Cry Baby Page 17

  Thorne pointed to the shower-cap. ‘You seriously wearing that?’

  ‘Says the bloke in the cheap leather jacket and old man’s Levi’s.’ Hendricks tied up his mask and pushed through the swing doors into the pathology suite.

  Thorne swore beneath his breath, smeared a thick streak of Vicks across his top lip and followed.

  Phil Hendricks may have looked like a bouncer at a Sisters Of Mercy concert, but he worked with as much skill and something like tenderness as any pathologist Thorne had ever seen. Or at least as tender as it was possible to be with a skull-saw and rib-cutters. Murmuring into a hand-held Dictaphone, in that flat accent which had so annoyed Thorne the day before, he moved around the slab like a dancer. Graceful, if almost certainly dangerous. He fingered the mottled and discoloured flesh as though wary of bruising it and gently set the dead man’s organs on the scales, in stark contrast to many Thorne had seen slapping down livers and lungs like butchers weighing out cuts for Sunday lunch.

  ‘Your man here was pretty healthy, all things considered,’ Hendricks said, towards the end.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I mean, not now, obviously.’

  ‘Obviously,’ Thorne said.

  ‘But . . . you know. For a junkie.’

  Thorne nodded, amazed as always by how much more you could tell from examining someone’s innards than you could from looking at them when they were still walking around. How slicing carefully through a brain could reveal a truth you might never get to by asking questions of its owner. A face, clothes, whatever, only told others what you wanted them to know. Those things could lie, if you so chose; they could pretend. However we elected to present ourselves to the world, furred-up arteries or blotches on a pancreas always told the real story.

  It worked the other way too, of course, he knew that. To some degree or other, everyone was guilty of judging people based purely on their manner or appearance. They made assumptions.

  Books, covers, all that.

  Thorne stared down at what remained of Grantleigh Figgis . . .

  ‘You been enjoying the games?’

  ‘What?’ Thorne said.

  ‘The Euros, mate. Thought the Dutch looked pretty tasty last night.’

  ‘Didn’t see it.’ Thorne nodded towards the slab. ‘All this to deal with.’

  ‘Big one tomorrow.’

  Thorne nodded. With England set to take on Scotland the following afternoon, bragging rights within the hate/hate relationship between Thorne and his boss were well and truly up for grabs. Thorne was desperately hoping he could find time to watch it somewhere. He looked at Hendricks, said, ‘You’re Manchester, right?’

  Hendricks nodded and grinned. ‘Blackley boy, mate.’

  ‘So, what are you? City or United?’

  ‘Neither. Only one team worth talking about.’ He placed a bloodied, gloved hand across his chest, like he was swearing an oath of loyalty. ‘And that’s Bruce Rioch’s mighty Arsenal.’

  ‘You are joking, right? You’re a bloody Gooner?’

  Hendricks saw the look of horror on Thorne’s face and his grin widened. ‘You’re Spurs? Bloody hell, no wonder you’re so miserable. How many places above you did we finish?’

  ‘It was two points,’ Thorne said. ‘That’s all.’

  Hendricks was laughing as he finished up. He checked that the organs were properly bagged, that the necessary blood and tissue samples were correctly labelled, then called in one of the assistants to close up Grantleigh Figgis’s body. He lowered his mask as he and Thorne walked slowly towards the doors.

  ‘It takes a big man to admit he was wrong,’ Hendricks said. ‘I’m big enough where it counts, so . . . maybe not quite as bog-standard as I thought it was.’

  ‘An overdose, though?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Seriously over.’

  ‘If you’re going to top yourself,’ Thorne said, ‘you might as well get there doing something you enjoy, right?’

  Hendricks stopped and looked at him. A half-smile, as though he’d been waiting for the right moment. Waiting, because he wanted to make the most of it. ‘Who said anything about topping himself?’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘It was done for him. Well, as good as. Matey boy over there was murdered, simple as.’

  Thorne turned instinctively to look back at the slab, where the mortuary assistant was already busy with his thick needle and thread, sewing up the chest cavity. He stared, as though Grantleigh Figgis might nod in agreement or raise a thumb to confirm what Hendricks was saying.

  ‘How the hell can you tell that before you’ve run any tests?’

  ‘Piece of piss, my dear Watson.’

  Hendricks wandered across to where the dead man’s clothes lay, gathered into separate plastic bags. Thorne recognised the jogging bottoms and sleeveless pullover, the slippers that now simply looked sad. Hendricks took out a smaller plastic bag from inside another and held it up as if it were evidence of something other than simply his genius. Thorne noticed that the pathologist, having disposed of the gloves he’d used for the PM, was now wearing a fresh pair, presumably to avoid leaving prints.

  ‘All you need to know, right there.’

  Stepping closer, Thorne saw a small wrap of waxy paper inside the bag, the brown powder that had spilled from it gathered in the creases of the plastic.

  ‘Where d’you find that?’

  ‘In the pocket of his joggers,’ Hendricks said.

  Thorne stared at the bag, shook his head. ‘Am I missing something?’

  ‘Trust me, mate, any self-respecting junkie, if they were trying to OD, would take everything they could lay their hands on . . . everything. They’d do the lot, I’m telling you. Soon as I found this, I knew he hadn’t killed himself.’

  ‘You knew?’

  ‘Hundred per cent. Junkies tend to be a bit greedy with the smack, know what I mean?’ He shrugged. ‘What’s the point in leaving any?’

  ‘This based on . . . specialist knowledge, is it?’

  ‘Let’s just say I’ve known some interesting people.’ Hendricks looked at Thorne, whose expression still suggested that he was dubious. ‘Don’t worry, the toxicology tests will prove it. Street heroin, which is what you would have expected him to take if he’d scored it himself, has all sorts of impurities from the opium, the most obvious one being noscapine, yeah? So, if the tests show up 6-monoacetylmorphine or 6-MAP, which is what diacetylmorphine metabolises into when it’s injected, and they also show noscapine, we’re looking at run-of-the-mill smack. Shout up if this is too much science for you?’

  ‘Go on,’ Thorne said.

  ‘But I’m betting we find plenty of 6-MAP but we won’t find noscapine, which means that whatever he took was very pure. Medical-grade morphine near as damn it, and certainly a damn sight pokier than this poor sod was used to or that his body could stand. Something given to him by someone who knew exactly what they were handing over and exactly what the outcome would be. So, there we go.’ He sniffed. ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘Right . . .’

  Thorne had already forgotten the potted chemistry lesson, but he was busy trying to process its basic conclusion: Hendricks’s assertion that Grantleigh Figgis had not taken his own life. Wrestling with the implications for the inquiry and those who were orchestrating it.

  The damage limitation that would almost certainly be needed.

  Hendricks laid the small plastic bag carefully back inside the larger one before they walked back out into the locker room and he began to get changed. He dumped gown, mask and bootees into the hazardous waste bin and sat down to put on some serious-looking boots. Buckles, straps and more studs, metal hooks instead of lace-holes.

  Like he might be going mountaineering.

  Nobody’s idea of a strip of piss, Thorne thought. But definitely proper funny.

  ‘To answer your earlier question,’ Hendricks said. ‘That “specialist knowledge” I might or might not have? Yeah, I’ve popped a few pills in my time, got ma
shed on a bit of other gear now and again, but no . . . I have never taken heroin.’ He stood up and opened a locker, took out a heavy-duty biker’s jacket and shook his head sadly. ‘Shame really, because I gather it’s quite more-ish.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  Trudging back up the Holloway Road towards home, Cat wondered why clean clothes always seemed that much heavier than when they were dirty. Stepping aside to avoid two teenage boys cycling on the pavement, she exchanged a look with the officer who had accompanied her to the launderette; a smile that was not returned. The WPC was as friendly as she needed to be but had kept conversation to a minimum since clearing a path through the crowd of reporters waiting outside Seacole House. A firm instruction for Cat to keep moving, a word or two in the launderette as she’d helped Cat find the right change for the machines.

  The woman was just doing her job, Cat guessed.

  No room for sentiment, or judgement.

  Cat had known there would be renewed press interest because a body had been discovered, and the questions shouted at her as she’d struggled through the mêlée with her bags of dirty washing an hour and a half before had made it very clear they already knew whose body it was.

  ‘Why do you think he killed himself, Cat?’

  ‘Was there a note?’

  ‘Are you glad he’s dead?’

  Cat was happy enough to ignore the questions, because she didn’t have an answer for any of them.

  Now, she shifted the bin bag from one shoulder to another, felt the weight of the clothes, soft against her back, and felt a little better. A little more normal than she had done in a few days.

  Happy with the deal she’d made with God or fate or whatever.

  For almost an hour the night before, she had sat slumped beside the laundry basket in her bedroom, soaking up the tears with her son’s dirty clothes and bed linen. Breathing in the sweat-sweet, glorious smell of him on stained sheets and Power Rangers T-shirts, on his favourite jeans and his smart blue school jumper. She had pressed each item to her face, all too aware that if she washed them, that smell would be lost for ever, the last trace of him.

  Cat had wept, because she could not decide what to do, what to believe.

  She knew that if she chose not to wash Kieron’s dirty things, it was only because some part of her had accepted that he was not coming back. That this might be all she had left. It was stupid, she knew it was stupid, it was only a bit of washing for Christ’s sake, but . . . if she refused to acknowledge that terrible possibility and washed his clothes like she always did, couldn’t that just as surely mean that one day he’d be home safe and sound to make them dirty all over again?

  Like avoiding the cracks on the pavement.

  She would take any sign, clutch at any straw.

  In the end, Cat had decided that hope was all she had left to hold on to and that she would be picking up her beautiful boy’s stinky socks and grubby pants for a long time to come, so she had stuffed them all into the bin bag, swearing that she would never moan about having to do it ever again.

  That she would never moan about anything.

  The WPC moved a few steps ahead as they approached the tower block, a couple of her colleagues coming to join them, ready to run intercept. The dozen or so reporters surged forward and were blocked with stiff arms and harsh words from the police officers. Cat was once again told to move as fast as she could towards the entrance, but then she recognised the face of a man waving at her and stopped. Seeing that he had Cat’s attention, the man stepped towards her and an officer barred his way.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Cat said. ‘I know him.’

  The man was allowed through and, even though Cat’s reaction had made it obvious that she knew who he was, he said, ‘Simon Jenner. From St Mary’s?’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ Cat felt herself redden slightly and struggled for something to say next. Nice to see you? Thank you for coming?

  ‘I was just—’

  ‘Shit . . . I never called the school. To say that Kieron wouldn’t be coming in. I’m sorry—’

  The teacher laid a hand on her arm. ‘Don’t be silly. We all read about what had happened . . . and the police came in to talk to us.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know. Was that . . . OK?’

  ‘Yes, fine. Just all the questions you’d expect them to ask and obviously everyone was eager to help.’

  The WPC was ushering them both forward, still keen to get Cat inside.

  ‘Do you want to come up?’ Cat asked.

  In the lift, Cat gabbled a little; the white-hot chaos of those first few days, the police and the reporters, her complete inability to think straight. ‘Didn’t know if I was coming or going,’ she said. ‘Still don’t, sorry.’

  ‘Please stop apologising,’ Jenner said.

  Cat hoped she had stopped blushing.

  The young teacher – well, a few years younger than she was anyway – was someone Cat had noticed on Kieron’s first day at school and had more than happily run into several times since. He had short, sandy hair and very blue eyes. A shy smile. He wore a denim jacket over a yellow T-shirt and one of those funny corduroy caps that John Lennon used to wear. He looked more like a student than a teacher, Cat thought. It was harmless, of course, but there had been moments, late at night or on dull afternoons, when she’d found herself imagining a parent/teacher relationship that was highly inappropriate for a good many reasons. It was fine, of course, because she didn’t believe for a minute that she was the only woman Billy ever thought about in that way. There had even been one or two desperate occasions, before the arsewipe had actually reappeared in person, that Dean Meade had crept into her fantasies.

  That would certainly never be happening again.

  Cat could not be sure how much Simon Jenner knew about the most recent events, but when they stepped out of the lift there was no ignoring the crime-scene tape that criss-crossed the door next to her own.

  ‘There was a body found,’ she said.

  Jenner stared as they walked towards Cat’s flat. ‘Was it the man that’s been in the papers?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Cat said. ‘The man in the papers.’

  ‘Must be awful for you.’

  ‘Relative, isn’t it?’ Cat shrugged. ‘Hard to remember when everything wasn’t awful.’ She dug keys from her bag and opened her front door. ‘Do you want some tea?’

  A few minutes later, once Cat had shifted her bedding from the sofa and they’d sat down with tea, Jenner said, ‘I just wanted to come over to let you know that we’re all thinking about you.’

  Cat nodded.

  ‘All of us at the school.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Cat said.

  ‘We’re all missing Kieron.’ The teacher reached into the leather satchel he’d brought with him and produced a large card. He passed it across. ‘Everyone signed it. All the kids . . . the teachers.’ He watched Cat open the card and read it, then quickly went back into the satchel for tissues. ‘Sorry . . .’

  ‘Now you’re the one who’s apologising.’

  Seeing Cat smile, Jenner smiled himself and shook his head. ‘It’s so hard to know what to say. There’s nothing you can say, is there?’

  ‘Not really,’ Cat said. She held up the card. ‘Thank you for this. I’ll put it on the sideboard, so it’s there waiting for him.’

  Jenner nodded, drank his tea.

  ‘He is coming back.’

  ‘Course.’

  ‘Back home and back to school.’

  ‘I know,’ Jenner said.

  ‘And you know how bright he is, right? So he won’t have any problem catching up.’

  ‘He won’t have missed very much, anyway. There’s never very much happening once we get close to the summer holidays.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Cat said.

  While they finished their tea, Jenner told her about the teacher who had just started at the school and a couple of new kids who would be coming the following term, one of whom would be in the same class as Kieron. He talked abou
t some new equipment they’d be having installed in the playground and the head teacher’s ideas for a couple of school trips later in the year: a city farm in Vauxhall, a boat trip along the Thames.

  ‘Kieron’s going to love that,’ Cat said. ‘He’s mad about boats.’

  Jenner thanked her for the tea and picked up his satchel. He moved towards the door. ‘Anyway, like I said, I just wanted you to know we were thinking about you.’

  ‘Hope you manage to get through the mob downstairs,’ Cat said.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ He hung the satchel over his shoulder, lingered at the door. ‘When you have to handle thirty-something seven-year-olds every day, that lot’s a doddle.’

  Seeing that he was ready to leave, itching to get out quite probably, Cat knew that she should get up and see him to the lift, but suddenly she didn’t have the strength. Not an ounce of it. She clutched the card Jenner had delivered to her chest and it was as though its simple message of love and support, the multicoloured jumble of childish signatures, was pressing her down on to the sofa.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Detective Sergeant Paula Kimmel leaned back against the wall of the cramped tea station and nursed her Cup-a-Soup, one eye on Thorne as he mashed his teabag then hunted in the fridge for the sole carton of milk that hadn’t yet become cheese. She grunted – just loudly enough, Thorne reckoned, for him to hear and so clock that she was happy enough to chat, you know . . . if he fancied it. The signal wasn’t needed. Thorne had already begun to wonder why the woman hadn’t immediately taken her drink back to her desk the way she usually did, why she had hung around.

  Thorne blew on his tea, held up the paper cup. ‘This is the only reason I got into the job,’ he said. ‘The glamour.’

  She smiled, ran fingers through short dark hair with an undisguised smattering of early grey at the roots. ‘Right.’

  Kimmel was a good copper, Thorne had decided, better than good, but up to this point, based on the couple of snatched conversations they’d had, she’d been all business. Almost certainly because she had to be, he thought. Because choosing to get her nut down and not waste time on bullshit and banter might be the only way to get ahead – or even to stay on something like level terms – when she was the only member of the team without a penis.