Simon Beckett - The Chemistry of Death

'I know, I know, it's just…' His expression darkened. 'That bloody policeman. The way he looked at me last night. Spoke to me, like I was some… some senile old fool! I know I made a mistake; I should have checked the locks. But to have someone patronize me like that…'

He stared down at his legs, mouth tightening.

'It gets frustrating sometimes. Feeling helpless. Sometimes you feel you've just got to do something, you know?'

I looked at the flat, deserted expanse of the lake. There wasn't another soul to be seen. 'What if you'd fallen in?'

'Then I'd have put everyone out of their misery, wouldn't I?' He glanced up at me and gave a sardonic grin, looking more like himself. 'Don't look at me like that. I'm not planning on topping myself just yet. I've made a big enough fool of myself for one day.'

He pushed himself upright, grimacing with the effort.

'Help me back into that bloody chair, will you?'

I got my hands under him, supporting his weight as he levered himself back into the wheelchair. It was a sign of how tired he was that he made no objection when I pushed him back to the house. I was already late for the lab, but I stayed long enough to make him some tea, and to satisfy myself he was all right.

He yawned and rubbed his eyes as I stood up to leave. 'I'd better get myself ready. Morning surgery starts in half an hour.'

'Not today. You're in no condition to work. You need to get some sleep.'

He cocked an eyebrow. 'Doctor's orders, is it?'

'If you like.'

'What about the patients?'

'Janice can let them know it's cancelled this morning. If it's urgent they can call the out-of-hours service.'

For once he didn't argue. Now that the frustration had left him, he looked drained.

'Look, David… You won't tell anyone about this, will you?'

'Of course not.'

He nodded, relieved. 'Good. I feel stupid enough as it is.'

'There's no need.'

I was at the door when he called me back.

'David…' He paused, embarrassed. 'Thank you.'

His gratitude didn't make me feel any better. As I drove to the lab I was uncomfortably aware of how much extra pressure I'd placed him under lately. I'd been taking him for granted, not only in terms of the practice but in other ways as well. I wished now I'd made the effort to go out with him on the lake, or just spend more time with him. But I'd been so wrapped up with the investigation, and even more so with Jenny, that I hadn't spared much thought for Henry.

That would change, I resolved. I'd done nearly as much as I could in the lab. Once I'd given Mackenzie my findings it would be down to the police to try and make some use of what I'd told them, and I'd be able to make amends for my recent neglect. After today, I told myself, my life would be back to normal.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

After the turmoil of the past twelve hours it was almost a relief to get back into the clinical sanctuary of the lab. Here, at least, I was on surer footing. The results of the analyses had come back, confirming what I'd guessed already. Lyn Metcalf had been dead for approximately six days, meaning her killer had kept her alive for whatever unholy reason for nearly three before slitting her throat. That was the wound that had killed her. Like Sally Palmer, the desiccated state of her body revealed that she'd bled out. And the low iron content of the soil around the body again showed that her death had taken place somewhere else, her body taken to the marsh and dumped afterwards.

Also, as with Sally Palmer, there had been nothing found at the site to indicate who might have done this to her. The ground was baked too hard to yield footprints, and except for the rope fibres caught on her broken fingernails there was no trace evidence, no forensic clues left as to the killer's identity.

But that was for someone else to worry about. My own contribution was almost finished. I took final casts of the cervical vertebrae that had been cut by the knife, more certain than ever that the two women had been killed by the same weapon. After that there was nothing more to do but clean up. Marina asked if I wanted to have lunch to mark the occasion, but I declined. I still hadn't had a chance to talk to Jenny, and all at once I couldn't wait.

I rang her as soon as Marina had left. As I waited for her to answer my excitement was so keen it hurt.

'Sorry,' she said, out of breath. 'Tina's out and I was in the garden.'

'So, how are you?' I asked. I felt suddenly nervous. I'd been so busy contemplating my own navel I'd not stopped to consider what conclusions she might have reached herself about our relationship.

'I'm OK, but how are you? Everyone's talking about what happened at the surgery last night. You weren't hurt, were you?'

'No, I'm fine. It was worse for Henry.'

'God, when I heard I thought… well, I was worried.'

It had never occurred to me that she might be. I wasn't used to having to consider anyone else. 'Sorry. I should have called earlier.'

'It's all right. I'm just glad you're OK. I would have called you, but…' I tensed as she paused. Here it comes. 'Look, I know we said we were going to take a couple of days, but… Well, I'd really like to see you. If you want to, I mean.'

I found myself grinning. 'I want to.'

'You're sure?'

'I'm certain.'

We both laughed. 'God, this is ridiculous. I feel like a teenager,' she said.

'Me too.' I glanced at my watch. Ten past one. I could be back in Manham by two, and evening surgery wasn't until four. 'I could come round now, if you like.'

'OK.' She sounded shy, but I could hear the smile in her voice. A two-note chime sounded in the background. 'Hang on a sec, someone's at the door.'

I heard her put the receiver down. I leaned on the edge of the workbench, an idiot grin still on my face as I waited for her to pick it up again. To hell with giving ourselves space. All I knew was that I wanted to be with her right now, more than anything I'd wanted in a long time. I could hear the radio playing in the background as I waited. It was longer than I'd expected before I heard the phone being picked up again.

'Milkman?' I joked.

There was no answer. I could hear someone breathing at the other end. Deep and slightly rushed, as though after some exertion.

'Jenny?' I said, uncertainly.

Nothing. The breathing continued for one, two beats. Then there was a soft click as the other person hung up.

I stared stupidly at the receiver, then fumblingly redialled. Answer. Please, answer. But the phone rang on and on.

As I broke the connection and started to call Mackenzie, I was already running to the car.

It wasn't hard to guess what had happened. The house itself told the story. On the same rickety table where we'd had the barbecue was a half-eaten sandwich, already curling in the heat. Next to it a radio played indifferently. The door that led from the kitchen into the back garden stood wide open, bead curtain swaying from the passage of police officers. Inside, the coconut doormat had been kicked up against a kitchen cabinet, while the telephone receiver sat in the cradle where somebody had replaced it.

But of Jenny there was no sign.

The police hadn't wanted to let me in when I'd arrived. They'd already cordoned off the house, and a gaggle of children and neighbours stared solemnly from the street as the uniforms came in and out. A young constable, eyes darting nervously over the paddock and fields, blocked my path as I approached the gate. He refused to listen, but then the state I was in didn't exactly work in my favour. It was only when Mackenzie arrived, holding up his hands to calm me, that I was let in.

'Don't touch anything,' he told me, unnecessarily, as we went into the house.