Fever of the Bone

CHAPTER 18

Alan Miles wasn’t hard to spot. He was the only person standing outside Halifax station in a gentle mist of rain wafting down from the Pennines that defied the canopy. Carol parked where she shouldn’t and walked briskly over to the slightly stooped figure peering out at the world through the kind of glasses she hadn’t seen anyone wear since the NHS stopped doing free prescription pairs. Heavy black plastic across the top, steel wire round the rest of the lenses, and thick as milk-bottle bottoms. Face like an Easter Island slab. She could imagine him giving the bottom-stream fourth-year boys hell. ‘Mr Miles?’ she said.

He turned his head with the articulation of an elderly tortoise and appraised her. Evidently he liked what he saw for a smile of extraordinary sweetness transformed him utterly. His hand went to the brim of his cap and he raised it fractionally. ‘Miss Jordan,’ he said. ‘Very prompt. I like that in a woman.’ In the flesh, he sounded like a basso profondo version of Thora Hird.

‘Thank you.’

‘I hope I wasn’t rude to you on the telephone. I have no telephone manner. It’s a device that completely flummoxes me. I know I sound most off-putting. My wife tells me I should leave it alone and let her deal with it.’

‘If I had the choice, I would leave it to somebody else to deal with,’ Carol said. She meant it; she’d spent the last twenty minutes talking to division commanders, press officers and her own team, making sure everything that could be done to find Seth Viner was being done. And that nobody was forgetting about Daniel Morrison either. The guilt at jumping ship was tremendous. But not enough to divert her from her other mission.

‘Now, I see you’ve arrived by car, which is perfect, really,’ Miles said. ‘If you don’t mind driving, we can make our way to the very premises where Blythe and Co held sway. That’ll give you a sense of the place. There’s a very pleasant public house a few streets away where we can have a small libation while I outline what I’ve got for you. If that’s acceptable to your good self?’

Carol struggled to keep a straight face. She felt as if she’d stumbled into a BBC TV series by one of the other Alans - Bennett or Plater - who specialised in Yorkshire eccentrics. ‘That would suit me fine, Mr Miles.’

‘Call me Alan,’ he said with a roguish look. If he’d had mustachios, he would have twirled them, Carol thought as she led the way back to her car.

He sat stiffly in the passenger seat, a whiplash of a man leaning towards the windscreen, the better to see where they were going. He directed her through a convoluted one-way system, leaving the town centre behind and climbing a steep road flanked by small stone-faced terraced houses. They turned off about halfway up the hill into a warren of narrow streets. The final turn brought them into a dead end. On one side Carol could see a line of brick houses whose front doors opened directly on to the street. Opposite was the side wall of what looked like a warehouse or a small factory. It was obviously not a recent construction, being made of stone with a slate roof. Beyond the building was a small yard for vehicles, cut off behind a high chain-link fence. A metal sign said, Performance Autos - Yorkshire. ‘There you go,’ Miles said. ‘That used to be the premises of Blythe and Co, Specialist Metal Finishers.’

It was hard to feel excited about so prosaic a building, but it did mark a real step forward in her journey. ‘That’s quite something, Alan. Seeing it still standing.’ If he wanted to, Tony could make this journey and send his imagination travelling through time. Somehow, she thought he might give it a miss. ‘So what have you got to tell me about Blythe’s and its owner?’

‘Shall we repair to the public house?’

‘With great pleasure,’ Carol said, wondering why she was starting to sound as if she too inhabited TV Yorkshire. I’ll be ordering a port and lemon next.

The Weaver’s Shuttle huddled down a lane near an old Victorian mill that had been converted into apartments. The pub had avoided a makeover, its exposed stone walls and low beams stubbornly enclosing an old-fashioned bar where couples sat and talked quietly, old men played dominoes and a group of middle-aged women were having a very decorous darts match. The barman nodded to Miles as they walked in. ‘Evening, Alan. The usual, is it?’ Reaching for a half-pint glass and a wooden pump handle.

‘Indeed, landlord. What can I get you, young lady?’ Miles removed his cap, revealing a gleaming bald dome fringed with steel-grey curls.

‘Let me, Alan.’ Carol smiled. ‘I’m thinking of a dry white wine,’ she said, doubting whether the wine would come up to the class of the real ales whose badges were lined up on hand pumps along the bar.

‘I’ve got a South African Sauvignon Blanc or a Pinot Grigio open tonight,’ the barman said. ‘Or I’ve a Chilean Chardonnay cold.’

‘I’ll try a glass of the sauvignon,’ she said, realising how ready she was for a drink. It had been a while since she’d gone this late in the day before having her first glass. Maybe she really was getting past the point where alcohol had been the one reliably bright element in her days. Something else that might please Tony.

When it came, the wine was cold and vivid with the smell of grass and the taste of gooseberry. Alan Miles was watching her attentively as she took her first mouthful. He chuckled. There was no other word for it, Carol thought. ‘Not what you expected,’ he said.

‘So little in life is,’ she said, surprised at her candour.

‘When you say it like that . . . well, that’s a pity, Miss Jordan,’ he said. ‘But enough of us. You want to know about Blythe’s. Eddie Blythe was nearly a local lad, grew up down the road in Sowerby Bridge. A bright lad, by all accounts. He went to the technical college in Huddersfield and showed a lot of aptitude in the field of metallurgy. Whether it was by chance or design, he happened on a new process for coating metals that was very useful in the field of medical instruments. Scalpels and forceps and the like, as I understand it. He patented his bright idea and set up the factory to manufacture his products. He was doing very well, apparently. And then suddenly, in the spring of 1964, he sold up, lock, stock and barrel, to some steel firm in Sheffield. Within weeks, they’d moved production to Sheffield. They took the key workers with them. Paid their removal costs and everything.’ He paused and supped some of his glass of mild.

‘That seems very generous,’ Carol said.

‘Supposedly it was part of the deal Eddie Blythe made.’ He took a slim envelope out of his inside pocket. ‘Here’s a photocopy of a newspaper article.’ He passed it to her.

‘Local firm sold,’ the headline read. The few paragraphs said little more than Miles had already related. But there was a photograph across two columns. The caption read, ‘Mr E.A. Blythe (L) shakes hands on the deal with Mr J. Kessock (R) of Rivelin Fabrications.’ She squinted at the photograph, strangely moved. There was, she thought, a look of Tony in the set of his shoulders, the angle of his head, the shape of his face. She took out a pen and scribbled down the date of the article.

‘He left town after he sold up,’ Miles said. ‘I couldn’t find anybody that knew him personally, so I don’t know what lay behind him getting rid of the business and leaving town. You might want to check out the archives of the Triple H.’

‘The Triple H?’

‘Sorry. I’m forgetting you’re not from round here. The Halifax and Huddersfield Herald. They’ve been digitising their back numbers.’ Miles spoke the unfamiliar word as if it were in a foreign language. ‘My special interest is the wool industry and I’ve found quite a few gems with their “search engine”. They let you use “text strings” and the like. Regrettably I couldn’t get on the library computer to check this afternoon. We’ve not got the internet at home,’ he said. Carol sensed a wistfulness he was reluctant to admit to.

‘Thanks for the suggestion. I’ll take a look when I get back.’ If nothing else, she might find a better version of the photocopy Miles was folding up and replacing in its envelope. ‘You’ve been very helpful,’ she said.

He made a self-deprecating face. ‘Nowt you couldn’t have found out for yourself.’

‘Maybe. But it would have taken me a lot longer. Believe me, I’m always grateful to people who save me time.’

‘It’ll be a hard job, yours,’ he said. ‘Hard enough for a man, but you women are always having to prove yourselves, eh, lass?’

Her smile was wintry. ‘No kidding.’

‘So, has this helped you with your cold case?’ he asked, his glance shrewd.

‘It’s been very instructive.’ Carol finished her drink. ‘Can I give you a lift anywhere?’

Miles shook his head. ‘I’m only five minutes down the road. Good luck with your investigation. I hope, like the Mounties, you get your man.’

She shook her head, wondering where Tony was and what he was doing. ‘I’m afraid it might be too late for that. That’s the trouble with cold cases. Sometimes the people involved are beyond our reach.’

Nobody ever volunteered for the last ID. No matter how many times you asked people to put a name to their dead, it still felt like shit. Every CID team had its own rules of engagement. Some left it to the Family Liaison Officer; some SIOs always insisted on doing it themselves. In Carol Jordan’s MIT, the same rule applied to this as to everything else - the person best equipped for the task was the designated officer. And so it was that Paula dealt with more than her fair share.

Given that she was stuck with it, she always preferred to carry out the job alone. That way she didn’t have to concern herself with anyone but the grieving person who was going to have to confront a lifeless body and decide whether or not it was the remains they feared most.

The FLO had been with the Morrisons since that morning. They’d been told the chances were that the body found earlier had been their son. But Paula knew that they’d still be in denial, still convinced there had been some grotesque muddle at the crime scene, that some total stranger had been misidentified as their beloved boy. Until they saw Daniel’s body for themselves, they’d be clinging to those shreds of hope. Paula was the one who would have to rip that prospect from them.

The FLO showed her into the kitchen, where the air was thick with cigarette smoke. Jessica Morrison sat at a marble-topped table, staring out through the conservatory at the darkness beyond. An untouched cup of tea sat by her folded hands. Her make-up sat on her skin like the icing on a cake. Her eyes were bloodshot and wild, the only clue to the pain saturating her.

Her husband perched on a high stool at the breakfast bar, a full ashtray next to his mobile and the landline handset. When Paula walked in, he couldn’t keep the look of bruised hope from his face. She shook her head slightly. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He took a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his crumpled shirt and lit up. ‘I haven’t smoked for the best part of twenty years,’ he said. ‘Amazing how it comes back to you as if you’d never stopped.’

If there was an easy way to do this, Paula still hadn’t found it. ‘I’m afraid I need one of you to come with me. We need to be certain that it’s Daniel we found earlier today,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, but it has to be done.’

Jessica got to her feet, stiff as an arthritic old lady. ‘I’ll come.’

‘No.’ Mike jumped off the stool and held up his hand. ‘No, Jess. You’re not up to this. I’ll do it. I’ll go with her. You stay here. You don’t need to see him like this.’

Jessica looked at him as if he were mad. ‘It’s not Daniel. So it makes no odds. I’ll go.’

He looked stricken. More in touch with reality, Paula thought. ‘What if it is him? I can do this, Jess. This is not a job for you.’ He put his hand on her arm.

She shrugged him off. ‘If it is Daniel, which I don’t believe for a minute, then I need to see him. I’m his mother. Nobody else has the right to say goodbye.’ She walked straight past him, down the hall towards the door.

Mike Morrison looked at Paula beseechingly. ‘She’s not strong enough to handle this,’ he said. ‘It should be me.’

‘I think you should come too,’ she said. ‘She’s going to need you. But I think she’s right. She needs to see him for herself.’ She gave him a fleeting pat on the arm and followed Jessica out to the car.

Paula was thankful it was a short drive to Bradfield Cross Hospital, which housed Dr Grisha Shatalov’s pathology suite. The atmosphere in the car was grim, the silence swelling to fill all the space available. Paula parked by the bay reserved for the mortuary van and led the way into the building by the discreet rear entrance. The Morrisons followed her like beasts to the slaughter. She led them into a small room decorated in muted colours with a long couch facing a wall-mounted monitor. ‘If you’d like to take a seat,’ she said. ‘Once you’re settled, the screen will show you the image we need you to identify.’

‘I thought we would see . . .’ Mike’s voice tailed off. He didn’t know what to call the body Paula presumed was his son.

‘We find it’s less traumatic this way,’ Paula said, as if she believed it. What could possibly make this less traumatic was beyond her powers of imagination. She waited till they sat down. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

She left the Morrisons and went down the hallway to the technicians’ room. ‘We’re ready for Daniel Morrison. The body that came in this morning?’

‘We’re all set up,’ one of the mortuary techs confirmed. ‘You just need to switch on the monitor.’

Back in the viewing room, Paula checked the Morrisons were composed and ready. Then she switched on the screen. It turned silvery grey then Daniel’s face appeared. They’d done a good job, she thought. Asphyxiation didn’t leave pretty victims, but they’d managed to make him look less swollen and engorged than he’d appeared earlier. His eyes were closed, his hair combed. By no stretch of the imagination did he look peaceful, but at least he didn’t look nearly as fucked up as he had done when they’d found him.

‘That’s not Daniel,’ Jessica said loudly. ‘That’s not my son.’

Mike put his arm round her shoulder and gripped her tight. ‘It’s Daniel,’ he said, his voice bleak. ‘It’s Daniel, Jess.’

She pulled away and staggered to her feet, approaching the monitor. ‘It’s not Daniel,’ she screamed, clutching her chest. Suddenly her face contorted in terrible pain. Her body twisted and bent and her mouth opened in a silent cry of agony. She fell to the ground, her body in spasm.

‘Jess,’ Mike yelled, falling to his knees beside her. ‘Get help,’ he shouted at Paula. ‘I think she’s having a heart attack.’

Paula sprinted from the room and threw open the technicians’ office door. ‘She’s having a heart attack, call a code.’

They looked blankly at her. ‘We’re not on the system,’ one said.

‘Well, get her on a fucking gurney and into the main hospital, ‘ Paula shouted. ‘Now. Do it!’

Afterwards, she’d have been hard pressed to catalogue the events of the next few minutes. The technicians were galvanised into action, loading Jessica on to a trolley and racing through the corridors to A&E, Mike and Paula at their heels. Then the Casualty staff sprang into action with unflustered aplomb and Paula was banished to the family waiting area with Mike.

Paula made sure he was settled and the receptionist knew where he was and where she would be, then headed for the ambulance bay and a nicotine hit. She had one hand on the door and the other on her cigarettes when a faintly familiar voice said, ‘Detective McIntyre?’ She swung round and found herself staring at warm grey eyes and a tentative smile.

‘Dr Blessing,’ she said, unable to resist the grin spreading across her face. ‘Elinor, I mean,’ she added, remembering that the last time they’d met she’d been granted that privilege.

‘It’s good to see you,’ Elinor said, wrapping her white coat more tightly around her as they stepped out into the chill air.

‘You too.’ Meaning it more than she’d meant anything in a while. When the two women had met on a previous case, Paula had felt a frisson between them. She’d even thought Elinor might have been flirting with her, but it had been so long since she’d had to decode those messages and she’d been so tired; it had all been too hard. She’d planned to follow up later, but life had, as usual, got in the way.

‘You still working with DCI Jordan on the Major Incident Team?’ Elinor asked.

‘That’s right. Attached by an umbilical cord to the worst that human beings can do to each other. And you? Still on Mr Denby’s team?’

‘For now. Though I’m due a move soon. But right now I’m on my way to Starbucks,’ Elinor said. ‘If I drink another cup of junior doctor coffee I’ll need to have my stomach pumped. Can you join me?’ She caught sight of the cigarette pack in Paula’s hand. ‘They have tables outside.’

Paula felt a flash of irritation. ‘I’d love to. But I can’t.’ She gestured back towards A&E. ‘Work. I need to stay close at hand.’ She spread her hands in defeat.

‘No problem. It’s only two minutes’ walk. How would it be if I brought you something back?’

Paula felt a warm glow in her stomach. She’d been right, this was a woman after her own heart. ‘A grande skinny latte would be a beautiful thing.’

‘Coming up.’ Elinor hustled off down the driveway, a white blur in the streetlights.

Paula lit her cigarette and took out her phone. Positive ID on Daniel Morrison. Mum had heart attack. Am @ A&E with Dad, she keyed in and sent the message to Carol. That should cover her back for long enough to have an exploratory coffee with the lovely Dr Blessing. Work might be shit, but it looked as if her personal life might just be taking a turn for the better.