Simon Beckett: Whispers of the Dead

The country outside the car became more thickly wooded as we drew nearer the mountains. We drove through Pigeon Forge, a brash resort whose bars and restaurants chased along the roadside. One diner we passed was themed in a faux frontier style, right down to the plastic logs. A few miles further on we came to Gatlinburg, a tourist town whose carnival atmosphere seemed almost restrained in comparison. It had sprung up on the very edge of the mountains, and although its motels and shops clamoured for attention, they couldn’t compete with the natural grandeur that rose up ahead.

Then we left it behind and entered another world. Steep, densely forested slopes closed in around us, plunging us into shadow as the road wound through them. Part of the huge Appalachian Mountains chain, the Smokies covered eight hundred square miles and spanned the border between Tennessee and North Carolina. They’d been declared a National Park, although looking out of the car window I thought that nature was blithely unaware of such distinctions. This was a wilderness that man had even now barely scratched. Coming from a crowded island like the UK, it was impossible not to be humbled by their sheer scale.

There was less traffic now. In a few weeks it would be much busier, but this was still spring and there were hardly any other cars to be seen. After a few more miles Tom turned off on to a gravelled side road.

‘Shouldn’t be much further now.’ He checked the satnav display mounted on the dashboard, then peered up ahead. ‘Ah, here we are.’

There was a sign saying Schroeder Cabins, Nos 5–13 by a narrow track. Tom turned off on to it, the automatic transmission complaining slightly as it compensated for the gradient. Spaced well out from each other, I could make out the low-pitched roofs of cabins set back amongst the trees.

Police cars and unmarked vehicles I took to belong to the TBI lined both sides of the track ahead of us. As we approached, a uniformed police officer strode to block our way, hand resting lightly on the gun holstered on his belt.

Tom stopped and wound down the window, but the officer didn’t give him time to speak.

‘Sir, you cain’t come up here. Y’all have to back up and leave.’

The accent was pure deep south, his politeness like a weapon in itself, implacable and unyielding. Tom gave him an easy smile.

‘That’s all right. Can you tell Dan Gardner that Tom Lieberman’s here?’

The uniformed officer moved away a few paces and spoke into his radio. Whatever he heard reassured him.

‘’Kay. Park up there with the rest of the vehicles.’

Tom did as he was told. The nervousness I’d been feeling had solidified into a definite unease as we parked. I told myself that a few butterflies were understandable; I was still rusty from my convalescence, and I hadn’t banked on working on an actual murder investigation. But I knew that didn’t really account for it, even so.

‘You sure it’s all right my being here?’ I asked. ‘I don’t want to tread on anyone’s toes.’

Tom didn’t seem concerned. ‘Don’t worry. Anyone asks, you’re with me.’

We climbed out of the car. After the city, the air smelled fresh and clean, rich with the outdoor scents of wildflowers and loam.

Late afternoon sunlight dappled through the branches, picking out the coiled green buds like fat emeralds. This high up, and in the shade of the trees, it was quite cool, which made the appearance of the man walking towards us even stranger. He was wearing a suit and tie, but the jacket was slung over one arm, and his pale blue shirt was stained dark with perspiration. His face was flushed and red as he shook Tom’s hand.

‘Thanks for coming. Wasn’t sure if you were still on vacation.’

‘Not any more.’ Tom and Mary had only returned from Florida the week before I’d arrived. He’d told me he’d never been so bored in his life. ‘Dan, I’d like you to meet Dr David Hunter. He’s visiting the facility. I said it’d be OK for him to come along.’

It wasn’t quite phrased as a question. The man turned to me. I’d have put him just the far side of fifty, his weathered, careworn face lined with deep creases. The greying hair was cut short, with a side parting that might have been drawn with a ruler.

He extended his hand. His grip was tight enough to be a challenge, the skin of his palm dry and calloused.

‘Dan Gardner, Assistant Special Agent in Charge. Pleased t’meet you.’

I guessed the title was the equivalent of Senior Investigating Officer in the UK. He spoke with the distinctive twang of Tennessee, but the easygoing manner was deceptive. His eyes were sharp and appraising. Reserving judgement.

‘So, what have you got?’ Tom asked, reaching in the back of the station wagon for his case.

‘Here, let me,’ I said, lifting it out for him. Scar or no, I was in better shape than Tom to carry it. For once he didn’t argue.

The TBI agent started back up the trail into the trees. ‘Body’s in a rental cabin. Manager found it this morning.’

‘Definitely homicide?’

‘Oh, yeah.’

He didn’t enlarge. Tom gave him a curious glance but didn’t press. ‘Any ID?’

‘Got a man’s wallet with credit cards and a driver’s licence, but we can’t say for sure if they’re the victim’s. Body’s too far gone for the photograph to be any use.’

‘Any idea how long it might have been here?’ I asked without thinking.

Gardner frowned, and I reminded myself I was only here to help Tom. ‘I was kind of hoping you’d be able to tell us that,’ the TBI agent answered, though to Tom rather than me. ‘The pathologist’s still here, but he can’t tell us much.’

‘Who’s the pathologist? Scott?’ Tom asked.

‘No, Hicks.’

‘Ah.’

There was a wealth of meaning in the way Tom said it, none of it complimentary. But right then I was more concerned with the way he was starting to labour a little on the uphill trail.

‘Just a second,’ I said. I set down his case and pretended to fasten my boot. Gardner looked irritated, but Tom drew in relieved breaths, making a show of wiping his glasses. He looked pointedly at the way the agent’s shirt was darkened with perspiration.

‘Hope you don’t mind my asking, Dan, but are you all right? You seem… well, a little feverish.’

Gardner looked down at his damp shirt as though he’d only just noticed. ‘Let’s just say it’s kinda hot in there. You’ll see.’

We set off again. The trail levelled out as the woods parted to reveal a small, grassy clearing, paved with a gravel path clogged with weeds. Other paths forked off from it, all of them running to cabins barely visible amongst the trees. The one we were heading for was at the furthermost edge of the clearing, well away from the others. It was small, the outside clad in weather-faded timber. Bright yellow tape declaring POLICE LINE, DO NOT CROSS in bold black capitals had been strung across the path leading to its door, and there was the usual bustle of activity around it.

This was the first crime scene I’d attended in the US. In most regards it was the same as I was used to, but the subtle differences gave it an unreal quality. A group of TBI forensic agents in white overalls were standing by the cabin, their faces flushed and sweating as they drank thirstily from bottles of water. Gardner led us to where a young woman in a smart business suit was talking with an overweight man whose bald head shone like a polished egg. He was completely hairless, without even eyebrows or eyelashes. It gave him a look that was both newborn and slightly reptilian.

He turned as we approached, thin mouth splitting in a smile when he saw Tom. But it was a humourless one.

‘Wondered when you’d show up, Lieberman.’