Simon Beckett: Whispers of the Dead

‘Just as soon as I got the call, Donald,’ Tom said.

‘Surprised you needed one. Y’all could smell this one all the way to Knoxville.’

He chuckled, unperturbed that no one else seemed to find the joke funny. I guessed that this was Hicks, the pathologist Gardner had mentioned. The young woman he’d been talking to was slim, with the compact athleticism of a gymnast. She held herself with an almost military bearing, a look emphasized by the navy blue jacket and skirt and short-cropped dark hair. She wore no make-up, but didn’t need it. Only her mouth let down the clinical appearance; full and curving, the lips hinted at a sensuality the rest of her seemed at pains to deny.

Her grey eyes settled on me briefly, expressionless but coldly assessing. Against the lightly tanned skin of her face, the whites seemed to shine with health.

Gardner made quick introductions. ‘Tom, this is Diane Jacobsen. She’s just joined the Field Investigations Unit. This is her first homicide, and I’ve been giving you and the facility a big boost, so don’t let me down.’

She extended her hand, apparently unmoved by Gardner’s attempt at humour. Tom’s warm smile was met with the barest one of her own. I wasn’t sure if the reserve was natural or if she was just trying too hard to be professional.

Hicks’s mouth twitched with annoyance as he watched Tom. He realized I was looking at him, and jerked his chin irritably in my direction.

‘Who’s this?’

He spoke as though I wasn’t there. ‘I’m David Hunter,’ I said, even though the question hadn’t been addressed to me. Somehow I knew there was no point in offering my hand.

‘David’s temporarily working with us out at the facility. He’s kindly agreed to help me,’ Tom said. ‘Working with’ was overstating it, but I wasn’t going to quibble over the white lie.

‘He’s British?’ Hicks exclaimed, picking up on my accent. I could feel my face burning as the young woman’s cool stare settled on me again. ‘You’re letting tourists here now, Gardner?’

I’d known my presence might raise a few hackles, just as a stranger’s would in a UK inquiry, but his attitude irked me all the same. Reminding myself I was Tom’s guest, I bit back my response. Gardner himself looked far from happy as Tom cut in.

‘Dr Hunter’s here on my invitation. He’s one of the top forensic anthropologists in the UK.’

Hicks gave an incredulous snort. ‘You mean we don’t have enough of our own?’

‘I mean I value his expertise,’ Tom said easily. ‘Now, if we’re done here, I’d like to make a start.’

Hicks shrugged with exaggerated politeness. ‘Go ahead. Believe me, you’re welcome to this one.’

He stalked off back towards the parked cars. Leaving the two TBI agents outside the cabin, Tom and I headed for a trestle table where boxes of disposable overalls, gloves, boots and masks had been set. I waited until we were out of earshot.

‘Look, Tom, perhaps this isn’t such a good idea. I’ll wait in the car.’

He smiled. ‘Don’t mind Hicks. He works out of the morgue at UT Medical Center, so we cross paths occasionally. He hates having to defer to us in situations like this. Partly professional jealousy, but mainly because the man’s an asshole.’

I knew he was trying to put me at ease, but I still felt uncomfortable. I was used to being at crime scenes, but I was acutely aware that I didn’t belong at this one.

‘I don’t know…’ I began.

‘It isn’t a problem, David. You’ll be doing me a favour. Really.’

I let it go, but my doubts remained. I knew I should be grateful to Tom, that few British forensic experts ever get the opportunity to work a crime scene in the States. But for some reason I felt more nervous than ever. I couldn’t even blame Hicks’s hostility; I’d put up with a lot worse in my time. No, this was about me. At some point in the last few months I seemed to have lost my confidence along with everything else.

Come on, get a grip. You can’t let Tom down.

Gardner came over to the trestle table as we were ripping open the plastic bags of overalls.

‘You might want to strip down to your shorts under those. Pretty hot in there.’

Tom gave a snort. ‘I haven’t undressed in public since I was at school. I don’t aim to start now.’

Gardner swatted at an insect buzzing round his face. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

I didn’t share Tom’s modesty, but I followed his example all the same. I felt enough out of place as it was, without stripping down to my boxers in front of everyone. Besides, it was only spring, and the sun was already starting to go down. How hot could it be in the cabin?

Gardner rummaged amongst the boxes until he found a jar of menthol rub. He smeared a thick dab under his nose, then offered it to Tom.

‘You’ll need this.’

Tom declined. ‘No thanks. My sense of smell isn’t what it used to be.’

Gardner silently held out the jar to me. Normally I didn’t use it either. Like Tom I was no stranger to the odour of decomposition, and after spending the past week at the facility I’d become well and truly acclimatized to it. But I still accepted the jar, wiping the scented Vaseline on my top lip. My eyes instantly watered from the pungent vapour. I took a deep breath, trying to still my jangling nerves. What the hell’s wrong with you? You’re acting like this is your first time.

The sun was warm on my back as I waited for Tom to get ready. Low and dazzling, it brushed the tops of the trees as it made its slow descent into evening. It would come up again in the morning no matter what happened here, I reminded myself.

Tom finished zipping up his overalls and gave a cheery smile. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got.’

Pulling on our latex gloves, we walked up the overgrown path to the cabin.

THE CABIN DOORwas closed. Gardner paused outside. He’d left his jacket with the boxes of overalls, and had put on a pair of plastic overshoes and gloves. Now he slipped on a white surgical mask. I saw him take a deep breath before he opened the door and we went inside.

I’ve seen human bodies in most states of death. I know how bad the different stages of putrefaction smell, can even differentiate between them. I’ve encountered bodies that have been burned to the bone, that have been reduced to soap-like slime after weeks underwater. None are pleasant, but it’s an inevitable part of my work, and one I thought I was inured to.

But I’d never experienced anything like this. The stench was almost tangible. The nauseatingly sweet, bad-cheese stench of decomposing flesh seemed to have been distilled and concentrated, cutting through the menthol under my nose as though it wasn’t there. The cabin was alive with flies, swirling excitedly around us, but they were almost incidental compared to the heat.

The inside of the cabin was like a sauna.

Tom grimaced. ‘Good God…’

‘Told you to wear shorts,’ Gardner said.

The room was small and sparsely furnished. Several of the forensic team had broken off what they were doing to glance over as we’d gone in. Shuttered blinds had been pulled up to allow daylight in through the windows on either side of the door. The floor was black-painted boards covered with threadbare rugs. A pair of dusty antlers hung over a fireplace on one wall, while a stained sink, cooker and fridge stood against another. The rest of the furniture— TV, sofa and armchairs—had been roughly pushed to the sides, leaving the centre of the room clear, except for a small dining table.

The body was lying on it.

It was naked, spread-eagled on its back, arms and legs draped over the table edges. Swollen by gases, the torso resembled an overstuffed kitbag that had burst open. Maggots dripped from it to the floor, so many of them that they looked like boiling milk. An electric radiator stood next to the table, all three of its bars shimmering yellow. As I watched, a maggot dropped on to one of them and disappeared in a fat sizzle.