Know Me Now

by CJ Carver

  Carefully, Grace crabbed her way over some boulders to the edge of the river and quickly washed her hands before squatting beside the body. He’d not only broken his neck, but both legs were also broken along with his right arm. Without any hope she tried his pulse. Pressed her fingers against his carotid artery. Zero. He’d died not long ago as the skin was still in early rigor mortis. Less than six hours, she guessed.

  She gently pushed the hair back from his face.

  Her heart clenched.

  ‘Ah, no.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was Connor Baird. She’d met the boy a fortnight ago in her surgery when his mother, Sam, brought him in to treat a nasty gash after falling off his bike.

  He was so young. His features were smooth and clear, surprised and uncomprehending, maybe even disbelieving, and she had to force down her emotions. She was a professional. She mustn’t let sentiment get in the way.

  She looked up at Mary Gibson and shook her head. The woman brought her hand to her mouth and turned away. Grace pulled out her phone to ring the ambulance, tell them there was no rush, but she had no signal. Great.

  She wasn’t a police officer or a forensic physician, but her training demanded that she discreetly inspect the body to ensure that there were no concealed findings which might be relevant to death. She could see a messy wound on the boy’s right thigh that seemed at odds with his fall, but she decided not to move him to study it. She couldn’t assume it was definitely a suicide, and whilst there was a possibility of death from unnatural causes the area was a potential crime scene.

  She checked Connor over and frowned when she saw lividity on his upper right arm, an area of the boy’s body that hadn’t been in contact with the ground. Had the body been moved?

  She was studying his hands – no defensive wounds that she could see – when someone shouted above the din of the waterfall.

  ‘Hoy there!’

  She looked up to see a burly man in a florescent jacket heading down the river bank.

  ‘Hello,’ she called.

  Like her, he arrived at the bottom of the bank soaked and with mud up his trousers.

  ‘Lachlan,’ he told her cheerfully. ‘Your local paramedic.’

  ‘Grace Reavey.’

  He came and squatted beside her. ‘Ach,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Two jumpers in less than a month. A crying shame.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure he jumped.’ She hated it when people made assumptions.

  Lachlan gave her a sideways look. ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Well, there’s this small patch of lividity . . .’ She swallowed her words when Lachlan raised his head and yelled, ‘Dave!’ His voice boomed as clear and loud as a trombone. ‘Get Murdoch on the phone, would ya? Tell him it’s Connor Baird we’ve found.’

  Dave’s affirmative yell was faint against the constant beating sound of the waterfall. ‘Aye, OK!’

  ‘So,’ said Lachlan. ‘You’ve an opinion on Connor here. Are you from the polis?’

  ‘No. I’m a doctor.’

  He gave a low whistle, sinking back on his heels as he looked her up and down. ‘I’ve heard about ye. Aye, that I have.’

  Grace didn’t know what to make of this, so she kept quiet.

  ‘How are you finding us up here?’ he asked, sounding genuinely curious.

  ‘I’m finding you pretty good, thank you.’

  He smiled a big broad smile that showed twin rows of large white teeth.

  ‘That’s all right then.’ His cheerful expression remained. ‘How’re the renovations coming along?’

  ‘Fine, thank you.’

  Her tone must have given something away because he said, ‘Not so keen on DIY yourself, then?’

  ‘The house will be beautiful when it’s finished.’

  ‘Aye.’ His gaze turned shrewd. ‘But there’s a long way to go yet. It’s a bit of a wreck, that place.’

  ‘We’ll get there.’

  ‘Aye,’ he said again. This time he nodded. ‘He’s a strong worker, your man.’

  She wasn’t sure if this was a compliment to Ross or a rebuke to her. She hadn’t admitted it to anyone but she loathed DIY, and the thought of spending every weekend of the foreseeable future scrubbing mucky old flagstone floors did nothing but make her feel monumentally depressed.

  Luckily Lachlan changed the subject, asking where she’d trained, where her first placement had been, diverting her from Connor’s cold body until Murdoch, a uniformed policeman, slithered down the bank to join them.

  ‘Crying shame,’ he echoed Lachlan. He had his hands on his hips and was shaking his head. ‘Hate it when it’s kids. They tend not to realise that when they jump it’s forever.’

  ‘Aye,’ Lachlan agreed.

  The policeman turned and looked at Grace. ‘You don’t have to stay,’ he told her not unkindly. ‘Lachlan and I can bring him up.’

  Grace blinked. ‘You’re moving him?’

  He frowned. ‘Can’t leave him here, can we?’

  ‘But what about forensics?’

  He sucked his teeth. ‘You’re the new doc, right?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Well, not wanting to be rude or anything . . . I know you probably do things differently down south, but here we’re a bit more practical, OK?’

  ‘Practical,’ she repeated. Her voice may have been even, but inside a coal of indignation began to burn.

  ‘We dinnae have the resources.’ His voice hardened. ‘You’d better get used to it.’

  She lifted her chin. ‘I can’t issue a death certificate.’

  A look of disbelief crossed his face. ‘You cannae confirm the cause of death?’

  ‘No, I can’t.’ She repressed her natural urge to add ‘sorry’ because she didn’t want to appear weak.

  He flung up his hands. ‘Jesus fucking Christ.’

  ‘There’s lividity on his arm that concerns me,’ she pointed it out. ‘It could well be that his body was moved after he died.’

  ‘You’re fucking kidding me.’ Then his gaze turned sly. ‘This isn’t the first time, is it? That you’ve insisted on a post-mortem.’

  ‘No,’ she agreed.

  ‘And how many of those were proven to have died in suspicious circumstances?’

  None, she thought, but she refused to give in. She wasn’t going to let him get away with it and bully her into submission. Connor deserved more than that.

  ‘This isn’t the same,’ she told him.

  They locked gazes.

  She could feel Lachlan’s tension, riveted by the confrontation, but she didn’t look at him. She was concentrating on Murdoch.

  Finally the policeman looked away. He rubbed his hands over his face, took a deep breath and blew it out again. ‘OK, then. I’ll ring my boss. He’ll be thrilled to hear you’ll be blowing his already-stretched budget to kingdom come for fucking nothing, but if you insist . . . He’ll be the one who’ll decide if it’s a crime scene or not. Satisfied?’

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiled sweetly but dislike rose in his eyes. Ross had warned her about alienating people in such a small community, but what was she to do? Let every unexplained death go unexplored?

  She’d attended a rash of sudden deaths recently. All of the victims had been in their early sixties and all had died from a range of afflictions from strokes to cancer and liver disease. When she’d questioned the high mortality rate for such a relatively young group, the pathologist had said in a cheerful tone, ‘We all die young up here.’

  But not as young as Connor Baird.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Dan Forrester was staring at a road sweeper outside his office window. Jenny had told him not to go to work but it wouldn’t have done any good. He hadn’t slept much last night and thought it a waste to lie there in the dark when he could be catching the early train to London. He had stacks of things to do, and he hadn’t even started to get his head around arranging the repatriation of his father’s body, let alone sending an email to a
ll of his dad’s friends and work colleagues to tell them he’d died. He’d do that when he got home tonight.

  His father had died in the Golf-Klub Isterberg near Braunschweig in Germany. A massive heart attack. He’d just come off an eighteen-hole course where he’d been playing with his friend Arne and they were headed to the club house with Arne’s wife, Anneke, to celebrate Arne’s beating his handicap. A good day out for both of them until Bill had dropped dead, but as everyone said – including his German friends, who admittedly had been a bit shell-shocked at the time – it was a great way to go, dying with no warning and doing something you loved. No hanging about in hospital. No lingering in a hospice waiting for God.

  Even Dan had to agree it was probably a good thing as his father would have hated any form of debilitation. Bill’d always enjoyed robust health and had been incredibly active through his seventies and into his eighties. That said, Dan could remember when his father had been forced to stop sailing three years ago. He’d become a real liability on the boat, and when Gordon, his yachting buddy since they were at university, broke the news he couldn’t take Bill on board anymore, he hadn’t spoken to Gordon for the rest of the year. And even then, when Bill eventually started speaking to Gordon again, it was only because Gordon had admitted he wasn’t so steady on his pins either and had sold the boat.

  Stubborn old goats, Dan thought, shaking his head and smiling ruefully.

  The landline rang on his desk and he picked it up. ‘Forrester,’ he said.

  ‘Dan, it’s me. Christopher.’

  Dan blinked. ‘I was just thinking about Gordon.’

  ‘Christ . . .’ The man’s voice broke. ‘I’m sorry . . .’

  Without realising, Dan got to his feet.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s Connor. He . . . he’s . . .’

  Dan felt a cold wave wash over him. Not Connor, please, not my godson.

  ‘T-they found him . . . at the b-bottom of a ravine. They say he j-jumped off Collynie Bridge.’

  Dan sat down abruptly. He felt sick.

  ‘They say it’s suicide. That he killed himself. But it’s not true. I know it’s not true. But I don’t know what to do. Dan, please. Tell me what to do.’

  Dan’s fingers were already at work on his computer keyboard. He glanced briefly at his wall clock. In its centre was a man in a suit with a bowler hat and briefcase. His legs were the minutes’ and seconds’ hands, making him look as though he was always running. ‘Running home to us’, Jenny had told him, smiling.

  ‘What I want you to do,’ Dan said, ‘is meet me at Inverness Airport this afternoon. I’ll text you my flight details.’

  ‘But you can’t,’ Christopher protested. ‘Bill just died. You can’t come up here when—’

  ‘Unless I say differently, I’ll be on the eleven twenty-five flight, arriving at twelve forty-five.’

  ‘Dan, seriously—’

  ‘See you there.’

  He hung up, knowing it was the only way to silence his friend. There was no way he could stay down here with Connor dead. Bill would have agreed. He could almost hear his dad’s voice in his mind, a strong baritone, brooking no argument.

  Of course, you must go. Not much you can do about me, is there? Send them my love.

  Dan began moving around his office, grabbing the essentials. The scar on his stomach tightened at the activity, making him wince. He’d been lucky that the bullet had passed through the muscles and never entered the abdominal cavity, and even luckier that he’d healed so fast. Yet another scar to go with the rest. Another wound for Jenny to tenderly kiss.

  Passport – he never went anywhere without it – his tablet and phone, the chargers, his wallet. Everything went into his grab bag, the contents of which he’d overhauled after he’d returned from his last assignment a fortnight ago. Underwear, clean shirt and socks, toothbrush and paste, electric shaver. And a tie, just in case.

  He moved swiftly through reception. Their receptionist wasn’t in yet. His boss was, though, and also Julia from the sound of the coffee machine whirring through her open door, but he didn’t have time to explain. Outside he hailed a cab to take him to Paddington. He caught the Heathrow Express with three minutes to spare. Sitting in an aisle seat with his tablet on his lap, his grab bag between his feet, he rang Jenny.

  ‘Hi, Daddy,’ his daughter answered.

  ‘Aimee?’ he said, surprised. ‘Aren’t you meant to be at school?’

  ‘We’re late ’cause Poppy hid my shoe! Mummy’s driving really fast . . .’

  He heard Jenny say something, and Aimee giggled. ‘She says she’s not driving fast. She’s driving effici . . . effi . . .’

  ‘Efficiently.’

  ‘Yes!’ There was a short pause before she said ‘Daddy?’, drawing the word out to indicate she was posing a serious question. He could almost see the frown appearing on her face.

  ‘Yes, sweetpea?’

  ‘Who’s going to babysit me when you and Mummy go away?’

  She didn’t have to add, ‘now Granddad’s dead.’ because Dan knew that’s what she meant.

  ‘We won’t be going away for ages,’ he assured her. ‘But if we do, Granny Becky and Grandpa Adam will look after you in Bath.’

  Another short pause.

  ‘OK.’ Her voice suddenly brightened. ‘Look, there’s Tara! She’s late too . . .’

  It was one of those times he felt glad she was still young enough to be easily distracted. He heard a flurry of activity at the other end of the phone which he assumed meant they were pulling up outside the school gates and that Aimee was unbuckling her seatbelt – always too soon in his opinion – and grabbing her backpack.

  ‘Aimee?’ he called.

  ‘We’ve got relationship education today!’

  Aimee may have just turned seven but even so, Dan wasn’t sure how to respond. ‘Great,’ he said.

  ‘Byeeee!’

  ‘Bye,’ he responded but she’d already gone.

  ‘Dan.’ Jenny sounded cautious; he rarely called her from work and when he did it was usually to say he was running late. Hence the wall clock she’d given him.

  ‘Jen, I’m sorry but something’s come up. I’m on my way to Heathrow.’

  She didn’t say anything, just waited.

  He leaned back and closed his eyes, belatedly realising he should have held off calling her until she was home. ‘I don’t know if this is the right time to tell you . . .’

  ‘What is it?’ her voice was alarmed.

  ‘I don’t want you driving—’

  ‘Jesus, Dan. It’s too late now. Just tell me, OK?’

  ‘I’m really sorry . . .’ He rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers. ‘Christopher rang. He told me Connor died.’

  ‘What?’ She sounded blank.

  He repeated what he’d said.

  ‘Oh, no.’ It was a whisper. ‘How?’

  ‘They say it’s suicide.’

  ‘Dear God. That’s awful. I mean, really . . .’ Her voice thickened into tears. ‘Shit. He was such a great kid.’

  ‘I know.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘I can’t believe it either. Christopher sounds a mess so I’m going to Scotland. Will you be OK? I can always go up tomorrow if you—’

  ‘No, you must go.’ Her tone started to firm. ‘They need you far more than I do, Dan. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘If you’re sure . . .’

  ‘I’m sure. There’s nothing to keep you down here, is there?’

  ‘It was only stuff to do with repatriating Dad’s body, which can probably wait.’

  ‘Let me do that. What about the death certificate?’

  ‘I need to get a provisional one, apparently.’

  ‘I can do that too . . .’

  Not for the first time he thanked his lucky stars for his wife. She was upset over Connor but she wasn’t falling apart. She was supporting him the best way she could, by freeing hi
m to go to Christopher. They’d been married fourteen years, and although they’d had their ups and downs – some resembling the cliffs of Everest in a snowstorm – he didn’t think he’d ever loved her more than he did right at that moment.

  ‘Concentrate on Sam and Christopher,’ she told him. ‘They really need their friends right now. And poor Gordon . . .’

  Gordon and Bill had met at Magdalen College in Oxford. It was thanks to their friendship that their sons, Christopher and Dan, had also become friends. Since he was a toddler, Dan and his family had spent three weeks of every summer holiday at the Bairds’ place, a Scottish estate with a loch and a boathouse, and red deer on the front lawn. For Dan, a London boy brought up with pavements beneath his feet and streetlights keeping the night at bay, those weeks in Scotland had been frightening and exciting in equal measure, and he’d been inordinately gratified to learn that when Christopher came and stayed with him in London he’d felt just as challenged. Not that either admitted it until they’d been down the pub one evening as adults. How they’d laughed at their childhood insecurities.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘Just send them my love.’

  ‘Look . . .’ He took a breath. ‘Will you be OK if I stay up there overnight?’

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ she told him with a sigh. ‘Not disabled.’

  He wasn’t so sure about that since she couldn’t sleep comfortably, couldn’t eat without heartburn and her ankles were the size of watermelons, but he wasn’t going to mention any of that to her.

  A stab of grief that his father had died before his second grandson was born pierced him. Bill had already promised to teach him how to fish, like he’d taught his first grandson, Luke. Bill had adored Luke, and Luke had adored him back, riding around on Bill’s back shouting ‘Horsey!’ Not that Dan could remember this. He’d lost great chunks of his memory from the shock of what everyone believed to be his ‘breakdown’ when he’d witnessed Luke’s death, and it was only thanks to Jenny that he had any kind of mental map of what life had been like with his first son.