Hilary Bonner - When the Dead Cry Out

She glanced at Cooper. He was in somewhat better shape than she had on several occasions seen him following an autopsy. Karen had learned to harden her heart and soul concerning post-mortem examinations. She never flinched, whatever gory business was being conducted on the mortician’s table. Phil Cooper was often unable to conceal how much the proceedings affected him. The burly rugby-playing policeman was known to be a bit of a softy and he had a very human side when it came to watching corpses being carved into and dismembered.

But this autopsy had not been like that. The dead body was just a pile of decaying old bones. There was no emotion to cloud the judgment of the two police officers. No nasty retching feelings in the stomach to control. Nothing to stand in the way of an analytical assessment of the known facts, of solid methodical policing, in fact. Except of course the legacy of the past, thought Karen.

“So shall I do that, then, boss?”

Phil Cooper’s voice came from the distance. Karen realized she hadn’t heard a word he’d said.

“Do what, Phil?”

“Get Search and Recovery down there, the dive team. See what else they can come up with. Maybe they can find some teeth for us. Maybe there are signs of another body.”

Cooper was ahead of her. He may not have been around back in the seventies, but he knew all about the Marshall case. He, too, would have been wondering if they had finally found the body of Clara Marshall. And, if so, had her children been dumped in the sea with her? And was it stretching probability too much to consider that their remains, too, might have been protected in such a way within the sunken German U-boat?

“Yes, Phil,” she replied. “Thank you. That’s the logical next step. And have we warned those treasure hunters off?”

“Marine archaeologists, boss.”

“What?”

“Marine archaeologists. Not treasure hunters.”

“Whatever they’re called. I don’t want them anywhere near that wrecked boat till we’ve done with it. It’s a crime scene.”

“Right, boss.”

Audley Richards had delivered quite a blow when he had effectively scuppered her belief that a DNA match might swiftly be obtained. But Karen was determined that somehow or other the identity of this mystery skeleton would be revealed.

She walked with Cooper to the car park. But he had managed to park a little closer to the pathology department than her and as, by then alone, she approached her car over by the road, Karen was not at all surprised to see John Kelly standing quietly alongside it. Kelly was still a journalist, one who had come almost full circle. After a chequered career — he had been a Fleet Street high-flyer before falling from grace somewhat spectacularly — he was back in his old Torquay stamping ground, chief reporter now of the Evening Argus . His hair had thinned and turned grey with the years, and he had a very slight paunch. Nowadays he favoured Marks & Spencer’s sports jackets, often worn with jeans, a combination he still considered to be quite trendy and daring, having long ago discarded any more extravagant fashions like those he had been so proud of in the seventies. Kelly had travelled a long way along a bumpy road. Surprisingly, perhaps, his attitude to his job had not changed a bit. He drove himself just as hard and remained as easily excited by a big story as he had ever been. In addition, Karen knew he had always followed very closely the case she thought they might, just might, be about to reopen and, anyway, it was typical of him to be there when there was the scent of anything unusual about. Kelly almost invariably seemed to be ahead of the game, when it came to stories if nothing else.

It was also typical of Kelly to pick a location for his approach to her which would give him the best chance of at least a word or two. Karen might walk away from her old friend had he tried to approach her within the hospital itself or while she was with Cooper, but not if confronted by him alone and discreetly.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she muttered without a great deal of enthusiasm.

“And thank you for the warmth of your greeting.”

She smiled, giving in a bit.

“Might have known you’d be first on the scene,” she said.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Still like to know how, though.”

“A reporter must never reveal his source.”

“Thank God for that.”

She laughed briefly. They both knew she had been Kelly’s source often enough. They went back a long way. They had that sort of relationship.

“So, is it Clara Marshall?”

“Well, that’s getting to the point of it, Kelly, I must say—”

“C’mon, Karen,” he interrupted. “There can’t be anyone who was in Torquay when Clara and her children disappeared or who knew anything about what happened then who won’t think that as soon as they hear about the body.”

“I know.” She ran her fingers through her hair, turned her face towards the sun and screwed up her eyes. The day was getting warmer by the minute, which made a change that summer. Karen’s head was in a whirl. All those memories chasing themselves around in her brain. It was so hard to keep a grip on this case, to maintain the professional approach. And yet she knew she had to be more in control than ever if she was to have even a chance of handling it properly.

“So, is it?”

Karen shrugged. “Don’t be ridiculous, Kelly,” she said. “If it were her you know how long she’d have been in the water. No immediate identification is possible.” She thought about Audley Richards’ remark and allowed herself a little self-indulgence. “I don’t have a crystal ball, you know,” she continued.

“There’ll be DNA, though. You’ll be able to find out for certain eventually.”

Kelly’s voice was sharp and edgy. Karen stopped looking up at the sky and turned to face him, studying him closely. He looked tense. Pinched. Much as she felt herself. She wasn’t overly surprised. She knew Kelly had worked on the case at the time. She didn’t know any more. She had no idea if he had any other involvement. But she was aware that everybody who’d ever been near it seemed to have been touched in some way.

“Not necessarily, Kelly,” she said quietly. And she explained briefly what Audley Richards had told her.

Kelly nodded glumly. He didn’t say anything. Instead he produced a packet of cigarettes and offered her one.

She shook her head. “I prefer these,” she said, taking out her own packet of menthols. “Anyway, I thought you’d given up.”

“Many times,” he said. “Christ, Karen, it’s the only vice I’ve got left. Give a guy a break.”

“I just hope we get a break.”

“It’s time, Karen.” He was suddenly very serious. She noticed that his fists were clenched by his sides. “It’s time. It really is. We’ve all lived with this too long. Richard Marshall has had all the luck so far. It’s time the luck changed.”

Karen knew what he meant. And John Kelly’s words were still ringing in her ears when, twenty minutes or so later, she walked into her office.

She picked up her desk phone at once to make a call to Scotland. Then she thought better of it. It was far too early. It really was. But as she replaced the receiver the phone immediately rang, and she picked it up again at once.

“It’s Bill,” said a quiet voice.

Karen smiled. “You didn’t take long,” she responded. She had expected to hear from retired Detective Chief Inspector Bill Talbot sooner or later — but not quite this soon.

“I still have one or two good contacts.”

“I’ll bet you do.”

“So is it true?”

“Depends what you’re asking about. It’s true we’ve found a skeleton, or parts of a skeleton to be exact, off Berry Head. But we’ve not been able to identify it yet nor can anyone even say how long it’s been in the water.” She paused, savouring the moment, knowing the effect her next words would have on him. “Audley Richards reckons it’s a youngish woman, though, about five foot four or five.”