Simon Beckett - Whispers of the Dead

There’s nothing more important than this.

Getting to this stage has taken years, learning through trial and error. Your first camera was from a pawn shop, an old Kodak Instamatic that you’d been too inexperienced to know was poorly suited for your needs. It could capture the instant, but not in anything like enough detail. Too slow, too blurred, too unreliable. Not nearly enough precision, enough control, for what you wanted.

You’ve tried others since then. For a while you got excited about digital cameras, but for all their convenience the images lack—and here you smile to yourself—they lack the soul of film. Pixels don’t have the depth, the resonance you’re looking for. No matter how high the resolution, how true the colours, they’re still only an impressionist approximation of their subject. Whereas film captures something of its essence, a transferral that goes beyond the chemical process. A real photograph is created by light, pure and simple: a paintbrush of photons that leaves its mark on the canvas of the film. There’s a physical link between photographer and subject that calls for fine judgement, for skill. Too long in the chemical mix and the image is a dark ruin. Not long enough and it’s a pallid might-have-been, culled before its time. Yes, film is undoubtedly more trouble, more demanding.

But nobody said a quest was supposed to be easy.

And that’s what this is, a quest. Your own Holy Grail, except that you know for sure what you’re searching for exists. You’ve seen it. And what you’ve seen once, you can see again.

You feel the usual nervousness as you lift the dripping contact sheet from the tray of fixer—carefully, having splashed fluid in your eyes once before—and rinse it in cold water. This is the moment of truth. The man had been primed and ready by the time you got back, the fear and waiting bringing him to a hair-trigger alertness, as it always did. Though you try not to build up your hopes too much, you feel the inevitable anticipation as you scan the glossy sheet to see what you’ve got. But your excitement withers as you examine each of the miniature images, dismissing them one by one.

Blurred. No. No.

Useless!

In a sudden frenzy you rip the contact sheet in half and fling it aside. Lashing out at the developing trays, you knock them to the floor in a splash of chemicals. You raise your hand to swipe at the shelves full of bottles before you catch yourself. Fists knotted, you stand in the centre of the darkroom, chest heaving with the effort of restraint.

The stink of spilt developing fluids fills the small chamber. The sudden anger fades as you stare at the mess. Listlessly, you start to pick up some of the torn scraps, then abandon the effort. It can wait. The chemical fumes are overpowering, and some liquid splashed on to your bare arm. It’s stinging already, and you know from past experience that it’ll burn if you don’t wash it off.

You’re calmer as you leave the darkroom, the disappointment already shrinking. You’re used to it by now, and there’s no time to dwell on it. You have too much to do, too much to prepare. Thinking about that puts a spring back in your step. Failure’s always frustrating, but you need to keep things in perspective.

There’s always next time.

TOM CALLED MEbefore I left the hotel next morning. ‘The TBI have found human remains at Steeple Hill.’ He paused. ‘These haven’t been buried.’

Rather than take two cars he came to the hotel to pick me up. There was no debate this time over whether I would accompany him, only a tacit agreement that he wasn’t going to try to manage by himself. I’d wondered what sort of mood he’d be in after the night before, whether there’d be any regret over announcing his retirement. If there was he hid it well.

‘So… how are you feeling?’ I asked, as we set off.

He hunched a shoulder in a shrug. ‘Retirement won’t be the end of the world. Life goes on, doesn’t it?’

I agreed that it did.

The sun was out this time as we approached the paint-flaking gates to Steeple Hill. The thick pine woods bordering the lawns looked impenetrable, as though it were still night amongst their close-packed trunks.

Uniformed police officers stood outside the cemetery gate, barring entry to the press who had already assembled outside. Word that something had been found had obviously leaked. Coming on top of the exhumation, it had served as blood in the water to the news-hungry media. As Tom slowed down to show his ID, a photographer crouched to take a shot of us through the car window.

‘Tell him he can have my autograph for ten dollars,’ Tom grumbled, pulling inside.

We drove past the grave we’d exhumed last time and up to the main building. Steeple Hill’s chapel looked to have been built in the 1960s, when American optimism had extended even into the funeral industry. It was a cheap attempt at modernism, a flat-roofed, single-storey block that aspired to Frank Lloyd Wright but fell woefully short. The coloured glass bricks that made up one wall beside the entrance were grimy and cracked, and the proportions were wrong in a way I couldn’t quite put my finger on. A steeple was perched on top of the flat roof, looking as incongruous as a witch’s hat on a table. Mounted on its peak was a metal cross that resembled two rusty girders badly welded together.

Gardner was standing outside the chapel, talking to a group of forensic agents, their white overalls grimed and filthy. He came over when he saw us.

‘It’s round the back,’ he said without preamble.

A sudden sun-shower came from nowhere as we followed him round the side of the chapel, filling the air with silvered drops. It stopped as quickly as it started, leaving tiny rainbow prisms of light glistening on the grass and shrubs. Gardner led us down a thin gravel path that grew increasingly sparse and weed-choked the further we went. By the time we reached the tall yew hedge that screened the rear from view it was little more than a track worn in the grass.

But if the front of the chapel was run down, it was behind the hedge that Steeple Hill’s true shabbiness was revealed. An ugly, utilitarian extension backed on to an enclosed yard that was strewn with rusting tools and empty containers. Squashed cigarette stubs littered the floor near the open back door like dirty white lozenges. An air of neglect and dilapidation hung over it, and presiding over it all were the flies, weaving round in excited circles over the refuse.

‘That’s the mortuary in there,’ Gardner said, nodding towards the extension. ‘The crime scene team haven’t found anything yet, but the Environmental Protection Agency aren’t too happy about York’s housekeeping.’

The sound of raised voices came to us as we neared the doorway. Inside I could see Jacobsen, a good head smaller than the three men she was with, but with her chin lifted defiantly. I guessed two of the men were the EPA officials Gardner had mentioned. The third was York. His voice was a near shout, trembling with emotion as he stabbed a finger in the air.

‘… outrage! This is a respectable business! I will not be subjected to all sorts of insinuations—’

‘No one’s insinuating anything, sir,’ Jacobsen cut in, politely but firmly. ‘This is part of an ongoing homicide investigation, so it’s in your own interests to cooperate.’

The funeral director’s eyes were bulging. ‘Are you deaf? I’ve already told you I don’t know anything! Have you any idea of the damage this is doing my reputation?’

It was as though he didn’t see the squalor around him. He broke off mid-tirade as he noticed us passing.

‘Dr Lieberman!’ he shouted, hurrying out towards us. ‘Sir, I’d appreciate it if you’d help clear up this misunderstanding. As one professional to another, can you explain to these people that I have nothing to do with any of this?’