Simon Beckett - Whispers of the Dead

‘Could be.’ Tom gave me a thoughtful smile. ‘Makes you wonder how he knows so much about it, though, doesn’t it?’ he said.

It had been a troubling thought.

I was still mulling that over when Tom came into the conservatory. He was freshly shaved and changed, with the deceptively healthy ruddiness that comes from a hot shower.

‘Sorry about that. Our monthly duty call,’ he said. The bitterness in his voice surprised me. He smiled, as though to acknowledge it, and lowered himself into a chair with a sigh. ‘Has Mary fixed you up with a drink?’

I held up the beer. ‘Yes, thanks.’

He nodded, but he still seemed distracted.

‘Everything all right?’ I asked.

‘Sure.’ He plucked irritably at the chair arm. ‘It’s just Robert.

He was supposed to be visiting in a couple of weeks. Now it appears he won’t have the time. I don’t mind for myself so much, but Mary was looking forward to seeing him, and now… Ah, well. That’s kids for you.’

The attempt to sound breezy faltered as he remembered my own circumstances. It was an innocent enough slip, but he looked relieved when the doorbell announced the arrival of Sam and Paul.

‘Sorry we’re late,’ Paul said, as Mary ushered them into the conservatory. ‘Got a flat tyre on my way home, and it took me ages to clean the damn oil off my hands.’

‘You’re here now. Samantha, you look positively radiant,’ Tom said, going to kiss her. ‘How are you?’

Sam lowered herself into a high-backed chair, made awkward by her swollen belly. With her blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, she looked fresh-faced and healthy. ‘Impatient. If Junior doesn’t hurry himself up we’re going to have words before much longer.’

Tom laughed. ‘You’ll be doing the school run before you know it.’

His mood had lightened with their arrival, and by the time we sat down for dinner the atmosphere was easy and relaxed. Dinner was plain and unfussy—baked salmon with jacket potatoes and salad—but Mary was a good enough cook to make it seem special. As she served dessert, a hot peach pie with melting ice cream, Sam leaned across to me.

‘How’re you? You don’t seem so tightly wound as last time I saw you,’ she said, her voice low enough not to be overheard.

That had been in the restaurant where I thought I’d smelled Grace Strachan’s perfume. It seemed like weeks ago, although it was only a few days. But a lot had happened since then.

‘No, I don’t suppose I am.’ I smiled. ‘I’m feeling pretty good, to be honest.’

She studied me for a moment or two. ‘Yes, you look it.’ Giving my arm a squeeze, she turned back to the main conversation.

After the meal, Mary and Sam disappeared into the kitchen to make coffee, rejecting our offers of help. ‘You know as well as I do that you want to talk shop, and Sam and I have better things to discuss.’

‘Anyone want to lay odds on it being babies?’ Tom said after they’d gone out. He rubbed his hands. ‘Well, I for one am going to have a bourbon. Care to join me? I have a bottle of Blanton’s I need an excuse to open.’

‘Just a small one,’ Paul said.

‘David? Or there’s Scotch if you’d rather?’

‘Bourbon’s fine, thanks.’

Tom busied himself at a cabinet, taking out glasses and a distinctive bottle with a miniature horse and jockey perched on top. ‘There’s ice, but if I go into the kitchen Mary’s going to read the riot act to me for drinking. And I’ll take your disapproval as read, David.’

I hadn’t been going to say anything. Sometimes abstinence can do more harm than good. Tom handed us each a glass, then raised his own.

‘Your health, gentlemen.’

The bourbon was smooth with an aftertaste of burnt caramel. We sipped it, savouring it in silence. Tom cleared his throat.

‘While you’re both here there’s something I wanted to tell you. It doesn’t really concern you, David, but you might as well hear it as well.’

Paul and I glanced at each other. Tom stared pensively into his bourbon. ‘You both know I was planning to bring my retirement forward to the end of summer. Well, I’ve decided not to wait that long.’

Paul set down his glass. ‘You’re joking.’

‘It’s time,’ Tom said simply. ‘I’m sorry to spring it on you like this, but… Well, it’s no secret my health hasn’t been good lately. And I have to think of what’s fair to Mary. I thought the end of next month would be a good time. That’s only a few weeks early, and it isn’t as if the center will grind to a halt without me. I’ve got a feeling the next director should be a good one.’

That was aimed at Paul, but he didn’t seem to notice. ‘Have you told anyone else?’

‘Only Mary. There’s a faculty meeting next week. I thought I’d announce it then. But I wanted you to know first.’

Paul still looked stunned. ‘Jesus, Tom. I don’t know what to say.’

‘How about “Happy retirement”?’ Tom gave a smile. ‘It isn’t the end of the world. I’ll still do some consultancy work, I dare say. Hell, I might even take up golf. So come on, no long faces. Let’s have another toast.’

He reached for the bottle of Blanton’s and topped up our drinks. There was a lump in my throat but I knew Tom didn’t want us to be maudlin. I raised my glass.

‘To fresh starts.’

He chinked his glass against mine. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

His announcement gave a bittersweet flavour to the rest of the evening. Mary beamed when she and Sam returned, but her eyes glittered with tears. Sam didn’t try to hide hers, hugging Tom so hard he had to stoop over her pregnant stomach.

‘Good for you,’ she’d declared, wiping her eyes.

Tom himself had smiled broadly, and talked out his and Mary’s plans, squeezing his wife’s hand as he did so. But underlying it all was a sadness that no amount of celebration could disguise. This wasn’t just a job Tom was retiring from.

It was the end of an era.

I was more glad than ever that I’d taken up his offer to help him on the investigation. He’d said it would be our last chance to work together, but I’d had no idea it was going to be the last time for him as well. I wondered if even he had, then.

As I drove back to my hotel just after midnight, I berated myself for not appreciating the opportunity I’d been given. Resolving to put any remaining doubts behind me, I told myself to make the most of working with Tom while it lasted. Another day or two and it would be all over.

At least, that’s what I thought. I should have known better.

The next day they found another body.

The images form slowly, emerging like ghosts on the blank sheet of paper. The lamp casts a blood-red glow in the small chamber as you wait for the right moment, then lift the contact sheet from the tray of developing fluid and dip it into the stop bath before placing it in the fixer.

There. Perfect. Although you’re not really aware of it, you whistle softly to yourself, a breathy, almost silent exhalation that holds no particular tune. Cramped as it is, you love being in the darkroom. It puts you in mind of a monk’s cell: peaceful and meditative, a self-contained world in itself. Bathed in the room’s transforming, carmine light, you feel cut off from everything, able to focus on coaxing to life the images implanted into the glossy photographic sheets.

Which is as it should be. The game you’re playing, making the TBI and their so-called experts chase their own tails, might be a welcome relief and flattering to your ego. God knows, you deserve to indulge yourself after all the sacrifices you’ve made. But you shouldn’t lose sight of the fact that it’s only a diversion. The main thing, the real work, takes place in this small room.