Christopher Fowler - The Water Room

‘How could you tell that?’

‘I don’t know-maybe they were just talking, but it was something to do with the way they were standing.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘I went out to the shop,’ said Kallie.

‘Did you pass Mr Copeland?’

‘No, I walked on the other side of the road. His side was partially flooded. The drains were blocked.’

‘And you didn’t look back at him?’

‘I don’t remember doing so. It took me another couple of minutes to reach the main road.’

‘Where did you have to go?’

‘Just to the supermarket on the corner. There was a bit of a queue, so I waited there, paid and came back.’

‘How much time would you say elapsed between when you set out and when you returned?’

Kallie thought about choosing the wine and the vodka. ‘Maybe ten minutes. But as soon as I came around the corner I knew something was different.’

‘How?’

‘Because where Elliot had been digging, there was now a mound of earth and rubble. I thought he must have quickly filled in the hole, but it seemed unlikely, because why would he have dug it out? I remember thinking it was more likely that he was removing the earth to ready for pouring concrete or something, so that the machine shop could extend their property. As I drew alongside, I went a bit nearer. There was mud everywhere and I didn’t want to ruin my shoes. That was when I saw the tip of his hand sticking up.’

‘I’m sorry, it must have been an awful experience for you.’

‘Not really,’ Kallie admitted. ‘In a funny sort of way it didn’t seem real.’

May found such honesty surprising. ‘Mrs Allen, you say you saw it happen.’

‘I looked back out of the window, but I wasn’t watching the whole time. It was raining very hard. There wasn’t much to see. Then I noticed that the bed of the truck was tipped up, and that the earth had slid out. I couldn’t tell what had happened to Elliot.’

‘But you didn’t go out there to check?’

‘I didn’t have any shoes on. Besides, why would I? I suppose I just assumed he had finished and was in the truck, or had gone home out of the rain. I don’t know, I didn’t think anything.’ She kept her face turned toward the window, hardly daring to move. If she caught their eye, they would know she was lying. She had seen it all-the slide of earth cascading down over him, the concrete blocks knocking him to his knees and then on to his face. She should have run but could make no move. The sight of the fast-filling hole was appalling, fascinating.

She had heard Kallie push open the front door, concerned and calling for help. How could she ever tell them the truth?

‘And Miss Owen, you came back to the house,’ prompted May.

‘I almost ran-it was belting down.’

May noted that the front-room carpet was still damp and spotted with traces of mud. ‘Let’s go back to this man you saw arguing with the deceased,’ he requested, watching as the two women shifted uncomfortably. ‘We’re not normal policemen, you know. You can say what you like. I’m not taking verbatim notes.’

‘I didn’t see him clearly,’ Heather explained.

‘But you have an idea who it might have been?’

No answer. Neither of them wanted to place anyone under suspicion, but it was obvious to May that an idea had formed in their minds.

‘Look, we’re not going to rush off and arrest someone based on what you think you saw, Mrs Allen. Nor will anyone accuse you of having made a mistake. This is about a process of elimination. At the moment we have no proof of how this gentleman lost his life, and that will make it very hard to get to the truth. The rain has effectively destroyed the crime scene. If there’s anything you can tell us, I promise you the information will be treated with the utmost respect.’

Silence. He sighed. ‘This is how most murder cases are solved, by talking to people. Not by analysing DNA or finding stray fibres, that’s just corroborative detail. So perhaps you could tell me who you think you saw.’

Heather chewed her nail for a while, and finally removed it from her mouth. ‘I think it was Randall Ayson,’ she admitted, looking to Kallie for confirmation.

Outside in the street, the elements appeared to be in collusion, taking turns to demonstrate their power, for as the rain started to abate, a howling wind began to rise.

‘There’s only one word for present driving conditions: atrociously bad,’ squeaked Hilary, the Sky One weather lady. ‘Flood warnings have been posted across Kent and Sussex, and there’s another belt of low pressure sweeping in from the south west. The AA is offering this advice: if you’re going out, don’t.’ She suddenly folded in half and vanished as the cable signal popped from the tiny wall-mounted television. Oswald Finch threw the TV remote on to his dissection table with disgust. ‘Stupid woman. I can’t believe the rain in England always makes the headlines.’

‘I can’t believe you’re still here,’ called Bryant, checking his watch.

‘Nor me. I was supposed to retire fifteen years ago.’ The ancient pathologist creaked up from his chair and shook Bryant’s hand. ‘I could be seeing out my retirement in a fisherman’s cottage overlooking the Channel. It’s all bought and paid for, but it’ll fall into the sea before I get there. I’m stuck here, and it’s your bloody fault.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘You know very well that the Home Office won’t pay the going rate for newly trained technicians because they can’t afford to buy them more up-to-date equipment, and most kids can’t work with antiques, so I’m being blackmailed to stay on.’

‘All right to smoke in here?’ asked Bryant, dragging his pipe from his top pocket.

‘No, it is not. You’re the one who requested my services in the middle of the bloody night. You know they’ll only agree to supplement my pension if I do two days a week for you. So instead of fresh sea air I get formaldehyde poisoning and rheumatism from sitting in a damp Camden basement twice a week.’

‘I thought you were getting a new building.’ Bryant looked about with distaste.

‘We are,’ sniffed Finch. ‘Not in my lifetime, however. It might have helped if you hadn’t incurred everyone’s wrath by blowing up your office.’ This part of the morgue had been housed in the old school gymnasium. Where once the youth of Camden had come to stretch their muscles, there were now only departed souls waiting to have their sinews sliced open and examined.

‘Come on, you old misery, I’ll give you a game of basketball.’ Bryant pointed at the steel hoop still attached to the far wall.

‘At my age the effort of getting up from a chair becomes an Olympic event in itself.’ He looked at the hoop longingly. ‘The only thing I can still dunk is a doughnut. I used to go ballroom dancing, you know. Now I can’t even get the shoes on.’

‘I hope this infirmity hasn’t spread to your brain,’ said Bryant rather rudely.

Finch ignored him. ‘I suppose you’re here about Mr Copeland.’

‘That him over in the corner?’ asked Bryant cheerfully.

Finch led the way to a shiny metal container shaped like an overgrown takeaway box. ‘This is what your bosses are providing for me instead of a sterile laboratory. They’re meant for use in the field, and they’re bloody awkward. I have to stand on a stool in order to get my arms over the sides, and they’re sharp, too. Take a look.’

Bryant climbed up beside the pathologist and peered into the tray. He found himself staring at a fleshy white male, face-down. Lilac bruises had blossomed across his lower back like pressed flowers. In the folds of his neck, a black contusion erupted in torn crimson petals.