Death of a Murderer

14

Billy passed the narrow door that led to the toilet and shower room. On the wall was a cooling control panel and a boxed first-aid kit. Someone had added an “s” on to the end of the word “aid.” There was nothing precious about a mortuary. The only concession to feeling was the chapel of rest. Directly linked to the mortuary through the bare wooden doors behind his chair, it could also be accessed from the corridor outside, which allowed members of the public to avoid the unsightliness, the ruthless practicality, of death. He pushed the doors open and peered in. A simple icon hung near the bed where the deceased would be laid out. Close by was an orange settee with arms of pale wood. The walls were orange too, though lighter. For all its warm colours, the chapel of rest was as functional as any other part of the mortuary. You came here to pay your last respects, or sometimes, even more distressingly, to identify your next of kin. In this room people’s worst fears would become a reality, and the air was petrified, stale, glassy with shock. For many, this would be where the suffering began.

As he shut the doors, Billy noticed the clock. Nine thirty-three. Was that all? He sat down on his chair again. His left arm ached where that vicious dwarf had fractured it with a karate kick back in the early eighties; if he felt the chill of the mortuary anywhere, it would be there. Unscrewing his Thermos, he poured himself a cup of coffee. It was strong, with plenty of milk and sugar. He took a sip and let out a sigh of satisfaction. Ah, that was good. Now for some paperwork. He picked up his pocketbook and leafed through the pages until he found his notes on the community-centre break-in that had happened the weekend before last. The culprits were two fourteen-year-olds, Darren Clark and Scott Wakefield. They hadn’t stolen anything, but they had caused a fair amount of damage, smashing windows, covering the walls with graffiti and urinating on a piano. Since it was a first offence, he thought it unlikely that they would go to court. Instead, they’d probably be cautioned by an inspector, in the presence of their families. All the same, there were at least three forms to be filled out. Drawing his chair up to the table, he began to compile his report.

It was just a laugh, really, Darren had said at one point. Something to do, you know? We didn’t mean nothing by it. When Billy first started out in Widnes, in 1979, he might have thought he could steer a boy like Darren back on to the straight and narrow, but from long experience he now knew that very little could be done. In all his time as a police officer, there were only one or two teenagers whose lives he could honestly claim to have changed for the better. It wasn’t much of a return on twenty-three years’ work.

How many more times in his life would Darren Clark get into trouble and then try and make light of it? Pen poised above the paper, Billy stared into space, reminded once again of the afternoon when he and Raymond broke into the old couple’s house. He would have been Darren’s age, give or take a few months. Was that what he had thought — that it had all been a bit of fun? Before, perhaps, but not when it was over. No, from his point of view it had left a sour aftertaste. Something so exciting at the beginning — the hot weather, the walk up to the park, the vodka — and then something he wished he hadn’t been part of, something he would rather have forgotten.

There was a sudden, prolonged buzz from the door-bell. Billy glanced at the clock — nine forty-five — then went over and undid the locks. Standing in the corridor was the constable who had been on duty by the main entrance.

“Your wife’s here,” he said.

Billy stared at him. “What?”

“Your wife, Sue. She’s in reception.”

“Is she all right?” Billy said.

“I don’t know. She just asked if she could see you.” The man stepped into the room and stood by the stainless-steel sink in the corner. He rubbed his hands together. “Cold in here.”

“Would you mind taking over?” Billy said.

“No problem.”

Billy signed himself out, making a note of the time, then watched as the constable signed himself in. His name was Fowler.

“I shouldn’t be more than a few minutes,” Billy said. “That’s if I don’t get lost.”

“Bloody corridors,” Fowler said.