Alex Barclay - Time of Death

‘Misty, they must have come right by you,’ said Ren. ‘You poor, gentle soul.’

Ren glanced at the curious door. Thirty years on, she told herself : Do it. She opened it and crawled through, then crawled back out for a flashlight. Chicken. She had dealt with all kinds of crime scenes and tuned out the filthy conditions, but the ingrained childhood fear of the back attic was stalling her. She started over and went up the stairs. The light illuminated faint traces of footprints in the dust on the treads. Ren kept close to the wall to avoid them, pausing to shine the flashlight on one and get a picture with her cell phone. Just in case.

The closer she got to the top of the stairs, the colder the air. She took a chill breath before she climbed up into the room. The small casement window — banging back on its hinges. Ren looked around the room. It was a Victorian time-warp, as if Annie herself had been living in this house for over a hundred years.

To Ren, attics had always been eerie: dark, overfilled, disordered, but necessary. People discovered all kinds of things in attics, wanted and unwanted. But you had to be willing to explore an attic, because it was never inviting.

A bolt of panic shot through Ren. ‘The attic’ was the term she used for her mind. The attic: dark, overfilled, disordered, uninviting. And unknown as Ren’s metaphor to anyone but one woman.

Ren ran to the window and looked out as if she would see Helen Wheeler running across the rooftops with a black cloak spreading behind her into the night sky.

Everyone in the office wanted to know why Ren hadn’t called them after the break-in.

‘You egomaniacs,’ she said.

‘But…anything could have happened to you,’ said Robbie.

‘I checked the house, there was no one there.’

‘Someone might have seen the moving truck,’ said Colin. ‘Thought they’d get some nice boxes, ready to go.’

‘Hey, I know I’m a hoarder, but there was no moving truck,’ said Ren. ‘Just me and Removal Robbie.’

Robbie laughed as loud as Robbie ever would. ‘Oh, you have no idea.’

‘Is there something we should know?’ said Ren.

‘It’s a Mormon thing,’ said Robbie. ‘If you’re in the Elders Quorum, basically, you move people…’

‘What — emotionally?’ said Ren.

‘If you break their good china, yes,’ said Robbie.

‘You mean you literally help people to move house?’ said Ren.

‘Yup. It’s all part of being an Elder.’

‘Yet being elderly isn’t,’ said Ren.

‘No,’ said Robbie.

‘Wow,’ said Ren. ‘ Having to help people move. That’s very nice. And slightly weird. But, to your credit, you were very efficient with my boxes.’

Colin gave Robbie a sucker look. ‘I’d say you were broken into, Ren, because someone was watching the house. Maybe someone walking by noticed that sweet little puppy following the lady around-’

Ren frowned. ‘Misty’s a grown dog. She-’

‘He’s not talking about Misty,’ said Robbie.

Ren stared at Colin.

‘Misty…Robbie — what’s the difference?’ said Colin.

You dickhead.

Ren’s gaze wandered to the television and the Breaking News scrolling across the bottom of the screen. A male reporter was standing, mic in hand, his blue and red ski jacket and fur-lined hood protecting him against the falling snow.

He raised his voice over the wind: ‘ The warehouse you see behind me is the controversial “Gitmo on the Platte”, if you remember — a building that first hit the headlines two years ago as what some called a primitive holding cell for potential protestors at the Democratic National Convention…’

‘Yup,’ said Colin, ‘protestors outside the building before the DNC even started, protesting against the conditions that they would have to endure if they were arrested for protesting…’

Ren nodded. ‘Those kind of people, as soon as one avenue is exhausted, they’re on to the next thing they can misdirect their anger at. It’s why they-’

Oh. My. God. Ren had just registered what the Breaking News was.

‘ And today,’ said the reporter, ‘the building is once more in the spotlight with the discovery early this morning of the body of missing Denver psychiatrist, Dr Helen Wheeler, several blocks from her downtown office. We understand Dr Wheeler was the victim of a gunshot wound…’

‘Oh my God,’ said Ren, standing up. Helen.

‘That’s your friend,’ said Robbie.

‘I know…’ Ren raised her hand to her mouth. ‘I can’t believe it.’ Tears streamed down her face. Instant, reflexive tears. Helen cannot be dead.

‘Are you OK?’ said Robbie, going over to her. ‘Sit down. Sit down.’

They both watched as the gurney with the body bag was loaded into the back of the coroner’s van. Ren sat at her desk. Robbie pulled open her drawer and handed her an unopened packet of Kleenex.

Ren’s body started to tremble. Helen is dead. I’m going to be sick.

‘Let me go make you some tea,’ said Robbie. ‘With sugar.’

‘Sorry, thank you. Two…’

‘Sugars?’

‘Yes.’ Ren was trying to stop crying. Colin was across the room hovering, embarrassed.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I…know she was your friend.’

‘Thank you,’ said Ren. ‘I can’t believe it…Who would kill Helen Wheeler? You should have met her. She was…’ Oh, God. How did this happen?

Ren heard Gary heading down the hallway and into his office. She got up and followed him, closing the door behind them both.

‘Helen Wheeler’s been found dead.’

‘What?’ said Gary.

Ren nodded, fighting back tears.

‘Where? What happened?’

She filled him in.

‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Are you OK?’

‘No,’ said Ren. ‘I’m not. I’m in shock. Why would someone murder Helen Wheeler?’

Gary nodded.

‘We can offer Denver PD all the resources they need on this, can’t we?’ said Ren. ‘I want to do absolutely everything I can.’

‘Yes,’ said Gary.

‘Thank you.’ Ren hung her head. ‘Helen gets me, Gary. Got me. Hardly anyone gets me. And just as she was starting to make me face shit, she’s gone.’

Gary handed her a Kleenex.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Ren. ‘I don’t know what to do.’ She let out a ragged breath. ‘And thank you for letting me stick with Helen…instead of the agency shrink. It…meant a lot-’

‘Well, continuity of care,’ said Gary. ‘I guess Helen’s behind your new ability to cry too?’

Ren laughed briefly through the tears.

‘I have no idea what to do with Weeping Ren,’ said Gary.

‘I’m sorry’’ she said. ‘I don’t know…I was totally…’ She shook her head. ‘You don’t need to hear any of this.’

‘Ren, take the rest of the afternoon off, OK?’

Work — Gary’s only currency. ‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘Thanks.’

She walked to the door and turned back to him. ‘We both know that’s not going to happen, right?’

Gary nodded. ‘Yup. Let me call Denver PD.’

Cliff James had arrived in the meantime. The moment Ren saw his face, she knew he had already been told. He was still in his parka, on the phone, listening carefully, saying very little. He looked up at her. His expression was so kind it went straight to her heart.

‘I am so sorry, sweetheart,’ he said, standing up, shrugging his jacket off. He walked over and gave her a hug.

‘Thank you,’ said Ren.

‘OK, I just got off the phone with Denver PD,’ said Cliff. ‘My buddy, Glenn — Glenn Buddy is his name, actually — is heading up the case. So, obviously I let him know we’re all here for whatever he needs.’