Under a Dark Cloud

by Louisa Scarr

  Up close, the previously handsome face of Dr Simon Sharp couldn’t look worse; six days in cold storage hasn’t done him any favours. His skin is grey and peeling, sunken into his cheekbones. His eyes stare glassily at the ceiling.

  Steph’s influence has worked wonders. The coroner agreed to the second opinion and the body was transferred down that morning. The forensic pathologist herself has just finished undoing the good work of the previous doctor, unpicking the thick stitches holding Sharp’s abdomen together.

  ‘It’s going to take me a few hours yet,’ Steph repeats. ‘You should go.’

  ‘I’ll wait,’ Robin insists.

  Her shoulders slump. He knows Steph’s not enjoying his company. The last time they were in the same room together was over nine months ago, and she was unceremoniously telling him to get out of her house. Not her fault, he knows.

  He takes a seat on the far side of the mortuary and watches her at work. Even fully dressed in her PPE, she cuts an impressive figure – her body full of energy, fit from the triathlons she races at the weekend. They would never have worked as a couple, Robin tells himself. Even with his new-found love of running, she is too good for him.

  He hears Steph sigh loudly behind her mask.

  ‘Have you found something?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s not that.’ She pauses again, scalpel in hand, then selects a pair of tweezers from the tray, looking closely at Sharp’s neck. ‘I hate this awkwardness between us, Rob.’

  He looks up quickly.

  ‘There’s no reason why we can’t be friends,’ she continues, almost talking to the corpse. ‘And I know it’s down to me that we’re not, I told you not to call. But this. This is shit.’ She pauses and Robin stays silent, unsure of what to say. ‘And I miss you,’ she finishes quietly.

  ‘I miss you too.’

  She looks up, peering at him over her mask. ‘Do you?’

  He nods. ‘I’m so sorry everything ended like that.’

  She shrugs in reply and goes back to her consideration of the body. ‘Everything here is as I expected. Do you want to see?’

  She points to the gown and masks; Robin suits up and stands next to her.

  She uses the tweezers to pull back the lacerated skin on his neck, showing the mess underneath. ‘See here,’ she says, pointing with a gloved finger. ‘Tiny nick to his carotid. Would have made a hell of a mess. Wound consistent with the penknife found at the scene.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I’ll keep looking.’

  Robin moves away and sits back on his chair.

  ‘How’s your friend?’ Steph asks.

  Robin sighs. He still hasn’t been to the hospital to see Finn, although he phoned the ward that morning for an update. ‘Very confused. His short-term memory’s fucked, and he can’t remember what happened. The doctor said he’s been coming out with some ridiculous stuff about the storm, almost like he’s making up stories to compensate for the parts he can’t remember.’

  Steph pauses. ‘They’ve done blood tests, right?’

  ‘I think so. He’s having trouble walking, although the doctor says it’s hard to work out what symptoms are related to the night of the storm and what’s from alcohol withdrawal.’

  ‘He was an alcoholic?’ Steph repeats.

  ‘Apparently so,’ Robin replies. ‘I had no idea. Some friend I am.’

  Steph turns round to face him, scalpel in hand, when his phone rings. ‘Sorry,’ he says, and pulls it out to answer it.

  He doesn’t recognise the number, and when he answers, the voice is hysterical and female.

  ‘Robin, please, I need your help.’

  She’s breathless and frantic, barely understandable through her panic.

  ‘Who’s this?’ he asks.

  ‘Please. The baby. It’s early. It’s coming. I…’ There’s a long, protracted scream at the other end of the phone.

  ‘Liv? Shit.’ Robin jumps to his feet. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go,’ he shouts at Steph, as he heads out of the mortuary. ‘Where are you? Are you at home?’

  The screaming stops, and the panting resumes. ‘No, the hospital. Labour ward. Please, Robin. I’m scared.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  Robin doesn’t hesitate. He runs into the main body of the hospital, then grabs the arm of the first person in scrubs that he sees.

  ‘The labour ward? Where is it?’ he asks.

  The man smiles indulgently. ‘First floor, maternity unit. Florence Portal House. That way,’ he points.

  Robin sets off at a run.

  50

  The contractions started in the middle of the night. At first, they were no more than strong period pains, a dull ache in her stomach, but they woke Liv, her heart beating faster in response. She waited, lying there in the dark, and for a while there was nothing. She closed her eyes. Then another came. She glanced at the clock, memorising the time. It was too early. It couldn’t be happening. Not now.

  But when her waters broke at five a.m., there was no kidding herself any more.

  She put in a call to her midwife, calmly telling her what was happening.

  ‘Contractions are ten minutes apart,’ she said. The midwife was gentle and reassuring.

  ‘You’re a long way off yet, love. Keep walking around, get some food. Call me back when they’re every five minutes.’

  Liv kept track, diligently monitoring the time. She paced her kitchen, waiting until the next contraction came and she couldn’t do anything but stand, leaning against the counter, trying to breathe the way she was told to.

  I can do this, she repeated, like a mantra. I can. She knows she’s been through a lot worse, but this is new. The fear: it’s not just for her, but for the tiny boy inside.

  She has no birth partner. She’d debated it, in the early days, but who could she have asked? Even if they had been good candidates for the job, her mother and her sister were both dead. She has friends, but nobody she could ask to do this. Nobody she would trust by her side.

  No. She would do it alone. She’d survived this far. She would do it again.

  But the pain was growing. She tried watching some television but she was restless, unable to concentrate. She sat on the sodding gym ball, like someone recommended, but it was no good. Nothing helped. She managed some food, eating toast in small, manageable bites as the wave of the contractions became longer and harder. Her hand hovered close to her phone. Desperate to call her midwife. Wanting to be close to the doctors and nurses who could make sure everything was okay.

  Then, when the last cramp caused her to grit her teeth and cry out, she made the call.

  ‘Now,’ the midwife confirmed. ‘Come in now.’

  The taxi driver didn’t waste any time. He didn’t want this woman giving birth in his cab. He helped her through the double doors, carrying her bag, holding her arm in the corridor as she doubled over, her legs weak.

  The midwife took over. Taking her blood pressure, strap round her tummy to monitor the baby’s heartbeat. A steady feed to the machine next to her. She lay on the bed, the canister of gas and air reassuring by her side, determined not to use it.

  ‘There’s no award for tolerating the pain, love,’ her midwife said. But not yet, Liv thought. Not until it gets really bad.

  And it did. Worse than she imagined. Floods of agony that rolled down from the top of her belly to the bottom. Clenching her fists, she counted as she tried to breathe, but nothing helped, until she sucked on the gas desperately.

  She felt sick; she couldn’t eat. She tried walking up and down the room, but her legs felt wobbly. She was forced to lie on the bed. The face of the midwife changed from supportive understanding to concern. Doctors arrived, standing over the heart-rate printout with stern faces. They introduced themselves, explained what was going on, but she couldn’t remember what they said. Only that her labour wasn’t progressing the way it should. That the baby was stuck.

  The midwife came and stood next to her bed. ‘Honey,’ she
said slowly, her voice measured with controlled calm. ‘Is there anyone you can call? Anyone?’

  Her determination faded. She was tired, dizzy, confused. She wanted someone here. Someone who could take charge. Who could deal with panic, and stress, and hard decisions.

  And Liv thought of Robin.

  51

  Robin explains who he’s here for and they hurry him through to her room. Liv’s on the bed, on her side, her hair damp, her face contorted in pain. There’s a midwife next to her, and he pauses in the doorway for a moment, frozen by the unfamiliarity of the scene.

  Liv looks at him through half-closed eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry, Robin. I didn’t want… I didn’t think…’

  He reaches out and takes her hand. It’s sweaty and hot. ‘It’s fine, Liv. Don’t worry.’ He turns to the midwife next to him. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Liv’s in established labour, but we’re concerned. Things aren’t progressing as they should, and from the ultrasound, we believe the baby’s turned and is now in a breech position.’

  ‘Can she give birth like that?’ Robin asks.

  ‘It’s possible. But he seems to be in distress. If his heart rate drops again, we’ll have to go for an emergency C-section. We’d rather take her in now. Manage the situation before anything gets worse.’

  Liv turns to him. ‘I don’t want that. I want to give birth naturally,’ she says. But even Robin can see she’s weak, barely holding onto the reality of what’s happening around her.

  ‘Liv,’ Robin says, holding her hand tightly between both of his. ‘The main thing is we get that little boy out, and he’s healthy and happy. And that you’re okay.’ He reaches over and moves a strand of sweaty hair out of her eyes. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  She pauses. Then she nods slowly.

  Things happen quickly. A rush of more people in scrubs, paperwork, needles and discussion. A cannula is inserted into Liv’s hand. Robin is hurried away to get changed.

  Nobody has asked who he is. They must have assumed he’s the father – something he doesn’t try to correct. He’s caught in a tide of people who know what they’re doing. Procedures honed to a fine art. Doctors and nurses in a perfect choreography of movement.

  He’s shown back to Liv’s side. She’s in an operating theatre now, blue drapes blocking their view of anything below her chest. She seems calmer but holds his hand tightly as he sits next to the bed. She even manages a smile at his get-up: full scrubs, his hair covered.

  A doctor sits by her side, monitoring numbers and read-outs on the screens. The anaesthetist, Robin assumes. A team of people are on the other side of the drapes, a surgeon in the middle, scalpel in hand.

  Robin leans forward to Liv. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Hmm.’ She closes her eyes and Robin can see she’s breathing out slowly through her mouth. The doctor asks a few questions – basic stuff: her name, date of birth – and she answers. He ducks back behind the blue screen. Robin feels helpless in the face of all this proficiency, not knowing what on earth is going on. There are murmurs, movement, an exchange of equipment. Not long passes, maybe five minutes, and then Robin hears a tiny cry.

  Liv opens her eyes at the noise. ‘He’s out?’ she gasps.

  A masked face appears. The eyes smile. ‘He’s out. And he’s fine. A strong, healthy little boy.’

  Robin feels a flutter of excitement. And the exact moment he’s ready to be a father is the moment he realises he isn’t one.

  The tiny baby is held in the surgeon’s hands; blood and goop and all manner of indescribable body fluids cover the boy. He’s screaming reassuringly loudly.

  Robin watches as the baby is handed quickly to a midwife, who attends to him for a moment with another doctor. Liv’s eyes stay on him the whole time, watching as he’s swaddled up, a tiny yellow woollen hat placed on his head, before being passed round to her. He’s bundled up with Liv, skin against skin.

  Liv looks down at the boy and manages a groggy smile.

  ‘He’s gorgeous, Liv,’ Robin whispers. And he means it.

  The baby’s eyes are brown, framed by long eyelashes. Full cheeks, a fuzz of black hair – and a complexion at least three shades darker than Robin’s.

  Liv looks from the baby across to Robin. She still seems out of it, hazy on a variety of drugs and her own endorphins.

  ‘I’m sorry, Robin,’ she says.

  He’s not sure what she’s apologising for. Making him think the baby was his, bringing him here out of the blue? But whatever it is, he doesn’t care. After all the chaos of the past week – the worry around Finn, the uncertainty with Jacob’s death, even the fragile state of Freya – he needed something good. A miracle, a new life. A future with promise and good intentions.

  Some things do end well after all, he thinks.

  52

  Freya and Josh sit on one side of the table, Connor Vardy on the other. The duty solicitor sits by his side: a man about Freya’s age, tall and slim to the point of skinny, in a smart navy suit. Alex Reynolds – Freya’s met him before. He’s fair and measured; discreet, unlike some. He makes notes on a yellow legal pad.

  ‘My client would like to hear what you have to say,’ the solicitor begins. ‘Against my advice, I should add.’

  Connor fidgets, picking at the corner of one of his nails, staring resolutely at the tabletop; a piece of skin is separated from Connor’s cuticle and dropped onto the shiny surface.

  ‘You’re free to leave at any time,’ the solicitor directs to Connor. ‘This is a voluntary interview.’

  Connor nods.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want a drink?’ Freya asks him. ‘Water? Coke?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thank you,’ Connor mumbles.

  They’ve signed the correct paperwork and they’re ready to begin. Josh leans back in his seat, waiting for Freya to start. This morning, she’s running the show.

  ‘Connor,’ Freya begins. He doesn’t look up. ‘We wanted to talk to you again about what happened the night of the storm.’

  ‘My client has told you already,’ Reynolds replies. Freya glares. I thought you were one of the nice ones, she thinks.

  ‘Yes, you did,’ she says, directing her response to Connor. ‘But we’ve found out some things since then that we wanted to get your views on.’

  Freya opens the file in front of her and pulls out a photo. It’s a young man in army uniform, smartly posed against a formal backdrop. She turns it round and puts it in front of Connor.

  ‘This is Lance Corporal Duncan Thorpe,’ Freya says. Connor glances at the photo. ‘This was the man found dead in the freezer.’

  Connor looks up again, and this time studies the photo properly. His jaw clenches, then his eyes slide away.

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ Freya says softly, ‘I’d like to tell you a little bit about him.’ She doesn’t need her notes; she knows it off by heart. After she finished researching Connor and his family, she moved back to Duncan Thorpe. And she tells him everything she found out.

  ‘Duncan was born in 1966, so he was just fifty-five when he died. He joined the army at eighteen and served until 1995, when he was involved in a dispute in a pub. Someone died and Duncan went to prison, where he stayed until 2006. Unfortunately, when he got out, he found it hard to hold down a job. He went back inside for a few years, and in 2017 he found himself homeless. Then, last Wednesday, your friend Barry found him dead in the freezer.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’ Connor says. ‘I don’t know how he got there.’

  ‘A victim’s past is irrelevant here, DC West,’ the solicitor adds.

  Freya takes a sip from the glass of water in front of her, biding her time. She ignores the lawyer. ‘But I think you do know, Connor,’ she says at last. ‘I think you know more than you’re telling us. And I think you’re covering for your friends.’

  ‘They’re not my friends.’ Connor knows exactly who Freya is talking about.

  ‘Maybe not. But you’re covering
for them. And I don’t understand why.’ Freya leans forward slightly. ‘We spoke to the college and to Barry, and they say the same thing.’ Connor looks up sharply. ‘That you’re a clever kid and you’ve got a good future ahead of you.’

  ‘That’s bollocks,’ Connor mumbles.

  ‘Barry says your grandad would have been proud of the man you’ve become.’

  Connor stares at her. ‘You know nothing about me or my grandad.’ He looks to Reynolds. ‘Can they do this?’ he asks him. ‘Can they ask me this stuff?’

  ‘Get to your point, Detective,’ the solicitor replies.

  ‘I know a bit about your grandad, Connor,’ Freya continues. ‘I know that after your mum died, he took you in. I know that he was a respected man in his community. That he raised money for charity. And I also know that he went to prison. For aggravated burglary, in 1999.’

  ‘So what?’ Connor’s stance changes, defensive for his grandfather.

  Freya takes a deep breath in. This is their last chance, and she knows it could all go wrong.

  ‘I’ve done my research, Connor. There wasn’t much difference between your grandad and Duncan Thorpe. They were both in the armed forces. They both wound up in prison. But in your grandad’s case, when he got out, he turned his life around. He was good with his hands, like you. He worked with charities that assisted ex-offenders, trying to give other men like himself a second chance. Your grandad was at HMP Winchester at the same time as Duncan Thorpe. He might even have met him. And if he’d known about his plight, I bet he’d have done anything to help him.’

  She stops. Connor is bending down so close to the table, his forehead is almost touching his hands. Then she realises he’s crying.

  ‘My client needs a break,’ Reynolds interjects.

  She glances nervously across to Josh. He gives her a barely perceptible nod. Carry on, he’s saying.

  ‘Connor?’ Freya almost whispers. ‘Please. Tell us.’

  He shakes his head, still not looking at her. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Please, Connor. You can.’

  ‘Detective. My client—’