Whispers of the Dead (13 page)

It was growing dark as I pulled on to the quiet, tree-lined road where
Tom and Mary lived. I would have worked late again if not for the
dinner invitation, and after the day's interruptions I'd felt frustrated
at having to break off. But not for long; as soon as I stepped out of
the morgue into the sunny evening, I felt the iron fingers of tension
release their hold on the back of my neck. I'd not really been aware
of them until then, but Irving's disappearance, coming after what had
happened to Kyle the day before, had shaken me more than I'd
thought. Now the prospect of a few drinks and food with friends
seemed like the perfect tonic.
The Liebermans' home was a lovely timber-framed house, white
painted and set well back from the road. It didn't seem to have
changed from the first time I'd seen it, except for the majestic old oak
that dominated the front lawn. On my last visit it had been in its
prime; now it was in decline, and half of the sweeping branches were
dead and bare.
Mary greeted me at the door, standing on tiptoe to kiss my cheek.
'David! Good of you to come.'
She had aged better than her husband. Her sandy hair had paled
but retained its natural colour, and though her face was lined it still
shone with health. Not many women in their sixties can wear jeans
and get away with it, but Mary was one of them.
'Thank you, how lovely,' she said, taking the bottle of wine I'd
brought. 'Come on through to the den. Sam and Paul aren't here yet,
and Tom's on the phone with Robert.'
Robert was their only son. He worked in insurance and lived in
New York. I'd never met him and Tom didn't talk about him much,
but I had the impression that it wasn't an easy relationship.
'You're looking well,' Mary told me, leading me down the hall.
'Much better than you did last week.'
I'd had dinner with them on my first night. It already seemed a
long time ago. 'Must be the sunshine,' I said.
'Well, whatever it is, it agrees with you.'
She opened the door into the den. It was actually an old
conservatory, filled with healthy plants and cushioned rattan chairs.
She settled me down in one with a beer, and then excused herself
while she saw to dinner.
The panelled conservatory windows looked out over the back
garden. I could just make out the tall shapes of trees in the darkness,
outlined against the yellow lights of the next house. It was a nice
neighbourhood. Tom had told me once that he and Mary had almost
bankrupted themselves to buy the semi-derelict property back in the
seventies, and never once regretted it.
I sipped the cold beer, feeling a little more tension slip away.
Putting my head back, I thought about what had happened. It had
been another broken day, with first the news about Irving and then
Gardner and Jacobsen's visit taking me away from actual work.
Another distraction had come late that afternoon, with the arrival of
the amino and volatile fatty acids analysis of Terry Loomis's tissue
samples. Tom had come into the autopsy suite where I'd been
processing the casket victim's remains.
'Well, we were wrong,' he'd declared without preamble.
'According to my calculations the time since death confirms the
cabin manager's story. Loomis had only been dead for five days, not
nearer seven like we thought. Here, see what you think.'
He handed me a sheet of figures. A quick look told me he was
right, but Tom didn't make mistakes about things like that.
'Looks fine to me,' I said, returning them. 'But I still can't see how
it can be.'
The neither.' He frowned down at the calculations as though
offended by them. 'Even allowing for the heater being left on, I've
never seen a body decompose to that extent after five days. There
were pupating larvae on it, for God's sake!'
Blowfly larvae took six or seven days to pupate. Even if both Tom
and I had been out in our time since death estimate, they shouldn't
have reached that stage of their development for another day at
least.
'Only one way they could have got there,' I said.
Tom smiled. 'You've been thinking it through as well. Go on.'
'Someone must have deliberately seeded the corpse with maggots.'
It was the only thing that explained the condition of Terry Loomis's
body. Fully grown larvae would have been able to get to work
straight away, with no time lost waiting for the eggs to hatch. 'It
wouldn't accelerate things by much, perhaps twelve to twenty-four
hours at most. Still, with all the open wounds on the body it'd
probably be enough.'
He nodded. 'Especially with the heater left on to raise the
temperature. And there were way too many larvae on the body given
that the cabin's doors and windows were all closed. Somebody
obviously decided to give nature a boost. Clever, but it's hard to see

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what they hoped to gain, apart from muddying the water for a day
or two.'
I'd been thinking about that as well. 'Perhaps that was enough.
Remember what Diane Jacobsen said? Whoever's behind this is trying
to prove something. Perhaps this was just another chance to show
how clever he is.'
'Could be.' Tom gave me a thoughtful smile. 'Makes you wonder
how he knows so much about it, though, doesn't it?' he said.
It had been a troubling thought.
I was still mulling that over when Tom came into the conservatory.
He was freshly shaved and changed, with the deceptively healthy
ruddiness that comes from a hot shower.
'Sorry about that. Our monthly duty call,' he said. The bitterness
in his voice surprised me. He smiled, as though to acknowledge it,
and lowered himself into a chair with a sigh.'Has Mary fixed you up
with a drink?'
I held up the beer. 'Yes, thanks.'

He nodded, but he still seemed distracted.
'Everything all right?' I asked.
'Sure.' He plucked irritably at the chair arm. 'It's just Robert. He
was supposed to be visiting in a couple of weeks. Now it appears he
won't have the time. I don't mind for myself so much, but Mary was
looking forward to seeing him, and now . . . Ah, well. That's kids for
you.'
The attempt to sound breezy faltered as he remembered my own
circumstances. It was an innocent enough slip, but he looked relieved
when the doorbell announced the arrival of Sam and Paul.
'Sorry we're late,' Paul said, as Mary ushered them into the
conservatory. 'Got a flat tyre on my way home, and it took me ages
to clean the damn oil ofFmy hands.'
'You're here now. Samantha, you look positively radiant,' Tom
said, going to kiss her. 'How are you?'
Sam lowered herself into a high-backed chair, made awkward by
her swollen belly.With her blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, she
looked fresh-faced and healthy. 'Impatient. If Junior doesn't hurry
himself up we're going to have words before much longer.'
Tom laughed. 'You'll be doing the school run before you know it.'
His mood had lightened with their arrival, and by the time we sat
down for dinner the atmosphere was easy and relaxed. Dinner was
plain and unfussy -- baked salmon with jacket potatoes and salad -- but Mary was a good enough cook to make it seem special. As she
served dessert, a hot peach pie with melting ice cream, Sam leaned
across to me.
'How're you? You don't seem so tightly wound as last time I saw
you,' she said, her voice low enough not to be overheard.
That had been in the restaurant where I thought I'd smelled Grace
Strachan's perfume. It seemed like weeks ago, although it was only a
few days. But a lot had happened since then.
'No, I don't suppose I am.' I smiled. 'I'm feeling pretty good, to be
honest.'
She studied me for a moment or two. 'Yes, you look it.' Giving my
arm a squeeze, she turned back to the main conversation.
After the meal, Mary and Sam disappeared into the kitchen to
make coffee, rejecting our offers of help. 'You know as well as I do
that you want to talk shop, and Sam and I have better things to
discuss.'
'Anyone want to lay odds on it being babies?' Tom said after
they'd gone out. He rubbed his hands. 'Well, I for one am going to
have a bourbon. Care to join me? I have a bottle of Blanton's I need
an excuse to open.'
'Just a small one,' Paul said.
'David? Or there's Scotch if you'd rather?'
'Bourbon's fine, thanks.'
Tom busied himself at a cabinet, taking out glasses and a distinctive
bottle with a miniature horse and jockey perched on top. 'There's
ice, but if I go into the kitchen Mary's going to read the riot act
to me for drinking. And I'll take your disapproval as read, David.'
I hadn't been going to say anything. Sometimes abstinence can do
more harm than good. Tom handed us each a glass, then raised his
own.
'Your health, gentlemen.'
The bourbon was smooth with an aftertaste of burnt caramel. We
sipped it, savouring it in silence. Tom cleared his throat.
'While you're both here there's something I wanted to tell you. It
doesn't really concern you, David, but you might as well hear it as
well.'
Paul and I glanced at each other. Tom stared pensively into his
bourbon. 'You both know I was planning to bring my retirement
forward to the end of summer. Well, I've decided not to wait that
long.'
Paul set down his glass.'You're joking.'
'It's time,'Tom said simply. 'I'm sorry to spring it on you like this,
but . . . Well, it's no secret my health hasn't been good lately. And I
have to think of what's fair to Mary. I thought the end of next month
would be a good time. That's only a few weeks early, and it isn't as if
the center will grind to a halt without me. I've got a feeling the next
director should be a good one.'
That was aimed at Paul, but he didn't seem to notice. 'Have you
told anyone else?'
'Only Mary. There's a faculty meeting next week. I thought I'd
announce it then. But I wanted you to know first.'
Paul still looked stunned. 'Jesus, Tom. I don't know what to say.'
'How about "Happy retirement"?'Tom gave a smile. 'It isn't the
end of the world. I'll still do some consultancy work, I dare say. Hell,
I might even take up golf. So come on, no long faces. Let's have
another toast.'
He reached for the bottle of Blanton's and topped up our drinks.
There was a lump in my throat but I knew Tom didn't want us to be
maudlin. I raised my glass.
'To fresh starts.'
He chinked his glass against mine. 'I'll drink to that.'
His announcement gave a bittersweet flavour to the rest of the
evening. Mary beamed when she and Sam returned, but her eyes
glittered with tears. Sam didn't try to hide hers, hugging Tom so hard
he had to stoop over her pregnant stomach.
'Good for you,' she'd declared, wiping her eyes.
Tom himself had smiled broadly, and talked out his and Mary's
plans, squeezing his wife's hand as he did so. But underlying it all was
a sadness that no amount of celebration could disguise. This wasn't
just a job Tom was retiring from.
It was the end of an era.
I was more glad than ever that I'd taken up his offer to help him
on the investigation. He'd said it would be our last chance to work
together, but I'd had no idea it was going to be the last time for him
as well. I wondered if even he had, then.
As I drove back to my hotel just after midnight, I berated myself
for not appreciating the opportunity I'd been given. Resolving to put
any remaining doubts behind me, I told myself to make the most of
working with Tom while it lasted. Another day or two and it would
be all over.
At least, that's what I thought. I should have known better.
The next day they found another body.

The images form slowly, emerging like ghosts on the blank sheet of paper. The
lamp casts a blood-red glow in the small chamber as you wait for the right
moment, then lift the contact sheet from the tray of developing fluid and dip
it into the stop bath before placing it in the fixer.
There. Perfect. Although you're not really aware of it, you whistle softly to
yourself a breathy, almost silent exhalation that holds no particular tune.
Cramped as it is, you love being in the darkroom. It puts you in mind of a
monk's cell: peaceful and meditative, a self-contained world in itself. Bathed
in the room's transforming, carmine light, you feel cut off from everything, able

I
I
to focus on coaxing to life the images implanted into the glossy photographic
sheets.
Which is as it should be. The game you're playing, making the TBI and
their so-called experts chase their own tails, might be a welcome relief
and flattering to your ego. God knows, you deserve to indulge yourself after
all the sacrifices you've made. But you shouldn't lose sight of the fact that it's
only a diversion. The main thing, the real work, takes place in this small
room.
There's nothing more important than this.
Getting to this stage has taken years, learning through trial and error. Your
first camera was from a pawn shop, an old Kodak Instamatic that you'd been
too inexperienced to know was poorly suited for your needs. It could capture
the instant, but not in anything like enough detail. Too slow, too blurred, too
unreliable. Not nearly enough precision, enough control, for what you
wanted.
You've tried others since then. For a while you got excited about digital
cameras, but for all their convenience the images lack -- and here you smile to
yourself -- they lack the soul of film. Pixels don't have the depth, the resonance you're looking for. No matter how high the resolution, how true
the colours, they're still only an impressionist approximation of their subject.
Whereas film captures something of its essence, a transferral that goes beyond
the chemical process. A real photograph is created by light, pure and simple:
a paintbrush of photons that leaves its mark on the canvas of the film. There's
a physical link between photographer and subject that calls for fine judgement,
for skill. Too long in the chemical mix and the image is a dark ruin. Not long
enough and it's a pallid might-have-been, culled before its time. Yes, film is
undoubtedly more trouble, more demanding.
But nobody said a quest was supposed to be easy.
And that's what this is, a quest. Your own Holy Grail, except that you
know for sure what you're searching for exists. You've seen it. And what
you've seen once, you can see again.
You feel the usual nervousness as you lift the dripping contact sheet from
the tray of fixer - carefully, having splashed fluid in your eyes once before
and rinse it in cold water. This is the moment of truth. The man had been
primed and ready by the time you got back, the fear and waiting bringing him
to a hair-trigger alertness, as it always did. Though you try not to build up
your hopes too much, you feel the inevitable anticipation as you scan the
glossy sheet to see what you've got. But your excitement withers as you
examine each of the miniature images, dismissing them one by one.
Blurred. No. No.
Useless!
In a sudden frenzy you rip the contact sheet in half and fling it aside.
Lashing out at the developing trays, you knock them to the floor in a splash
of chemicals.You raise your hand to swipe at the shelves full of bottles before
you catch yourself. Fists knotted, you stand in the centre of the darkroom,
chest heaving with the effort of restraint.
The stink of spilt developing fluids fills the small chamber. The sudden
anger fades as you stare at the mess. Listlessly, you start to pick up some of
the torn scraps, then abandon the effort. It can wait. The chemical fumes are
overpowering, and some liquid splashed on to your bare arm. It's stinging
already, and you know from past experience that it'll burn if you don't wash it off.
You're calmer as you leave the darkroom, the disappointment already
shrinking. You're used to it by now, and there's no time to dwell on it. You
have too much to do, too much to prepare. Thinking about that puts a spring
back in your step. Failure's always frustrating, but you need to keep things in
perspective.
There's always next time.