The Scent of Death

Chapter 11

I set off early next morning. I wasn’t due at the mortuary until later, by which time the remaining soft tissue should have fallen off the bones I’d left macerating overnight. They’d probably be ready now, but an extra hour or two’s soaking wouldn’t hurt.

There was somewhere I wanted to go first.

I’d woken in a good mood. Rachel had called the night before. I hadn’t been expecting to speak to her again for another couple of days, but the boat had made an unscheduled stop at an island with good mobile coverage. She sounded upbeat and excited, telling me how they’d tracked a pod of dolphins, even rescued one from an abandoned fishing net. Her talk of blue sea and skies was a far cry from the autumnal grey of London, and even further from the pall of St Jude’s. The call had been a welcome bonus after the mire of the investigation.

But my good mood lasted only until I switched on the radio. Although I hadn’t noticed any media at the public meeting, either journalists must have been in the audience or Oduya had contacted the press himself afterwards. Either way, he’d been busy.

‘The police have declined to comment on your claim that one of the bodies found at St Jude’s was pregnant,’ the interviewer was saying. ‘How did you come by the information? Was it leaked to you from someone inside the inquiry?’

‘Obviously, I’m not going to reveal my sources, so let’s just say I’m not the only person uneasy about the way the investigation is being handled,’ Oduya’s now-familiar voice replied. ‘But I was told by a very reliable source. And it was confirmed for me last night by someone I trust who’s in a position to know.’

What? Burning my mouth on my coffee, I hurriedly set it down to listen.

‘So why do you think the police are withholding these details?’ the interviewer asked.

‘That’s a very good question. I can’t answer it, which is why I’m appealing to the police now. Please, for the sake of this unknown woman and baby’s family, just tell the public the truth. We have a right to know, so why all the secrecy? What are they afraid of?’

Oh, come on! I poured my coffee down the sink in disgust, no longer interested in breakfast. Releasing sensitive details when we’d still no idea who the young mother was was bad enough. It risked swamping the switchboards with frantic relatives, hoax calls and false alarms. Even so, after talking to him I’d begun to believe Oduya was acting with the best intentions in making it public.

But that final ‘What are they afraid of?’ was a cynical attempt to ramp up the story. It was the sort of attention-grabbing soundbite that people would latch on to, implying cover-ups and conspiracies where none existed. Whelan had told me that Oduya knew how to play the media. Now I saw what he meant.

And I had a pretty good idea who the ‘trusted’ someone might be. Anonymously or not, and despite all his protestations, Oduya was prepared to use me to bolster his cause. Although I’d done my best to sidestep his question about one of the victims being pregnant, I hadn’t flat out denied it. I couldn’t, not when it was true.

That was all he’d needed.

I tried calling Ward but her phone went straight to voicemail. That was hardly surprising. She was in a difficult position and would be busy working on a damage-limitation strategy. Details of the young victim’s pregnancy were out there now; there was nothing she could do about that. But if she responded to Oduya straight away it would look as though he’d forced her into it. And if she didn’t, it would feed his claims that the police were deliberately keeping the public in the dark.

I tried to put the radio interview from my mind as I took the lift down to the garage. The morning traffic was the usual ordeal of gridlocked roads and frayed tempers, and my day was shaping up badly enough already. It wouldn’t be improved by getting into a scrape with another car.

The row of terraces looked abandoned when I pulled up outside. A cat stared at me impassively from the outside windowsill of a boarded-up house, while at the bottom of the road a tired-looking woman was pushing twin toddlers in a double buggy. Other than that, the street was empty.

There was an ancient doorbell next to the new front door. When I pressed it there was only a grating of broken plastic and silence from inside. I knocked on the door instead, the glossy wood solid against my knuckles. At my feet, a faint stain on the pavement marked where the eggs and milk had been dropped, but all other evidence had been cleared away.

I wasn’t sure what sort of reception I’d get. Lola had made it clear she wanted to be left alone, so I doubted she’d be pleased to see me. Ordinarily, I’d have accepted that, but it wasn’t so much her I was worried about. There had been that moan from inside the house when she’d let herself in, and then there were the incontinence pads she’d had in her shopping. I didn’t need to have been a GP to realize what that meant. An old woman managing on her own was one thing, but if she was caring for a sick husband or relative I couldn’t walk away without making sure everything was OK. Earlier that year I’d encountered another vulnerable individual during the Essex investigation who’d needed help. On that occasion I’d done nothing, and came to bitterly regret it.

I didn’t want to make the same mistake again.

I waited a few more seconds then knocked again. The sound died away without a response. I began to think I’d had a wasted journey, but when I stepped back from the doorway I saw the blinds twitch at the window.

‘Hello?’ I called.

Nothing. But at least I knew someone was home. I lifted up the carrier bag I was holding so it could be seen.

‘I’ve brought you some shopping.’

Nothing happened, but just when I thought I’d had a wasted trip, there was the click of the door being unlocked.

It swung open a few inches before being brought up by a chain. Lola’s pouchy face regarded me through the gap.

‘What d’you want?’

‘I gave you a lift home last night and—’

‘I know who you are, I asked what you want?’

I raised the carrier again. ‘I brought you some groceries. To replace the ones you dropped.’

She looked down at the carrier bag, suspicion warring with temptation. ‘I’m not paying for stuff I didn’t ask for.’

‘I don’t want any money.’

‘And I don’t want any charity, neither!’

I tried another approach. ‘It’s the least I can do. I feel bad for not helping with your shopping. You’d be doing me a favour.’

She scowled, then the door closed in my face. Well, I tried. Then there was the rattle of a chain and the door opened again. Lola favoured me with a last suspicious look before grudgingly stepping aside to let me in.

There was no hallway. The front door opened directly into a small room. It was dim inside, the venetian blind on the window blocking out most of the natural light. The smell hit me right away, a thick odour of human waste and unwashed bedding that took me back to my time as a medical doctor. A clock was ticking, counting off each second with a slow, metronomic tock, and as my eyes adjusted I saw I was in a sitting room that at some point had been converted into a kitchen. Now it doubled as a sickroom. A man lay in a bed in its centre, covered by dirty sheets and blankets. It was hard to put an age to him, but he was obviously much younger than the woman, with greasy brown hair and an unkempt beard covering his sunken cheeks. His mouth was open, and for a bad moment I thought he was dead. Then I saw his eyes were still alive and aware, watching me keenly from the loose face.

‘Here, give me that.’ Lola almost snatched the carrier away. Then, as though as an afterthought, she glanced towards the bed. ‘That’s my son, in case you’re wondering.’

I’d guessed as much. A cabinet at the end of the bed was cluttered with framed photographs taken when he was much younger. They ranged from him as a small boy, plump and round-faced, to snapshots of a hulking teenager. Overweight and clearly self-conscious, he wore the same shy smile in all of them.

But he wouldn’t be doing much smiling now, shy or otherwise. Illness had burned away any excess flesh, leaving an emaciated ruin in its wake. Apart from the dark hair, the man in the bed was unrecognizable now as the teenager in the photographs. I smiled at the gaunt wreck of a face.

‘Hello, I’m David.’

‘You’re wasting your time, he can’t answer you,’ Lola snapped, unceremoniously dumping the carrier bag down on the kitchen worktop. Next to it was a sink overflowing with dirty dishes. ‘He had a stroke.’

‘That’s OK, I was just introducing myself.’

I wasn’t going to assume her son couldn’t understand what was going on just because he was physically incapacitated. Certainly, the eyes that were watching me now seemed alert enough. They’d never left me since I’d stepped inside.

This was the other reason I was there. As well as replacing the spoilt groceries, I’d wanted to find out who I’d heard moaning the evening before. As his mother began unpacking the carrier bag, I took in the rest of the room. Packets of incontinence pads were piled in a corner by a folded-up wheelchair. Other medical aids and products were scattered around the room, and a sideboard was all but covered by junk mail and unopened post. I read the name on the top envelope: Mrs L. Lennox.

‘It can’t be easy,’ I said, taking care to include the man in the conversation as well. ‘Do you have any help or do you manage by yourself?’

‘Who else is going to do it?’ She pulled out a packet from the bag. ‘I don’t need sausages, I washed the others off.’

‘What about social services?’

She was still delving into the carrier and didn’t look round. ‘What about them?’

‘Can’t they arrange for carers to come in?’

‘I keep telling you, I don’t want any help. Not from the likes of them.’ She examined a box with disdain. ‘What’d you bring apple pies for? I don’t like them.’

‘Sorry.’ I tried again. ‘How do you manage things like changing the bed and bathing on your own?’

‘I know what I’m doing. I used to be a nurse.’

‘At St Jude’s?’ I asked, before I could stop myself.

‘You wouldn’t catch me working at that dump. It’s bad enough living near it.’ She turned to glower at me. ‘You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?’

‘I was just making conversation.’

It was time to change the subject. I indicated another framed photograph, this one hung on the wall. It showed a well-fleshed young woman in a tight-fitting red dress, hair elaborately taken up and lacquered. The photograph was faded, but the styles and oversaturated colours had the look of the 1970s. The woman in it was attractive, staring at the camera with a knowing smile as she struck a model’s pose. I’d have guessed who it was anyway, but the eyes gave it away. They hadn’t changed.

‘Is that you?’ I asked.

Her expression softened when she saw what I was looking at. ‘In my heyday. Had men after me like flies back then. Not like now.’

A grimace of either regret or distaste crossed her face. Then it had gone, replaced by annoyance as a low groan came from the bed. I looked at the man lying in it. He was staring at us intently, a line of spittle trickling down his chin. Agitated, he began shifting around weakly, knocking a plastic feeder cup on to the floor.

‘We’ll have none of that,’ his mother snapped, going to retrieve it. ‘Shut up, I’ll get to you in a minute.’

‘Is he all right?’

‘He needs changing. I’ll sort him out when you’ve gone.’

Turning away from him, she went to her handbag. Taking out her purse, she began counting out money.

‘Really, I don’t want paying—’

‘I’ve said, I don’t want charity.’

Her voice was like iron. I didn’t waste any more breath, knowing there was no use arguing. I looked uneasily at her son. He’d quietened a little, as though even that exertion had tired him, but was still watching us. On the mantelpiece above an unlit gas fire, the old clock continued its monotonous duty. Poor devil, I thought. Having to lie there listening to it count off each second must be slow torture. More spittle ran down his chin as his mouth worked, laboriously opening and closing, like that of a fish.

‘Here.’ Lola thrust the money into my hand. ‘I’m not paying for the sausages or the apple pies, though. I didn’t want them.’

She’d still kept them, I noticed. But I’d clearly outstayed my welcome, if I’d ever had one. I turned to go, then paused.

‘I forgot to ask your son’s name,’ I said, addressing the man in the bed as much as his mother.

She stared at me, looking as though the question was difficult.

‘Gary. His name’s Gary.’

I felt her son’s eyes on me as I opened the door and went out. ‘Bye—’ I started to say, turning, but it had already closed behind me.

After the fug of illness in the cramped room it was a relief to be back outside. But I was still bothered by what I’d seen. Lola’s son was a chronically ill man in need of twenty-four-hour domiciliary care, at the very least. His mother might have been a nurse once, but I’d seen no sign that she had the facilities to look after him properly. And there was her age, as well. She had to be in her seventies, and while she seemed robust enough apart from the stiffness, dealing with bedpans, bedsores and bedbaths was exhausting work even for someone much younger.

The question was, what should I do about it?

‘Miserable old cow, isn’t she?’

A woman was standing in the doorway of a house several doors down. She looked to be in her forties, although the heavy make-up made it hard to tell. Her hair was an unnatural jet black, while her face and neck had the orange tint of tanning cream. It gave her a jaundiced look as she leaned against the doorframe. She waved a cigarette towards the door that had just shut in my face.

‘Whatever you’re after, I wouldn’t bother. Won’t give you the time of day, that one.’

I gave a non-committal smile as I started over to my car, not wanting to be drawn into a conversation. The woman didn’t take the hint.

‘You social services?’

‘No.’ But I slowed. ‘Why?’

She took a drag of her cigarette, eyeing me through the smoke. ‘It’s about time somebody did something. It’s not right, her keeping her son at home like he is. He should be in somewhere, the state he’s in. You can smell the stink out here.’

I glanced at Lola’s house. The blinds appeared shut but I still moved further down the street so I was out of earshot and view. ‘How long has he been like that?’

She gave a shrug. ‘No idea. I’ve lived here nearly a year and he was like it when I moved in. Only time I’ve seen him was not long after, when she’d got him out in a wheelchair. Poor bastard. They should shoot me if I end up like that.’

It was said without any real feeling.

‘Does anyone come to help them? Another son or daughter?’

‘Not that I’ve seen. Can’t blame them, though, can you? Sour-faced old bitch. I asked what was wrong with him once and she told me to mind my own business. Gave me a right mouthful. I didn’t ask again, I can tell you that.’ She looked me up and down, tapping the cigarette thoughtfully in her fingers. ‘So if you’re not social services, who are you? A doctor or something?’

‘Something like that.’ It wasn’t a lie, and it saved long-winded explanations.

‘Thought so. Got that look about you.’ She sounded pleased with herself. ‘Son taken a turn, has he? I’m not surprised, with someone like her looking after him. Rather him than me, after what she did.’

It was said in such an arch way it was an obvious invitation. I didn’t want to ask, but curiosity won.

‘What did she do?’

The woman smirked. ‘She tell you she used to be a nurse?’

‘Yes, she did.’

‘Did she tell you she got the sack as well?’

The neighbour was watching me, gauging my reaction. ‘Sacked for what?’

‘She was lucky she wasn’t thrown in prison, from what I’ve heard.’ She took another drag on her cigarette, enjoying herself. ‘They reckon she killed a kid.’