The Scent of Death

Chapter 34

It felt like I’d passed through a crisis. As though a dam had burst, the negativity and depression that had gripped me since I’d left hospital were washed away. The guilt over what had happened to Adam Oduya and Daniel Mears was still there, but I was able to view it in context now. I wasn’t accountable for Grace’s actions. Whatever demons had driven her were there long before I came along. I’d just been the latest target, not their instigator.

Ward told me that Mears was conscious and out of danger, though not yet ready for visitors. I doubted he’d want to see me anyway, but I knew there was an account there still to be settled. It might not have been my fault, but he’d lost his leg because Grace had mistaken him for me. Like it or not, that was a connection I couldn’t ignore.

As often happens, my physical recovery seemed to keep pace with my emotional one. The electrical burns were healing well, my concentration levels had returned to normal, and I was able to do more each day without feeling tired. Rachel and I began going out again, and if the wet autumn weather hadn’t improved, then it no longer seemed like a cloud on my spirits.

We had Jason and Anja round for dinner and told them the news. Anja hurried to hug Rachel while Jason solemnly shook my hand, before throwing a bear-like arm around my shoulders.

‘You want my advice, do it before she changes her mind,’ he’d told me.

Their delight was genuine, but although they hid it well I could feel their surprise. Rachel and I hadn’t known each other very long and, except for one other ultimately failed relationship, I’d been alone since Kara and Alice died. They’d begun to see that as my natural state, and I suppose so had I.

But if there was one thing I’d learned from my work, it was that change is a part of life. My past was an integral part of me, but I’d long ago come to the painful acceptance that, while my wife and daughter were dead, I was still alive. Rachel’s words had brought that home. And after almost dying on the dirty floor of Lola’s house, I also knew how rare such second chances were.

They didn’t last for ever.

Even so, at times it didn’t seem real even to me. I’d find myself gripped by an almost out-of-body sense that this was happening to someone else, that I was an observer in my own body. Some mornings I’d wake with a vertiginous feeling of something like panic. Then I’d look at Rachel, sleeping next to me, and the feeling would evaporate like dew in sunlight.

We’d decided to stay on at Ballard Court for the time being. There was no point in moving back to my flat any more. Rachel didn’t have any love for a place where I’d almost died and where I’d once lived with someone else. The apartment was bigger and more comfortable, and with several months still left on the lease it made sense to stay there while my old flat went on the market.

I found myself getting quite used to it.

We spent the next few days making plans and debating where to live, trawling through estate agents and property-guide websites. I was happy to leave most of that to Rachel, but there was one odd moment. It came when we were discussing the merits of staying in the city as opposed to moving elsewhere.

‘I like London, but do we really want to live here?’ she said, flicking through the print-outs of available apartments and houses. ‘Neither of us are tied here by work, so maybe we should look somewhere else. Property’s cheaper pretty much everywhere else, and we could get somewhere much bigger in a catchment area with good schools.’

She broke off as soon as she’d said it, reddening as she looked at me. ‘Sorry, I’m jumping the gun a bit there, aren’t I?’

We’d never discussed starting a family, and I saw I’d been stupid not to realize Rachel would want to. Is that what you want as well? I thought about Kara and Alice, my daughter forever frozen in my mind at six years old. There was the familiar ache as an image came to me of her laughing, squealing as Kara tickled her. Bedtime. Say night-night to Daddy. For a moment a sense of vertigo returned, a sudden feeling of enormity. Then it was gone.

‘It’s something we need to think about,’ I said.

We’d settled on holding the wedding as soon as we could arrange it. Although there was no rush, there was no point in waiting either. We both preferred a small, civic ceremony with just a few friends. Jason agreed to be my best man, and Rachel’s young niece, Faye, would be the sole bridesmaid.

‘How about Vegas for the honeymoon?’ Rachel suggested. She grinned when she saw my face. ‘Kidding. Just so long as there’s a beach where I can sunbathe and swim.’

I could live with that.

A week to the day after I’d left hospital, Ward phoned with an update. They still hadn’t been able to locate Gary Lennox’s missing remains, but there had been another, separate development. Kent police had found a yacht drifting in Oare Marshes, a wetland nature reserve on the south-east coast. There was no one aboard, but Grace Strachan’s fingerprints were everywhere.

‘It’s been abandoned for quite a while. We’re still trying to trace her movements, but we think that’s how she got back into the UK and why she was able to avoid attention for so long. It looks like she’d spent the past few years in the Mediterranean, living on the boat and moving up and down the coast.’

That made sense. Grace was an experienced sailor. She and her brother had kept a beautiful yacht moored in a bay behind their house on Runa, and she’d used it to escape from the island during a storm. Although it had later been found wrecked, she’d evidently come by another. There were hundreds of miles of unpopulated bays, coves and islands along the Mediterranean coast, and provided the bigger ports and marinas were avoided, there’d be no need to worry too much about passports or paperwork. With enough money, it would be possible to live there virtually indefinitely.

‘The yacht was registered to a company owned by an accountant based in Geneva. He was the Strachans’ financial adviser, so you were right about Grace having help,’ Ward continued. ‘We’re still trying to tie everything together, but the yacht was bought not long after she disappeared, so we think she persuaded the accountant to buy it for her. He was a lot older than her and recently divorced, so it isn’t hard to guess how.’

No, it wasn’t. My own memory of Grace had been skewed by her actions, but I could still remember the physical impact of first meeting her. She had the sort of beauty that dazzled, blinding you to what lay underneath until it was too late.

‘Have the Swiss police questioned the accountant?’ I asked.

‘They can’t. He went missing earlier this year. Everyone thought he’d absconded with clients’ funds, but we found dried bloodstains in the yacht. Too old to say whose, although I think we can guess.’

The news that Grace had claimed yet another life was sobering, yet being able to fill in some of the blanks surrounding her after all this time was also a relief. It felt like a conclusion.

But there were too many distractions to dwell on it for long. As well as deciding where we should live, there was also the question of what Rachel and I would do for work. London was hardly the best place for a marine biologist, and there was no real need for me to be based there either. Although my position at the university seemed secure for the time being — Harris, the department head, was positively effusive after my involvement with such a high-profile inquiry as St Jude’s — there were no shortages of other opportunities. Not so long ago I’d been persona non grata: now, to my surprise, it seemed like every day brought another offer.

One morning I received an envelope with an embossed BioGen logo on its front. I felt apprehensive as I opened it. According to Ward, Mears was continuing to make a good recovery but still wasn’t ready for non-family visitors. I had the feeling she was being diplomatic, but I’d enough sense not to push. A letter from his employers seemed unlikely to be good news.

‘What does it say?’ Rachel asked. We were still at the granite island in the kitchen, taking time over coffee after a late breakfast.

‘It’s from the CEO,’ I said, reading it. ‘They’re offering me a job.’

‘You’re joking.’

I handed her the letter, sitting back with my coffee while she read it.

‘Senior Forensic Adviser in charge of Research and Operations,’ she said, frowning. ‘What the hell’s that supposed to — oh, my God!’

She’d got to the part where it mentioned my salary. She read it again, open-mouthed, then set it down on the table.

‘Are you going to meet him?’

‘Would you mind if I didn’t?’

‘Of course not. Is it because of Daniel Mears?’

‘Partly,’ I admitted.

The letter had made no mention of the forensic taphonomist, and while the post they were offering was more senior than his, after what had happened to him I wouldn’t have felt comfortable taking it. And a company that let someone inexperienced flounder on a major investigation wasn’t one I wanted to work with anyway.

Folding the letter, I put it back in its envelope.

It wasn’t only job offers that came my way. My involvement with events at St Jude’s must have leaked out, because I began receiving interview requests from journalists. Including another from Francis Scott-Hayes.

‘God, the man just doesn’t know when to stop,’ I grumbled to Rachel after reading it.

‘Is that the same freelance who’s been pestering you?’

‘For weeks. He doesn’t understand what “no” means.’

‘Maybe you should do it.’

I looked at her in surprise. ‘Seriously?’

She shrugged. ‘Why not? I know you don’t like talking about work, but you don’t have to discuss specific cases. Who does he write for?’

I read out his latest email. Rachel’s eyebrows went up as she listened to the roll call of high-end newspapers and magazines Scott-Hayes had been published in, on both sides of the Atlantic.

‘Wow, he sounds pretty serious,’ she said, impressed. ‘I think I even read that piece in Rolling Stone. Why don’t you hear what he has to say?’

‘I don’t know…’

She picked up her coffee cup. ‘Well, it’s up to you. But if you’re thinking about putting yourself in the job market, then an interview in a decent newspaper or magazine can’t hurt your profile.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ I said.

The registry office was booked for three weeks’ time. That was the first available date, and we only managed that because an existing wedding had been cancelled. Our good luck was someone else’s bad. I hoped it wasn’t an omen.

But dark thoughts were few and far between. I no longer felt the sense of vertigo on waking, and any disbelief was tinged with anticipation. The days were like mayflies, here and gone in a rush. With so many things to do and decisions to be made, I forgot all about the journalist until Rachel reminded me. An online search for Francis Scott-Hayes, journalist produced page after page of his articles, along with photographs showing a lean-faced man in his thirties, stubbled and broodingly good-looking. There was even a short Wikipedia entry. He’d been embedded with armed forces in Afghanistan, reported on communities hit by the drug war in Mexico, even won a national press award for his investigation into human trafficking. By the look of it, most of his stories involved him travelling to war zones or some of the most dangerous trouble spots on the planet.

‘Why would he want to write about me?’ I asked Rachel after dinner that evening. ‘I’m a forensic scientist, not some drug lord.’

‘You’re a forensic scientist who’s worked on some of the biggest police investigations in the last ten years. People find that interesting.’

I was less sure of that than she was. Still, bolstered by Rachel’s enthusiasm and a glass of wine, I reluctantly replied to his email.

An automated response came back immediately, saying he was out of the country without access to emails.

‘Well, I tried,’ I told Rachel, privately hoping that might be an end to it.

The next day he emailed back.

I would have been happy to leave the interview until after the wedding, but Rachel didn’t think I should wait. ‘He could have gone cold on the idea by then,’ she said. ‘At least say you’ll hear him out.’

It was arranged that Scott-Hayes would come to the apartment for coffee the following afternoon. I was reluctant to invite him there, but the alternatives were either to meet at the university or else in a pub or coffee shop, which would be too public given what we’d be discussing. Besides, as Rachel said, it wasn’t as if we’d be living at Ballard Court for much longer.

It was a Saturday, so I worked on my laptop in the study while Rachel made an early start on preparing dinner. Jason and Anja were coming round that evening and she’d insisted on cooking. Judging from the banging and language coming from the kitchen, she was beginning to regret it. The journalist was due at three o’clock, and as the appointment drew nearer I realized I was looking more at my watch than the laptop screen. Regretting ever having agreed to this, I watched the second hand tick up to the hour, then sweep past. After another ten minutes I went into the kitchen.

‘He’s late. I knew this was a bad idea.’

‘No, what’s a bad idea is me thinking I could make choux pastry.’ Rachel pushed away the mixing bowl. ‘He’s probably just stuck on the Tube or in traffic. Why don’t you put some coffee on?’

I filled the new stainless-steel percolator and set it on the hob before going back into the study. But with my mind on the meeting it was a waste of time trying to work. I’d just resolved to give Scott-Hayes another fifteen minutes when the intercom buzzed.

About time. I went into the hallway to answer it.

‘Got a Francis Scott-Hayes to see you,’ the concierge’s voice came out of the speaker.

‘OK, thanks.’

‘Told you,’ Rachel said from the kitchen.

I was saved from responding to that by the trill of my mobile in the study. ‘Can you let him in while I get that?’

Leaving her to open the door for the journalist, I hurried back through the living room to the study. My phone, a replacement for the one Lola had dropped in the sink, was on the desk by the laptop. When I picked it up I was surprised to see Ward’s name on the display. She didn’t call so often now, and we’d spoken only the day before. Leaving the study, I walked back through the living room to the kitchen as I answered.

‘Hello, I wasn’t expecting—’

‘Where are you?’

Startled by her urgency, I stopped in the kitchen doorway. The percolator was bubbling on the hob, filling the air with the scent of fresh coffee.

‘I’m at home. Why, what’s—?’

‘Is Rachel with you?’

The door leading to the hallway was at the far side of the kitchen. Through it I heard the murmur of voices. ‘She’s just answering the door—’

‘No! Don’t let her open it!’

But Rachel was already coming back to the kitchen. She had a bemused smile on her face as she walked through the doorway, raising a quizzical eyebrow at me.

‘Frances Scott-Hayes is here,’ she said, stressing the last syllable to emphasize the female spelling.

A woman was behind her, thin with greying hair cut in an unflattering bob. My first thought was that there had been a mix-up, that I’d researched the wrong journalist by mistake. My second was that there was something familiar about the woman who followed Rachel into the kitchen. Then I caught a waft of her perfume, a heady scent of spice and musk I’d have known anywhere. It had burned itself into my memory as I’d bled out in the doorway of my old flat, a knife buried to the hilt in my stomach.

Ward’s voice was still coming from the phone, but I barely heard it. Grace Strachan was almost unrecognizable. The breath-stopping beauty had been replaced by a cadaverous thinness. Her skin was stretched taut across the high cheekbones, revealing the contours of her skull. The dark eyes were sunken and shadowed, burning into me now with a manic intensity.

The smile fell from Rachel’s face. ‘David…?’

I was struck mute. With a nightmare sense of déjà vu, I saw Grace reaching into her shoulder bag as Rachel turned to her, and only then was I able to move.

‘No!’ I yelled, throwing myself forward.

Knowing I was too late.

Grace brought out the long-bladed knife and slashed in one fluid motion. Rachel gave a cry and reeled away, blood flicking from her onto the kitchen tiles. Then Grace was coming at me, teeth bared as she raised the knife. I grabbed for it as it swept down, not caring if it cut me or not.

Suddenly, Grace’s head snapped back. She jerked to a halt as Rachel buried one hand in the grey hair and swung the heavy percolator with the other. The hot metal smashed into Grace’s upturned forehead, steaming coffee gouting out as its handle snapped off. The percolator clattered to the floor as Grace collapsed, the knife falling from her hand. Kicking it away, I ignored the prostrate woman and rushed to Rachel. She was standing with one hand pressed against a long slice in the flesh of her upper arm, eyes wide with pain and shock. The broken handle of the percolator was still clutched in her fist.

‘Oh, Christ, are you OK?’ I asked, frantically checking her.

She nodded shakily. Blood was running down her arm and dripping on the floor. The hand pressed against the wound had livid blotches where the boiling coffee had splashed it. Sparing a quick glance to make sure Grace wasn’t moving, I steered Rachel to the sink and ran the cold water. Soaking a towel, I eased her scalded hand away.

‘Hold your hand under the tap,’ I told her, binding the wet towel around the deep cut in her arm.

She did as I said, gasping as the cold water hit the burns. ‘You’re shaking.’

I couldn’t help it. I became aware of an animal keening. Looking down, I saw Grace had curled in a foetal position, arms covering her face.

‘It hurts,’ she whimpered. ‘Please, Michael, make it stop…’

‘Oh, God, look at her…’ Rachel breathed.

‘Keep your hand under the water.’

Leaving her by the tap, I went to the emaciated figure on the kitchen floor. Blood from a large gash on her hairline was intermingled with the coffee, turning Grace’s face into a marbled mask. The skin was already starting to blister, and I flinched when I saw what the boiling coffee had done to her eyes.

Grabbing another towel, I soaked it under the cold tap and gently laid it on Grace’s scalded face. She screamed at the contact, a bony hand clutching at my arm. It didn’t let go as I looked around for my phone. I couldn’t remember dropping it, but it hadn’t disconnected. I could hear Ward’s frantic voice as I picked it up.

‘We need an ambulance,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady.