jonah thought looked genuine – not every cop was keen to see the FRS arrive, even when they needed them. Like any snapshot of the population, there were even those with Afterlifer sympathies, especially since that organization had softened their message and their methods. Many cops saw revival as a necessary evil, and it wasn’t unusual for their unease and dislike to be out in the open.

‘Mr Geary,’ Crenner said brightly. ‘And Jonah. We’re nearly ready for you. Like the office?’ He gestured at the tent.

‘Office?’ said Never. ‘We were wondering if the body had ended up outside the house.’

‘No. The CSI unit put it up for some shade. They’ve been having trouble with their equipment sitting in hot vans. It’s one of the only cool places in the vicinity, so make the most of it.’

Jonah peeked through the entrance flap. Equipment boxes were stacked by the back wall. There were a dozen people inside, and like Bob Crenner, almost everyone was in a paper suit. He nodded at Crenner. ‘You must be cooking in that.’

‘Stripped bare underneath.’

‘You went commando?’ Never grinned.

‘Top half only,’ said Crenner with a smirk. He led them in, and the cool shade was welcome. ‘My partner as of six months ago, Ray Johnson,’ he said, pointing to a young black man in the far corner. ‘He’s supervising the set-up. Ray!’ he called.

Detective Ray Johnson was speaking to a young woman who was one of the few not wearing protective clothing – also not uniformed, Jonah assumed she was either another detective or with forensics. When Crenner called, Johnson wrapped up the conversation and headed over. The young woman glanced at Jonah and he looked away quickly, then back. She was smiling at him and nodded in greeting. Jonah felt his cheeks redden as she turned and walked out the far side of the tent.

Johnson reached out his hand to Never. ‘Detective Ray Johnson. It’s Never Geary, right? You’re the revival technician?’

‘Reputation precedes me, huh?’ said Never, shaking Johnson’s hand.

‘I’ve seen you on another case, but I was in uniform then. This is only the second revival I’ve been involved in since I moved up in the world.’ As he turned to Jonah, his hand was still outstretched ready to shake, but as he spoke he jerked his hand back. ‘And you’re the reviver?’

Neither Johnson nor Jonah was wearing gloves, a fact that presumably Johnson had only just noticed. Jonah wondered if the detective had made the mistake of shaking a reviver’s bare hand in his last case. Not a mistake people tended to make twice. ‘Jonah Miller,’ he replied, with a smile.

‘Fill them in on the case, Ray,’ said Crenner. ‘I think Fennell’s forensics people will be done in the living room in ten minutes or so, and then it’s all yours.’

Johnson took them to a corner, where they sat in green plastic chairs that looked suspiciously like garden furniture, presumably sourced from one of the neighbours. He leaned forward, speaking with a low voice.

‘Victim is a nine-year-old girl, name of Nikki Wood. Nine-one-one call was taken at 3.50 a.m. She had no life signs when the paramedics arrived. They spent forty-five minutes trying to resuscitate her where she lay, but she was pronounced dead at the scene at five. Medical examiner’s prelim suggests the attack would have been tens of minutes before she died, maybe up to an hour. Head wound is the apparent cause, but we haven’t identified a weapon yet. No other injuries. The father says he found her after hearing a noise from downstairs. He
claims
there was an intruder.’

Jonah raised an eyebrow towards Never but said nothing. Johnson continued: ‘Nikki had a known problem with sleepwalking; her father suggests she surprised a burglar, who struck out.’

‘And you suspect the father,’ said Jonah.

‘Bob says not, but … Stu Fennell, the forensics lead, reckons things don’t add up. He described it as “staged”, and I can see what he means. There are signs of a scuffle – a coffee table was overturned, magazines scattered, but they’re a little precise, a little arranged. Plus the guy seems too calm for someone whose daughter was murdered this morning. His statement was … well,
rehearsed,
maybe. Too clear. For me. Like I said, Bob disagrees.’

‘Was anything stolen?’ asked Never.

‘Mrs Wood had several items of jewellery taken, family heirlooms. Overall about twenty grand.’

Hearing the figure, Never whistled. ‘Strong motive for theft.’

‘The items were kept in a box under a sideboard shelf. Anyone who knew about it could have just taken it and left, but if someone wanted to make it look like a burglar got lucky, they needed to mess the place up. Now if they did that, admittedly there’d be a risk of the mess looking the way it did. Sure, maybe someone knew about it. That’s what the father’s been saying. There was a broken pane of glass in the front door. But there’s a problem…’ He leaned closer. Jonah and Never found themselves leaning closer too. ‘The glass was broken from the inside. So maybe it was no burglary. Something gets out of hand, father to daughter. He panics. Theft is the only story he can think of. If so, we’ll find the jewellery dumped a street or two away. Or even hidden in the house.’

‘But Bob Crenner doesn’t agree?’ said Never.

‘No. He thinks the father’s telling the truth.’

‘Why do you think he might have killed her?’ asked Jonah, but he had a feeling he knew where Johnson was headed.

‘Maybe it was a pure accident and he’s covering it up, but we haven’t just pulled this out of thin air. There’s a history. Two years ago Nikki ended up in the ER with a broken arm, blamed on falling down while sleepwalking. Last year she was back in the ER with two broken fingers, again blamed on sleepwalking. Social Services got involved; nothing came of it, but they were wondering about physical abuse, possibly sexual. And if I had to put money on it, that’s what I’d go with.’ Johnson looked across the tent. A cop had ducked through the door flap carrying a cardboard tray loaded with paper cups and cans. ‘Good, the drink runner’s back. Can I get you one?’

Jonah, despite the heat, wanted coffee, while Never opted for Coke. Ray Johnson went to fetch them.

‘I don’t like the sound of this,’ said Jonah, when Johnson was out of earshot. ‘If they want to throw some abuse questions at the girl, we lose either way.’ A successful revival could be scuppered by a reluctant subject; getting the subject back, and past the disorientation – getting them to talk at all – was one thing. Getting a child to speak about something as painful as abuse was extremely difficult, and risked stubborn silence.

And if there was nothing in the allegation, even bringing the topic up would alienate the subject.

Jonah continued: ‘If we found out Johnson is right, she’d be unlikely to talk about it explicitly. It’d be ambiguous.’ Ambiguous, and contentious; with the subject avoiding explicit confirmation, the opinion of the reviver would be all that supported the claim in court. He didn’t relish the prospect.

‘Bob Crenner’s a smart man,’ said Never, shrugging. ‘He’ll not get you to ask anything clumsy. And if he’s not keen on the theory, you might not even have to touch it.’

Ray Johnson came back with the drinks, handed them out, and tilted his head back to the small crowd that had descended on the drink runner.

‘See the looker with the bracelets?’ he said. It was the woman he had been speaking to when they’d first arrived. ‘That’s Nala George. She’s the family liaison, victim support.’ Jonah hadn’t noticed the bracelets before, but her right wrist was overrun with them. He looked at her more carefully now that she wasn’t aware of him; not uniformed, the norm for victim support these days, but wearing off-white jeans and a white short-sleeved shirt against black skin. He was uncertain if her features were more Caribbean or Polynesian, but he supposed it didn’t matter either way. She was gorgeous, she’d smiled at him, and she would almost certainly find his touch repellent.

‘She’s pissed that we’re thinking bad thoughts,’ said Johnson.

‘She got wind of it?’ said Never.

‘Yeah … I asked her how she thought the father was coping. She’s sharp. She saw right through me.’

Jonah found himself watching Nala George with longing and sorrow. When she turned and saw him watching, she smiled and nodded at him, walking back outside. Jonah snapped his head round. ‘We give the family the benefit of the doubt,’ he said. ‘If we play it carefully, we can find out without any risks.’

‘Ten dollars says I’m right.’

Jonah glared at the policeman. ‘This isn’t a fucking game.’

Ray Johnson’s eyes widened. ‘OK, sorry…’ He turned to Never. ‘I’ll go and see if they’ve cleared out of the room yet. Then like your friend says, we can find out.’

‘Please try not to piss off people we work with,’ Never said with a smile as Johnson hurried outside.

Jonah shook his head. ‘The hell with him. All they have to do is keep an open mind for a while; instead, they’re risking the father getting wind of their little theory.’

‘I’m on your side,’ said Never. He tried to change the subject. ‘Nala George is cute, huh?’