Simon Beckett - Whispers of the Dead

Gardner was outside the front door, talking to a grey-haired woman in white overalls. He was wearing overshoes and gloves, and though he gave me a glance as I approached he didn’t break off his conversation.

I stood at the bottom of the path and waited.

With a last terse instruction to the white-clad agent, Gardner finally turned to me. Neither of us spoke. His displeasure was almost palpable, but whatever he was thinking he kept to himself. He gave me a curt nod.

‘It’s upstairs.’

The house had the typical upside-down design of its style and era, so that the bedrooms were downstairs and the living quarters on the first floor. The once white walls and ceilings had been stained a dirty yellow by decades of cigarette smoke, and the same ochre patina clung to the doors and furniture like grease. Underlying the pervasive stink of stale tobacco was a musty smell of old carpets and unwashed sheets.

The sense of neglect and dilapidation was made worse by the turmoil of the search that was under way. Forensic agents were poring through drawers and cupboards, pulling out the detritus of York’s life for examination. I felt their eyes on me as we went upstairs. There was an air of anticipation that I recognized from other crime scenes when a significant find had been made, but there was also open curiosity.

Word of my reinstatement had obviously got around.

Gardner led me up a staircase whose corners were felted with dust. The whole upper floor was open-plan, with kitchen, dining and living areas all combined. Most of the fittings looked original: partition shelf units and frosted glass cupboards straight from a 1950s advert for the domestic American dream.

But the furniture was a mishmash from the intervening decades. A rusted fridge hummed loudly in the kitchen, while an imitation chandelier with candle-shaped lightbulbs hung over a scuffed dining table and chairs in the dinette. An overstuffed leather armchair sat in the centre of the living area, its split cushions patched with peeling electrical tape. Positioned in front of it was a huge flat screen TV, the only recent piece of furniture I’d seen.

There were more forensic agents busy up here. The house was in chaos, though it was hard to say how much was due to the search and what was the result of York’s personal habits. Clothes were strewn about, and boxes of junk and old magazines had been pulled out of cupboards. But the sink and breakfast bar were invisible beneath dirty dishes, and crusted cartons of takeaway food lay where York must have dropped them.

Several of the search team broke off what they were doing to watch as Gardner led me across the room. I recognized the bulky form of Jerry on his hands and knees on the floor, poring through the drawers of a battered sideboard. He raised a gloved hand in greeting.

‘Hi, doc.’ The jowls of his face wobbled round his mask as he energetically chewed gum. ‘Nice place, huh? And you should see his film collection. Porn paradise, all alphabetically listed. Guy really needs to get out more.’

Gardner had gone over to an alcove near the sink. ‘So long as it’s all still there when you’re done.’ There were chuckles, but I wasn’t sure if he was joking. ‘Through here.’

A walk-in cupboard was set in the alcove, its door wedged open. Its contents had been pulled out and lay spread around: boxes of chipped crockery, a plastic bucket with a split in its side, a broken vacuum cleaner. An agent knelt by a cardboard box of old photographic equipment: a worn SLR camera that had obviously seen better days, an old-fashioned flash unit and light meter, old photographic magazines, their pages faded and curling.

A yard or two away, isolated from the rest of the junk in a cleared space on the dusty linoleum, was a battered suitcase.

The lid was down but gaping, as though whatever was inside was too big for it to lie flat. Gardner looked down at it, making no attempt to approach too closely.

‘We found it in the cupboard. Once we saw what was inside we left it alone until someone could take a look at it.’

The suitcase seemed too small to contain a human being. At least not an adult, but I knew that didn’t mean anything. Years before I’d been called out to examine a grown man’s body that had been crammed into a hold all even smaller than this. The limbs had been folded back on themselves, the bones broken and compacted into a shape no living contortionist could hope to achieve.

I squatted down beside it. The brown leather was scuffed and worn, but without the mould or staining I’d have expected if the remains had decomposed inside. That fitted with what Jacobsen had said about them not being recent.

‘Can I take a look?’ I asked Gardner.

‘That’s why you’re here.’

Ignoring the acid in his voice I reached for the lid, conscious of everyone watching as I lifted it open.

The suitcase was full of bones. One glance was enough to confirm that they were human. There was what looked like an entire ribcage, against which a skull had been wedged, the mandible still connected so that it bore the hallmark grin. Looking at it, I wondered if Jacobsen’s words in the restaurant had been intentional: No skeletons in his closet that we could find.

They’d found one now.

The bones were the same tobacco colour as the walls, although I didn’t think cigarette smoke was responsible this time. They were clean, without any trace of soft tissue. I leaned closer and sniffed, but there was no real odour beyond the musty leather of the suitcase.

I picked up a rib that lay on the top. It was curved like a miniature bow. In one or two places I could see translucent flakes peeling away from the surface, like tiny fish scales.

‘Any word yet on York?’ I asked, as I examined it.

‘We’re still looking.’

‘You think he left of his own accord?’

‘If you mean was he abducted like Irving the answer’s no. Irving didn’t take his car or pack a suitcase before he disappeared,’ Gardner said tersely. ‘Now what can you tell me about these?’

I put the rib back down and took out the skull. The bones chimed together with almost musical notes as they shifted.

‘They’re female,’ I told him, turning the skull in my hand. ‘The bone structure’s too delicate for a man. And she didn’t die recently.’

‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

‘OK,’ I agreed. ‘For a start she wasn’t murdered.’

It was as though I’d suggested the earth was flat. ‘What?’

‘This isn’t a murder victim,’ I repeated. ‘Look at how yellowed the bones are. This is old. Four or five decades at least. Perhaps more. You can see where it’s been coated with some kind of stabilizer that’s starting to flake off. I’m pretty certain it’s shellac, which hasn’t been used for years. And look at this…’

I showed him a small, neat hole drilled in the crown of the skull.

‘That’s where some sort of fixing used to be, so it could be hung up. Chances are this came from some lab or belonged to a medical student. Nowadays plastic models are used rather than actual skeletons, but you still come across real ones occasionally.’

‘It’s a medical skeleton?’ Gardner glared down at it. ‘What the hell is it doing here?’

I set the skull back in the suitcase. ‘York said his father founded Steeple Hill back in the fifties. Perhaps it belonged to him. It’s certainly old enough.’

‘Goddammit.’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘I’d still like Paul Avery to take a look.’

‘Whatever you like.’

I don’t think Gardner even realized the implied slight. With a last disgusted look at the suitcase, he headed for the stairs. Closing the suitcase lid, I followed him.

‘Bye, doc,’ Jerry said, jaw still working. ‘Another wasted trip, huh?’