Simon Beckett - Whispers of the Dead

Tom ignored the jibe. ‘Summer’s one of my graduate students. She’s helping us out.’

‘Of course.’ Irving’s smile broadened as he eyed the studs and rings decorating Summer’s face. ‘You know, I’ve always been fascinated by body art. I once considered a tattoo myself, but such things are frowned upon in my line of work. But I love the paganistic aspect of piercings, that whole concept of the modern primitive. So refreshing to find that sort of individualism in this day and age.’

Summer’s face bloomed red, but with pleasure rather than embarrassment. ‘Thank you.’

‘No need to thank me.’ Irving’s charm was on full wattage. ‘I have one or two textbooks on primitive body art you might find interesting. Perhaps—’

‘If that’s all, Professor Irving, we need to make a start here,’ Tom interrupted.

Annoyance flickered behind Irving’s smile for a moment. ‘Of course. Nice meeting you, Miss…’

‘Summer.’

Irving showed his teeth again. ‘My favourite season.’

Peeling off his gloves, he glanced round for somewhere to put them. Failing to find anywhere suitable, he held them out for Kyle to take. The young morgue assistant looked startled, but meekly accepted them.

With a last smile at Summer, Irving went out. There was a hush after the door closed behind him. Summer’s face was dimpled in a smile, cheeks blushed crimson beneath the bleached blond hair. Kyle looked crestfallen, the profiler’s gloves still dangling from his hand.

Tom cleared his throat. ‘So where were we…?’

While I took more photographs of the uncovered remains, he went out to call Gardner. A forensic team would need to examine the casket, but usually that wouldn’t happen till after we’d removed the body. The fact that it was naked probably wouldn’t alter anything, but I didn’t blame Tom for checking with the TBI agent first.

Kyle lingered in the radiography suite, even though there was no real reason for him to be there any more. But seeing the way he looked at Summer I hadn’t the heart to tell him he wasn’t needed. His expression put me in mind of a kicked puppy.

Tom wasn’t long. He came back, his manner brisk. ‘Dan says to go ahead. Let’s get the body out.’

I started towards the container, but Tom stopped me. ‘Kyle, would you mind helping Summer?’

‘Me?’ The assistant’s face turned crimson. He shot a quick glance towards her. ‘Oh, uh, sure. No problem.’

Tom gave me a wink as Kyle went to join Summer by the aluminium container.

‘Shouldn’t you have a bow and arrow?’ I murmured, as they prepared to lift the body.

‘Sometimes you have to help these things along.’ His smile faded. ‘Dan’s keen to get things moving. Normally I’d leave these remains till I’d finished working on the ones from the cabin, but as things stand—’

There was a sudden exclamation. We looked over to see Kyle straightening beside the casket, staring at one of his gloved hands.

‘What’s wrong?’ Tom asked, going over.

‘Something pricked me. When I touched the body.’

‘Has it broken the skin?’

‘I’m not sure…’

‘Here, let me see,’ I said.

The gloves were heavy-duty rubber gauntlets that reached almost to the elbow. Kyle’s was slimed with fluids from the decomposing body, but the jagged hole on its palm was clearly visible.

‘It’s fine, really,’ Kyle said.

I took no notice as I pulled off his thick glove. Kyle’s hand was wrinkled and pale from being in the rubber. In the centre of his palm was a dark smear of blood.

‘Let’s get it under the tap. Is there a first aid kit?’ I asked.

‘There should be one in the autopsy suite. Summer, can you go and get it?’ Tom said.

Kyle allowed me to lead him to the sink. I put his hand under the fast-flowing cold water, washing off the blood. The wound was tiny, little more than a pinprick. But that made it no less dangerous.

‘Is it OK?’ he asked, as Summer returned with the first aid kit.

‘If you’ve had all your shots I’m sure you’ll be fine,’ I said, putting as much confidence into it as I could. ‘You have had all your shots?’

He nodded, watching anxiously as I cleaned the wound with antiseptic. Tom had gone over to the casket.

‘Whereabouts did you touch the body?’

‘It was, uh, the shoulder. The right one.’

Tom leaned closer to look, but didn’t touch the corpse himself. ‘There’s something there. Summer, can you hand me the forceps?’

He reached down and took hold of whatever was embedded in the putrefying flesh. With a little gentle tugging it came free.

‘What is it?’ Kyle asked.

Tom’s expression was studiedly neutral. ‘Looks like a hypodermic needle.’

‘A needle?’ Summer exclaimed. ‘Omigod, he stabbed himself on a needle from that?’

Tom shot her an angry look. But the same thing was going through all our minds. As a morgue worker Kyle would have been immunized against some of the diseases that could be carried by cadavers, but there were others for which there was no protection. Normally, provided care was taken, there was little risk.

Unless you had an open wound.

‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, but we better get you to the Emergency Room all the same,’ Tom said, outwardly calm. ‘Why don’t you get changed and I’ll see you outside?’

Kyle’s face had gone white. ‘No, I—I’m OK, really.’

‘I’m sure you are, but let’s get you checked out just to make sure.’ His tone didn’t leave room for argument. Looking dazed, Kyle did as he’d been told. Tom waited until the door had closed behind him. ‘Summer, are you absolutely certain you didn’t touch anything?’

She nodded quickly, still pale herself. ‘I didn’t have the chance. I was going to help Kyle lift the body when he… God, do you think he’ll be OK?’

Tom didn’t answer. ‘You might as well get changed too, Summer. I’ll let you know if I need you for anything else.’

She didn’t argue. He put the needle into a small glass sample jar as she went out.

‘Do you want me to go with Kyle?’ I asked.

‘No, it’s my responsibility. You carry on with the other remains for the time being. I don’t want anyone going near the casket again until I’ve X-rayed the body myself.’

He looked as grim as I’d ever seen him. It was possible that the hypodermic needle had snapped off and become embedded by accident, but it didn’t seem likely. I wasn’t sure what was more disturbing: the idea that the needle had been deliberately planted, or what that implied.

That someone expected the body to be dug up.

Your first time was a woman. More than twice your age and drunk. You’d seen her in a bar, so alcohol-addled she could barely sit still. She’d slipped and swayed on her bar stool, blowsy and overblown, face haggard and red, cigarette burning down to her tobacco-stained finger ends. When she’d thrown her head back and guffawed at the flickering TV screen above the bar, her phlegmy laugh had sounded like a siren call.

You’d wanted her right away.

You’d watched from across the room, your back to her but your eyes never leaving her reflection in the mirror. Swathed in cigarette smoke, she’d approached most of the men in the bar, draping a wattled arm around them in drunken invitation. Each time you’d tensed, jealousy burning like acid in your guts. But each time the arm had been shrugged off, the advances rebuffed. She’d return unsteadily to her stool, loudly demanding another drink to drown her disappointment. And your nervousness would increase, because you knew this was going to be the night.

It was meant to be.

You’d bided your time, waiting until she’d exhausted the barkeeper’s patience. You’d slipped out unnoticed while she’d still been screaming at him, obscenities alternating with maudlin entreaties. Outside you’d turned up your collar and hurried to a nearby doorway. It had been fall and a rain-mist had fogged the streets, cloaking the streetlights with yellow penumbras.