Simon Beckett - Whispers of the Dead

‘That sounds like a psychopath,’ I said.

Jacobsen’s grey eyes turned to me. ‘Not quite, although there are shared characteristics. While a malignant narcissist is capable of extreme cruelty, he or she can still feel admiration and even respect for other people, provided the object of their respect displays what they consider “suitable” characteristics—generally a degree of success or power. According to Kernberg—’

‘I don’t think we need the footnotes, Diane,’ Gardner told her.

Jacobsen looked chastened, but went on. ‘The bottom line is I think we’re dealing with someone who needs to demonstrate his superiority, maybe to himself as much as to us. He’s got a chip on his shoulder and feels his talents and true worth aren’t appreciated. That’d explain the lengths he’s gone to, and also why he reacted as he did to what Professor Irving said on TV. He wouldn’t only be infuriated at being publicly belittled, he’d hate to see someone else stealing his limelight.’

‘Assuming this guy is also responsible for what happened to Irving,’ Gardner put in, giving her a warning look.

‘You sound like a damn lawyer, Dan,’ Tom told him, but without heat. He gazed into space, absently tapping his chin with a finger. ‘What about the employees from the funeral home? Do they all have alibis for when Irving went missing?’

‘We’re checking now, but to be frank I can’t see any of them being behind this. The only two we’ve found so far who worked there around the time of Willis Dexter’s funeral are both in their seventies.’

‘What about York himself?’

‘He claims to have been at work since five o’clock this morning. And before you ask, no there isn’t anyone who can corroborate that,’ Gardner said, with the air of someone backed into a corner.

‘There’s a surprise,’ Tom muttered. ‘Any sign of this mystery employee he claims he hired?’

‘Dwight Chambers? We’re still looking into it.’

‘Meaning no.’

Gardner sighed. ‘York’s still a suspect. But whoever’s behind this is too smart to bring all this attention down on himself. We’re carrying out a full-scale search of Steeple Hill, and this time tomorrow the press are going to be all over the place. York’s business is as good as dead no matter what happens.’ He grimaced as he realized what he’d said. ‘And the pun was unintentional.’

‘From what I saw, it couldn’t have carried on much longer anyway.’ Light glinted on Tom’s glasses as he stood up from behind the desk. ‘Maybe York would rather go out with a bang.’

Or perhaps he’s just another victim. But I kept that thought to myself.

It was growing dark as I pulled on to the quiet, tree-lined road where Tom and Mary lived. I would have worked late again if not for the dinner invitation, and after the day’s interruptions I’d felt frustrated at having to break off. But not for long; as soon as I stepped out of the morgue into the sunny evening, I felt the iron fingers of tension release their hold on the back of my neck. I’d not really been aware of them until then, but Irving’s disappearance, coming after what had happened to Kyle the day before, had shaken me more than I’d thought. Now the prospect of a few drinks and food with friends seemed like the perfect tonic.

The Liebermans’ home was a lovely timber-framed house, white-painted and set well back from the road. It didn’t seem to have changed from the first time I’d seen it, except for the majestic old oak that dominated the front lawn. On my last visit it had been in its prime; now it was in decline, and half of the sweeping branches were dead and bare.

Mary greeted me at the door, standing on tiptoe to kiss my cheek. ‘David! Good of you to come.’

She had aged better than her husband. Her sandy hair had paled but retained its natural colour, and though her face was lined it still shone with health. Not many women in their sixties can wear jeans and get away with it, but Mary was one of them.

‘Thank you, how lovely,’ she said, taking the bottle of wine I’d brought. ‘Come on through to the den. Sam and Paul aren’t here yet, and Tom’s on the phone with Robert.’

Robert was their only son. He worked in insurance and lived in New York. I’d never met him and Tom didn’t talk about him much, but I had the impression that it wasn’t an easy relationship.

‘You’re looking well,’ Mary told me, leading me down the hall. ‘Much better than you did last week.’

I’d had dinner with them on my first night. It already seemed a long time ago. ‘Must be the sunshine,’ I said.

‘Well, whatever it is, it agrees with you.’

She opened the door into the den. It was actually an old conservatory, filled with healthy plants and cushioned rattan chairs. She settled me down in one with a beer, and then excused herself while she saw to dinner.

The panelled conservatory windows looked out over the back garden. I could just make out the tall shapes of trees in the darkness, outlined against the yellow lights of the next house. It was a nice neighbourhood. Tom had told me once that he and Mary had almost bankrupted themselves to buy the semi-derelict property back in the seventies, and never once regretted it.

I sipped the cold beer, feeling a little more tension slip away. Putting my head back, I thought about what had happened. It had been another broken day, with first the news about Irving and then Gardner and Jacobsen’s visit taking me away from actual work. Another distraction had come late that afternoon, with the arrival of the amino and volatile fatty acids analysis of Terry Loomis’s tissue samples. Tom had come into the autopsy suite where I’d been processing the casket victim’s remains.

‘Well, we were wrong,’ he’d declared without preamble. ‘According to my calculations the time since death confirms the cabin manager’s story. Loomis had only been dead for five days, not nearer seven like we thought. Here, see what you think.’

He handed me a sheet of figures. A quick look told me he was right, but Tom didn’t make mistakes about things like that.

‘Looks fine to me,’ I said, returning them. ‘But I still can’t see how it can be.’

‘Me neither.’ He frowned down at the calculations as though offended by them. ‘Even allowing for the heater being left on, I’ve never seen a body decompose to that extent after five days. There were pupating larvae on it, for God’s sake!’

Blowfly larvae took six or seven days to pupate. Even if both Tom and I had been out in our time since death estimate, they shouldn’t have reached that stage of their development for another day at least.

‘Only one way they could have got there,’ I said.

Tom smiled. ‘You’ve been thinking it through as well. Go on.’

‘Someone must have deliberately seeded the corpse with maggots.’ It was the only thing that explained the condition of Terry Loomis’s body. Fully grown larvae would have been able to get to work straight away, with no time lost waiting for the eggs to hatch. ‘It wouldn’t accelerate things by much, perhaps twelve to twenty-four hours at most. Still, with all the open wounds on the body it’d probably be enough.’

He nodded. ‘Especially with the heater left on to raise the temperature. And there were way too many larvae on the body given that the cabin’s doors and windows were all closed. Somebody obviously decided to give nature a boost. Clever, but it’s hard to see what they hoped to gain, apart from muddying the water for a day or two.’

I’d been thinking about that as well. ‘Perhaps that was enough. Remember what Diane Jacobsen said? Whoever’s behind this is trying to prove something. Perhaps this was just another chance to show how clever he is.’