‘Are you all right, Doctor?’
‘No, not really. It was Colin from the lab upstairs’ stag do last night. I’d have called in sick but I’ve used up all my sick days recently and, y’know …’ He waved a hand around. ‘Death waits for no man. Who are you here for?’
‘Two, actually. Simon Brush, who you got in yesterday, and John Maguire from the day before.’
‘Oh, handy.’
‘Handy?’ asked Sturgess, but Mason ignored the question and turned around.
‘C’mon, then.’
Sturgess followed the doctor down the hall, walking a step behind to avoid the man’s breath – it put him in mind of the time they’d found a body in a sewer. Mason himself seemed oblivious to his own halitoxicity as he used the walk as an opportunity to launch into a monologue.
‘I say it was the stag do, turns out it wasn’t the stag do, or even the alternative one. No – only found out last night when one of the lads let slip there’d been a weekend in Budapest last month and then a night in Blackpool last weekend. Apparently, I’m on the C team. Can you believe that?’
Sturgess didn’t answer, because he didn’t care, and even if he did, he guessed Mason wouldn’t have wanted to hear it.
‘Six years I’ve been playing five-a-side with Colin. Six! I invited him to the game when he’d just moved here from Glasgow, and now he’s heading off to bloody Budapest with lads I introduced him to. Without me. Come to that, I introduced him to his bloody wife-to-be as well.’
He pushed his way through a swing door into the mortuary proper, the normally overpowering smell of disinfectant battling with the funk around the good doctor.
‘I’ll tell you what it is,’ he continued. ‘It’s the divorce. They’re choosing Yvonne’s side, same as everybody else. I’m getting stereotyped as some mid-life crisis loser who ran off with a younger woman, only to find the younger woman doesn’t want him, and all right, technically – technically – all that is correct, but it is never that simple.’ Mason stopped between two bodies covered with white sheets. ‘Things are never that simple, are they? I mean, you’re a detective, I don’t have to tell you that. And now it looks like I might not even get an invite to the wedding. I mean, does that seem fair?’
Sturgess was taken aback when Mason looked at him as if he were actually expecting an answer. He’d been tuning him out. What had he meant by ‘handy’? He could also feel the dull throb behind his left eyebrow that meant one of his damned headaches was coming on.
He looked blankly at the doctor, having no idea what the question had been. ‘So, where are these two bodies?’
Mason shook his head and pointed at the gurneys either side of him. ‘Here and here – Messrs Brush and Maguire respectively.’
Sturgess looked around at the banks of lockers that were presumably mostly full of bodies, and then back again at the only two that were sitting out for inspections. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah,’ said Mason.
‘This place deals with, what – about six thousand deaths a year?’
Mason nodded. ‘Nearer eight now, since they closed the—’
‘Right,’ interrupted Sturgess. ‘The Maguire autopsy – I was told that was done two days ago. And the Brush one yesterday?’
Dr Mason nodded as if he were wondering exactly what point the detective was trying to make.
‘So,’ continued Sturgess, ‘seeing as the autopsies have been completed and you don’t leave corpses sitting out for days on end, it strikes me as incredibly unusual that both these bodies just happen to be on display and sitting side by side when I come to see them.’
Mason’s face would’ve gone pale if it hadn’t been a deathly shade already. He tried to laugh off the question. ‘What can I tell you? We’re surprisingly efficient.’
‘Not to mention psychic, seeing as I didn’t tell anyone I was coming, and these two cases are not officially linked in any way.’
Mason said nothing but stood more upright. Sturgess could visibly see him sobering up, as he realized this casual chat was no longer casual. He got an odd flashback to those three drunk students, when they realized that losing a body was probably a very bad idea.
‘Now, Doctor,’ said Sturgess. ‘I want you to consider the next question carefully as it is an official one. As the lead officer on both of these investigations, can you tell me if anyone else has been in to see these bodies?’
The two men stood for a long moment, staring at each other. Eventually, Mason cleared his throat. ‘If you have any questions regarding access to this facility, I feel you should direct them towards my superiors.’
‘I will.’
‘And,’ the doctor added under his foul breath, ‘the very best of luck with that.’
The steadily building throb in Sturgess’s head was exacerbating his rising temper. ‘The only people who are supposed to be in here are medical professionals and police officers.’
‘I’m well aware of the rules. I’m not sure you are, though.’
‘Look, just give me the names and nobody needs to know where I got them from.’
Mason gave a humourless laugh. ‘Cop yourself on, Sturgess. Now, if you’ve no questions regarding the post-mortems that have been carried out on these subjects then I’ve got plenty of other work to get to. We rushed these to the top of the queue at your request.’
Sturgess bit his lip and ran the back of his hand across his brow. He was starting to sweat now. ‘Fine. Please give me your report.’
Mason nodded. ‘John Maguire, male, fifty-two years old. Shows signs of sustained alcohol and drug abuse. There were some lacerations, but the cause of death was massive blunt force trauma to the back of the head.’ He turned to the other body. ‘Simon Brush, nineteen. Appears to have been in good health prior to his death. Body shows signs of massive trauma, consistent with a fall from a great height. Death would have been instantaneous.’
‘And did you find anything unusual?’ asked Sturgess.
‘Define unusual.’
‘Really, Charlie? Do I really need to define unusual?’
Mason shrugged. ‘It’s just you seem to have some very specific questions, DI Sturgess, so I’m trying to assist you as much as possible.’
‘Right,’ said Sturgess. ‘How about this, then: is there anything, other than being dead and both deaths involving blunt force trauma, that links these two bodies?’
Mason looked at him for another long moment and then seemed to decide something. He pulled back the sheets from both bodies to reveal the heads of the two men. Sturgess looked away for a second and gathered himself. It was not a pretty sight.
Mason pointed at the neck of John Maguire. ‘See here, on the neck? There are marks.’
‘What kind of marks?’
‘I’m not sure. The bruising looks as if it might have been caused by someone grabbing the subject around the throat, but both the placement of the bruises and the lacerations are inconsistent with those made by a human hand.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Mason. ‘The pattern isn’t something I’ve seen before. It looks almost like it might have been caused by an animal, although obviously that’s very unlikely given the circumstances. There’s also evidence of it on the neck of Simon Brush, although not as clear due to the body’s overall condition. I’ve sent pictures to colleagues down in London who specialize more in this area, to see if they can come up with anything.’
‘Right,’ said Sturgess. ‘Anything else unusual?’
‘No,’ said Mason. ‘Just that.’
‘OK.’ Sturgess took a breath and closed his eyes for a second.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Fine. Just a headache.’ Sturgess rolled his head in circles. ‘I should let you know, as soon as I leave here I shall be putting in a request to review this facility’s CCTV recordings for the last twenty-four hours. Are you sure there’s nothing else you’d like to tell me about who might have shown an interest in these bod
ies?’
Mason shook his head. ‘Are you really this stupid?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘A word of advice, DI Sturgess, from a man in his forties who is now sleeping alone on a futon in a flat where the heating doesn’t work and the bathroom from the place upstairs leaks every bloody morning: learn when you should leave something well enough alone.’
‘If you don’t want to play ball, Dr Mason, then I have no choice but to get more senior officers involved to get answers to my questions.’
At this, Mason actually smirked. ‘Yeah, and as a medical professional, I’d strongly advise against holding your breath waiting for answers.’
‘Aren’t you sick of it?’ asked Sturgess. ‘You must get it too. That feeling that when certain things happen around here, there are people working in the background, interfering, covering things up. Doesn’t that bother you?’
Mason looked away. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Right.’
On his way out the door, Sturgess pulled the blister pack from his jacket pocket and popped four tablets, swallowing them dry. This headache felt like it was going to be a doozy.
CHAPTER 31
Stanley Roker belched, winced and then rubbed his chest with his hand, ignoring the disapproving look from a woman walking by, pushing a pram. He patted his pockets, looking for his indigestion tablets. Maybe this was it? The heart attack he’d always known was coming. Or a stroke? It could be a stroke. He could smell toasted bread, but then he was outside a sandwich shop, so it was hard to know for sure.
Part of him liked the idea of having a heart attack. Even Crystal couldn’t have a go at him for not making enough money if he was in hospital, could she? He tried to play it out in his mind: his wife standing over his sickbed, her eyes filled with tearful concern, telling him to take it easy and that everything would be all right. Then he remembered the night they’d been sitting on the sofa in their habitual frosty silence, watching Come Dine With Me, and she’d turned to him, apropos of nothing, and asked him if he knew that if he died the insurance would automatically pay off the mortgage in full. From that night, he had started to lock the door of the spare room he now permanently slept in because apparently his breathing had become ‘revolting’ and earplugs hurt her ears.
Stanley popped two tablets in his mouth. He took them so often these days that everything had an aftertaste of chalky peppermint. He looked at his watch: 10.45 a.m. He didn’t have time for this today. He had a lead on a footballer who was banging his hairstylist, and the kid had knocked in a hat-trick at the weekend. If Stanley was really lucky, the lad might have a call-up to the national team coming. ‘England International in Secret Love Tryst’ would pay a good five grand more than ‘Premiership Footballer’, and Stanley needed the money badly. Crystal wanted a holiday. All of that meant that even though Stanley had no time for this today, he had also been left with no option – the phone call he had received had been very clear on that point. And so he waited.
He looked up at the building on the other side of the street. He had pitched an article about the Dennard and its spate of associated suicides – he felt comfortable calling two a spate; he’d stretched language considerably more than that over the years – but the editors who were still taking his calls in London either already had the story or had no interest in it. One of the celebrity reality shows had kicked off on TV that week, so they had plenty of ‘getting to know you’ scandals to use already. Stanley hated those programmes – they allowed editors to dust off old stories about celebs who’d fallen out of the public eye rather than pay for dirt on the new lot. It was devaluing the noble tradition of tabloid journalism.
He turned to see what all the honking was about. A green Jaguar was coming around the corner, but only just. Its movement was slow and jerkily sporadic. Other cars were pulling around it, their drivers making their feelings known through universal gestures that probably weren’t officially recognized in British Sign Language.
Stanley took a few quick steps back as the Jag surged forward, mounted the kerb and made a beeline for him. He’d long suspected that one of the many people he’d knifed in the metaphorical back over the years would try to have him killed, but he had always hoped he’d warrant a more professional attempt than this.
The car juddered to a halt, skewed across the pavement. The driver’s door flew open and a young black woman with green hair got out and stomped off, ranting to herself as she went. ‘Absolute ’mare. Absolute. What was I thinking?’
One of the rear doors swung open and Vincent Banecroft – or, to give him his full title, Vincent ‘Bastard’ Banecroft – clambered out, crutch in tow.
‘Excellent,’ Banecroft roared. ‘Well done. Lesson one completed.’
The girl twirled around. ‘Lesson? Lesson! You spent the whole drive shouting “faster, faster, faster” at me.’
‘Well’ – Banecroft held out his hands – ‘we got here, didn’t we? I mean, the parking needs work, but—’
She pointed a finger at him. ‘You’re mental, mate. You’re absolutely … completely …’ At a loss for words, she threw her hands up in the air and marched off around the corner.
‘Don’t go far. We’ve to head back soon.’
Only then did Banecroft notice Stanley.
‘Ah, Stanley. Kid’s a natural. Prodigy, no less.’
‘I see your interpersonal skills are as strong as always, Vincent.’
Banecroft slammed the door shut and hobbled towards him. ‘Why thank you, Stanley. That means a lot, coming from you. Thank you so much for coming. I’d shake your hand only, well, let’s be honest, you’re a festering landfill of a human being and I’d rather not touch you for fear of where you’ve been.’
‘Thanks,’ said Stanley. ‘I’m glad I made the time to see you.’
‘Yes,’ said Banecroft, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shoving one into his mouth. ‘Let’s pretend you had a choice.’
Stanley glared at Banecroft as he cupped his hands and lit the cigarette. He hated the man. Really, the word ‘hate’ was woefully inadequate to express the depth of his feelings. Stanley had liked his job at the Herald. Ten years ago, Banecroft had come in as editor, to huge fanfare, and cleared out Stanley and those he termed ‘the rest of the pond scum’. He’d taken the paper in a more … well, upmarket was one way of describing the direction. Banecroft wasn’t immune to celeb gossip, but he had much preferred holding the feet of politicians, judges and businessmen to the fire. He’d pissed off a lot of people, and that wasn’t just limited to the hacks who had suddenly found themselves out of a job.
The fallen had gathered in the Regency pub on the day they were canned, and hatched devious schemes and plans to destroy the high and mighty Banecroft. Everyone had got paralytic, slept it off and then forgotten the whole thing by the morning after in the rush to find another job in a tricky economy. Everyone, that is, but Stanley. He was apparently the only one who had really meant it.
In hindsight, Stanley had to admit, he had become ever so slightly obsessed. He’d done surveillance on Banecroft for three weeks, but it had emerged that the man was the wrong kind of weirdo. He had no extracurricular activities and no interest in screwing around on his wife. Admittedly, she was fit as. Banecroft had seemed content to spend his days being the Rottweiler snapping at the establishment’s heels, and then he’d go home, snuggle on the sofa and read a book. Stanley had needed to get creative. It had seemed like a fantastic idea at the time. Besides, in his second week as editor of the Herald, Banecroft had done a big exposé on the expense accounts of some top coppers, and they’d wanted to take him down almost as badly as Stanley.
Stanley had been very careful. He knew a guy who knew a guy, and he had spent more than he needed to – not just to get the stuff, but to have everyone involved forget that he had. Then he had stashed the gear in Banecroft’s shed and put in the anonymous tip. Stanley had parked down the street and watched gleefully as the
drugs squad raided Banecroft’s house. Then, confused, he’d watched as the cops had apologized and run out of there with their tails between their legs. The bloody idiots. It hadn’t been that hard to find.
Stanley had been about to log an irate anonymous call when the passenger door of his car had opened and Banecroft had got in. ‘Hello, Stanley.’
‘What do you want?’
Banecroft had just smiled and handed him the envelope. It had been thick.
‘Something to remember me by. Footage of you planting a kilo of cocaine in my shed – tut-tut. The envelope also contains some detailed evidence of you doing very naughty things over the years to get stories. I’m sure the Metropolitan Police would be interested in your … let’s call them “unconventional” methods. You’ve got until morning to get out of London, and if I ever even smell that you might have come back here, I’ll hang you out to dry.’
Then he’d calmly climbed back out again. ‘Oh, and do drive carefully, Stanley. There’s a kilo of cocaine in your fuel tank, and I’ve honestly no idea what effect it’ll have. It might make you go really fast, or it might just force you to pull over and then bore you to tears talking about a screenplay it’s going to write.’
That had been ten years ago, and since that fateful night, Stanley hadn’t laid eyes on Banecroft. Until now. He’d heard about the breakdown and taken heartfelt delight in it. The mighty Vincent Banecroft, laid low. It had been glorious. He’d had no idea Banecroft was in Manchester, though – not until that morning.
‘So,’ said Stanley, ‘what do you want?’
‘Want?’ said Banecroft. ‘Do I have to want something? Can’t I just be excited to catch up with an old friend?’
Then Banecroft smiled that smug little smile. He looked like shit, a real mess of a man, but still, that smile was the same one Stanley remembered. His chest burned again.
The Stranger Times Page 21
