Whispers of the Dead dh-3

by Simon Beckett

  Her face was studiedly expressionless, but I sensed she was regretting giving away even that much about herself. It struck me again how attractive she was. I’d been aware of it before, of course, but only in an academic way, as you might admire the shape and form of a marble statue.

  Now, though, in the close confines of the car, I was all too conscious of it. She’d taken off her jacket, and her short-sleeved white shirt showed off the toned muscles of her arms. Her gun was still clipped to her belt, a jarring note against the smart business suit. But I could hear the whisper of her skirt on her legs as she worked the pedals, smell the fresh clean scent from her skin; a scented soap, I guessed, too light to be perfume.

  My sudden awareness of her was unnerving. I looked away from the full lips and stared resolutely ahead, keeping my eyes fixed on the road. Jacobsen would probably break my wrist if she realized what I was thinking. Or shoot you.

  ‘Any news about Irving?’ I asked, to take my mind off it.

  ‘We’re still searching.’ No, in other words. ‘Dr Lieberman says the remains in the woods were probably Willis Dexter’s,’ she said, businesslike again.

  ‘It seems that way.’ I described the fractures to the skull’s forehead, and how they fitted Dexter’s injuries. ‘Makes sense, I suppose. Someone switched bodies, and then dumped Dexter’s in the woods at the back, where it wouldn’t be found unless the grounds were searched.’

  ‘But whoever did that would know that would happen as soon as we found the wrong body in the grave. So they obviously wanted us to find this as well.’

  First Loomis, then the unidentified remains in the casket, now Dexter. It was like a paper trail of corpses, each one leading to the next. ‘It had to be someone with access to Steeple Hill,’ I said. ‘Have you got any further in tracking down this Dwight Chambers who York claims was working there?’

  ‘We’re still looking into it.’ Jacobsen slowed the car to a stop as we drew up to a red traffic light. ‘You sure the teeth you saw were from a pig?’

  ‘Certain.’

  ‘And you think they were left deliberately?’

  ‘There’s no other reason for them to be there. They were above the ribcage, exactly where the head would have been before scavengers got to the body. But none of the teeth showed any signs of scoring or damage, and if there’d been any gum tissue on them rodents would have gnawed it off. Which suggests the teeth were already clean when they were left there.’

  There was a small furrow between Jacobsen’s eyes. ‘But what’s the point?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. Perhaps whoever left them there just wanted to show off again.’

  ‘I don’t follow. How is leaving pig’s teeth showing off?’

  ‘Pig premolars look a lot like human molars. Unless you know what you’re looking for, it’s easy to mistake one for the other.’

  Jacobsen’s frown lifted. ‘So the killer was letting us see he knows about details like that. Like the fingerprints left at the crime scenes. He’s not just testing us, he’s bragging how clever he is.’

  She gave a start as a horn blared behind us, alerting us that the lights were green. Flustered, she pulled away. I looked out of the window so she wouldn’t see my smile.

  ‘It sounds like pretty specialist knowledge. Who’d have access to that sort of information?’ she went on, her composure once more in place.

  ‘It’s no secret. Anyone with—’

  I stopped short.

  ‘With a forensic background?’ Jacobsen finished for me.

  ‘Yes,’ I admitted.

  ‘Such as forensic anthropology?’

  ‘Or forensic archaeology, or pathology. Or any one of a dozen different forensic disciplines. Anyone who can be bothered to look through textbooks can find that sort of information. It doesn’t mean you have to start pointing fingers at people who work in the field.’

  ‘I wasn’t pointing fingers at anyone.’

  The silence that fell now was anything but comfortable. I searched for a way to break it, but the aura around Jacobsen made small talk unthinkable. I stared out of the window, feeling flat and tired. Traffic streamed past, glinting in the early afternoon sunshine.

  ‘You don’t think much of psychology, do you?’ she said suddenly.

  I wished I hadn’t said anything, but there was no avoiding it now. ‘I think there’s too much reliance on it sometimes. It’s a useful tool but it isn’t infallible. Irving’s profile showed that.’

  Her chin came up. ‘Professor Irving let himself be sidetracked by the fact that both victims were male and naked.’

  ‘You don’t think that’s significant?’

  ‘Not that they’re male, no. And I think you and Dr Lieberman hit on the reason why they were naked.’

  That threw me, but only for a second. ‘A naked body decomposes faster than one with clothes on,’ I said, annoyed with myself for not having seen it sooner.

  She gave a nod. She seemed as keen to skirt past the brief awkwardness as I was. ‘And both Terry Loomis’s body and the exhumed remains were more decomposed than they’d any right to be. It isn’t unreasonable to assume they were both unclothed for similar reasons.’

  Another chance for the killer to sow confusion and demonstrate his cleverness. ‘The exhumed body would have to have been stripped for the needles to be planted anyway,’ I said. ‘And once they were in place it’d be too risky to handle it any more than necessary. Certainly not just to put its clothes back on. But that doesn’t alter the fact that all the victims were male.’

  ‘The ones we know about, you mean.’

  ‘You think there are more we haven’t found yet?’

  I thought at first I’d gone too far. Jacobsen didn’t answer, and I reminded myself that she didn’t have to; I was no longer a part of the investigation. Get used to it. You’re just a tourist now.

  But just as I was about to withdraw the question she seemed to reach a decision. ‘This is pure speculation. But I’d agree with Professor Irving that we’ve only found the victims the killer wanted us to find. The level of brutality and sheer confidence he’s displayed makes it almost certain that there are others. No one develops that sort of… sophistication, for want of a better word, first time round.’

  That hadn’t occurred to me before. It was a disturbing thought.

  Jacobsen pulled down the visor as a curve in the road threw the sun in her face. ‘Whatever the killer’s agenda is, I don’t think his victims’ physical characteristics play a part in it,’ she went on. ‘We’ve got a thirty-six-year-old white insurance clerk, a black male in his fifties, and—in all probability—a forty-four-year-old psychologist, with no apparent connection between any of them. That suggests we’re dealing with an opportunist who preys on random victims. Male or female, I doubt it makes any difference to him.’

  ‘What about Irving? He wasn’t random, he was deliberately targeted.’

  ‘Professor Irving was an exception. I don’t think he figured in the killer’s plans until he went on TV, but when he did the killer acted straight away. Which tells us something important.’

  ‘You mean apart from that he’s a dangerous lunatic?’

  A quick smile softened her features. ‘Apart from that. Everything we have so far says that this is someone who deliberates and plans his actions carefully. The needles were planted in the body six months before he left Dexter’s fingerprints at the cabin. That shows a methodical, ordered mind. But what happened with Professor Irving shows there’s also another side. One that’s impulsive and unstable. Prick his ego and he can’t help himself.’

  I noticed she wasn’t even trying to pretend any more that Irving might not be another victim. ‘Is that good or bad?’

  ‘Both. It means he’s unpredictable, which makes him even more dangerous. But if he acts on impulse then sooner or later he’ll make a mistake.’ Jacobsen squinted again as the sun reflected off the cars in front. ‘My sunglasses are in my jacket. Could you pass them, please?’

  The
jacket was neatly folded on the back seat. I twisted round and reached for it. A waft of delicate scent came from the soft fabric, and I felt an odd intimacy as I searched its pockets. I found a pair of aviator shades and handed them to her. Our fingers brushed as she took them; her skin was cool and dry, but with an underlying heat.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, putting on the sunglasses.

  ‘You mentioned his agenda a moment ago,’ I said quickly. ‘I thought you’d already said that he craves recognition, that he’s a… what was it? A “malignant narcissist”? Doesn’t that explain it?’

  Jacobsen inclined her head slightly. With her eyes concealed, she looked more unreadable than ever. ‘It explains the extreme lengths he’s prepared to go to, but not why he kills in the first place. He’s got to get something out of it, have some pathological itch he’s trying to scratch. If it isn’t sexual, then what?’

  ‘Perhaps he just enjoys inflicting pain,’ I suggested.

  She shook her head. The small V was visible again above the sunglasses. ‘No. He might enjoy the sense of power it gives him, but it’s more than that. Something’s driving him to do all this. We just don’t know yet what it is.’

  The sunlight was abruptly blotted out as a black pick-up truck drew up alongside. It towered over the car, a petrol-guzzling monstrosity with tinted windows, then quickly pulled ahead. It had only just cleared us when suddenly it cut into our lane. My foot stamped reflexively on to the floor as I braced for a collision. But with barely a touch on the brake, Jacobsen swerved into the other lane, as smoothly as though the move were choreographed.

  It was a cool display of driving, all the more impressive because she appeared unaware of it. She flicked an irritated glance at the pick-up as it accelerated away, but otherwise dismissed it.

  The incident broke the mood, though. She grew distant again after that, either preoccupied with what we’d said or regretting saying as much as she had. In any event there wasn’t any more time for conversation. We were already approaching the centre of Knoxville. My spirits sank further the closer we got. Jacobsen dropped me back at my hotel, her reserve now as unassailable as any wall. Her sunglasses hid her eyes as she drove off with the briefest of nods, leaving me on the pavement, stiff-muscled from hunching over in the pine woods.

  I felt at a complete loss as to what to do next. I didn’t know if my exclusion extended to the morgue, and didn’t want to phone Tom to ask. Nor did I feel like going out to the facility, not until I’d a better idea of how things stood.

  Standing there in the bright spring sunshine, with people bustling around me, the full extent of what had happened finally sank in. While I’d been with Jacobsen I’d been able to keep it at arm’s length, but now I had to face up to it.

  For the first time in my career I’d been thrown off an investigation.

  I showered and changed, then bought a sandwich and ate lunch at the side of the river, watching the tourist-carrying paddleboats churn past. There’s something about water that’s primordially soothing. It seems to touch some deep chord in our subconscious; stir some gene memory of the womb. I breathed in the faintly swampy air, watching a flight of geese heading upriver, and tried to tell myself that I wasn’t bored. Objectively, I knew I shouldn’t take what had happened at the cemetery personally. I’d been caught in Hicks’s crossfire, collateral damage of professional politics that didn’t concern me. I told myself that I shouldn’t regard it as a loss of face.

  It didn’t make me feel any better.

  After lunch, I wandered aimlessly around the streets, waiting for my phone to ring. It was a long time since I’d been in Knoxville, and the city had changed. The trolley cars were still there, though, and the golden mirror-ball of the Sunsphere remained an unmistakable feature on the skyline.

  But I wasn’t in the mood for sightseeing. My phone remained stubbornly silent, a dead weight in my pocket. I was tempted to call Tom, but I knew there was no point. He’d ring me when he could.

  It was late afternoon when I finally heard from him. He sounded tired as he apologized for what had happened that morning.

  ‘It’s just Hicks trying to stir up a fuss. I’m going to talk to Dan again tomorrow. Once the dust has settled I’m sure he’ll see sense. There’s no reason why you can’t carry on working with me at the morgue, at least.’

  ‘What are you going to do in the meantime?’ I asked. ‘You can’t manage by yourself. Why don’t you let Paul help?’

  ‘Paul’s out of town today. But I’m sure Summer will lend a hand again.’

  ‘You need to take it easy. Have you seen a doctor yet?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, in a tone of voice that told me I was wasting my breath. ‘I’m really sorry about this, David, but I’ll sort it out. Just sit tight for now.’

  There wasn’t much else I could do. I resolved to try to enjoy the rest of the evening. A little leisure time won’t kill you. The bars and cafes had started filling up, office workers stopping off on their way home. The murmur of laughter and conversation was inviting, and on impulse I stopped at a bar with a wooden terrace overlooking the river. I found a table by the railing and ordered a beer. Enjoying the last of the afternoon sun, I watched the slow-moving Tennessee slide by, invisible currents forming dimples and swirls on the gelid surface.

  Gradually, I felt myself begin to relax. By the time I’d finished my beer I couldn’t see any pressing reason to leave, so I asked for the menu. I ordered a plate of seafood linguine and a glass of Californian Zinfandel. Just the one, I vowed, telling myself I should make an early start next day, regardless of whether I was helping Tom or not. But by the time I’d finished the rich, garlic-infused food, that no longer seemed quite such a compelling argument.

  I ordered another glass of wine. The sun sank behind the trees, but it was still warm even as dusk began to settle. The electric lights that lit the terrace drew the first of the evening’s moths. They bumped and whirred against the glass, black silhouettes against the white globes. I tried to recall visiting this stretch of river when I’d first come to Knoxville all those years ago. I supposed I must have at some point, but I’d no recollection of it. I’d rented a cramped basement apartment in a different—and cheaper—part of town, on the fringes of the increasingly gentrified old quarter. When I’d gone out I’d tended to go to the bars round there rather than the more expensive ones on the riverfront.

  Thinking about that shook loose other memories. Out of nowhere the face of a girl I’d seen for a while came back to me. Beth, a nurse at the hospital. I hadn’t thought of her in years. I smiled, wondering where she was now, what she was doing. If she ever thought about the British forensic student she’d once known.

  I’d returned to England not long after that. And a few weeks later I’d met my wife, Kara. The thought of her and our daughter brought with it the usual vertiginous dip, but I was used enough to it by now not to be sucked in.

  I picked up my mobile from the table and opened my list of contacts. Jenny’s name and number seemed to jump out at me even before I’d highlighted them on the illuminated display. I scrolled through the options until I came to Delete, and held my thumb poised over the button. Then, without pressing it, I snapped the phone shut and put it away.

  I finished the last of my wine and pulled my thoughts from the track they’d been following. An image of Jacobsen sitting in the car earlier replaced them, bare arms toned and tanned in the short-sleeved white top. It occurred to me that I didn’t know anything about her. Not how old she was, where she was from or where she lived.

  But I’d noticed there was no wedding ring on her left hand.

  Oh, give it a rest. Still, I couldn’t help but smile as I ordered another glass of wine.

  It’s darkening outside. Your favourite time. The point of transition between two extremes: day and night. Heaven and hell. The earth’s rotation caught on the cusp, neither one thing nor the other, yet full of the potential of both.

  If only everything were so simple.


  You brush the camera lens carefully, then gently wipe it with a square of buttery soft chamois until the finely ground glass is mirror bright. Tilting the lens to catch the light, you examine it for any last speck of dust that might mar its perfect surface. There’s nothing, but you polish it again anyway, just to be sure.

  The camera is your most prized possession. The old Leica has seen some heavy use in the years since you bought it, and never once let you down. Its black and white images are always crystal clear, so sharp and fine-grained you could fall into them.

  It isn’t the camera’s fault you haven’t found what you’re looking for.

  You try to tell yourself that tonight will be just like all the other times, but you know it isn’t. You’ve always operated under cover of obscurity before, been able to act with impunity because no one knew you existed. Now that’s all changed. And even though it was your own decision, your own choice to emerge into the limelight, it alters everything.

  For good or bad, you’re committed now. There’s no going back.

  True, you’ve prepared for it. You wouldn’t have started this without an exit strategy. When the time comes you’ll be able to slide back into the shadows, just like before. But you’ve got to see it through to the end first. And while the rewards might be great, so is the risk.

  You can’t afford any mistakes.

  You do your best to believe that what happens tonight doesn’t matter in the greater scheme of things, that your real work will continue regardless. But it rings false. The truth is there’s more at stake now. Although you hate to admit it, all the failures have taken their toll. You need this, you need the affirmation that you haven’t wasted all these years.

  Your entire life.

  You finish polishing the camera lens and pour yourself a glass of milk. You ought to have something to soak up the acid in your stomach, but it’s too knotted to eat. The milk’s been opened for a day or two now, and the scum on top says it’s probably turned. But that’s one of the benefits of not being able to smell or taste anything. You drink it straight off, staring out of the window at the trees silhouetted against the sky. When you set the empty glass back on the kitchen table, the smeared interior gives it a ghostly translucency in the gathering dark.