by Louisa Scarr
‘Dr Mason’s a senior staff member, right?’ DC Grey asks, the two of them standing in the doorway. Calloway nods. ‘So why the small office?’
Ian laughs. ‘It’s the same one he was allocated when he first became a lecturer. He never moved.’
‘And you’re his PhD student?’
‘One of. Dr Mason has four. But I’m the one who works most closely with him on the radar.’
The office is as messy as Finn’s flat. Paper litters the floor, and the bin is full and overflowing. A row of stained coffee cups runs the length of the windowsill, next to a brown spider plant.
‘So why weren’t you there the night of the storm?’ Robin asks. He gets a look from Grey. Well, if you’re not going to ask, he thinks, with a glare back.
Ian flushes. ‘He wanted me here. Man on the ground. To watch the data as it came in.’ Robin sees his demeanour change – the red cheeks, the hesitation – but he doesn’t push. Not yet.
‘And how did Dr Mason seem in the last few weeks?’
‘He was working hard. I know he was here all hours of the day and night. We can only predict the storms a few days ahead, so once we realised, it was all go. There was a lot of pressure to get everything ready before it hit.’
‘And in himself? Did he seem okay?’
Ian screws up his face. ‘Depends how well you know Finn. Some of the others were worried about him, saying he wasn’t eating or sleeping, but I’ve been on his team a while now and he gets like this. There’s nothing more important than his work. He’s incredibly driven.’
Robin knew that side of him. He was the same when he was studying for his A levels. ‘To the point of making himself ill?’ he asks.
‘Maybe.’
Robin moves further inside, leaving Grey addressing technical questions to Calloway in the corridor. He runs his fingers across the top of a dusty bookshelf; to Robin, it seems like the office of an academic. The paper, the books, the notes – they all show someone hard at work on something way outside of Robin’s comprehension.
He feels his throat narrow. Just days ago, Finn was here. Working hard, getting ready for what should have been the making of his career. And instead, he is in hospital, while the police investigate him for the murder of a colleague. And a celebrity at that. Robin briefly saw the papers this morning: it was front-page news, even in the nationals. He knows they’ll be reporting what happened, facts or no facts.
He catches sight of the corner of a photograph, pinned on the wall, behind a stack of files. He pulls it out.
It’s one taken at Finn’s PhD graduation ceremony, standing straight in his hat and gown, Robin next to him, his arm around him. He was so proud that day. Of everything Finn had achieved.
He leans forward to put the photograph back, but as he does so, his nose catches the edge of something. A particular smell. Stark. Medicinal. Subtle, but there nonetheless.
He bends down again, sniffing around the desk. The cups smell of coffee and something unpleasant. The empty water bottles…
He picks up the one closest to him, empty but its cap off. He sniffs, then recoils. The unmistakable smell of alcohol, strong stuff at that. He looks at the dregs in the bottom, then, against his better judgement, puts it to his mouth and tips the few drips in.
It’s vodka.
He picks up the bottle next to it, takes the cap off and sniffs. The same. Then the next, and the next. They all smell of alcohol.
‘Butler?’ Grey appears at the door. ‘DI Craig’s been on the phone. We need to be getting back.’
Robin points to the bottles. ‘Fetch some evidence bags,’ he says, Baker’s instructions forgotten. This is too important. ‘Get these labelled up to take away.’
Grey looks annoyed, but nods.
‘And then,’ Robin says to himself, ‘we’re going back to his flat.’
16
The mood is sombre the moment they step into the mortuary. Freya was waiting for the homeless shelters to get back to her, and Mina had reached her limit with the CCTV, so when the call came in, Josh sent them down there. He had an ulterior motive: it was just after lunch, and nobody wants to view a post-mortem on a full stomach.
Dr Steph Harper greets them with a wave as they arrive. She is already head-to-toe in protective gear, dictating notes to her assistant as she makes her way round the body on the table. Freya feels cheered at seeing Steph again – her straightforward and logical thinking is always a welcome balm, especially with Freya’s now-scrambled brain.
Freya and Mina stand at a distance as she starts her post-mortem. The body is skinny, hip bones protruding, arms with little fat or muscle. Freya looks up to his head to distract from where Dr Harper is starting to make the Y-incision, running the scalpel down the length of the chest, opening up the ribcage with a loud whine of the saw.
The man has long matted hair and a full unkempt beard. It’s clear he wasn’t looking after himself.
Steph turns to them both, scalpel in hand, body open on the table. ‘You guys ready?’ she asks, and they nod. ‘Let’s crack on.’
* * *
Hours later, Steph concludes her autopsy and leaves her assistant to finish up. She pulls off her protective glasses and scrubs, then gestures to Freya and Mina to follow her out.
Steph’s tiny cupboard of an office is clean and tidy, with neat files of paperwork lined up on the desk. A small fridge sits on one side with a kettle on top, and she flicks it on.
‘So, show me some photos of those babies of yours!’ Steph smiles as she sits down, and they lean over Mina’s phone for a minute, as she and Steph go through the snapshots, cooing over the chubby dark-haired baby and Mina’s older toddler. It makes Freya think about Olivia Cross again. That bump, and who the father might be.
‘Anyway,’ Steph sighs, back to business. ‘I’m not sure how much of that you understood, but essentially we’re looking at a malnourished male, in poor health. Your victim had infected sores on many parts of his body, obviously been there for a while. Little chance of healing without proper medical attention. Plus, a nasty infestation of lice.’
Freya scratches involuntarily. ‘Homeless?’ she asks.
‘That would be my guess. We’ll have to wait on the tox screen, but from the cirrhosis of his liver, I would guess alcohol abuse. There are no signs of injection marks, and hep B and C are negative, so I’d probably rule out drugs. Age between fifty and sixty – hard to tell for sure with someone in this state.’
‘Any idea of cause of death?’
‘A number of possibilities. He had a blurred, brownish tinge around his knees and elbows, and some sludging of the blood in the small vessels of many of his organs. Both of these would indicate hypothermia.’
‘But it was warm that night?’ Mina asks.
‘It wouldn’t have taken much. If he was wet from the rain, plus his low body mass?’ Steph shrugs. ‘I wouldn’t rule it out. But given he was found inside a chest freezer, hypoxia is the most likely possibility, especially considering the clear cyanosis of the skin of his face. It wouldn’t have taken long to suffocate in that freezer.’
They’re all quiet for a moment, considering this man’s last moments.
‘Any signs of foul play?’ Freya asks.
‘A few,’ Steph replies. ‘He had scratches on his forearms, two broken fingers and a number of torn fingernails, although it’s hard to tell whether they are related to cause of death or just his way of life. I’ve taken scrapings from under his fingernails and from inside his mouth.’ Steph acknowledges Freya’s blank look. ‘In case he bit someone, or similar. No evidence of sexual assault,’ she adds.
‘Time of death?’ Mina asks. ‘You mentioned no more than eight hours yesterday.’
Steph nods. ‘Being in a contained space like a freezer can slow down decay because it prevents carrion insect infestation. The overwhelming majority of soft-tissue destruction is due to feeding by insect larvae,’ she explains. ‘But in John Doe’s case, when we got there in the morning, his b
ody was still comparatively warm and stiff.’
‘So he died some time Tuesday night?’ Freya asks. ‘The night of the storm.’
‘Yes. I’d estimate between eleven p.m. and three a.m.’
Freya and Mina thank her, then walk, dispirited, to their car. They know the freezer has been shipped to the lab, where the techies will examine it for trace and fingerprints. Freya hopes something will point them one way or the other, give them a direction to take the investigation.
But which is better? she thinks, as Mina starts the engine. It’s tragic, whichever way they look at it. Suffocated, desperate for oxygen. Or soaking wet, freezing to death. Alone. Scared. Nobody should end their life like that.
And, worse, they have no idea who he was.
Freya gazes out of the car window as they drive back to the police station. Did he have family? Children? A wife? People that loved him? She thinks of her own situation, and tears threaten behind her eyes. She’d never have imagined her own life like this. Single, at thirty-six. Living alone. Clock ticking.
She’s always wanted kids. Two – a boy and a girl, like Mina. A husband who puts the bins out and mows the lawn. Taking the maximum time off when the baby arrives, maybe going back to work part-time. She’s more traditional than she likes to admit.
She’d thought it could be possible with Jonathan. But now? Not now.
Who would marry her? She’s a state. She doesn’t sleep. She’s working too hard. Jittery from caffeine. Hasn’t done any exercise or eaten anything green in months.
Next to her, Mina is still quiet. Like Freya, shocked into uncharacteristic silence when faced with the stark finality of the slab. Freya stares out of the window as familiar neighbourhoods flash by and resolves anew to sort herself out. To get Amy Miller and what happened out of her head.
But how? she thinks. How?
When, despite the sunshine and the scent of summer in the air, everything feels so dark.
17
It doesn’t make sense. But it’s an explanation of sorts.
Robin stands, back in Finn’s flat, the fridge open in front of him. He has one of the bottles of water in his hand, cap off. He takes a quick sniff. It’s vodka. The bottle is full of vodka. He takes the next plastic bottle out and does the same – the alcohol fumes are stark and biting.
Grey is next to him, evidence bags in hand, waiting. Robin is grateful for his silence, as he struggles to digest what he’s found.
‘Bag it all up,’ he says to Grey, then leaves the kitchen and goes out of the flat. He’s looking for where the bins are kept, and eventually finds a small, gated door into a fenced-off outbuilding round the back of the flats.
He slides the latch open and starts moving bags around inside. And then, there it is. A box of glass recycling, full to the brim, containing five huge empty vodka bottles.
He wants to imagine this is from the whole block of flats, but he knows he’d be deluding himself. The sign on the wall says that the bins are taken away every Friday. This is from less than a week ago. And all the same brand of vodka.
Robin takes a quick succession of photos on his phone, then shuts the door in disgust. He slowly climbs the stairs back to the flat in silence.
So, Finn is a drinker, and a serious one at that. How had he not noticed? They’ve been out for dinner, out to bars and clubs over the years and, sure, Finn had been drinking, but so had he. He hadn’t noticed his friend had been particularly the worse for wear. No more than him on some occasions, although that was hardly a recommendation. And the last time they went out, none of them had drunk much at all. He’d been driving and had one glass, Sophie and Finn sharing the rest of the bottle of wine.
But he knows alcoholics can be sneaky. His own sister was killed by a drunk driver, and that man claimed to be going to AA, while still downing bottles of Jack Daniel’s.
His phone rings, and he answers it. It’s Craig.
‘Bring my DC back now. He has work to do.’
Robin scowls, but he does as he’s told.
* * *
Robin squints at the tiny video screen. He’s annoyed he isn’t allowed inside, although he grudgingly understands why. Sitting behind the table in the interview room are Craig and DC Grey, and opposite them, Justin White, cameraman for the BBC.
They’ve already completed the first interview with the producer. A posh, officious man with nothing interesting to say. He hadn’t been near the van because it was too small, and only essential staff were meant to be there. Personally, Robin thought he hadn’t been present because he was scared of the storm, but it didn’t matter – he didn’t know anything. He maintained that the whole team had been on the best of terms in the run-up to the shoot, overplaying it so it sounded like the production of the BBC’s Storm Chasers was some sort of weather-obsessed Disneyland.
But Justin White is a different matter. He is constantly shifting his position in the chair, glancing around him.
‘You’re not under arrest,’ Craig is clarifying for the third time. ‘And as my colleague said, you are here on a voluntary basis and free to leave.’
‘But you’re recording me?’
‘Yes, and we’ll give you a copy of the video when you go. Now, can you tell us why you weren’t in the van?’
Justin White’s a good-looking man like Simon was, but rugged, while Dr Sharp was clean-cut. Long hair on top, tied back in a short ponytail, shaved underneath. Stubble. Checked lumberjack shirt and artfully ripped jeans.
He picks up the plastic cup of tea in front of him and takes a gulp.
‘We have cameras all over, filming the outside. I hold a Panasonic VariCam with an 85 mm portrait lens to take the close-ups of Simon.’ He pauses again and Craig fidgets in her seat. Robin can tell she is trying hard to stay patient. ‘We got everything sorted, the equipment up and running on the top of the van, then did some initial footage.’
‘Such as?’
‘Simon’s set-up on film, some shots of Dr Mason explaining the equipment. But then at about midnight I had a problem with my camera.’
‘What sort of problem?’
‘Nothing big, just a firmware issue. I think it needs an update. But I didn’t want to risk it failing as the storm reached its climax, so I went down to get the backup out of my car. But it wasn’t there.’ His hands fiddle with the plastic cup. ‘I was sure I’d packed it along with everything else, but I must have forgotten. I tried to phone Ian back at the lab to bring it, but my mobile couldn’t get reception, so I left to go and pick it up.’
‘Leaving Sharp and Mason alone in the van.’
White nods.
‘And what time was this?’
‘About half twelve, I think. The storm was starting to build momentum.’
Robin knows that time fits with the footage they’ve already been given by the BBC team. Someone is going through it all now, wading through hours of video of the car park, viewed from the outside of the van.
‘Then what?’
White pauses, rubbing at his eyes.
‘Do you want to take a minute?’ DC Grey asks gently, receiving a glare from Craig.
‘No, no, I’m fine. Just want to get this over and done with. It took me about half an hour to get to the lab, then back again. But by the time I returned to the car park, everything was really hairy. The storm had escalated, it was bigger than any of us had imagined. I parked a level down and tried to get up to the top, but the wind was too violent.’
‘You couldn’t get to the van?’ Craig asks.
‘Have you ever tried walking in a downdraught from a supercell, DI Craig?’ Justin White turns bolshy, and Robin can see the side of the man that regularly drives into tornadoes with only a camera to protect him. ‘You’re talking wind speeds of up to a hundred miles an hour. Pouring rain. There was no way I was getting up to the top level of that car park. Sharp had a Sony FS5 – he regularly recorded storms himself. And there was a camera top-left capturing the interior of the van. I knew that even without me the
re we could get the footage we needed.’
‘There were two more cameras in the van?’ Craig glances at Grey.
‘Yes. Haven’t you found the footage?’
Craig gestures to Grey and he gets up quickly, leaving the room.
Robin meets him in the corridor. ‘This could be what we need, couldn’t it?’ he says to Grey, who nods.
‘I’ll put a call in to the SOCO team, see if they can find them.’ Grey pauses. ‘And White’s not lying about the mobile reception. BT confirmed today that the main mast near the car park was down from midnight until three a.m. Unfortunate,’ he adds, before hurrying off.
‘You could say that,’ Robin mutters.
He goes back to watching the screen. Craig is continuing the interview and has put a photograph in front of White.
‘Can you tell me what this is?’ she asks.
White picks it up, looking closely at the image. ‘It’s Simon’s penknife,’ he replies.
‘And you know that for sure?’
‘Yes.’ His finger points to the photo. ‘There’s an engraving on it – see? SS. It was a gift from one of his old professors, or something.’
‘Why would Simon Sharp have a penknife with him?’
‘He always did. He carried it everywhere he went. Said it was good to be prepared. Even if it was just for the corkscrew.’ White laughs, then it’s overtaken by a sob. ‘Guess it didn’t save him this time.’
‘No,’ Craig replies simply.
‘Was that… was that what he was killed with?’
‘We believe it was the murder weapon, yes,’ Craig replies.
Shit, Robin thinks.
Craig moves on.
‘What was Dr Sharp like?’ Craig asks.
‘Have you watched the series?’ Justin replies. Craig nods. ‘Just like that. Simon is – was – exactly the man you see on TV. So smart. Always two steps ahead. And the bravest sod you’ll ever meet.’
‘He seemed… determined,’ Craig suggests.
White nods. ‘Oh, he was. But that was the way the show was set up – whatever Simon says, goes. If he wanted us to drive into the middle of an EF5 tornado, we would. If he wanted to film in the aftermath of flash flooding, we were there. But nobody ever minded. We would have followed Simon to the ends of the earth, and frequently did.’
