Simon Beckett: Whispers of the Dead

‘Family business?’

‘His uncle owned a small slaughterhouse. They specialized in pork.’

I shut my eyes. Pigs.

‘His aunt was his last remaining relative, and she died years ago,’ Jacobsen went on. ‘Natural causes, so far as we can tell. But you can probably guess where she and the uncle were buried.’

There was only one place, really.

Steeple Hill.

Jacobsen also gave me one other piece of information. When Wayne Peters’s medical records were examined, it was found that as a teenager he’d had several operations to remove nasal polyps. They’d been successful, but the repeated cauterizations had resulted in a condition known as anosmia. Insignificant in itself, it answered the question Gardner had raised in the spa at Cedar Heights.

Wayne Peters had no sense of smell.

The recovery operation at the sanitarium was still going on, the grounds being dug up to ensure no more victims’ remains were concealed. But my own role there had ended after that first day. By then not only had other faculty members from the Forensic Anthropology Center joined the effort, but the scale of the operation meant that the regional DMORT—Disaster Mortuary Operational Response Team—had also been called in. They’d arrived with a fully equipped portable morgue unit, and less than twenty-four hours after Paul and I had first climbed through its fence, the sanitarium and its grounds swarmed with activity.

I’d been politely thanked for my help and told I’d be contacted if my presence was required beyond the statement I’d already given. As I’d been driven through the ranks of TV and press vehicles camped beyond the sanitarium’s gates, I’d felt both relief and regret. It felt wrong leaving an investigation like that, but then I reminded myself that it wasn’t really my investigation.

It never had been.

I’d been prepared to either extend my stay in Tennessee for Tom’s memorial service, or even fly back for it later if I had to. But in the end there had been no need. Regardless of what factors had contributed to it, Tom had died in hospital of natural causes, and so the formality of an inquest had been avoided. I was glad for Mary’s sake, even though it left a sense of unfinished business. But then what death doesn’t?

There had been no funeral. Tom had donated his body for medical research, though not at the facility. That would have been too disturbing for his colleagues. Mary had been dignified and dry-eyed at the service, standing beside a plump middle-aged man in an immaculate suit I didn’t at first realize was their son. He carried himself with the faintly irritable air of a man who had better things to do, and when I was introduced to him afterwards his handshake was limp and grudging.

‘You work in insurance, don’t you?’ I said.

‘Actually, I’m an underwriter.’ I wasn’t sure what the distinction was but it didn’t seem worth asking. I tried again.

‘Are you staying in town long?’

He looked at his watch, frowning as though he were already late. ‘No, I’m catching a flight back to New York this afternoon. I’ve had to reschedule meetings as it is. This came at a really bad time.’

I bit off the retort I’d been about to make, reminding myself that whatever else he might be, he was still Tom and Mary’s son. As I walked away he was looking at his watch again.

Gardner and Jacobsen had both attended the ceremony. Jacobsen had returned to work already, the dressing on her shoulder all but invisible under her jacket. Gardner was still technically on sick leave. He’d suffered a transient ischaemic attack—a mini-stroke—from being held for so long in the chokehold. It had left him with slight aphasia and loss of sensation on one side, but only temporarily. When I saw him the only noticeable after-effect was a deepening of the corduroy-like lines in his face.

‘I’m fine,’ he told me, a little stiffly, when I asked how he was. ‘There’s no reason I can’t work now. Damn doctors.’

Jacobsen looked as pristine and untouchable as ever. Except for slightly favouring her left arm no one would have known she’d been shot.

‘I heard a rumour that she’s up for a commendation,’ I said to Gardner, while she was offering her condolences to Mary.

‘It’s under review.’

‘For my money she deserves one.’

He unbent a little. ‘Mine too, for what it’s worth.’

I watched as Jacobsen spoke solemnly to Mary. The line of her throat was lovely. Gardner cleared his throat.

‘Diane’s still getting over a tough time. She broke up with her partner last year.’

It was the first hint of a personal life I’d had about her. I was surprised he’d offered the information.

‘Was he a TBI agent as well?’

Gardner busied himself brushing something from the lapel of his creased jacket.

‘No. She was a lawyer.’

Before they left, Jacobsen came over to say goodbye. Her grip was strong, the skin dry and warm as she shook my hand. The grey eyes seemed a little warmer than they had, but perhaps that was my imagination. The last I saw of her she was walking back to the car with Gardner, graceful and athletic beside the older agent’s crumpled figure.

The ceremony itself was simple and moving. There had been no hymns, only two of Tom’s favourite jazz tracks to start and close: Chet Baker’s ‘My Funny Valentine’ and Brubeck’s ‘Take Five’. I’d smiled when I’d heard that. In between had been readings from friends and colleagues, but at one point the solemnity was broken by a baby’s crying. Thomas Paul Avery howled lustily, despite his mother’s best efforts to calm him.

No one minded.

He’d been born not long after Sam arrived at hospital, perfectly healthy and squalling his annoyance at the world. Sam’s blood pressure had caused the doctors some concern at first, but it had returned to normal with remarkable speed after the birth. Within two days she’d been back at home, still pale and hollow-eyed when I’d visited, but with no other visible signs of her ordeal.

‘It seems more like a bad dream than anything else,’ she admitted, when Thomas had fallen asleep after nursing. ‘It’s like a curtain’s been pulled across it. Paul’s worried I’m in denial, but I’m not. It’s more like what happened afterwards is more important, you know?’ She’d been gazing down at her son’s wrinkled pink face, but now she looked up at me with a smile so open it broke my heart. ‘It’s like all the bad doesn’t matter. It’s wiped everything else out.’

Of the two of them, Paul seemed to be finding it harder to deal with what had happened. In the days immediately afterwards, there was often a shadow in his face. It didn’t take a psychologist to know he was reliving the ordeal, still cut by how close they’d come, and what might have been. But whenever he was with his wife and son the shadow would lift. It was still early days, but looking at the three of them together I felt sure the wounds would heal.

They usually do, given time.

My tea had gone cold. With a sigh I stood up and went to the phone to play back my messages.

‘Dr Hunter, you don’t know me, but I was given your number by DSI Wallace. My name is—’

The sound of the doorbell drowned out the rest. I paused the playback and went to answer it. The last of the daylight filled the small entrance hall with a golden glow, like a forerunner of summer. I reached out to open the front door and was overwhelmed by a swooping sense of déjá vu. A young woman in sunglasses stands outside in the sunlit evening. Her smile turns into a snarl as she reaches into her bag and pulls out the knife…

I shook my head, scattering the images. Squaring my shoulders, I unlocked the front door and threw it wide open.