Simon Beckett - The Restless Dead

The lawyer spoke with considerably more bluster than his employer, who continued to regard Lundy coldly. Lundy seemed unperturbed.

‘Well, I don’t know about “spurious”. I’d have thought finding a body with half its face blown away was grounds enough. What with it wearing Leo Villiers’ clothes and all.’ The DI raised his eyebrows at Sir Stephen. ‘You remember, the ones you identified?’

Sir Stephen stared at him. ‘Are you accusing me of lying?’

‘Perish the thought.’ From anyone else it might have sounded insincere. ‘We’re not disputing that the clothes were your son’s, just the body. As his father I’d have thought you’d be keen to find out what’s going on.’

‘There’s nothing to find. My son died in a tragic accident, and his body was discovered three days ago. I saw it for myself, and until now the police seemed convinced as well. Now I’m to believe your earlier assertions were wrong? That smacks of incompetence.’

‘No, it’s just allowing for new facts. Dr Hunter here’s a forensic anthropologist. He expressed doubts at the time that the body had been in the water long enough to be your son, as I believe DCI Clarke informed you. Now we’ve found more evidence that suggests it wasn’t.’

Sir Stephen’s head turned so the frosty eyes were fixed on me. All three of his lawyers did the same. Thanks, Lundy, I thought.

‘What evidence?’

I glanced at Lundy but he kept his expression bland. All right, then . ‘As far as we can tell, the right foot found in the creek belongs to the body from the estuary. But your son broke his foot playing rugby, so if this was his it would still have the healed breaks. It doesn’t. And if the foot isn’t his, the body can’t be either.’

Sir Stephen considered me. His expression didn’t quite change, but somehow his disdain was made plain. ‘You say this foot was found in the creek.’

‘Yes, that’s—’

‘So it wasn’t anywhere near where my son was found. It wasn’t even in the estuary.’

‘No, but—’

‘Then why would you think it was his? I assume there must be DNA evidence to support your theory?’

He knew full well there wasn’t: Clarke would have told him we were still waiting for the test results. ‘Not yet, but the measurements I took showed—’

‘Measurements.’ The word dripped with scorn. Sir Stephen turned back to Lundy. ‘And this is your evidence?’

‘Once we get the DNA results—’

‘I’m confident they’ll confirm my son is dead. But you don’t have them, do you? So all this...’ A hand gestured contemptuously at the house. ‘... is based on the opinion of a disgraced forensic expert with a reputation as a troublemaker.’

I wasn’t sure if I was stunned more by the insult or that he’d gone to the effort of finding out who I was. He’d barely seemed to notice me at the body recovery. Blood rushed to my face as I started to respond, but Lundy beat me to it.

‘Dr Hunter’s reputation isn’t the issue here, Sir Stephen. He didn’t invent your son’s broken foot, he just confirmed discrepancies between the remains and the X-rays you yourself provided. Of course, if you really want to move the identification along you could always let us see the rest of his medical records. That’d help no end.’

Lundy sounded as amiable as ever, but no one there could have been fooled. The senior lawyer hurried to fill the silence.

‘Sir Stephen has already made his position very clear. Medical records are, and should remain, private. In the interests of cooperation an exception was made for the X-rays, but—’

‘There is nothing in my son’s medical records that would help this investigation.’ Sir Stephen spoke over his lawyer as though the man weren’t there. ‘If you have grounds to believe otherwise, then please share them. If not then I’m sure there are more productive ways of spending police time than wasting it here. As I’ll be sure to mention to your superiors.’

‘I’m sure you will,’ Lundy said pleasantly. ‘In fact, here’s one of them now.’

DCI Clarke was hurrying across the lawn past the house, face set and mackintosh slapping around her legs. Lundy pursed his lips when he saw her expression.

‘You might as well head on back,’ he murmured to me as Sir Stephen and his entourage turned towards Clarke. ‘I’ll call you later.’

The DCI didn’t acknowledge me as we passed each other, but I wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries either. My face was still burning as I followed the path round to the rear of the house to where the cars were parked, still fuming over the run-in with Sir Stephen. Of all the smug, arrogant ... Christ, what sort of man didn’t even bother to ask who the police thought the body might belong to?

Or why it had been found in his son’s clothes?

At the plastic bins set out for the used protective clothing, I yanked at the zipper on my coveralls so hard it jammed. I wrenched at it bad-temperedly, swearing under my breath when the paper fabric ripped.

‘Bad day at the office?’

I hadn’t noticed anyone nearby. The man who’d spoken was leaning against a sleek black Daimler, and it was more the car than his face that jogged my memory. Then I took in the pockmarked cheeks and recognized Sir Stephen’s driver from the oyster factory.

He was smoking again, a thin plume rising from the half-smoked cigarette he held by his side. From where he stood he had a good view of the path at the side of the house, and he flicked another glance towards it now.

‘You’re OK, they’re still talking,’ I said, still struggling with the partially zipped coveralls.

He smiled, giving a nod of acknowledgement as he took another drag on the cigarette. He looked older than I’d thought, definitely closer to fifty than forty. If he hadn’t been standing by the car again I doubt I’d have remembered him. Even with the acne scarring, he wasn’t the sort of man who would stand out in a crowd. His features were pleasant but nondescript, and the neatly trimmed hair was the sort of non-colour that lightened rather than greyed with age. Now I looked at him I saw a compactness about his slim build that belied his sedentary job, but it wasn’t immediately obvious. In his navy-blue suit — a durable synthetic blend — he could have been an accountant or a civil servant. He could have been anything.

‘Not another one, is it?’ he asked, lifting his chin towards the activity at the house.

‘Another what?’

He smiled, acknowledging the evasion. ‘A body. First the one in the estuary, then one yesterday. Seems like there’s quite a glut of them.’

‘If you say so.’

As far as I knew, the police hadn’t announced that a second body had been found. Word was bound to get out, but the remoteness of the Backwaters had worked better than any attempt to restrict publicity.

But Sir Stephen’s driver clearly knew something. He shrugged and took a drag of his cigarette. ‘Suit yourself. I’m not asking you to tell me anything, just saying what I’ve heard.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Well, if you’re not going to tell me why should I tell you?’

He smiled, as though we were sharing a private joke. But his eyes remained watchful and shrewd in their nest of laughter lines. He blew a stream of smoke off to one side, away from me.

‘Only kidding. All I know is another body turned up yesterday. One of the perks of a job like mine. People think you’re part of the furniture and forget you’ve got a pair of ears.’

So someone had told his employer, and he had overheard. I wondered if the information had come officially or courtesy of Sir Stephen’s friends in high places. I didn’t respond, busying myself shucking out of the ruined coveralls.