The Scent of Death

Chapter 30

A bin lorry was blocking the street. I told the taxi driver to let me out at the corner, paid and got out to walk the rest of the way. The weather was as mercurial as ever, bright and sunny again after the morning’s early rain. I unfastened my jacket, enjoying the thin sunlight on my face. The phone call with Rachel still cast a shadow, but I told myself it was what happened when people were tired, stressed and in different time zones.

Now, though, Ward’s miraculous escape the night before made it hard not to feel a sense of optimism in the daylight and fresh air. Well, not so fresh. The sweet stink of the bin lorry accompanied me as it made its slow progress, hissing and clanking, down the street.

The handles of the brown-paper carrier bag dug into my palms as I approached Lola’s house. There was no sign of life. The window shutters were still closed, grime and cobwebs adding a dirty film to the glass. Even the glossy finish on the front door seemed dulled. I still wasn’t sure what good coming here would do, except perhaps appease my conscience. I was under no illusions about how Lola would feel after the disruption I’d brought into her life. Thanks to me, she’d been questioned by the police and seen her invalid son treated as a suspect in a murder inquiry. Even though the crime-scene fingerprints had cleared him, he’d still been taken from her care, and I didn’t think she’d be the forgiving sort.

But now it was over I had to see how she was. I knocked on the door. There was no response. Halting a few houses away, the bin lorry’s hydraulics groaned as it accepted another load. I knocked again, but I was already beginning to think I was wasting my time. Even if Lola was home, I was the last person she’d want to see. One of the refuse collectors shouted and banged on the side of the lorry. As it began rumbling along the road again, I caught a movement as the blinds shifted in Lola’s window. Well, she’s in at least. I raised the paper bag so she could see it.

‘Lola, can you open the door?’

Nothing. I lowered the bag, feeling stupid for making such a cheap gesture. I’d known it would take more than another roast chicken to make up for my guilt, but I’d hoped it might persuade her to speak to me, at least. The bin lorry’s brakes hissed as it pulled up to a halt at my back, blocking out the sun. I could hear more banging as bins were collected from the occupied houses across the road. I set the paper bag down on the front step and turned to leave.

The door was opened. Lola stared out at me, her face a cold mask. Her eyes flicked to the bin lorry looming behind me, then she moved back.

‘You’d better come in.’

Well, that was easier than I thought. I picked up the carrier and stepped inside. The bin lorry blocked even more of the light from the shuttered window. In the dimness I saw that the medical supplies that had cluttered the room before were gone. But the bed was still there and, while the stained mattress had been stripped of its sheets, a smell of faeces and urine still lingered.

The noise from the bin lorry was muted as Lola shut the door and turned to face me.

‘What do you want?’

‘I came to find out how you were.’

‘Why?’

I couldn’t blame her for being hostile. The shrine-like cabinet with its photographs of a young Gary Lennox faced the empty bed, even though there was no longer anyone in it to see them.

‘I wanted to see if there was anything I could do—’

‘Haven’t you done enough? You’ve taken everything I had left — what more do you want?’

I was still holding the carrier bag with the roast chicken. It seemed a pathetic peace offering now.

‘I’m sorry, I know you’re—’

‘Sorry? Oh, that’s all right then! You waltz around, acting like your shit don’t stink, and all the time you’re planning this.’ She flung a hand towards the empty bed. ‘Happy now, are you?’

Lola glared at me, her chest rising and falling. Coming here was a mistake, I realized, wondering how I’d thought it could be anything else. There was a hiss from outside as the bin lorry pulled away from the window, letting daylight back into the room. I was about to leave when something seemed to shift in the deep-set eyes. She held out her hand.

‘Here, give me that.’

Snatching the carrier bag from me, she dumped it down by the sink, pausing to sniff the aroma coming from it.

‘I suppose you want a cup of tea now you’re here.’

That was the last thing I’d expected, but she was already filling the kettle. She jerked her chin towards the scuffed dining table.

‘You might as well sit down.’

Still surprised, I pulled out a chair and lowered myself on to it. I looked over at the cabinet with its old photographs of her son as a young boy.

‘How is Gary?’ I asked.

The kettle banged down. ‘Don’t you say his name!’

I was startled by the sudden outburst, unprepared for the venom in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, I just wondered how he was.’

Lola controlled herself with a visible effort. She turned away again. ‘Ask the doctors if you’re so worried.’

The atmosphere in the small room was suddenly frigid. I wished I’d declined her offer of tea, but I couldn’t leave now. Lola seemed unsettled as well. She picked a mug up and set it aimlessly back down, then opened the paper bag containing the chicken before bunching it shut again.

‘How much do I owe you?’

‘Nothing, it’s—’

‘I told you before, I don’t want your charity!’ The look she gave me was one of thinly veiled contempt. And something else I couldn’t identify. ‘I’ll fetch my purse. Wait here.’

She went through the doorway in the corner of the room, and I heard her thumping tread going upstairs. On the worktop the kettle clicked off, apparently forgotten. I blew out a long breath. I’d been prepared for Lola to refuse to speak to me or yell abuse, but not this barely restrained anger.

The trill of my phone made me jump. Taking it out, I saw the caller was Whelan. I debated ignoring it, but Lola was still upstairs and it could be news about Ward. With a last glance at the doorway, I answered.

‘Everything OK?’ I asked, keeping my voice down.

‘If you mean the boss, she’s fine. Already fretting about getting back to work,’ Whelan said. ‘Where are you?’

I looked at the doorway again. There was no sign of Lola coming back downstairs yet, but I didn’t want to stay on the phone long. ‘I can’t really talk.’

‘Then I won’t keep you. There’s been a change of plan. Can we make it four o’clock instead of two?’

I’d planned to go to St Jude’s straight from Lola’s. But the way things were going I’d have been early for the meeting anyway.

‘Why, is there a problem?’

‘No, just something that’s come up.’ His tone made it clear he wasn’t going to tell me what it was. ‘Oh, there is one thing. We found Wayne Booth’s dentist. The remains from the boiler aren’t his. Booth didn’t have a denture, partial or otherwise. He still had all his own teeth.’

I shouldn’t have been surprised. The only reason to think the missing ex-porter and security guard might have been the fourth victim was because of his connection to St Jude’s and therefore Gary Lennox. But that theory had collapsed along with the case against Lola’s son. Which left us with no idea of who the burnt remains might belong to.

I agreed to meet Whelan later and put my phone away. I could hear Lola still clumping about upstairs. Restlessly, I got up and went to the cluttered cabinet of photographs.

This was the first opportunity I’d had to look at them up close, without the distracting presence of Lola’s son. The cabinet really did look like a shrine, I thought. As well as the framed pictures on its top there were mementos from Gary Lennox’s childhood. Certificates for swimming and attendance of a college bricklaying and carpentry course, what looked like a home-made wooden jewellery box. There was even a faded Mother’s Day card in which a message had been scrawled in childlike handwriting.

After what had happened to him, I supposed it was understandable for Lola to mourn what her son used to be. Even so, unintentional or not, it was cruel to confront him with it as well. Poor devil, I thought, looking at one of the school photographs. Its colours were bleached and faded, showing Gary Lennox when he was thirteen or fourteen. He seemed excruciatingly uncomfortable in a too-tight uniform, his discomfort evident despite a strained smile that revealed his crooked teeth. He’d been carrying too much weight even then, and had gained more in the later photographs. It was a shocking contrast to the shrunken man I’d seen lying in the bed.

I picked up the picture of Lennox in his porter’s uniform. It was one of the largest there, and looked to have been taken when he was in his late teens. Probably not long after he’d started work at St Jude’s. He’d become a hulking young man, although his awkward smile remained the same. I put it back down and started to turn away, then stopped. Something nagged at me. Picking it up again, I studied it more closely. His smile wasn’t quite the same, I saw. His teeth were no longer crooked. It was noticeable in the other photographs taken when he was an older teenager as well. Although it didn’t seem to have helped his confidence, at some point he’d had his teeth straightened.

The realization crept over me slowly, a prickling of tension I felt before I knew its cause. I looked again at the older photographs showing the younger Gary Lennox with crooked teeth. Then back at the one in my hand. The front teeth seemed too uniformly perfect to have been straightened by a dental brace, and none of the photographs showed him wearing one. Only the before-and-after results. More likely crowns or a bridge, then.

Or a partial denture.

I told myself it didn’t mean anything, but every instinct said otherwise. Gary Lennox was in his thirties, within the age range for the burnt remains recovered from the boiler. Although the photographs stopped when he was in his late teens, the blueprint for the adult he’d become was still clear. A big individual. Large stature, heavily boned.

Unrecognizable as the wasted invalid Lola claimed was her son.

Right or wrong, Whelan needed to know about this. Putting down the photograph, I took out my phone to call him. But as I scrolled to the DI’s number Lola’s heavy tread began thumping back down the stairs. Opening a text panel, I tapped a hasty message: Chk GL dentl recs and pressed send. Hoping it would make sense, I quickly put my phone away and turned as the door opened.

Lola stopped when she saw me next to the cabinet. Her eyes flicked to the photographs I’d been examining, but I couldn’t tell if there was any more suspicion in them than usual.

‘He was a lovely boy, my Gary.’

I stepped away from the cabinet as casually as I could. ‘When did he lose his front teeth?’

The question didn’t seem to surprise her. She came into the room. She had a folded-over newspaper in her hand, but I couldn’t see any purse. ‘When he was sixteen.’

‘That’s a tough age for something like that. How did it happen?’

The small eyes were fixed on me. ‘The bastard who called himself his father knocked them out. An accident, he said, but I knew better.’

The prickle of tension I’d felt was back, stronger than before. I’d guessed that the owner of the partial palate had lost his front teeth in some sort of violent event. Having them knocked out by an abusive father, accidental or not, was certainly that.

‘Did he have a bridge or a denture?’ I asked.

‘What’s it to you?’

There was no doubting her suspicion now. But I was saved from answering when my phone rang again, startling me for a second time.

Lola gave a scornful smile. ‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’

I took the phone from my jacket pocket. Whelan. He must have got my text, but I couldn’t speak to him now. I cancelled the call, switching my phone on to silent before putting it away.

‘Don’t you want to talk to them?’ she mocked.

‘It can wait.’

Lola continued to stare at me with that knowing smile. I felt a sudden unease, some instinct urging Get out, now. But that was ridiculous. She was an old woman. And this had gone on long enough.

‘Who was in the bed, Lola?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘It wasn’t Gary, was it?’

She glared at me, and again I felt that touch of disquiet. ‘Think you know it all, don’t you?’

No, I didn’t. But I was beginning to guess at some of it.

‘Gary’s dead, isn’t he?’ I said quietly.

Her composure cracked. Her mouth quivered as her eyes went to the photographs of her son on the cabinet. A tear ran down a wrinkled cheek, joined by one on the other side.

‘He was my boy,’ she whispered, her voice broken and hoarse. ‘My lovely boy.’

Despite myself, I felt sorry for her. ‘I know you want to protect him, but you can’t. Not any more,’ I told her gently. ‘It’s over.’

‘Over?’ She spat the word. ‘You think it’s ever going to be over? My Gary’s gone! All because of them… them three scum! They weren’t fit to lick his boots!’

She dashed the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. I’d heard enough. Sickened and weary, I reached for my phone.

‘I’m going to call the police now, Lola. You need to tell them what Gary did.’

‘What he did?’ Her mouth curled in a sneer. She came towards me, still clutching the newspaper. ‘I told you before, my Gary was a good boy. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

She suddenly lunged, thrusting out the newspaper. I dodged back but the bed was behind me. As I stumbled against it the newspaper fell away to reveal a long, black tube. I tried to knock it away but the blunt end glanced off my chest. Agony seared through me.

And I stopped breathing.