Simon Beckett - Whispers of the Dead

‘I kind of guessed that.’

I’d been relieved to see he looked much better when he’d returned to the cabin. The rest of the work had gone smoothly enough. We’d photographed and sketched the position of the body, then taken tissue samples. By analysing the amino and volatile fatty acids released as the cells broke down we’d be able to narrow the time since death to within twelve hours. At the moment everything pointed to the victim’s being dead for at least six days, and very possibly seven. Yet according to Gardner the cabin had only been occupied for five. Something wasn’t right, and although I might have lost confidence in my own abilities, I was certain of one thing.

Nature didn’t lie.

I realized Tom was waiting for me to respond. ‘I didn’t exactly cover myself in glory back there, did I?’

‘Don’t be too hard on yourself. Everyone makes mistakes.’

‘Not like that. It made me look like an amateur. I wasn’t thinking.’

‘C’mon, David, it wasn’t such a big deal. Besides, you might still be right. There’s something skewed about the time since death. Maybe the victim was already dead when he was taken to the cabin. The body could have been tied to the table to make it look like he’d been killed there.’

Much as I’d have liked to believe that, I couldn’t see it. ‘That would mean the entire crime scene was staged, including the blood on the floor. And anyone clever enough to make it as convincing as that would know it wouldn’t fool us for long. So what would be the point?’

Tom had no answer to that. The road marched between silent walls of trees, their branches picked out starkly in the headlights.

‘What did you make of Irving’s theory?’ he asked after a while.

‘You mean this being the start of a serial spree, or that it was sexually motivated?’

‘Both.’

‘He could be right about it being a serial killer,’ I said. Most murderers tried to conceal their crimes, hiding their victims’ bodies rather than leaving them on display. This smacked of a very different sort of killer, with a very different agenda.

‘And the rest?’

‘I don’t know. I’m sure Irving’s good at what he does, but…’ I gave a shrug. ‘Well, I thought he was too eager to jump to conclusions. It seemed to me like he was seeing what he wanted to rather than what was actually there.’

‘People who don’t understand what we do might think the same about us.’

‘At least what we do is based on hard evidence. Irving seemed to me to be speculating an awful lot.’

‘Are you saying you never listen to your instincts?’

‘I might listen, but I wouldn’t let them get in the way of the facts. Neither would you.’

He smiled. ‘I seem to recall that we’ve had this discussion before. And no, of course I’m not saying we should rely on instinct too much. But used judiciously it’s another tool at our disposal. The brain’s a mysterious organ; sometimes it makes connections we’re not consciously aware of. You’ve got good instincts, David. You should learn to trust them more.’

After my blunder in the cabin that was the last thing I wanted to do. But I wasn’t going to let this turn into a discussion about me. ‘Irving’s whole approach was subjective. He seemed too keen for the killer to be a repressed homosexual, something nice and sensational. I got the impression he was already planning his next paper.’

Tom gave a laugh. ‘More likely his next book. He made the bestseller charts a couple of years ago, and since then he’s been a head for hire for any TV company that’ll pay his fees. The man’s a shameless self-promoter, but in fairness he has had some good results.’

‘And I bet they’re the only ones anyone hears about.’

Tom’s glasses caught the reflection from the headlights as he gave me a sideways glance. ‘You sound very cynical these days.’

‘I’m just tired. Don’t pay any attention.’

Tom turned back to the road. I could almost feel the question coming. ‘This is none of my business, but what happened with the girl you were seeing? Jenny, wasn’t it? I haven’t wanted to mention it before, but…’

‘It’s over.’

The words seemed to have an awful finality to them, one that still didn’t seem to apply to me and Jenny.

‘Because of what happened to you?’

‘That was part of it.’ That and other things. Because you put your work first. Because you were nearly killed. Because she didn’t want to sit at home any more, wondering if it was going to happen again.

‘I’m sorry,’ Tom said.

I nodded, staring dead ahead. So am I.

The indicator clicked as he turned off on to another road. This one seemed even darker than the last.

‘So how long have you had a heart problem?’ I asked.

Tom said nothing for a second, then gave a snort. ‘I keep forgetting about that damn medical background of yours.’

‘What is it, angina?’

‘So they say. But I’m fine, it’s not serious.’

It had looked serious enough to me that afternoon. I thought about all the other times I’d seen him having to stop to catch his breath since I’d arrived. I should have realized sooner. If I hadn’t been so wrapped up in my own problems perhaps I would.

‘You should be taking it easy, not trekking up hillsides,’ I told him.

‘I’m not about to start babying myself,’ he said irritably. ‘I’m on medication, it’s under control.’

I didn’t believe him, but I knew when to back off. We drove in silence for a while, both of us aware of things left unsaid. The inside of the station wagon was lit up as another car came up behind us, its headlights dazzlingly bright.

‘So how do you feel about lending me a hand with the examination tomorrow?’ Tom asked.

The body was going to be taken to the morgue at UT Medical Center in Knoxville. As a visual ID was out of the question, trying to identify the body was a priority. The Forensic Anthropology Center had its own lab facilities—bizarrely based at Neyland sports stadium in Knoxville—but they were more often used for research rather than actual homicide investigations. The TBI also had its own facilities in Nashville, but the UTMC morgue was more convenient in this instance. Normally, I would have jumped at the opportunity to help Tom, but now I hesitated.

‘I’m not sure I’m up to it.’

‘Bullshit,’ Tom said, uncharacteristically blunt. He gave a sigh. ‘Look, David, you’ve had a tough time lately, I know that. But you came over here to get back on your feet, and I can’t think of a better way to do it.’

‘What about Gardner?’ I hedged.

‘Dan’s a little prickly with people he doesn’t know sometimes, but he appreciates talent as much as anyone. Besides, I don’t have to ask his permission to get someone to help me. I’d normally use one of my students, but I’d rather have you there. Unless you don’t want to work with me, of course.’

I didn’t know what I wanted, but I could hardly turn him down. ‘If you’re sure, then thanks.’

Satisfied, he turned his attention back to the road ahead. Suddenly, the inside of the car was flooded with light as the car behind us closed the gap. Tom squinted as its headlights dazzled him in the rearview mirror. They were only a few feet away, high and bright enough to suggest they belonged to either a pick-up or a small truck.

Tom clicked his tongue in annoyance. ‘What the hell’s this idiot doing?’

He slowed, pulling over to the side of the road to let the other car pass. But its headlights slowed as well, remaining right behind us.

‘Fine, you’ve had your chance,’ Tom muttered, speeding up again.

The headlights kept pace with us, staying just behind the station wagon. I twisted round, trying to see what was following us. But the glare rendered everything through the rear window invisible, prevented me from making anything out.