The Lost

Chapter 10

The collar chafed Jonah’s neck. He started to ease it with his fingers again, thought better of it and put his hands down by his side. Stop fidgeting. It won’t make this go any faster.

The wooden pew was hard and uncomfortable. The memorial service was being held in an old, austere church that smelled of cold stone and beeswax. A large, framed photograph of Gavin was propped on an easel at the front. It showed a decade-older version of the man Jonah had known. More lines on the face, but the crinkled eyes and reckless grin were the same.

Jonah was still in a turmoil over Fletcher’s news about Owen Stokes. But he’d managed to calm himself during the taxi ride over there, and in the hushed atmosphere of the church he’d realised he needed a better strategy than steaming in with a host of questions. He wasn’t sure who’d have answers anyway. He’d spoken to Marie on the phone shortly after leaving hospital. The conversation had been as difficult as he’d expected, but it had been clear she didn’t know much either. If anything, even less than Jonah, although the way she’d been slurring made it hard to understand what she’d been saying. She’d sounded either drunk or on something. Or both. Although with her husband murdered and his body still not found, Jonah couldn’t blame her.

The church wasn’t as full as he’d thought it would be. There were a few police uniforms present, though not as many as he’d expected. He’d wondered if Chrissie would be there, but he couldn’t see her. Not that he was surprised. Or sorry, as it saved him having to decide whether or not to tell her about Owen Stokes. It might come to that, but Jonah didn’t want to involve his ex-wife yet, not until he knew more himself. Chrissie had been quicker to accept their son’s death than Jonah, had even remarried the last he’d heard. She wouldn’t welcome him lobbing a hand grenade into her new life any more than Fletcher would thank him for telling her.

For now, it was better to stay quiet.

The minister was winding down. The service had been mercifully short, with only a brief and relatively vague eulogy delivered by a detective superintendent. There was a final, intoned prayer, a few more words, and then the final piece of music was played. It was ‘Ave Maria’, which Jonah felt certain wouldn’t have been high on Gavin’s list of favourites. It was only a recording, but in the echoing church the plaintive melody was surprisingly powerful. The moment was broken by the bass rumble of a stifled belch from the end of the pew. Jonah glanced over as the thick-set man sitting there bumped the end of his fist against his chest.

‘Pardon,’ he muttered.

Nice.

Then the music ended, and the service was over. Jonah stayed seated as the front pews began to file out. Marie came first, sobbing as she was propped up by an older man who, he guessed, was her father, and a teenage boy with Gavin’s lankiness and dark curly hair. Jonah felt a pang as he realised it must be Dylan. Jesus, when did he get so big? The last time he’d seen Gavin’s son, he could only have been, what? Six? Seven? Ten years ago. Do the maths.

Behind them were two women whose resemblance to Marie identified them as her sisters. The other pews followed them out, but it didn’t take long until it was Jonah’s turn. He waited for the heavy-set man at the end to leave first, then edged out on his crutches.

The people from inside the church had gathered outside, but they were quickly dispersing, most of the uniformed police officers heading for the church gate and their waiting cars. Relieved to see the cameras and press were also packing up and leaving, Jonah joined a short queue of people waiting to pay their respects to the widow. His nervousness grew as the line shortened. As the self-conscious handshakes and condolences continued in front of him, he saw DC Bennet standing apart from the mourners, her black leather jacket and jeans a natural camouflage in that setting. There was no sign of Fletcher, and Bennet’s face registered no emotion as she looked across. He gave her a stiff nod anyway as the queue moved closer.

In front of him, the heavy-set man from inside the church was speaking to Marie. Jonah couldn’t hear what was said, but then the man was moving away and it was his turn to pay his respects. Marie was wearing a black dress and heavy make-up that was losing its battle with the tears. From a distance she looked much the same as he remembered. A different hair style and perhaps a little heavier, but otherwise not much had changed. As Jonah stepped into range of her perfume, though, he saw the lines and puffiness that the make-up failed to disguise.

He took a deep breath. ‘Marie, I’m so sorry...’

He didn’t get any further. She stepped towards him, wrapping both arms around his neck so suddenly he tottered on his crutches.

‘Oh, Jonah...!’

He returned the hug as best he could. A cloying smell of perfume engulfed him, but it wasn’t strong enough to mask the stale alcohol on her breath. As she sobbed against him, he became aware of the stares he was receiving. He felt himself flush, imagining the whispers. That’s him. The one who found Gavin. Standing beside Marie was her teenage son. The boy held himself stiffly, clenched against whatever emotion he was trying to keep in check. The physical resemblance to his father was striking, although there was a sullen, resentful look that Gavin never had.

Marie straightened, stepping back without letting go as she took in Jonah’s crutches. ‘Oh, God! Look at the state of you...’

‘It’s not that bad.’

She wasn’t listening. ‘I still can’t believe he’s gone...’

She bowed her head as one of her sisters — an older, fleshier woman cast from the same mould — rubbed her shoulders. Jonah felt acutely self-conscious, but she was still holding on to him, preventing him from moving away.

She sniffed, ‘Dylan, do you remember Jonah? He’s a friend of your dad’s.’

The teenager raised his eyes long enough to glower at Jonah. ‘So what?’

‘Dylan!’ Marie’s face tightened. ‘What did I tell you? That’s no way to—’

‘I’m going to the car.’

Turning on his heel, the boy walked away. Marie glared after him before composing her face back into its tragic smile.

‘I’m sorry, Jonah. It’s been a difficult time for him...’

‘I know, it’s OK.’

‘You are coming to the reception, aren’t you? There’s a buffet and drinks, so... oh, Jesus...’

Her sister put her arm around her. ‘Shh, don’t, Marie. Of course he’s coming.’

She gave Jonah a look that dared him to refuse. He mustered a smile.

‘I’ll see you there.’

His crutches scraped on the stone flags as he limped away. Poor Marie, he thought, and poor Dylan. The memorial service had been a timely reminder that he wasn’t the only one wanting answers. Bad enough for Gavin’s wife and son to have to deal with the raw grief of Gavin’s death without the pain and confusion of not having a body to mourn. Jonah knew all too well how that felt.

What burned in him now was the possibility that the same man could be responsible.

The news about Owen Stokes had thrown him into a turmoil, but he was beginning to think more clearly again now. Enough to wonder what Fletcher had meant earlier, when he’d made the disparaging crack about Gavin’s track record, and said his judgement wasn’t ‘sound’. The DI had been flustered and irate, but Jonah thought he might have let slip more than he’d intended. By the sound of it there had been more going on with Gavin than Jonah was aware of.

He needed to find out what.

Following the path until he was a discreet distance from the huddle of mourners, he stopped underneath a large stained-glass window. It was protected by a scuffed plastic screen, and without the sun to give them life the colours were muted. Pasty-faced saints and angels stared out blankly onto a world they wouldn’t recognise. Jonah knew the feeling.

Opening the taxi app on his phone — it had eventually been returned without comment by Fletcher — he ordered a cab. The estimated arrival time was twenty minutes. He was still on his phone when someone spoke from behind him.

‘Jonah?’

The voice was female and familiar, though he couldn’t immediately place it. Not until he turned around and recognised the reporter from his hospital room. She was wearing black for the occasion, although the short black dress under the open jacket would have been more suited to a dinner party.

‘Hi, Corinne Daly. We spoke at—’

‘I know who you are,’ he told her, turning away.

She fell into step alongside him as he headed for a side gate. ‘I appreciate how hard this must be, but I’d just like a few words.’

‘I’ve got nothing say.’

‘Look, I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot at the hospital—’

‘Wrong foot?’ Jonah stopped, partly from anger but also because there were steps down from the church path to the pavement. He wasn’t going to attempt them with the journalist there. ‘You sneaked into my room and pretended to be a therapist.’

‘I walked into an untended room, I didn’t sneak,’ she said, the smile vanishing. ‘And I didn’t pretend to be anything. It’s not my fault you jumped to the wrong conclusion.’

‘And what about the garbage you wrote? I saw your piece this morning. I didn’t say any of that.’

‘That wasn’t garbage,’ she snapped. ‘It was factually accurate and reflected the tone of our conversation. And it was actually very sympathetic. More sympathetic than I could have been.’

‘Meaning what?’

She smiled, friendly again. ‘Believe it or not, I’m not an enemy. I can understand why you don’t trust me, but I’m not some ogre. I know what it’s like to lose friends. And I’m a parent myself. My daughter Maddie’s six. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to her.’

‘I’m sure she’d be proud of you.’

The barb had been thrown casually but he saw it had stung. ‘She is, actually,’ she said, colouring. ‘She knows her mother tries to expose bad people and liars.’

And sneaks into hospital rooms pretending to be a therapist. Jonah checked his phone, wishing the taxi would hurry up. The app told him it was delayed. Shit.

‘Then what are you doing here?’ He looked towards the road, as though that might make his cab materialise sooner.

‘I came to pay my respects. And I hoped I could have another word with you.’

‘I’ve already told you, I’ve nothing to say.’

‘You don’t know what I want to talk about yet.’ She gestured towards the church. ‘I’m sorry about Gavin McKinney, but he isn’t the only victim, is he? What about the other three? No one’s holding memorial services for any of them.’

‘They haven’t been identified yet.’

He was annoyed with himself straight away for responding. Daly cocked her head at him.

‘No? Supposing I told you I’d heard one of them has been? And that they weren’t an illegal migrant.’

He knew he shouldn’t take the bait, but he couldn’t help himself. ‘Was it the girl?’

Daly’s smile was engaging. ‘Why don’t we meet up somewhere we can discuss it properly? A pub or coffee bar, I don’t mind. Or we could talk over dinner, if you like.’

Is she serious? ‘Look—’

‘What’s going on?’

Jonah hadn’t heard Bennet approaching. From her startled expression neither had Daly. She took in the leather jacket and jeans. Her smile was politely disdainful as the policewoman came to stand by them.

‘We’re having a private conversation. And you are...?’

‘DS Bennet. This is a private ceremony. The church is off limits to press, so I’ll have to ask you to leave.’

‘Actually, I think you’ll find the ceremony’s over. And I’m outside the church anyway.’

‘Actually, I’m not arguing. You need to go.’

Daly’s smile became edged. ‘Do you really want to make a scene at a memorial service? In front of all the family?’

Bennet gave a shrug. ‘I don’t mind.’

If it was a bluff, it was convincing. She seemed relaxed, but there was poised physicality about her. Jonah decided he wouldn’t like to cross DC Bennet himself, even with two good knees.

Evidently Daly felt the same way. She made a show of turning to Jonah in an attempt to pretend she wasn’t backing down.

‘Good to see you again, Jonah. Remember what I said. Any time you want to talk...’

She started to walk away, then turned back to Bennet with a smile that was all spite.

‘Love the goth look, by the way.’

Daly’s high heels clicked triumphantly on the flagstones as she strode down the path to the gate. Bennet stared after the journalist with the lazy consideration of a cat watching a bird.

‘What did she want?’

‘She was asking about the other victims. And before you ask, I didn’t tell her anything.’

‘I hope not.’

‘She told me one of the victims had been identified,’ Jonah said, before she could walk away. ‘She didn’t say who, but she’d heard they weren’t an illegal migrant.’

Bennet turned her dark eyes on him. He felt they were somehow judgemental. ‘What else did she say?’

‘Nothing, that was all. She wanted to find out what I knew.’

‘And you didn’t tell her anything?’

‘How could I? I don’t know anything.’

She studied him for a moment, then gave a nod. ‘OK.’

‘Is it true?’ he asked as she started to go. ‘Have you identified one of them?’

‘You shouldn’t listen to rumours,’ Bennet said, walking away.