The Scent of Death

Chapter 18

The woman was a shadow surrounded by sunlight. Motes of dust floated in the air around her, barely moving flecks of light. I could only see her silhouette in the doorway, but I knew who she was. The knowledge froze my heart. Slowly, her face gained form and feature as she came nearer. Long, raven hair. Dark eyebrows above dead eyes and skin white as bone. Her beauty was terrifying. I wanted to scream, to run.

I couldn’t move.

The full mouth was parted in a smile as she leaned towards me. I could smell her scent, a subtle, spiced musk. Her breath feathered against my skin as she put her lips to my ear.

‘Hello, David.’

She was closer now, staring at me with a gaze so empty it burned. Knowing what was about to happen, I watched helplessly as she took out the knife. Its blade caught the sunlight.

‘You let me go,’ Grace said, and slid the knife into my stomach…

I jerked awake with a cry. A ghost-odour of musk and spice seemed to linger, but it was gone even as I searched for it. Gasping for breath, my heart thudded as I stared into the shadows in the bedroom. Outside the window it was still dark, but enough light came from the street below for me to see that the room was empty. I sagged, the tension draining from me.

Christ. What the hell brought that on? The glowing numerals of the bedside clock showed it was after five. Knowing I’d slept all I was going to, I threw back the duvet and stood up. Night-sweat cooled on my skin as I padded over to the window and looked down. The fire engine had gone, but there was still a faint odour of smoke in the air.

That was probably what had triggered the nightmare.

It was the first time in several days I’d had the dream, and I’d begun to think I’d left it behind. I passed my hand over my face, shaky with adrenaline. Dawn wasn’t far off. Even as I stood there, a bird began singing from one of the trees outside. Within moments it had been joined by others, nature’s chorus announcing a new day.

My feet sank into the thick-pile carpet as I went into the en suite bathroom and turned on the shower. I stayed under the steaming jet until the last vestiges of the dream had been sluiced away, then made sure by running the water cold for a few seconds.

Feeling more awake, I switched on the radio as I made breakfast. Scrambled eggs and toast, with coffee. I considered making an effort with the elaborate coffee machine but soon lost interest: instant was fine.

The memory of what had happened with Mears the night before continued to rankle, but less than it had. When it came down to it, I’d done it more for the investigation — and Ward — than him. Even so, once was enough. If he fouled up again he was on his own.

Rain beat against the window as I ate at the granite kitchen island. I still had the grainy, out-of-sorts feeling that comes from too little sleep, but I felt better when I’d eaten. And my mood improved more when there was no mention of St Jude’s on the morning news. The story had obviously dropped from the cycle, which was no bad thing.

A muddy day was dawning outside as I washed my breakfast dishes. It was still early so I made myself another coffee while I considered what to do. It was too soon to hear when the search operation would resume, but it was unlikely to be that morning. Perhaps not even the following week, either. It all depended on how widespread the asbestos was and how quickly it could be made safe so we could go back into the hospital. Not long, I hoped: Jessop wasn’t the only one who’d be frustrated by any more delays.

I could go into the department later, but since I had an unexpectedly free morning I might as well use it. The situation with Lola and her son had been preying on my mind ever since my last visit. They clearly needed help from somewhere, but I still hadn’t settled on how to go about it. Lola wouldn’t welcome any interference from me or anyone else, and I was reluctant to simply report them to social services. But she was clearly struggling to cope with her ill son on her own, and at her age that wasn’t going to get any better.

Then there was the neighbour’s story. The more I’d thought about it, the less credible it seemed, but it was something else that had been nagging at me. Another visit might help me decide if it was worth mentioning to Ward or not.

Assuming Lola would let me in.

The street of boarded-up terraces was even more dismal in the overcast morning. It wasn’t raining but the air felt damp and the heavy clouds turned day into a grey twilight. I parked on the road outside Lola’s house. There was light leaking through the slats of the window blind, so at least I knew she was home. It was possible she’d left it on for her son while she went out, but she hadn’t bothered on the rainy evening when I’d given her a lift home. I had the feeling she’d view that as a waste of electricity.

As I climbed out of the car I glanced over at the neighbour’s house. No lights or signs of life there, which was a pity. I’d have liked the chance to talk to her again.

I went to Lola’s and knocked on the glossy front door, keeping my eyes on the window blind. Sure enough, after a few seconds the slats shifted as someone peered out. I held up the brown paper bag I was carrying, hoping curiosity would counter any inclination to leave me standing outside.

The slats closed, but nothing else happened. I looked up and down the semi-derelict street, telling myself this had always been a fool’s errand. I raised my hand to knock again when I heard the latch being turned. The front door opened a few inches and then Lola’s unfriendly face appeared over the chain.

‘What do you want?’

‘I brought you this.’ I showed her the brown paper bag again.

She peered at it through the door, scowling. ‘What is it?’

I opened the bag, not so much to let her see as smell what was inside. ‘It’s a roast chicken.’

I’d stopped off at an up-market delicatessen near Ballard Court. The prices were geared more to the neighbourhood’s well-heeled residents than a relocated forensic anthropologist, but I’d shopped there a few times with Rachel. As well as artisan cheeses and cured meats, there was a glass-encased rotisserie on which slow-basted chickens turned, fresh each morning. The smell filled the street, and it had occurred to me that virtually all of Lola’s shopping had been processed or canned. Certainly nothing like the still-warm chicken she could smell now.

I saw her nostrils twitch as the savoury odour of roast meat reached them. I wasn’t proud of trying to manipulate an old woman, but I told myself it was in a good cause. Of course, she might just take it and shut the door in my face. In which case I’d at least know she and her son had some decent food.

She looked at the paper bag again. Then the door closed and I heard the ratchet of the chain being undone. It opened again, wider this time, and Lola reached out to take the carrier.

‘Can I come in?’ I asked, keeping hold of it.

She glared at me, but her eyes kept going to the bag. ‘What for?’

I risked a smile. ‘A cup of tea would be nice.’

I waited for the door to slam. It didn’t. The small eyes scrutinized me, then Lola turned back inside, leaving it open. I followed before she could change her mind.

The fug of human waste and unwashed flesh enveloped me. Music was coming from an ancient CD player on the sideboard, some sort of faux-classical piano that competed with the slow ticking of the clock to set my teeth on edge. The house was as grimly chaotic as I remembered, a single overhead bulb giving off a sickly light that somehow made the stiflingly hot room seem cold.

The man in the single bed was watching me, his face slack but his eyes alert. There were flecks of food caught in his beard, while the plastic infants’ cup, with a lid and non-spill spout, lay empty on the rumpled sheets. At the foot of the bed, the framed photographs of the boy he used to be stood facing him on the cabinet like a premature shrine.

‘Hello, Gary,’ I said. ‘I’ve brought a few more groceries.’

The bag was plucked from my hand. Lola took it to the worktop by the overflowing sink and delved inside. Next to her, an electric kettle hissed as it heated up.

‘There are a few other things in there as well,’ I said, as she pulled out the chicken.

‘I can see that,’ she snapped, pausing to inhale the greasy foil wrapper before setting it aside. I had to hide a smile as she continued to forage in the brown paper bag, as engrossed as a child at Christmas. Poached salmon, a wedge of farmhouse Cheddar and a pork pie all joined the chicken on the worktop. It wasn’t the sort of food a dietician would approve of, or that I’d have advised when I worked as a GP. But Lola and her son looked like they could do with a treat. Sometimes the soul needed feeding as well as the body.

I watched as Lola unwrapped the warm chicken and tore off a piece of skin with her fingers. She gave a little grunt of pleasure when she put it in her mouth, actually closing her eyes for a second as she chewed. I looked back at her son, wondering if he’d be able to enjoy it as well. He might not be able to eat solids, and I couldn’t see anything like a food processor where his meals could be liquidized. Perhaps that was something else that needed looking at.

The kettle began to bubble on the worktop, mercifully drowning out the tinny piano music. Lola crammed another piece of meat into her mouth before wrapping up the chicken again. Sucking the grease from her fingers, she wiped them on her cardigan before turning to regard me.

‘What’re you after?’

You’re welcome. ‘I’m not after anything.’

‘I’m not stupid. You didn’t bring all this for no reason. If I was younger, I’d think you were trying to get in my knickers.’

‘Well, I’m not.’

I kept a straight face, wondering what her son was making of the conversation. Lola made a wheezing noise, as though she was clearing her chest. I realized she was laughing.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not blind either.’ The laughter died, as though switched off. ‘I told you before, I don’t want charity.’

‘It isn’t charity. I just thought you and your son might enjoy it.’

For some reason that was the wrong thing to say. Her face hardened. Behind her, the kettle switched itself off with a clunk. Lola stared at me a moment longer, then turned back to the kettle.

‘You might as well sit down now you’re here. Milk and sugar?’

‘Just milk,’ I said, taken by surprise.

The trilling piano music fought with the clock as I went to the small kitchen table. I was conscious of Gary’s eyes on me as I pulled out a chair and sat down.

‘You going back there again today?’ Lola asked, pouring boiling water into mugs.

My mind went blank. ‘Where?’

‘St Jude’s, where do you think?’ She gave me a crafty look. ‘I told you, I’m not stupid. I can tell you’re not local, and there’s no other reason you’d be hanging around this place.’

I’d ducked her questions before, when I’d seen her at the ruined church. But there didn’t seem much point in being evasive any more.

‘No, I’m not going there today.’

‘You’re not police, though.’

There was a calculation in the way she said it, as though she wanted it confirming. ‘No.’

‘So what are you? One of them forensic types? CSIs, or whatever?’

‘Something like that.’

She nodded, satisfied. ‘Thought so. You’ve got that look about you.’

I didn’t know what sort of look she meant, but didn’t ask. ‘How about you?’

‘What do you mean?’

The suspicion was back. ‘You were collecting litter in the woods. Is that something you do regularly?’

‘Not when the weather’s like this. My sciatica’s bad enough without falling in there.’ She mashed the teabags against the sides of the mugs with a spoon. ‘I like it in there, though. It’s a change of scenery. You could be miles away.’

I knew what she meant. Surrounded by the mature woodland, the ancient church ruins seemed a long way from these run-down streets.

‘So how long were you a nurse for?’ I asked, hoping to steer the conversation to one of the reasons I’d gone there.

‘Long enough.’

‘Where did you work? You said it wasn’t St Jude’s.’

She glared at me. ‘Why are you so interested?’

‘I’m just making conversation.’

Lola favoured me with a dark look before spooning three heaped sugars into one of the mugs. ‘I worked all over. You married?’

The abrupt change of subject caught me off guard. ‘No.’

‘You should be, man your age. Something wrong with you?’

I didn’t want to get into my personal life, but I’d just been quizzing Lola about hers. ‘I’m a widower.’

It’s a sentence that can elicit all types of response, from embarrassment to sympathy. Lola’s was none of them.

‘How’d she die?’

Her tone was as disinterested as when she’d asked if I took milk in my tea. But at least I could answer without having to worry about it being awkward.

‘It was a car accident,’ I said, feeling the usual sense of unreality about it even now. ‘What about you? Are you married?’

‘I was. Still am, I suppose.’ She gave a contemptuous shrug. ‘My husband slung his hook years ago. Good riddance. Worked in the merchant navy so he was hardly here anyway, and when he was he was filthy drunk. Rotten bastard. He was a sod to my Gary sober, and when he’d had a drink he was even worse. We were better off without him.’

It was the most I’d heard her say. There was a stiffness about her actions as she took a container of milk from the fridge, as though she was self-conscious after her outburst.

‘You got any kids?’ she asked, pouring the milk.

‘We had a daughter. She was in the car with my wife.’

Lola turned to look at me, the milk container poised in her hand. Then she set it down and began stirring the tea.

‘You know what it’s like, then. You put all your life and soul into them. Do your best, try to protect them. Then something happens, and that’s it. All gone.’

She threw the teabags into the sink with a wet slap. I glanced over at her son, uneasy at having this conversation in front of him. His mouth worked feebly as he watched us. Right then I couldn’t have said if I felt worse for him or for his mother.

‘Don’t mind him, I’m not saying anything he doesn’t know,’ Lola said. She turned to him. ‘He knows what’s what. Don’t you?’

Her son stared at her.

‘When did the stroke happen?’ I asked, including her son in the question as Lola brought over the teas.

‘It must have been… no, hang on.’ She frowned, setting down the mugs on the table. The rim of mine was chipped and stained brown with old tannin and a film of grease glinted on the tea’s surface. ‘Must be eighteen months ago now. Came right out of the blue. No warning. One minute he was fine, the next…’

She went to the cabinet and picked up the largest of the framed photographs. It showed her and her son on a windswept seafront, hair streaming sideways with their coats buttoned up to the neck.

‘This is my favourite. He was fifteen when that was taken. Southend,’ she said, holding it out to show me. ‘You can see what a big lad he was. Strong as an ox, my Gary. Always liked physical work. He could turn his hand to anything. Did all this kitchen himself. Plumbing, joinery, you name it.’

I studied the photograph to conceal the effect of her words. Her son stood with his eyes downcast, a large, overweight teenager with crooked teeth. His shy smile verged on apologetic. Next to him, his mother stared at the camera with a pride that was almost defiant.

‘Is that what he used to do for a living?’ I asked, with a glance at the man lying in the bed. His sunken eyes were on me, his mouth a wet gash in the beard. The gulf between the hulking teenager and the wreck he’d become was shocking.

‘He didn’t get paid for it, if that’s what you mean. Not with all them bloody foreigners taking all the work.’ She set the photograph back in its place. ‘He could have, if he’d pushed more. But he never would. Too soft, that was his problem. I used to tell him he should stand up for himself, not let people… Well. That’s by the by.’

It had the sound of an old complaint, but by then I’d noticed something else. I’d been looking at the rest of the photographs, paying them more attention this time. In one of them her son looked to be in his late teens. He stood by the same fireplace in the room where we now were, wearing a royal-blue top over black trousers. It was a variation of a uniform I’d seen daily before I’d switched careers from medicine to forensics.

I nodded towards it. ‘Did Gary use to be a hospital porter?’

‘He had a lot of jobs,’ Lola snapped. ‘What’s it got to do with you anyway?’

‘Nothing, I was—’

‘It’s time you went.’ She stood up, her face hard. ‘I need to get him cleaned up.’

I got to my feet as she went to the door, knowing I’d gone too far. She opened it and stood back, holding it for me to go. I paused in the doorway, reluctant to leave on such a sour note.

‘Thanks for the tea. I can get you some more shopping if—’

‘I don’t want nothing.’

She was already closing the door, forcing me to step out on to the pavement. Her son gave a low moan.

‘And don’t you start…’ I heard her say before the door shut in my face with finality.

I looked around. The skinny cat was watching me indifferently from the same windowsill as before, but otherwise the street was empty. My mind was in a turmoil as I went back to my car. I had the sense of having done something irrevocable, though good or bad I’d no idea. I drove until I was a few streets away and then pulled over. I’d gone to Lola’s concerned for the welfare of an old woman and her incapacitated son, and hoping to disprove the rumour that she’d been responsible for a patient death. Instead I’d learned that Gary Lennox had been a hospital porter with a knack for DIY.

I wondered if his skills extended to building a false wall.

I told myself not to get carried away. For all I knew, he might not even have worked at St Jude’s and all this could be just a coincidence. His mother had said he’d had his stroke a year and a half ago. That would rule him out of Christine Gorski’s murder, since she’d only been missing for fifteen months when we’d found her body.

But we couldn’t say for sure when the two interred victims had died. And there was no longer any question of not wanting to waste Ward’s time: she needed to know about this.

I took my phone out to call her and jumped when it rang. It was Whelan.

‘We’re back in,’ he said.