Lost Souls

by Jenny O'Brien

  Gaby walked into the plush surroundings, her feet starting to skid on the highly polished wooden floor as she tried to switch her thoughts from concerns about her staff and back to the investigation. Managing her team was the one part of her promotion to DS and then acting DI that she didn’t relish. She knew where she was with the dead. While they couldn’t speak, there were other ways for them to share their secrets. But people management was like finding an unexpected trunk poking out of that proverbial can of worms. She could cope with the day-to-day detritus that accompanied office life but the unexpected elephant popping up in the corner was something she wasn’t equipped for. Gaby would be the first person to admit that she was crap at relationships. Her mind dipped back to Cardiff and her entanglement with Leigh Clark, which had ended in his heavily pregnant wife exposing her for the fool that she was. If she could make such a catastrophic mess of her own life, what were the odds that she’d be just as likely to mess up someone else’s?

  No. She was going to leave Marie and Malachy to their own devices. All she asked was that any relationship issues they might have didn’t impact on their work.

  Her thoughts shifted to Rusty but, approaching the wide expanse of desk, she forced them to shrivel and die, leaving only withered remains. Her relationship with the man was far too new to be allowed room during the middle of an investigation. She was meant to be seeing him later – only time would tell if she was able to honour that plan. She had the hurdle of dealing with Bill Davis to face first, a man who would do anything to see her fall flat on her face.

  Gaby had had such high hopes when she’d been transferred from Cardiff to Swansea but she’d only worked there a day when she’d had her first run-in with the DS and, as his junior, she’d had to take everything he’d dished out. The worst of it was he still blamed her for the untimely death of her former boss, Rhys Walker. And sadly, part of her agreed with him. The only saving grace was that she’d managed to save the life of Izzy Grant in the process, in a case that was also about a missing child, she remembered – an investigation into the disappearance of Izzy’s newborn baby daughter.

  She wouldn’t last five minutes if Bill got the job of DI but the only way she could prevent it was to apply for the post herself, therefore leaving her even less time for any sort of a personal life. Catch 22.

  Gaby paused her musings to take in the quiet, ambient surroundings that featured lots of highly polished glass and subtle furnishings. It took both time and effort to create such a calm, stress-free environment, one which was at odds with the hustle and bustle she was used to. The person standing up to shake their hands matched the environment exactly.

  Trevor Beeton was firmly in the grasp of middle age, his thick, brushed-back grey hair a perfect foil for his heavy jaw and deep-set eyes. The suit he wore was dark and formal, the shirt pristine white, the tie dark grey instead of the black she’d been expecting. The shoes were buffed to a high sheen. There was no jewellery apart from a thick wedding band and a steel watch, which looked like it needed a pilot’s licence to operate it. He appeared exactly what he was: affluent and opinionated.

  ‘How can I be of help, officers?’ he said, sitting back in his chair. He picked up a gold-lidded fountain pen and swirled it through his fingers. ‘It’s not often we get a visit from the police. In fact, I can’t remember the last time.’

  ‘No, well, when they get to you it’s usually a little too late for us to intervene,’ Gaby replied, angling her head in Owen’s direction. This was his party and she was quite happy for him to take the lead.

  ‘I’m not sure whether you know but one of your staff came to see us at the station earlier. A Mr Martin Penrose?’

  There was no change in Trevor Beeton’s expression but for some reason Gaby sensed that he was annoyed. It made her think that he wouldn’t be the most compassionate of men, which was interesting when taking into account his career choice.

  ‘Really? I am surprised. I’m sure that the police have a lot more important things to concentrate on than a little problem of sloppy housekeeping.’

  ‘But Mr Penrose is adamant that he cleaned the cremator thoroughly on both occasions?’

  ‘And why wouldn’t he – be adamant that is?’ he said, his grey eyes narrowing with a steely determination. ‘You obviously don’t know Martin as well as I do but he’s on his final warning. The truth is I should never have employed him. He hasn’t got the wherewithal for the job but he gave me some sob story about not being able to make ends meet.’

  ‘That’s beside the point,’ Owen said. ‘Mr Penrose came to see us about his discovery and, however unlikely his story might be, we are duty-bound to investigate.’

  ‘Of course you are, officers. So, I repeat, how can I be of help? It’s not as if I can produce a body,’ he added with a laugh, a laugh that didn’t make his eyes.

  Gaby watched Owen stiffen. As interviews went this one wasn’t going to plan. She couldn’t actually say that Trevor Beeton was hostile but he wasn’t the usual cooperative member of the public they were used to.

  ‘As you can’t produce a body, we need details of the cremations performed over the weekend. In particular, Duncan Broome’s. Obviously this is only an informal chat but we can easily obtain a warrant for something that is, after all, a matter of public record.’

  Gaby hid a smile at the corner Owen had neatly propelled him into, her attention on Trevor as he considered his options. There weren’t any. If he made them get a search warrant it would only delay the inevitable and, with death notices freely available online, there was no reason for his objection except perhaps bloody awkwardness.

  With a loud sigh, he heaved to his feet and made his way to the filing cabinet positioned to the right of the window. Maintaining a heavy silence, he searched through the files, withdrew two and dropped them neatly onto his desk. Apart from the squeak from his chair when he retook his seat, the silence persisted as he searched through the top folder.

  ‘As the nearest cremator for hundreds of miles, in addition to arranging funerals, we also allow other firms to use our very extensive facilities and that’s the case with Mr Broome. Apart from his details, there’s very little to add. You’d need to speak to Hayley Prince, over at Prince and Sons …’

  ‘I’ve just come from there,’ Owen said, leaning forward in his chair. ‘Mrs Prince was very helpful,’ he continued, the stress being on the very, in contrast to Mr Beeton’s lacklustre efforts so far. ‘So there’s nothing to add,’ he repeated. ‘Nothing odd about the cremation?’

  ‘Not a thing.’ Trevor withdrew a piece of paper and, after glancing at it briefly, slid it across the desk. ‘We made our usual record of the funeral timings, a list of attendees and who made floral contributions. I’m happy to email you a copy for your records?’

  ‘Thank you. What about the previous cremation? It’s something we need to look into if, as you’ve suggested, the problem is down to “sloppy housekeeping” rather than anything nefarious.’

  Trevor opened up the second folder without a word. Removing the contents, he spread them out, his expression impossible to read as he quickly scanned the sheets for the relevant page before handing it across to Owen.

  Gaby felt a clinical detachment at odds with their current situation. She hated funerals almost as much as Marie but, after a life well lived, she could rationalise that they had to be viewed as a celebration more than anything. The truth was people died. There was nothing she or anyone else could do to change that.

  The silence extended, both Trevor and Owen reluctant to speak first. Owen cleared his throat, his gaze fixed on the sheet in his hand, his knuckles blanching through the skin, even as Gaby glanced down at the name typed in capitals at the top of the page.

  MISS OLIVE JOHNSON, AGED TEN.

  Chapter 14

  Ronan

  Monday 3 August, 2.40 p.m. Llandudno

  For once Ronan was in a pickle not of his own making. With two younger brothers, he no more knew how to act around a ten-
year-old girl than he did a stranger in the street, and strangers were the people he was most wary of. If a pair of supposed schoolmates could assault him on school premises, how was he meant to trust someone he’d only just met?

  He couldn’t remember a time when he’d had the ability to trust anyone apart from himself. Perhaps when he was younger but since then the world had let him down in such a spectacular fashion as to make a mockery of his previous dependence on others. It wasn’t his mother’s fault that she’d developed cancer but he could certainly blame her for the way it had changed her. He gripped Ellie’s hand firmly within his, pulling her away from Mostyn Street and down one of the side streets towards the train station. No, for all his mother’s faults, she couldn’t be held responsible for her illness or the changes it ultimately wrought on his family.

  ‘Hey, where are we going?’ Ellie said, interrupting his thoughts, her voice the gruff squeak he’d told her to adopt.

  He dropped her hand now that they were out of sight of the main artery of the town but instead of answering, he carried on walking, ignoring the sound of her feet racing to catch up with him.

  ‘Hey, I asked you where we were going,’ she said again, her voice breaking into a sob.

  He halted in his tracks and turned, staring down at her upturned face. It was hard to remember the girl she’d been before the haircut. All trace of her long hair was gone, the boyish crop just about concealed by one of his brother’s baseball caps. He’d expected hysterics when she’d first caught sight of herself in the mirror but instead he’d got silence. He’d been proud of her then, this slight girl with eyes so large they nearly filled her face. She still hadn’t told him why she was on the run and, despite everything, he’d let her be. She’d tell him in her own time but, by the mulish pull of her bottom lip, nothing he could say would make her divulge anything she didn’t want him to know. Glancing down, he took in his younger brother’s jeans and old trainers, which at least added to the illusion of her being a boy, all trace of pink expunged from her wardrobe even down to her rucksack. It would be disastrous if someone recognised her before he’d managed to wriggle out of her why she’d run away. Only then would he decide what was best for her because wandering the streets with him certainly wasn’t it.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, dropping his voice, a smile edging his lips at the sight of her stubborn bottom lip starting to wobble. He was probably being too hard on her; she was only ten after all and she’d barely said a word since leaving his mother’s house. The reality was that she was a very scared little girl. For some reason she’d picked him for the role of her guardian angel, which was the biggest joke of all. He was barely able to mind himself let alone have responsibility for anyone else.

  ‘I thought we’d be going back to the Orme?’

  ‘Did you now? The Orme will be the first place they search so we need to go somewhere that they won’t think of.’ He stopped again, placing the plastic bag he’d been clutching between his feet while he rearranged the position of his rucksack on his shoulders, which had grown heavier from the tins he’d pilfered from his mother’s larder cupboard. He hadn’t been back to the house since he’d made the decision to run away and stealing from his family wasn’t something he’d ever wanted to do. But there wouldn’t be any friendly vicar to turn to where they were going and, without a source of income, his money supply wouldn’t last for ever.

  ‘So, where are you taking me?’ she said, rubbing the back of her hand across her eyes.

  Crouching down, he noted the threat of tears hovering on her lashes and tried to think of how Caleb, his eleven-year-old brother, would cope in a similar situation. He wouldn’t. He’d be terrified. But then he couldn’t think of a reason for him to desert the family home except possibly their perpetually poor internet speed, which had once been the main cause of the arguments between them. The truth was that Ellie was desperate and Ronan too much of a coward to ask her why she’d run; he wasn’t sure if he could cope with the answer. She appeared to be holding it together by a slender thread of bravado. At some point that would snap, leaving him to pick up the pieces. He’d rather that wasn’t until after they’d reached their final destination.

  His free hand curled around the hard outline of the keys he’d taken from the top drawer of his mother’s filing cabinet.

  ‘We’re going somewhere they won’t find you unless you want them to. You do still want to run away, don’t you? Because now’s the time to say if not.’ He answered her slight nod with another brief smile. ‘Okay then. We need to get cracking or we’ll miss the train. Watch out for a bin, would you?’ He lifted up the carrier bag. ‘No point in taking this with us.’

  Chapter 15

  Gaby

  Monday 3 August, 3.20 p.m. Welsh Hills Memorial Gardens

  No cost had been spared to furnish the light, bright and airy chapel. The rectangular room was filled with pew-like wooden benches fitted with thick, soft, red velour cushions. The white walls were draped with a variety of tapestry scenes, which added a richness to what would have otherwise been a spartan room. There was a small plain lectern at the front in the same wood used on the benches and a plinth off to one side with a large copper basin arranged with an assortment of flowers, none of which Gaby could put a name to apart from the dahlias. The red curtains on the back wall hung from a thick brass pole and matched the fabric of the seat cushions. She didn’t want to think about what they were concealing.

  Like many of the places that Gaby visited in her work as a police officer, the room at the back of the chapel, which housed the cremator, was very different to the showy front. Instead of the same grey flooring as in the reception and office areas there was bare concrete. Instead of plastered walls there was bare brick. The steel cremator was a large square box with a small door fitted into one side and a range of dials, which were all pointing at zero. Apart from the cremator, there was a long bench, which held a small steel unit along with a metal brush, a small rake and what looked like an oversized magnet. There was also a large apron, reminiscent of the one Rusty used during his autopsies, in addition to a pair of industrial gloves hanging from a hook in the corner.

  They’d asked to meet with Martin Penrose, much to the displeasure of Trevor Beeton, but that couldn’t be helped. They weren’t in the business of pleasing members of the public, only in finding out the answers to the questions that were starting to build around the echo of a crime. An extra body. Whose? Why? And finally, to Gaby’s confused mind, how?

  She turned her attention away from the room, focusing instead on the man propping up the wall nearest the door, his forearms folded across his chest. She’d barely noticed him back at the station. Now she took in his old jeans, baggy around the knees and frayed at the hem where they met his heavy-duty boots, an expression of distrust marking his weather-beaten face. The unexpected expression was one she’d have to think about later but, in the short term, it made her restructure the questions flitting around her mind.

  There was no offering to shake hands, something she was thankful for as she took in his work-roughened fingers, the nails split and ingrained. Instead she stepped back and let Owen take the lead. Her thoughts returned to the hunt for Ellie Fry and her phone’s disappointing silence.

  ‘Mr Penrose, this is DI Darin,’ Owen said, flicking his head in Gaby’s direction. ‘If you could repeat what you told me earlier so that we can visualise it for ourselves?’

  She watched Martin lever himself from the wall and make his way across to the cremator, his hand working the handle that barricaded the metal door. ‘Like I said earlier, this is the business end of cremations. After the ashes have cooled, they have to be raked out. There’s never much apart from the bones but occasionally we get some metal fragments like gold fillings and if the person had a joint replacement.’ He crossed back to the bench and tapped the edge of the metal tray. ‘This is where the bits and pieces get sorted. The bone fragments then go into the crusher while the metal parts get separated for disposal l
ater. That’s it. The whole process in a nutshell. There’s nothing else to tell except that yesterday instead of finding the maximum of two artificial hips there were three.’

  ‘And there’s no way there could have been a mix-up?’ Owen said, catching Gaby’s frown. ‘Maybe from a cremation a few days ago?’

  ‘None whatsoever. I had sole responsibility over the weekend and I can assure you that the three hips were from the last service.’

  ‘Okay, let’s move on a little, Mr Penrose. Do you have any suggestions as to what might have happened? Perhaps someone slipped a second body into the coffin or even had one already in the cremator when Mr Broome joined it?’

  Mr Penrose shook his head in utter disbelief, reinforcing Gaby’s view as to his innocence. Even his look of distrust earlier led her to believe that he was nothing if not genuine. There would be no reason for him to go to the police with some jumped-up story that was far too strange to be immediately believable.

  ‘I’ve no idea how they got there – that’s the thing that’s worrying me the most,’ he said, a nervous tick appearing in his cheek. ‘That and the boss using it as an excuse to get rid of me.’ He rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. ‘I always double-check that I’ve cleaned the cremator. It’s only fair for relatives to know that all of their loved ones’ remains are returned to them,’ he said, his voice cracking.

  ‘You sound as if you’re speaking from experience?’

  ‘I am.’ He shook his head and Gaby knew that he wouldn’t answer any further questions on that score.

  ‘Okay, let’s back up a little. You said that the part that’s worrying you the most is how the extra hip joint got into the coffin. What do you mean by that?’

  ‘The problem is that it’s impossible. Crematoriums already know how easy it would be for people to use the furnace to dispose of bodies. That’s why they’ve set up precautions like the furnace only taking one coffin.’