The Mourner

by Susan Wilkins

  As the bus trundled on to the Angel then up through Islington, Nicci allowed herself to savour this new sensation. Something had shifted inside her – there was an ease, a lassitude. Was it pleasure? Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with bug-up-his-arse Rory or the boy on the bus. It was about her. It struck her how frozen she’d become, how far she’d retreated and switched off. She hadn’t even been that aware of it. But tonight she felt lighter. Did she need to analyse it, or maybe just enjoy the feeling?

  The bus slowed to a crawl then joined a queue of stationary vehicles. Nicci peered out into the soft, summer dusk. Up ahead the familiar blue-flashing lights were visible, probably some kind of traffic incident. It wasn’t far to her stop so she decided to walk.

  She stepped off the bus and noticed the young man following suit. Coincidence or conspiracy? She found she was smiling yet again, and there was a definite buoyancy in her stride as she set off down the road.

  On the fringe of Newington Green the reason for the hold-up became more apparent. There were four police cars and an ambulance in attendance. Uniforms were rushing about, directing traffic and taping off a stretch of pavement. As she got closer Nicci saw it was the area just outside her building.

  A couple of WPCs were trying to disperse a smattering of curious onlookers who’d gathered on the other side of the street. Nicci skirted round them to get a better look. Outside the entrance to her block of flats, two paramedics were standing over a figure lying prone on the pavement. They looked uncomfortable, unsure what to do. A uniform ran over to them, issued some instruction. Nicci had witnessed enough of these kinds of scenes to know that the person on the ground was dead. And violence was probably involved.

  She turned to someone in the crowd. ‘What happened?’

  A girl in a baseball cap answered without making eye contact. ‘Old lady that lives in the block. Word is she was stabbed.’

  Nicci’s gut went into a spasm of dread. She flew across the road. One of the WPCs tried to grab her but Nicci spun herself free. ‘I live in the block. I might know her.’

  ‘No, you can’t go over there!’

  Nicci sidestepped the officer and a second uniform who moved in to assist. She made it to the paramedics before they managed to catch up with her. And as they pulled her away she got a look.

  The old lady’s head was resting on a folded coat, the face waxy pale, mouth slack. Her frail limbs were splayed out, there was a smear of blood on the pavement – if she was stabbed it must’ve been in the back.

  A single glance confirmed Nicci’s worst fear: it was Ethel Huxtable.

  34

  Tim Armstrong didn’t like working nights, especially with his wife expecting, but having been newly promoted he tended to get more than his fair share of the unpopular shifts. As on-call DI for the Homicide Assessment Team he knew the boss’s eye was on him and he needed to prove he was up to the mark. So instead of sending one of his DCs to take a preliminary look, he’d decided to come in person.

  The Hackney DS who’d called it in regarded the death as suspicious. A very elderly lady had been found dead in the street. There was blood and a rent in the clothing, which raised the possibility that it was a stabbing.

  Tim parked his car across the road behind the ambulance; it was only then that it occurred to him he knew the building. He stopped on the kerb, stared up at the block in the gathering dusk. Then it came to him: this was where Nicci had moved to after they’d sold the house. The realization balled into a knot of anger in his belly. He should’ve stayed in the bloody office! The last thing he needed, particularly now, was an encounter with his ex-wife.

  Unfortunately, before he could gather his thoughts, a uniform confronted him and he had no choice but to show his warrant card and allow himself to be ushered through the cordon to where a couple of young DCs from the borough were standing around trying to look as if they had a purpose. He eyeballed the nearest, asked to be brought up to speed.

  Oriental, petite and nervous, she held her notebook in a shaky hand. ‘Call came in at eight oh-five, sir. Paramedics arrived first. Several people had tried to help her.’

  ‘Help her how exactly? Do we think she was attacked?’

  The young DC looked blank, glanced at her companion for support. She was new to all this but then so was Tim, they were both taking that big step up. The difference was, he was in charge now.

  He gave her a patient smile that was designed to calm both their nerves. ‘Okay, old lady collapsed on the pavement – could be natural causes – why are we suspicious?’

  She seemed puzzled by the question. ‘The DS said.’

  ‘Any witnesses to what happened?’

  ‘Not sure, sir.’

  Tim glanced at the other DC, who looked even younger, like a skinny teenager with low-grade acne and a floppy fringe. ‘Do you know?’

  ‘No, sir,’ he stammered, reddening. ‘DS just said to wait here.’

  Tim could quite see why. They’d had a brief exchange on the phone. Brisk and straightforward, the Hackney DS sounded like an officer who knew his business.

  Tim drew in a breath. ‘Well where is the DS now?’

  ‘He’s in the building, sir,’ the first DC spoke up, drawing confidence from the fact her colleague seemed even more clueless. ‘Talking to a witness.’

  Tim nodded. ‘Okay, start with the first people on the scene. Detailed statements. What they saw, what they did and did anyone see a potential assailant? Don’t let anyone drift off until you’ve got their details. Have the uniforms coral them if necessary. Got it?’ She nodded vigorously. Tim turned to the other one. ‘You got it too?’

  The young DC stroked back his unruly fringe. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Tim paused to survey the scene. The area surrounding the body had been taped off pretty efficiently, entry and exit route established, but that would’ve been done by the uniforms not the rookie DCs. The HAT car with his own DCs should be arriving soon. They could take over.

  He approached the paramedic. ‘Was she dead when you arrived?’

  He nodded. He was heavy-jowled and carried an air of weary resignation. ‘We tried CPR, but she was gone.’

  ‘What d’you think?’

  ‘Heart probably, but there’s blood, possibly a puncture wound in the back.’

  ‘You think she was attacked?’

  ‘If she was stabbed, at her age the shock could’ve brought on a heart attack.’

  ‘How old do you think she was?’ Tim gazed down at the body.

  The paramedic was checking his watch. ‘Pretty old.’

  Tim turned away, was he doing this right? He’d followed, he’d watched, but it wasn’t the same as being in the driving seat.

  Then he remembered and glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Oh. Thanks, mate.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ the paramedic responded with a surly upward glance.

  Tim headed into the building. The downstairs lobby was bare and functional, a grey tiled floor, a steel door on the narrow lift. It was reasonably clean and unscathed, suggesting the outer door was secure. He could hear voices on the landing above so he started up the stairs.

  The DS from Hackney CID was called Delgado. Tim had never met him but assumed he must be the tall, lanky bloke who came into view as he mounted the stairs. At first he could see only a suit jacket and the small balding patch on the crown of Delgado’s head. Then he caught a glimpse of the woman he was talking to. Sod’s fucking law!

  Hearing his approach, the DS swivelled round. ‘DI Armstrong?’ Tim nodded. Delgado grinned, looking back towards the woman. ‘That’s funny. You two’ve got the same name.’

  Nicci glared at her ex-husband and he glared back. Neither found it in the least bit funny.

  35

  The side ward contained eight beds, four along one wall, four facing them along the other, with a large window at the end. Joey Phelps was in the bed next to the window and it was the early morning sun filtering through the blinds that finally dragged him back to
consciousness.

  At first he thought he was handcuffed to the bed. When he tried to lift his right hand to rub his face it snagged. But on further investigation he discovered there was a cannula in the back of his hand connected to a drip and a bag of saline hanging above the bed.

  It took several moments for him to get his eyes to focus. His mind was fuddled and jittery. He had no idea where he was and no memory of what had happened to him. When he levered himself up onto his left elbow for a better view, pain shot through his abdomen.

  A face appeared, female, smiling. ‘Hey hey, you need to relax.’ She eased him back down onto the bed.

  Mouth claggy and dry, he tried to speak but could only croak. ‘What the fuck . . .’

  ‘I’ll get you a drink.’

  She disappeared, returning moments later to push a straw between his parched lips. He tasted cool, fresh water and sucked hard until he had drained the beaker. As he did, his eyes took in her uniform. A nurse – so was this a hospital ward? His disordered brain skittered round gathering data, trying to make sense of it all. He remembered searing heat, feeling giddy, then nothing.

  ‘How’d I get here?’

  ‘I’ve only just come on shift, I’d have to look at your notes. But I know they operated last night.’

  ‘Operated?’ He knew the word but struggled to apply it to himself.

  ‘The doctor will be round soon and she’ll explain everything.’

  Time passed, it could’ve been moments or hours. He drifted off. Trollies clattered, voices glided across the ward. Sometimes he managed to home in on the odd word, but mostly he slept. Dark woods, dank foliage, he was carrying a heavy pack, searching out a path.

  Waking with a start he felt cool fingertips on his wrist. A small, elfin girl in blue surgical scrubs was taking his pulse.

  She fixed him with a steady gaze. ‘Morning. I’m Doctor Chakraborty.’ She didn’t look old enough to have left school, let alone be medically qualified. ‘How are you feeling?’

  Joey examined his thoughts. How was he feeling? The fog had lifted. His vision was steady, he was thirsty and more than a little peckish. He watched her studying him. She had alert nut-brown eyes behind rimless glasses and tiny, delicate hands. She seemed benign enough, but he needed to be in control, to get back in the driving seat.

  He tilted his head, gave her the quirky, boyish grin. ‘So did you save my life? Should I kiss your hand?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’ Her smile was reserved. ‘You’ve had a laparotomy, only a small operation. You were unconscious when you came in and we were concerned that you might have some internal bleeding. But you’ve been lucky, your abdominal muscles are very strong, they absorbed a lot of the trauma.’

  ‘All them hours in the gym weren’t wasted then.’

  Apparently oblivious to the blue eyes and the charm, she produced a clipboard. ‘I need to take some details. What’s your name?’

  ‘John.’ It was the first name that popped into his head.

  She paused, pen hovering over her notes. ‘You were lucid briefly when they brought you in. The doctor who admitted you wrote down Sean.’

  Joey rubbed his bristly chin. He’d always hated beards; being unshaven made him feel hot and grubby. ‘Well, they call me that back home. In Ireland. Over here I’m John.’

  She raised her eyebrows, but that was the only indication of her scepticism. He didn’t sound Irish and he was trying to be charming, so the name was probably a lie. He’d been knifed, probably in a fight. But that wasn’t her business. Her job was to assess his post-operative condition and report back to her boss before his ward round. They treated at least half a dozen stabbings a week. Their fatality rate was below the national average. As long as it stayed that way, her boss would be happy.

  Lowering the clipboard, she fixed him with a direct look. ‘It’s not the hospital’s policy to automatically involve the police.’

  ‘Good.’ He grinned. ‘It’s not my policy either.’

  ‘You must take the antibiotics you’ll be given. Take all of them. We’ve repaired the damage to the muscle and subcutaneous tissue, but there’s a danger of infection. Do you have a GP?’

  ‘I move around a lot. You know how it is.’

  ‘We won’t be writing to your GP then. You must rest. I’d like to keep you under observation until the end of the week.’

  ‘I got no problem with that.’

  She assumed he was lying. No doubt he’d discharge himself at the first opportunity, this sort always did. ‘Perhaps you could give the nurse a name and address for our files. Any worsening pain, any dizziness, come back.’

  Joey tried the little-boy-lost look one last time. ‘Seriously, Doc, I am grateful. I hear what you say.’

  ‘Then hear this. Stop carrying a knife. People get killed. Next time it could be you.’

  She turned on her heel and stalked off: a good woman on a mission to help others. He’d never experienced that motivation but nevertheless he admired her grit. She was not much older than him, she saw straight through the bullshit, yet she soldiered on. Trouble was, she was sharp and soon, maybe on her next break, her attention would stray to a screen somewhere, she’d see his picture flash up and she would recognize him.

  He needed to disappear. But as soon as he walked out of the hospital he’d have half of Essex police on his tail. He had no money, no phone and he felt like shit. Still, he wasn’t that bothered. One of the great advantages of being a psychopath was that in a situation such as this he had no real anxiety. Problems always had solutions. He would find a way out.

  Joey leant back on his pillows, closed his eyes and let his mind float free while he waited for the right idea to come to him.

  36

  Even though Southwark Coroner’s Court was within easy walking distance of Borough station, they took a black cab the whole way; Mike insisted. He explained matter-of-factly that the tube in rush hour was simply a bridge too far for him now. Kaz offered no resistance; she was finding that there was a certain relief in letting him take charge of arrangements.

  First thing that morning he’d insisted that she needed to contact her probation officer, saying it would only stir up trouble for herself if she didn’t. She’d borrowed Mike’s ancient desktop computer and with his help she had composed an email. Her old tutor, she informed them, had invited her to London to submit some work for a special award. She expected to be away a week or so, but would keep them posted. She volunteered Mike’s name and phone number so they could verify the story should they so wish. From what she knew of the over-stretched, undermanned Glasgow office, as long as the paperwork added up and their arses were covered, they wouldn’t bother.

  The narrow side street approaching the court building was jammed solid with traffic. The media pack were busily setting up camp in the car park of the old council block opposite. A few onlookers were hanging over balconies and perching on walls, curiosity piqued by the influx.

  Kaz and Mike decided to abandon their cab a dozen yards up the road. As they got out, a police motorcyclist sailed by waving at other vehicles, instructing them to halt and give way. The black Audi he was escorting cruised past and drew up outside the court.

  Mike paid off their cabbie while Kaz watched a surge of bodies sweep across the road to engulf the Audi – reporters, photographers, cameramen balancing their rigs, all jostling for pole position. Before the vehicle had even stopped the front passenger door flew open and a suited minder stepped out to release the back door in one fluid motion.

  A man emerged who looked vaguely familiar to Kaz. Sleek, smiling, he blinked at the cameras a couple of times then, as if he’d just remembered where he was, put on a grave face. He ducked back into the car to offer a hand to his companion. She slid across the seat, got out and carefully smoothed down her pencil skirt. Reporters rolled forward, jabbing microphones and questions at the couple.

  Unfazed, the man raised his palm for quiet, then addressed the throng. ‘Ladies and gentlemen –
I know you’ve got a lot of questions. Indeed, I have myself. And that’s why we’re here today. Helen Warner was . . .’ He paused, swallowed hard and clutched the woman’s hand. ‘She was a colleague of immeasurable talent. And she was a personal friend. Both my wife and I are devastated by her loss. And we’re here today to give our support to Charles and his family in the hope that some light can be shed on this terrible tragedy. Thank you.’

  With one last curt nod of the head, he gathered the woman under one arm and, ignoring the barrage of shouted questions that pursued them, shepherded her into the building.

  Kaz turned to Mike, who’d joined her on the pavement. ‘I sort of recognize him. Who is he? Some politician?’

  ‘Robert Hollister. Or “Rob the Throb” as Private Eye calls him. He’s popular because he looks a bit like George Clooney’s younger brother, or so they reckon.’ He sniggered and pulled a face. ‘Don’t see it myself.’

  They joined the slow-moving queue edging towards the building. Kaz slotted her hands in her pockets and stared down at her tatty trainers. Would she even be admitted to the courtroom? Or would some snotty official take one look, hold up a hand and say: Not you, no business of yours what happened to Helen Warner. Feeling Mike’s bony hand come to rest on her arm, she glanced across at him and received a reassuring smile.

  A flustered court usher was allowing people through the door in twos and threes. The line had ground to a halt and bodies were bunching in behind them. It reminded Kaz of life inside: waiting in claustrophobic queues, tuning in to the tension of the inmate behind you, sensing any rise in stress levels that might indicate they were about to kick-off.

  Looking for relief she let her gaze rove about and that’s when she realized she was being observed. A gaggle of smokers had occupied a patch close to the main entrance; among them was Nicci Armstrong, leaning against the plate-glass window, savouring the last puff and staring right at her. Their eyes met. Nicci raised her eyebrows in greeting, the ghost of a smile hovered on her lips.