Know Me Now

by CJ Carver

  ‘Dr Reavey?’ he enquired.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If you would follow me.’

  Grace and Lucy got to their feet, walked down a corridor where the man was striding ahead, his gait athletic. He paused at an open doorway waiting for them to go inside. He closed the door behind them.

  ‘Please.’ He gestured at the two chairs in front of his desk while he took the one behind. A steel office sign was propped in front of him as though to remind those facing him who he was.

  Brice Kendrick. District Procurator Fiscal.

  The fiscal steepled his fingers in front of his face. Nicely kept nails, Lucy noticed, possibly manicured. His eyes were pale grey, his gaze sharp.

  ‘You say you would like an autopsy done on Connor Baird?’ He spoke to Grace. Lucy was there under the guise of a ‘family friend’. No chit-chat to put them at ease, no offer of tea. He was all business. His voice was firm, with a strong Scottish burr.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me your reasons.’

  ‘He had no history of feeling suicidal. He appeared to be a well-balanced boy, with loving parents—’

  ‘Who had recently split up.’ He picked up a piece of paper from his desk along with a pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses, and scanned it. ‘The father had an affair with his laboratory assistant. His wife threw him out of the house.’

  ‘The father,’ Grace went on in the same even tone, ‘Christopher, talked everything over with Connor. Nothing was hidden or brushed under the carpet. The boy had a very good understanding as to what was going on. He also had a very good relationship with his father. They both expected Christopher to move back into the family home any day and—’

  ‘Not according to his wife.’ He picked up another piece of paper, scanned that one too. ‘According to the police report she was furious and “wasn’t having him back any time soon”. Also, she’d just had a baby. The boy wasn’t just struggling with having competition in the house, he hated the whole thing. He complained about it all the time at school. He said he “hated” the baby and wished he’d never been born.’

  ‘In that case, I would have expected him to have murdered his little brother rather than take his own life.’ Grace’s voice was carefully modulated, her demeanour respectful, but Lucy had learned to read her friend by now and she could almost hear the words ‘you condescending prick’ echoing in the office.

  A flare of what might have been annoyance crossed his face but it was gone so fast Lucy wasn’t sure if she’d imagined it.

  ‘Look.’ Grace leaned forward, hands on her knees. ‘His grades in school were good. He was planning on going to the UCI Mountain Bike World Cup in Fort William next week. He had tickets. He’d also organised to go mountain biking with friends this coming weekend—’

  ‘His mother wanted him to babysit on Sunday. He didn’t want to. They had a row over this on the day he died.’

  ‘But the biking event was the following weekend. He was looking forward. Suicides don’t do that.’

  The Procurator Fiscal just looked at Grace.

  ‘He left a note,’ he said.

  It was the first Lucy had heard of it and she knew her gaze had intensified because he glanced at her for the first time.

  ‘It was in his jeans pocket,’ he added. ‘It said “I’m sorry”.’

  ‘In his handwriting?’ Lucy asked.

  The fiscal didn’t look at her this time. He ignored her.

  ‘The police,’ he continued, ‘have interviewed relatives, school teachers and friends who have provided information about the circumstances of the death. I am confident Connor Baird committed suicide.’

  This time Lucy leaned forward. ‘Did anyone mention the positioning of Connor’s body?’

  Again, he didn’t look at her. It was as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘I see no reason to have an autopsy,’ he told Grace. His tone was final. He put his hands on his desk preparing to rise.

  ‘What about the lividity I mentioned?’ Grace asked. ‘I saw some on Connor’s upper right arm, an area of the boy’s body that hadn’t been in contact with the ground.’

  He stared at Grace. ‘Are you suggesting the body was moved?’ He made it sound as though she’d suggested she might start levitating.

  ‘I’m asking for another opinion.’ Grace’s tone was steady but Lucy could see the tension in her fingers which were twisted together, her knuckles showing white.

  Lucy let the silence hang for a moment. Then she said, ‘When suicides jump from a bridge, they don’t actually jump. They don’t fling or throw themselves, they step off the structure into the air. A suicide will usually be found near the top of any place where they have fallen. For example, Nimue Acheson’s body was found near the top of the falls, which coincides with stepping into the void. Connor’s body, however, was right at the bottom of the ravine. In order for him to be there he would have had to have flung himself off the bridge with force, which would be considered highly unusual.’

  You could have heard a pin drop.

  ‘Also,’ Lucy went on, ‘as Dr Reavey has said, Connor hadn’t mentioned any suicidal thoughts to his family or friends. The police report states the word “suicide” was only found on his computer due to his talking to friends about Nimue Acheson’s death. It also says he hadn’t explored any suicide sites or shown any suicidal tendencies.’

  ‘He also explored several sites to do with life after death and what happens when you die,’ the fiscal told her.

  This was news to Lucy but she didn’t let it show. Even though she was hampered by not knowing when Connor had accessed these sites, she continued to defend her position. ‘Wouldn’t any kid be curious as to what happened to their classmate after they’d died?’

  The fiscal still didn’t look at Lucy. He said to Grace, ‘You will provide a certificate as to the cause of death.’

  Silence again.

  Lucy’s frustration began to rise. ‘This case,’ she said, concentrating on keeping her tone calm, ‘started with a potential miscommunication. Which may have resulted in serious errors that are affecting the outcome. It is my belief that the police officer who responded to the call as well as the investigators have made a critical error in thinking. Psychologically everyone is assuming the death to be a suicide case, when in fact this is a basic death investigation, which could very well turn out to be a homicide—’

  ‘From the way you’re talking,’ he remarked, ‘I take it you’re not just a family friend. What are you? A solicitor?’ His voice carried a faint sneer even though he would have started out as a solicitor himself before climbing up the greasy pole in the Crown Court.

  Lucy hadn’t planned on blowing her cover, but he was being such a dick, such an unprofessional arse, trying to bully Grace into doing what he wanted, that she was about to grab her handbag and pull out her warrant card when Grace put a hand on her arm stopping her.

  ‘Lucy is here as a concerned family friend.’

  This time he looked directly at her. He took his time, taking in her jeans, her brown leather belt, her tatty sheepskin jacket. Her hair was tied back with a scrunchy as usual, but no matter how hard she scraped it back, wisps always kept escaping. No make-up and, except for her father’s old watch, no jewellery.

  ‘And as a concerned family friend,’ Brice Kendrick said acidly, ‘you expect me to arrange a post-mortem, at the public’s expense, on your whim.’

  With difficulty she hid her dislike behind a mask of neutrality. ‘Considering the facts, yes.’

  ‘Very well.’

  She raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I shall reconsider.’

  You could have knocked her over with a feather. She’d honestly thought he’d dug himself in for the long haul, but here he was, saying he would think again. It was, she speculated, the best outcome they could have hoped for, and when they walked outside she and Grace high-fived one another like a couple of schoolkids.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Dan was searching through
his father’s old emails when his phone rang.

  ‘Herr Forrester?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘My name is Nicola Stangl.’

  It transpired Nicola was the Staatsanwalkt Liaison Officer. She informed him that the post-mortem on his father was going ahead that morning and asked if he’d like some preliminary information about the examination. He was surprised things were moving so fast. He’d only rung the Staatsanwalkt yesterday – talk about German efficiency.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Will you perhaps be available if we make a video call later?’ she asked. ‘2 p.m.?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Dan made some phone calls, filling in time to try and take his mind off his father’s body lying on a slab and being examined by strangers. He talked to Julia in the office, who appeared to have everything under control in his absence. Although this was exactly what he wanted to hear, he still ended up prowling around the house unable to concentrate on anything in particular until his computer finally alerted him that Nicola Stangl was online. In her early forties, she had wiry brown hair and a brisk attitude. ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ she told him.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I gather you asked for the post-mortem?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You suspected something about your father’s death wasn’t due to natural causes?’ Her eyes were sharp.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well.’ She puffed out a breath. ‘I’m sorry to tell you that you were right. The pathologist found he died from a poison – digitalis – that induced heart failure. An injection site was found on his thigh, along with traces of the poison in his blood and organs.’

  Dan could practically feel the blood leaving his face.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she added.

  I am angry as a cut snake.

  Nicola Stangl looked away, then back. ‘I’m afraid I have to inform you that the post-mortem examination has prompted the Staatsanwalkt to instruct the police to investigate your father’s death.’

  ‘As a homicide.’ His voice rasped.

  ‘Correct. The Staatsanwalkt won’t release your father’s body just yet. We will let you know when this will happen, and then the repatriation can take place.’

  A high-pitched hum started at the back of his head.

  ‘Would you like me to put you in touch with bereavement services in your—’

  ‘I would like a copy of the post-mortem.’ Dan put his hands on his knees. He suddenly felt nauseous.

  ‘There will be a fee.’

  ‘I can pay now if you like.’

  ‘Online will be fine. I will make sure the report is emailed to you promptly.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Dan reached forward and closed the application. He rose to his feet. His legs felt unsteady. Dad’s been murdered. The words looped endlessly around his head. He wasn’t immune to death. He’d held his dead son in his arms, or so he’d been told, and in his old job he would have seen people killed and may even have killed people himself. He knew he had a ruthless streak from what he’d done to a Russian spy earlier in the year. When Jenny had been kidnapped and spirited secretly to Russia, Dan had kidnapped an FSB officer in return and tortured him in order to find her.

  Now Dan placed the advertisement as his father had instructed. He would go to the bench on Chelsea Green tomorrow and see what happened.

  Who had killed his father? What was at stake to have caused his murder? Olivia Laing had said he’d read something in the newspaper that had scared the living daylights out of him. He’d been investigating whatever it was and someone hadn’t liked it.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘It’s m-my fault that Conner’s d-d-dead.’ Samantha Baird stammered.

  They were in the kitchen with Sam’s mother and a large marmalade cat that was napping on the windowsill. Little Dougie was upstairs asleep.

  Sam was white-faced with glassy eyes that told Lucy she was on some kind of sedative. Normally she’d be a pretty woman with her auburn hair and creamy skin, but grief had taken hold of her and turned her grey, giving her grooves around her eyes and mouth and making her appear older than her years.

  ‘I asked him to b-babysit while I went out with the girls. I should never have d-done it. He was so angry with me . . .’ She buried her face in her hands. ‘Oh, God.’ She started to sob. ‘I can’t b-bear it.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Lucy murmured.

  Sam’s mother came over, putting her arms around her daughter and rocking her back and forth. Tears streaked her cheeks.

  Past the cat, Lucy could see the rain had stopped and that the sun was flashing between fast-moving clouds, forming moving shadows on the cars parked in the driveway. ‘I don’t want to be a bother . . . but can I have a look at Connor’s room? Dan asked if I could look at his computer too . . .’

  At the mention of Dan’s name, Sam raised her head, wiping her eyes, trying to regain control. ‘Yes, Dan . . . he mentioned it. Upstairs. Second on the right.’

  ‘Er . . . do I need a code to access his computer?’

  Sam gave her eight numbers. ‘It’s his father’s date of birth. So we can all access it.’

  ‘What about his phone?’

  ‘The police have it.’

  Connor’s room wasn’t that messy but it wasn’t neat either. Clothes and sneakers were dumped seemingly without thought along with an array of socks, empty packets of crisps and random bicycle parts. There was a half-burned candle on a table, along with a tube of acne cream and a handful of biking magazines.

  Lucy quickly searched the room. After a while she stood back, hands on hips and frowning. Didn’t every teenager have something to hide? She searched under the mattress, in his shoes and pockets, inside the speaker system, his computer case. She even checked his candle and books in case any had been hollowed out. No luck. Not even a teensy baggie of marijuana.

  She moved to his computer. A screensaver with the word MUDE appeared. Beneath it, I am not happy or sad, I am mude. Really? Lucy clicked on to find downloaded movies, computer games galore, a lengthy shopping history, nothing alarming on his web browser history, but she wasn’t an expert and Connor was no doubt well ahead of her. No porn that she could see, but with his parents able to access his computer he probably wouldn’t—

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

  Lucy jumped and spun around to see a tall elderly man with a shock of white hair and a beaky nose. He held a cane and it wasn’t to help steady himself. He was holding it as a weapon.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, ‘I’m—’

  ‘This is my grandson’s room.’ He didn’t put the cane down. ‘He’s barely dead and you’re—’

  ‘Lucy Davies,’ Lucy firmly overrode him. ‘I’m a friend of Dan Forrester’s. You must be Gordon. I’m so sorry for your loss. Truly, I am.’

  The man blinked twice. He may be old but he held himself ramrod straight and his eyes were bright and alert. The cop in her immediately did a scan, taking in his expensive leather brogues and slender gold watch, so thin it had to have cost a fortune.

  ‘What sort of friend?’ His gaze wasn’t unfriendly but it was definitely wary.

  ‘We’ve worked together a few times,’ she told him. ‘Along with Dr Grace Reavey. Grace moved up here—’

  ‘Yes, I know who Dr Reavey is.’ The rheumy eyes narrowed.

  Sensing a growing mistrust Lucy said, ‘Christopher knows I’m here.’ She didn’t know whether to mention she was here as a policewoman or not and decided against it until she’d spoken with Dan.

  ‘Does he indeed?’ The rheumy eyes didn’t change their guarded expression.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ she said again, unsure how to proceed.

  This time he gave a nod. ‘Sam didn’t say you were here,’ he told her, his severity relenting a little. Was this his way of apologising?

  ‘Nor did Margaret,’ he added. ‘When I came in I heard someone up here and I . . . well. I wanted to scare you off.�
� His gaze went from her sturdy brown boots to the top of her head and down again, reminding her of the fiscal’s careful appraisement earlier. ‘Not that you look as though you’d be scared off. You look remarkably self-possessed.’

  Before she could acknowledge him in any way, he went on, saying, ‘Dan sent you, you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He held her gaze. ‘His father just died. Did he tell you that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ He was brisk. ‘Now, tell me what you were doing in here.’

  ‘I was trying to see if Connor was suicidal or not.’

  ‘Are you a psychologist?’

  ‘Dr Reavey wasn’t convinced that he was suicidal,’ she prevaricated.

  ‘And what does Reavey say about Connor’s death?’ He accented Grace’s name with a hint of gravity, which Lucy took to mean he might value her opinion.

  Cautiously, Lucy said, ‘She’s concerned about some things.’

  ‘Concerned how?’

  When she didn’t answer he said irritably, ‘Come on, come on, woman. Getting information from you is like getting blood from a stone. You can’t just say the doctor is concerned and not elucidate.’

  OK, he asked for it. ‘She wants an autopsy done.’

  At that he stared. ‘And how is she going to get that?’

  ‘She went to see the District Procurator Fiscal this morning. I went with her.’

  A long silence fell. He moved across the room, walking past her to take up position in his grandson’s study area where he stood gazing outside. ‘Christopher remains unconvinced that Connor killed himself, but I wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t want to take the blame for fucking everything up.’

  Lucy remained silent. She could hear traffic at the end of the drive, and then came the happy squeal of a baby, no doubt little Dougie waking up next door.

  Eventually Gordon turned around to face her.

  ‘The fiscal. What did you make of him?’

  ‘I think he’s got a difficult job.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked.’ His gaze was steely.