Simon Beckett - Whispers of the Dead

York drew breath to protest, but the TBI agent stared him down. Angrily clamping his mouth shut, the undertaker stalked off. Gardner watched him go with the sort of speculative look a cat might give a bird, then turned to Tom.

‘Well?’

‘You said this was a white male?’

‘That’s right. Willis Dexter, thirty-six-year-old mechanic, died in a car crash. C’mon, Tom, what have you seen?’

Tom gave me a wry smile. ‘David spotted it. I’ll let him break the news.’

Thanks a lot. I turned back to the casket, feeling Gardner and Jacobsen’s eyes on me. ‘Take a look at the nose,’ I told them. The soft tissue had rotted away, leaving a gaping triangular hole lined with scraps of cartilage. ‘See down at the bottom of the nasal opening, where it joins the bone that holds the upper teeth? There should be a sill right there, like a sharp ridge of bone jutting out. But there isn’t; it blends smoothly into the bone underneath. The shape of the nose is all wrong, too. The bridge is low and broad, and the nasal opening itself is too wide.’

Gardner swore under his breath. ‘You sure?’ he asked, addressing Tom rather than me.

‘Afraid so.’ Tom clicked his tongue in annoyance. ‘I’d have seen it myself if I’d taken time to look. Any of those cranial features would be pretty strong markers of ancestry by themselves. Take all of them together and there isn’t much doubt.’

‘Doubt about what?’ Jacobsen said, bewildered.

‘The sill of bone David mentioned is a white facial characteristic,’ Tom told her. ‘Whoever this is, he doesn’t have one.’

Jacobsen frowned as that sank in. ‘You mean he’s black? But I thought Willis Dexter was white.’

Gardner gave an irate sigh. ‘That’s right.’ He stared down at the body in the casket as though it had let him down. ‘This isn’t Willis Dexter.’

THE SUN WAShigh and bright, dazzling off the glass and paintwork of the other cars on the highway. Even though it wasn’t yet noon, the air above the tarmac rippled with heat and exhaust fumes. Up ahead the traffic slowed to a crawl, snarled round the flashing lights of emergency vehicles that were blocking one lane. A new Lexus was skewed across it at an angle, immaculate and sleek from the back, its front end a jagged mess. Some way from it was what had once been a motorbike. Now it was a crumpled mess of engine parts, chrome and rubber. The road surface around it was stained with what could have been oil, but probably wasn’t.

As we crept past, waved on by a stone-faced police officer, I saw onlookers crowding a bridge that spanned the highway, leaning on the railing to gawk at the entertainment below. Then it was behind us, and the traffic resumed its usual flow as though nothing had happened.

Tom seemed more his old self on the drive back from the cemetery. There was a sparkle in his eyes that I knew meant he was intrigued by this latest twist. First fingerprints from a murder scene that belonged to a dead man; now the wrong body had been found in his grave. A puzzle like that was milk and honey to him.

‘Starting to look like reports of Willis Dexter’s demise might have been a little premature, wouldn’t you say?’ he mused, fingers drumming on the steering wheel to the Dizzy Gillespie track playing on the CD. ‘Faking your own death’s a hell of an alibi if you can pull it off.’

I pulled my thoughts back from where they’d wandered. ‘So who do you think is in the casket? Another victim?’

‘I’m not going to jump to conclusions till we know the cause of death, but I’d say so. It’s just about possible that someone at the funeral home got the bodies mixed up by mistake, but under the circumstances that doesn’t seem likely. No, much as I hate to admit it, I think Irving was right about this being a serial killer.’ He glanced across at me. ‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

He smiled. ‘You’d make a lousy actor, David.’

Normally I’d have enjoyed brainstorming with Tom, but lately I seemed to be too busy second-guessing myself. ‘I’m probably just being suspicious. But doesn’t it seem a little convenient that the fingerprint on the film canister led straight to another victim’s body?’

He shrugged. ‘Criminals make mistakes like everybody else.’

‘So you believe that Willis Dexter might still be alive? That he’s the killer?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think I’d forgotten how much you enjoy playing devil’s advocate.’

He gave a laugh. ‘Just exploring the possibilities. For the record, I agree, it does all seem a mite convenient. But Dan Gardner’s no fool. He can be an awkward cuss, but I’m glad he’s handling the case.’

I hadn’t warmed to Gardner, but Tom didn’t bestow praise lightly. ‘What did you make of York?’ I asked.

‘Other than wanting to wash my hand after he’d shaken it, I’m not sure.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘He’s hardly a glowing advertisement for his profession, but he didn’t seem too worried about the exhumation. At least, not until he saw the condition of the casket. I don’t doubt he’ll have some awkward questions to answer, but I can’t see him being so blasé if he’d known what we were going to find.’

‘Even so, it’s hard to imagine how the wrong body could have been buried without someone at the funeral home knowing about it.’

Tom nodded. ‘Almost impossible. But I’m still reserving judgement on York for the time being.’ He paused to indicate before changing lanes, overtaking a slow-moving mobile home. ‘Nice work back there, by the way. I hadn’t noticed the nasal cavity.’

‘You would have if you hadn’t been so mad at Hicks.’

‘Being mad at Hicks is an occupational hazard. I should be used to it by now.’ His smile faded as he saw my face. ‘OK, out with it. What’s bothering you?’

I hadn’t planned on bringing it up, but there was no point ducking the issue any longer. ‘I don’t think my coming here was such a good idea. I appreciate what you’re doing, but… Well, let’s face it, it isn’t working out. I think I should go back.’

Until that moment I hadn’t even been aware I’d made the decision. Now it seemed as though all my doubts had crystallized, forcing me to accept what I’d been avoiding so far. Yet part of me felt shocked at the admission, knowing there was something irrevocable about it. If I left now I wouldn’t be simply cutting my trip short.

I’d be giving up.

Tom was silent for a while. ‘This isn’t only about what happened at the cabin, is it?’

‘That’s part of it, but no.’ I shrugged, struggling to put it into words. ‘I just feel this was a mistake. I don’t know, perhaps it was too soon.’

‘Your wound’s healed, hasn’t it?’

‘I didn’t mean that.’

‘I know.’ He sighed. ‘Can I be frank?’

I nodded; I didn’t trust myself to speak.

‘You tried running away once before and it didn’t work. What makes you think it’ll be any better this time?’

I felt my cheeks burn. Running away? Was that how he saw it? ‘If you mean when Kara and Alice died, then yes, I suppose I did run away,’ I said, my voice harsh. ‘But this is different. It’s like something’s missing, and I don’t know what.’

‘So it’s a crisis of confidence.’

‘If you like, yes.’

‘Then I’ll ask you again: exactly how is running away going to help?’

This time it was my turn to fall silent.

Tom didn’t take his gaze from the road. ‘I’m not going to insult you by giving you a pep talk, David. If it’s what you really feel you should do, then leave by all means. I think you’d regret it, but it’s your choice. But will you do something for me first?’