Day of the Dead

by Nicci French

  ‘In a minute.’

  ‘I want to show you something,’ said Quarry. He pulled the photograph of Dean Reeve out of his bag and held it up. The baby made a grab for it. Her crying was getting softer, full of hiccups and rasping breaths now.

  ‘Have you seen this man before?’ asked Quarry.

  Charlotte Beck peered at it. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Where have you seen him?’

  ‘He looks like one of the people who was there. When it all happened.’ She leaned closer. ‘Yes, it’s him.’

  ‘You say he was there?’

  ‘He came and talked to me after it had all calmed down. I was in a bit of a daze and there was blood all over me and he sat on the pavement beside me and told me I’d done well. I wasn’t thinking straight. I was all over the place.’ She looked around her. ‘I mean more all over the place than usual. He helped me get home. He walked me almost to the front door. He seemed nice. Why are you asking? Who is he?’

  ‘Did he tell you his name?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Or wait.’ She frowned in concentration. Her daughter had stopped crying and her eyelids were beginning to close. Her head lay heavily on Charlotte Beck’s shoulder. ‘Dave, I think. Or David.’

  Quarry nodded. On the statement he had given, he had said his name was Dave McGill.

  ‘Why?’ asked Charlotte Beck again.

  ‘Just someone we need to contact,’ said Quarry, sliding the photo back into his pocket. ‘I’ll let myself out. I don’t want to wake your daughter now she’s asleep.’

  Charlotte Beck gave a tired laugh. ‘You don’t need to worry about her. She’ll sleep for hours and wake up all fresh and ready for the night.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Constable Darren Symons. ‘That looks like one of the witnesses. I took his statement. What was his name?’

  ‘Dave McGill?’ suggested Quarry.

  ‘That’s it. He was the one who said he thought there was something odd about the whole set-up. You got to hand it to him, he was on to it before any of us were.’

  ‘He was,’ agreed Quarry. ‘Way before.’

  Frieda and Lola were able to walk almost the whole way to St Pancras Coroner’s Court along the canal.

  ‘Don’t you ever think, sod it, I’m going to jump on a Tube?’ said Lola, as they walked along the stretch in the middle of the zoo.

  ‘Walking is how I think,’ said Frieda. ‘When I’m alone.’

  ‘Am I stopping you thinking?’

  ‘You mean at this very moment?’

  ‘At this moment you’re having to answer my questions. I mean in general. While I’m staying with you.’

  ‘I’m not doing much thinking. I’m just waiting.’

  ‘Maybe you’re both just waiting for each other.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  Lola looked up at the giant aviary. ‘I’ve never been to the zoo. Isn’t that strange?’

  ‘Neither have I.’

  ‘That’s insane. You only live a few minutes away. Why not?’

  ‘I don’t like seeing things in cages.’

  ‘Maybe it’s better to be in a cage than to go extinct.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I think that’s a jackal,’ Lola said. ‘What if they don’t let us in?’

  ‘The zoo?’

  ‘The coroner’s court.’

  ‘It’s a public event. They have to let us in.’

  It was just a few minutes’ walk from the canal. The building looked almost hidden, like an afterthought bolted onto the side of St Pancras churchyard, surrounded by the railway and the canal and the road leading down to King’s Cross and St Pancras stations. Inside the door there was a little lobby area. A middle-aged man was pinning a notice to the wall. He glanced round at the two women.

  ‘We’re here for the Gerald Hebb inquest,’ Frieda said.

  ‘Are you family?’ said the man.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Press?’

  ‘We’re just members of the public.’

  The man frowned and seemed to be searching for a reason to object but he waved them in the direction of what appeared to be a plain, veneered office door. When they pushed it open, it seemed as if there was something wrong, like a meeting where nobody, or almost nobody, had turned up. At the far side of the small room was a table. A man was sitting behind it, reading an open file. A rotund middle-aged woman was sitting to one side, staring down at her phone. Facing the table were three rows of plastic chairs. Only one of them was occupied.

  The man behind the desk frowned at them. ‘Are you family?’

  ‘We’re just here to observe,’ said Frieda.

  ‘In some official capacity?’

  ‘No.’

  He seemed puzzled, but not especially interested. ‘Well, we’ll be beginning soon. We’re just waiting for the police to arrive. They’re running late.’

  Frieda and Lola sat down in the back row, away from everyone.

  ‘So are we looking for a clue?’ asked Lola, cheerfully.

  ‘We’re looking for something,’ said Frieda.

  Ten minutes after the inquest was due to start, the door opened and two young uniformed officers came into the room. They made their way through the chairs and sat down in the front row. When the man started to speak it was in a bored tone.

  ‘I’m Dr Charles Mahdawi. I take it there are no family members here.’ He gave a very short pause. ‘For the sake of the two ladies who are here to observe the proceedings, I should say that the remit of an inquest is very narrow. We are simply here to answer four questions: who the deceased was, where they died, when they died and how they died. I don’t think we’ll be detaining you long.’ He turned to the two officers. ‘Is one of you Sergeant Grady?’

  One of the officers stood up and Mahdawi gestured him into a chair next to the table. Grady took a small notebook from his pocket. ‘Is it all right if I refer to this, sir?’

  ‘We’re very informal here.’

  It felt like a routine middle-management meeting as Mahdawi led the sergeant through his account of how the body of Gerald Hebb had been found beside his bike. The body was face down, half on the pavement and half off, on Downs Road near the corner with Wiltshire Gardens. As the officer spoke, Mahdawi took notes on a pad. Then he opened the file in front of him and started to read extracts aloud.

  ‘Cause of death was a “blow to the back of the base of the skull which resulted in death by cerebral haemorrhage”. That is consistent with having been struck by a vehicle. As we have heard, the call reporting the discovery of the body was made at about six twenty in the morning. The report says that the temperature of the body suggested it had been lying there for six to eight hours. All very sad, but it seems to be straightforward enough. I think we can come to a conclusion here.’

  ‘Excuse me.’

  Lola was startled, wondering who had spoken and then, with a sinking feeling, realized it was Frieda. Mahdawi looked puzzled.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can I ask a question?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but only properly interested people are entitled to ask questions. That means family.’

  ‘There are no family present.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I would like to ask the questions that his family would ask.’

  Mahdawi took a deep breath and rapped the table several times with his pen. Lola saw that the two police officers and the other man were staring at Frieda with expressions of surprise.

  ‘All right,’ Mahdawi said, in an icy tone. ‘You can ask a question. First, can you identify yourself?’

  ‘Of course. My name is Ursula –’

  But then Frieda halted. She narrowed her eyes, visibly coming to a decision. Lola clutched at her arm: she had a sudden sense of foreboding.

  ‘My name is Dr Frieda Klein.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ hissed Lola. ‘Don’t!’ Frieda paid her no attention.

  Mahdawi started to write the name down and stopped. ‘That sounds familiar. Have you
been in this court before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘All right. What is your question?’

  ‘I’d like to ask the police officer. The autopsy says that Gerald Hebb had been dead for over six hours. Downs Road is fairly busy, isn’t it?’

  The officer looked distinctly uneasy. ‘It was the middle of the night.’

  ‘Yes, but even so, is it conceivable that a body could have lain there, outstretched, in the street with no passer-by, no driver, noticing it?’

  ‘It’s what happened.’

  ‘And did you consider what Gerald Hebb, who lives and works in South London, was doing on his bike in the middle of the night up in Hampstead?’

  Before the officer could speak, Mahdawi interrupted: ‘I said I’d allow you one question. I didn’t say you could operate like a barrister. In any case, this is all irrelevant. As I explained, we are here with a prescribed remit. It’s not some half-baked investigation.’

  ‘I thought that one part of your remit was to establish where Hebb died,’ said Frieda.

  ‘Please don’t try to instruct me about my remit. Mr Hebb’s body was found in the street next to his bike. There is not the remotest suggestion of any evidence that he died anywhere else.’

  ‘I’ve already made a suggestion.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ said Mahdawi. He turned to the officer. ‘Thank you for your evidence. The only possible conclusion is that Mr Hebb died by misadventure. That is my verdict. I hereby release the body for burial.’ He closed his file and stood up. He looked across at Frieda.

  ‘If you have any other concerns, please address them to the police.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  ‘I don’t understand why you would do that.’

  Lola and Frieda were walking back along the canal. Frieda didn’t reply, so Lola continued, gesturing wildly as she spoke, ‘You’ve got another name, another identity. You’ve dyed your hair and cut it short. And me – I’ve got to leave my entire life behind. I’ve got to live like a secret agent. Don’t use your phone. Don’t contact anyone. Don’t let anyone know where you are. And then you announce your identity in court in front of a couple of policemen. That other man in the court looked like he might be a reporter.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Frieda. ‘He looked like that to me too.’

  ‘Your name will probably be mentioned in the report. Or even in the papers. Dean Reeve will probably see it.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘So why did you do it? Was it some kind of rush of blood to the head, like that time you got thrown in prison?’

  ‘Times.’

  Lola laughed. ‘You mean it happened more than once? Sorry, I wasn’t keeping count.’

  ‘I didn’t plan to do it,’ said Frieda. ‘But when I heard that ridiculous account of how they found the body, I had to say something. It probably won’t do any good.’

  ‘And what if Dean Reeve sees that you were there?’

  ‘I hope he does.’

  ‘Why?’ Lola was practically dancing on the spot, waving her hands in distress. ‘I thought we were in danger.’

  Frieda stopped and stared down into the water. ‘Something went wrong in staging the Gerald Hebb killing. I don’t know what it was. Maybe something was taken from the scene. Maybe he was disturbed when he was dumping the body. His death, which was meant to be a sign, went unnoticed. But the body of Liz Barron was a way of rapping us over the head, telling us to pay attention.’

  ‘You mean rapping you over the head.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I mean,’ said Frieda. ‘And I’m telling him that I’m here, I’m listening.’

  They continued walking.

  ‘You know, in my first year, I had this really intense relationship with a guy. I mean the sex …’ Lola turned to look at Frieda. ‘You’re a therapist, yes? It’s all right to talk to you about sex, isn’t it?’

  ‘You can talk about anything you like.’

  ‘Well, it felt like real sex for the first time. You know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘The problem was that we got into each other’s heads. He became obsessed with what he thought I was thinking. He felt he knew me better than I knew myself. He’d be, like, explaining me to me. It may sound sweet and intimate, but it actually became claustrophobic in the end. It just couldn’t continue. We still hook up occasionally but that’s not the point of what I’m saying. You can see what I’m saying, can’t you?’

  ‘I can see it, but I don’t think it’s a helpful way of looking at it.’

  ‘But the way you talk about him. It’s like you understand his messages in a way that nobody else does. And he’s doing all this just as a way of communicating with you. It sounds really strange.’

  Frieda quickened her stride and spoke without looking at Lola. ‘I’ve had female patients who were rape victims. I’ve had female patients who had been stalked. Who had had their lives ruined by it. And without exception they were told by friends, by people who were close to them, by people who were trying to help, that it must have been something they did, that there was some kind of complicity.’

  ‘I’ve touched a nerve,’ said Lola.

  ‘You didn’t touch a nerve. You were wrong.’

  ‘But if I think that –’

  ‘Could you do something to help me?’ said Frieda.

  ‘Anything. I’m really glad you’re asking.’

  ‘Could you be quiet, so I can think?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Lola, crestfallen. ‘If that’s what you want. Although I think that it might help to talk about this.’

  ‘Starting now.’

  They walked the whole rest of the way back to the flat in silence and remained in silence as Frieda sliced bread for sandwiches.

  ‘Can I ask a question now?’ said Lola.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You think that Dean Reeve is sending you a message?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But isn’t a message meant to say something? Or is he just saying, “Here I am”?’

  Frieda laid slices of cheese across the bread. ‘I’ve been thinking about that.’

  Lola brightened. ‘So we’re thinking alike?’

  Frieda took out a pen. On the table was a pile of letters. She picked up one and looked at it. On the front of it was written: ‘To the owner’. She put it face down on the table. She drew a line that looked like a snake curving down and up and down.

  ‘That’s the Thames,’ she said. She drew a line straight up from it. ‘That’s the Fleet.’ She drew another line up from the Thames to the left of the first line. ‘That’s the Tyburn. Two may not mean anything, but three makes a pattern.’ Then she drew another line to the left. ‘The Westbourne. Like three spokes on a wheel.’

  ‘What’s the next spoke?’

  ‘Another good question.’ Frieda drew a further line to the left. ‘Counter’s Creek.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘That’s the thing about these rivers. They flow through London and people sit by them and sail on them and dream beside them, and then they get built on and forgotten about. And Counter’s Creek is especially forgotten. But it’s there. Somewhere.’

  Lola leaned over Frieda’s diagram. ‘So you’re right that he’s working his way round these secret rivers?’

  ‘It looks that way.’

  ‘What are you actually going to do?’

  Frieda smiled and stood up.

  ‘Oh, no,’ Lola said. ‘I’m feeling sore already. My blister’s getting worse.’

  ‘You can stay here.’

  ‘Of course I can’t stay here.’

  Quarry met Neil Morrell near the ponds on the Heath. The whole area had been dug up and drained recently, and although the grass had grown back quickly, it was still possible to see the scars from the excavation. Morrell had a ponytail and a lined face; his clothes were spattered with mud. He took the photo of Dean Reeve and held it away from him. ‘Of course.’

  ‘What do you mean, of course?�
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  ‘I used to see him round here quite a bit. He even helped me with that bonfire. He dragged branches across. Said he had time on his hands and he liked to be useful.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just following things up,’ said Quarry, vaguely. Dugdale had impressed on him the importance of not mentioning Dean Reeve’s name. ‘Have you seen him recently?’

  ‘Not for a bit. Who is he?’

  ‘As I say, we’re following up leads. If you do see him, please contact us.’ He handed over a card.

  Frieda and Lola started at the huge Kensal Green cemetery, a riot of different styles, ornamental benches, plastic Greek temples, miniature gates.

  ‘I guess this is the cemetery where you can do anything,’ said Lola.

  ‘As long as you pay upfront,’ said Frieda. ‘I rather like it.’ She looked around. ‘The river starts somewhere here, but it crosses the canal and the railway. We’ll need to walk round.’ They went out of the cemetery and along the edge of Wormwood Scrubs, past the hospital and the prison and then down through a maze of streets that led under the Westway, the traffic rumbling overhead.

  ‘It doesn’t feel much like there’s a river here,’ said Lola.

  ‘You’re right. It feels as if they really tried to obliterate this one. They turned it into a sewer and changed its course. Usually you can feel the river somehow. You can see the shape of it, the slopes of the old riverbank, the way it twists and winds. I don’t feel Counter’s Creek. I never have.’

  They managed the awkward crossing of Holland Park Avenue, just by the huge, noisy roundabout. Frieda led them into a small side road and gestured up at the sign: Clearwater Terrace. ‘That name is the only faint memory of the river, the whole way, and it’s not enough.’

  A few minutes later she pointed out to Lola that they were walking along the side of a railway. ‘It’s where the river used to flow.’

  Lola started to speak but Frieda just shook her head. A little while later they were in the heart of Chelsea, white-stucco houses, heavy four-wheel-drive cars, coffee shops and delicatessens. Frieda stopped and shook her head. ‘I’m lost,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve got your phone,’ said Lola.

  ‘I don’t mean that. I mean the river. I don’t know where it is.’