by Peter James
‘In what sense?’
‘Delaney. I saw him standing outside the Fairfax. He must have followed me out. In just a split second, as the SUV was on me, hurtling towards me. Maybe I’m in a bit of shock and my mind’s playing tricks on me, but Delaney came at me way faster than a man could move – and even more so a man of his age. I felt him push me and I was literally propelled across the road – it felt like I was on a cushion of air. For an instant, I thought I was dead – you know – like those people who’ve described near-death experiences. That’s what I was convinced I was having. Sort of like when Ricky died. Then I crashed into the wall of a shop and I was lying on the ground. I –’
He paused, trying to remember more. ‘I saw the car, a big SUV thing, racing down the street, and Delaney tumbling through the air like a – like a huge rag doll.’
She reached across the table and tenderly laid her hand on his.
‘It was as if time just stopped for a split second.’
‘Doesn’t some strange thing happen to time when people have near-death experiences? You told me that extraordinary thing about your brother – when he was dying.’
‘This was different. More like a . . .’
‘Miracle?’ she prompted
‘It was a miracle. But why did he die? It should have been me.’
‘You think he saved you?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Like – sacrificed his life for yours?’
‘I don’t know. Possibly. But why?’
She stared at him hard, her eyes lit up as if she totally understood. ‘Because you have a mission to fulfil?’
‘I don’t know,’ Ross answered. He drank some more of his beer. ‘I got the sense he knew his death was imminent – he implied it in the bar. Almost the last thing he said to me was: “Soon, after I’m recalled, that will happen. You have the ear of the media. You’ve got the recording, Mr Hunter. You’ll have absolute proof.”’
‘How was it, seeing him in the bar?’ Sally asked. ‘Talking to him?’
‘It was – I don’t even know how to begin to describe it.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Very strange. Incredible. I kept feeling this energy coming off him, like static electricity or something. Like something supernatural.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe it was my imagination.’
‘Maybe it wasn’t.’ She leaned forward, studying his face intently. ‘You said that he talked about a sign?’
‘He quoted it from Genesis – I have it all recorded.’
‘Can I hear it?’
‘Sure.’
‘Maybe after dinner?’
He nodded. ‘He also referred to Matthew, chapter 24, I think it was. About the sun and the moon going dark, the stars falling out of the sky, and then there being a sign from God. This sign would be everywhere, at exactly the same moment, in every country in every time zone.’
‘What about the people who are asleep or blind?’
‘He covered that by saying there wouldn’t be a soul in the world, not a single living creature, who would not have the ability to experience it.’
She stared at him in silence. ‘If this is real – I mean, if he is real – that’s –’
‘Quite interesting?’
She grinned. ‘Yeah, quite interesting. Is that the understatement of the year or of the past two thousand years?’
Ross patted his jacket pocket and there was a tinkle of broken glass – the tumbler Delaney had drunk from, which had smashed when he’d hit the wall. ‘The glass he drank from. I may be able to verify it from this.’
‘Smart!’ she said. ‘But I wouldn’t have put you down for a kleptomaniac.’
‘I’ll return one day and pay for the glass.’ He smiled.
‘So, what was the very last thing he said to you?’ Sally asked.
‘Delaney finished his drink, stood up and said, “Guess I gotta get to work. And keep you safe for as long as is needed.” I asked him when and where the sign would appear. He said it would be soon after he was called back – I guess to Heaven. He also said I could reach him there for as long as he was around, but it wouldn’t be for much longer. Then he went off to the next table along and started doing card tricks. I paid and left.’
‘And the next time you saw him he was outside, and then hit by the SUV?’
‘Yes.’
‘You think it was deliberate – the driver? Trying to kill you or Delaney?’
‘Well, a while later I was sat in the back of a police car and gave them a statement. A cop told me he’d spoken to one of the bartenders. The guy said that a few nights earlier Delaney had been doing his magic tricks on one of their customers. Apparently, he has a whole pickpocket routine. He’d lifted this customer’s wallet, then when he handed it back to him the guy accused him of taking fifty bucks from it. Things got ugly and the cops were called. They took Delaney into a back room and searched him, but he was clean, they didn’t find any fifty-buck note on him. But the customer wasn’t satisfied, he left saying he was going to come back and get even with Delaney. That’s who they’re focusing their enquiry on.’ He fell silent for a moment, then added, ‘But –’
‘But?’
He was thinking about his journey so far, all that had happened, speculating who might have tried to kill him. With Wenceslas dead, he felt that made Kerr Kluge the prime suspects, for sure.
‘Ross, your friend the Bishop of Monmouth, Benedict Carmichael, warned you that if someone claimed to have this evidence they’d risk being murdered. You had your experiences in Glastonbury, then Egypt, now possibly this. Maybe he was right,’ Sally said.
‘Maybe.’
‘It’s not going to stop you, is it, Ross?’
‘No.’
‘I’m glad. I don’t want you to be harmed, but I admire your principles. So, you have some great material for your story. When are you going to write it?’
‘I’ve started.’
‘And your newspaper will take you seriously because of who you are?’
‘I hope,’ Ross said. ‘But there’s always a risk with every story you file that it comes out on a day of major breaking news, and your two-page spread gets shrunk into a few column inches.’
‘Your story is that major breaking news. It’s this story that will make everything else in the paper that day seem irrelevant.’
‘I hope so, Sally, I really do. I’ve risked a lot for this. But I’ve also met some incredible people along the way.’ He stared at her, meaningfully. Their eyes locked and she nodded.
He had a go at picking up a dim sum himself with his chopsticks, a shrimp dumpling. After a few failed attempts, he speared one and lifted it to his mouth. He chewed for some moments, unable to speak. As he finally swallowed, it brought home how badly low on energy he was, and he immediately ate another, thinking as he did.
‘You really believe what Delaney said, Ross?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know what I believe. There’s so much weird stuff going on. Stuff I haven’t told you yet.’
‘Such as?’
His mind went back to the Fairfax Lounge. It was like a dream. Had he just imagined that young man inside Delaney? That younger man still inside him. All the layers within layers?
‘Hello!’ she said. ‘You’ve gone again!’
He looked at her, and hesitated, confused. What had they been talking about?
‘You said there was stuff you hadn’t told me.’
‘Right.’ He was focused again. ‘Such as my wife being here in LA.’
‘What?’ She looked shaken. ‘Imogen?’
He told her what had occurred.
‘And you had no idea she would be here? She knows where you’re staying and she hasn’t tried to contact you? She hung up on your calls?’
‘Yep.’ He nodded. ‘And money’s tight. Go figure.’
‘I’d figure she’s having an affair.’
‘That wouldn’t be a first,’ he said.
‘Oh?’
‘She’s an intelligent woman, Sally.
Put yourself in her shoes. Imagine you were married to me and you knew I’d come to LA. Would you seriously come here with your lover at the same time?’
‘Only if I wanted to be caught. If I wanted out of the marriage.’
He stared at her in silence. ‘I hadn’t thought about it that way,’ he said finally.
‘Some human minds work in oblique ways, Ross,’ she said.
‘I don’t think Imogen is devious – not that devious.’
She tilted her head towards him. ‘You said she’s a smart lady. Well, she must be to have married you!’
‘Thank you, ma’am!’
‘I’ve interviewed quite a few criminals over the years,’ she said. ‘Something I’ve learned from them is that the best hiding place is the one right under your nose.’
‘It’s a good theory. But I don’t buy it in this situation.’
‘You have a better one?’
‘No, I don’t. I’m feeling fresh out of theories. But I believe one thing and I’m going to cling to it, however much of a long shot it might be. Then we’ll know for sure, one way or another.’
‘The sign Delaney promised?’
‘Yes.’
‘And if it doesn’t happen?’
‘I’ve always loved that quote of Martin Luther – something like: “Even if I knew the world would end tomorrow, I would still plant my apple tree.”’ He looked at her. ‘You know, that’s how you make me feel. I apologize if I’m sounding cheesy. But you do.’
‘It is pretty cheesy.’ She grinned. ‘But it’s OK. I do cheesy.’
Van Morrison was singing now, ‘Have I Told You Lately That I Love You?’.
Ross grinned back at her. ‘What was it Noel Coward said about the potency of cheap music?’
She cocked her head. ‘Tell me?’
132
Monday, 20 March
‘This the place,’ the driver drawled as they arrived at the mortuary. ‘I’m guessing we missed Happy Hour.’
It was nearly after 10 p.m. as he turned the limousine sedately in through the open gates, past a prominent sign: COUNTY OF LOS ANGELES, DEPARTMENT OF MEDICAL EXAMINER-CORONER.
In the beam of the headlights Bloor saw a row of linked, modern-looking two-storey buildings, each numbered. On the walls were several clear signs, in large blue script.
DEPARTMENT OF CORONER, FORENSIC LABORATORIES
DEPARTMENT OF CORONER, ADMINISTRATION OPERATIONS
A line of identical white sedans sat outside, each bearing the same emblem and the word CORONER on the front door.
As the driver pulled the limousine up at what looked like the main entrance he said, ‘The party begins here.’
Ignoring him, Bloor got out, leaving Helmsley behind, still at work on his emails.
He walked up the steps, through howling wind, and over to the glass-panelled double doors, conscious of a CCTV camera pointing at him. A sign on the glass said NO PUBLIC ACCESS. Peering through, he could see a small waiting area with a couple of functional-looking sofas, a hand-sanitizing machine and a floor-standing display cabinet full of framed certificates.
A man appeared round the corner. He was middle-aged, with a greying Beatles-style haircut and a moustache, wearing a purple open-neck shirt and clutching a bunch of photographs.
Bloor rapped on the glass. The man glanced round, shook his head, gave a cut-throat sign and pointed past him. Bloor looked around, puzzled. The man pointed again and Bloor gave him a shrug. Finally the man walked over and unlocked the door. As it swung open, Bloor was struck by a strong smell of detergent.
‘Help you, sir?’ He had a friendly, efficient air. A phone was jammed in his breast pocket and an ID tag hung from a lanyard round his neck. It read, ‘Mark Johnson, Head, Forensic Photographic & Support Services, Los Angeles County Department of Medical Examiner-Coroner’.
‘Yes, I hope so,’ Bloor said politely, trying hard to look mournful. ‘You see, I’m over from England for a family visit with a cousin. But tragically he was killed earlier this evening by a hit-and-run driver up in West Hollywood. I thought it might be helpful if I formally identified him for you.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss, but you need to go to that building behind you, talk to the reception, sir.’
Bloor glanced round at a much older, elegant brick building.
‘But we don’t do formal identifications from family any more,’ he added.
‘No?’
‘Pretty much all done by DNA and fingerprints these days.’
‘I see.’
‘Sorry you’ve had a wasted journey.’
Bloor thought on his feet. ‘Well, the thing is, I’ve come all the way from England – we were going to have a big family reunion. Would it be possible to see Mike? To pay my last respects?’
‘I’m afraid we don’t do viewings here any more, too many insurance risks. You’d have to do that at the mortuary where he is taken after here.’
‘I thought this was the mortuary?’
‘I guess in England you’d call the place a funeral home.’
‘OK – where can I find out which one he’ll go to?’
‘What is the deceased’s name?’
‘Mike Delaney.’
‘Ah, OK, right. I’m afraid he’s classified as part of a crime scene. Only after the coroner authorizes release of his body to a funeral home can viewing take place.’
‘When will that be?’
‘Well, we’ll have to wait for the autopsy, and we’re pretty backed up, with over five hundred waiting. Could be a few days, maybe a week or longer.’
‘I see,’ Bloor said, thinking hard. ‘I don’t suppose you could break the rules – as I’ve come all this way and I have to fly back in two days – and just give me a very quick look at him?’
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible, sir. The only way would be if you came back tomorrow and put your case to the coroner.’ He looked pensive. ‘Oh no, sorry, he and the deputy are both away at a conference, won’t be back until Thursday. I’m real sorry.’
Bloor thanked him, clocking his name again, and walked back out. But instead of going to the car, he turned right and walked, in darkness, along the side of the building, peering in through each of the darkened casement windows as he passed them. Then, as he went down some outside steps, he smelled a sweet whiff of cigarette smoke coming from the car park below.
He skipped down some steps, walked past a row of coroner’s vans, turned the corner and saw a short man in blue scrubs, a theatre cap pushed up over his forehead, standing outside a door, smoking a cigarette.
Bloor strode confidently towards him. ‘That smells good!’ he said.
‘Want one?’ The man dug a hand beneath his gown and produced a pack of cigarettes.
‘You sure?’ Bloor asked. He hadn’t smoked a cigarette since his early twenties.
‘Us smokers got to stick together.’
‘Absolutely!’ He pulled out a cigarette from the proffered pack, then accepted the man’s light.
‘You sound like a Brit?’
‘I am a Brit.’
‘So, what brings you here?’
‘Oh, I’m a forensic pathologist back at home. We don’t really have many gunshot deaths, and because of the terrorist threat, I’ve been seconded here to learn about them, at Mark Johnson’s invitation – I’ve just been with him this evening.’ Bloor shot a surreptitious glance at the man’s tag. Dr Wayne Linch. ‘Tomorrow Mark said I would be meeting a Dr Linch here and hopefully spending some time with him.’
‘Dr Linch? That’s me!’
They shook hands. ‘Good to meet you – Dr?’
‘Porter – Richard Porter.’
‘Well, Richard, you’re in the right place. That’s why I’m working late tonight. Four people shot dead in Orange County in what seems like a drugs deal gone wrong. Want to take a look?’
‘Sure,’ Bloor said. ‘That would be helpful.’
They finished their cigarettes and went inside.
Bloor followed him into a locker room. The pathologist handed him a blue gown, cap and a paper mask, then pulled out a pair of white rubber boots from beneath a bench.
‘You want to see what kind of a gunshot death?’
‘Handgun. We get some shotgun deaths, but rarely from a handgun.’
The pathologist led him along a corridor, then opened a door and switched on the lights.
Inside, on a steel gurney, lay a naked Hispanic man on his back, beneath a large, circular scanner. He had a massive tattoo on his chest and there was a small puncture mark on either side of his left nipple.
‘See those marks on his chest?’
‘The ones by his nipple?’ Bloor asked.
‘Yep. Made by a small bore – a dum-dummed .22 handgun. Tiny entry wounds, but the bullets exploded inside him, after impact. If I rolled him over you’d see most of his back is blown away, along with his internal organs.’ He pointed up at the scanner. ‘That’s an X-ray – we’re looking for all the bullet fragments still inside him.’
Bloor looked at the tattoo on the dead man’s chest. It read: I AM HERE.
Noticing his interest, the pathologist looked at it, also. Then, addressing the dead man’s face, he said, ‘Not any more, dude.’
As they left the room the pathologist switched off the lights and closed the door behind them. ‘OK, guess I’d better get back to work. Nice meeting you, Richard.’
‘Nice meeting you, too. See you tomorrow. What time will you be in?’
‘Oh, I’m an early one. Seven a.m.’
‘Seven a.m. it is.’
As the pathologist walked away, Bloor stood still, unable to believe his luck. Mike Delaney’s body had already been brought here – where was it?
He felt a moment of anxiety as a young, overweight and bearded man, in a blue gown similar to his own, but with no head covering, strode along towards him.
‘Have a good one,’ he said in passing.
Bloor grunted a reply, then walked quickly along the corridor. He opened the first door he reached. Through it he could see a long, narrow room, with operating theatre lights and a row of steel gurneys, some with bodies lying beneath plastic sheeting. All of the bodies were dark-skinned. At the far end was a man, similarly gowned to the pathologist he had just shared a cigarette with, at work on a tiny cadaver. A child.
