Simon Beckett - Whispers of the Dead

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Tom said. ‘Do you think you could tell us what it is?’

Talbot grinned. ‘Odonata are dragonflies and damselflies. What you’ve got here is a dragonfly nymph. A swamp darner, one of the biggest species in North America. They’re widespread across most eastern states, although less so in Tennessee. Here, I’ll show you.’

He rummaged in his briefcase and produced a thick, dog-eared old textbook. Humming to himself, he set it on the workbench and began flicking through its pages.

He stopped and tapped on one. ‘Here we go. Epiaeschna heros, the swamp or hero darner, as they’re sometimes called. Migratory, generally found by wooded roadsides and ponds in summer and fall, but adults can hatch in spring in warmer regions.’

The page showed a photograph of a large insect shaped like a miniature helicopter. It had the familiar double wings and streamlined body of the dragonflies I’d seen at home, but there the resemblance ended. This one was as long as my finger and almost as thick, its brown body tiger-striped with bright green. But the most striking features were its eyes: huge and spherical, they were a vivid, electric blue.

‘I know dragon hunters in Tennessee who’d give their hind teeth to see an adult hero,’ Talbot enthused. ‘Just look at those eyes! Incredible, aren’t they? On a sunny day you can spot them a mile away.’

Tom had been examining the book. ‘So what we found is the nymph of one of these?’

‘Or naiad, if you prefer.’ Talbot steepled his fingers, warming to his theme. ‘Dragonflies don’t have a larval stage. They lay their eggs in still or slow-moving water, and when the nymphs hatch they’re completely aquatic. At least, they are until they mature. Then they crawl out on to a plant or grass stem to metamorphose into an adult.’

‘But dragonflies aren’t normally attracted to carrion, are they?’ I asked.

‘Oh, Lord, no.’ He sounded shocked. ‘They’re predators. They’re sometimes called mosquito hawks, because that’s their main diet. That’s why you generally see them near water, although swamp darners are partial to winged termites, too. You say this specimen was found in a casket?’

‘That’s right. We think it was probably bundled there along with the body,’ Tom told him.

‘Then I’d say the body had to have been left close to a pond or lake. Probably right by the water’s edge.’ Talbot picked up the jar. ‘When this little fella crawled out to metamorphose it obviously got scooped up as well. Even if it wasn’t crushed, burying it in the cold and dark would have killed it.’

‘Are there any particular areas where this species is likely to be found?’ Tom asked.

‘Not in fast-running streams or rivers, but pretty much any woodland where there’s standing water. They’re not called swamp darners for nothing.’ Talbot glanced at his watch, then packed the book back into his briefcase. ‘Sorry, have to go. If you find any live specimens, be sure to let me know.’

Tom went to see Talbot out. He returned a few minutes later, his face thoughtful.

‘At least we know now what it was we found,’ I said. ‘And if the body was left near a pond or still water it gives Gardner a little more to go on.’

Tom didn’t seem to have heard. He picked up the skull and examined it, but absently, as though he wasn’t really aware of what he was doing. Even when I told him about the intact hyoid and pink teeth of the exhumed remains, he still seemed distracted.

‘Is everything OK?’ I asked at last.

He put down the skull. ‘Dan Gardner called just before Josh arrived. Alex Irving’s missing.’

My first thought was that there must be some mistake; I’d only seen the profiler on TV that morning. Then I remembered that the interview had been shot the day before: what I’d watched had been a repeat. ‘What happened?’

‘No one’s sure. Apparently he went out early this morning and didn’t come back. He hasn’t been seen since.’

‘Isn’t it a bit soon to say he’s missing if he’s only been gone a few hours?’

‘Ordinarily. But he’d taken his dog for a walk.’ Tom’s eyes were troubled. ‘They found it with its skull smashed in.’

The blood swirls down the sink, marbling the fast-flowing cold water with carmine strands. A piece of meat, drained to a pale pink now the blood has been washed from it, catches in the plughole. You jab it with your finger until it’s been forced through.

Whistling absently to yourself, you chop fresh chillies and drop them into a pan with a handful of garlic salt. When they’ve started to sizzle you scoop up the meat and drop that on it as well. The wet flesh spits and hisses when it hits the hot fat, sending up a blast of steam. You give it a quick stir, then leave it to brown. Opening the cold cupboard, you take out a carton of orange juice, cheese and mayonnaise. You select a glass that looks reasonably clean and wipe it with your finger. Dust covers every surface, but you don’t notice. If you did you wouldn’t care. Occasionally, like a veil lifting, you’ll register the dilapidation of your surroundings, the way every corner is furred with the detritus of years, but it fails to bother you. Decay is part of the natural order of things, and who are you to deny nature?

You drink a glassful of orange straight off, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand before you spread mayonnaise on two slices of processed white bread and top it with thick chunks of cheese. Pouring yourself more orange, you go to the big table in the centre of the kitchen. There isn’t much room left on it, so you balance your plate on a corner and pull up a chair. The sandwich tastes of nothing, as usual, but it’ll fill your stomach. You don’t really miss not being able to taste or smell anything, not any more.

Not when there’s so much else to savour.

Things are going to move fast now, but that’s OK. It’s only what you expected, and you’re at your best under pressure. Everything’s going exactly like you knew it would. Just like you planned it. Leaving everything at the mountain cabin was a risk, but a calculated one. It had felt strange, working out there away from your own environment. The film canister was an inspired move, but leaving the body there for them to find had gone against the grain. Still, it had been necessary. You wanted to make an impact, and how better than to give them a kill site to play with? Let them run themselves ragged trying to guess what you’re going to do next. It won’t do them any good.

By the time they realize it’ll be too late.

You finish the sandwich, washing it down with orange juice that tastes of nothing but cold. A patch of mayonnaise flecks one corner of your mouth as you go to the stove to check the pan. You lift the lid and inhale the sudden belch of steam. You can’t smell it but it makes your eyes water, and that’s a good sign. The meat is starting to brown nicely. Pork rather than beef, same as always. Cheaper, and it’s not like you can tell the difference anyway.

You pick up a spoon and try some. Even though you can’t taste anything, it’s so heavily spiced that it burns your mouth. Just like a good chilli should. You throw in a couple of cans of tomato, then take the pan off the heat and cover it. It’ll cook slowly on its own now, and by the time you get back it’ll be just right.

You’re a great believer in leaving things to stew in their own juices.

You pick up the plastic bag of dirty clothes you need to drop off at the laundry, reminding yourself that you need to stock up on supplies again, too. More cans of tomato, and you’re getting low on batteries and flypaper. You examine the sticky strips hanging from the ceiling. At least, they used to be sticky; now they’re matted black with dead flies, as well as the husks of larger, more colourful insects.