Her hand went up to her mouth, seemed to hold in words she didn’t want to say. She kept it there for some moments, then dropped it to her side and clutched at her handbag. ‘It’s not Carly, is it, John?’
‘No, of course not.’ He smiled at her.
‘Do you mean it?’
It was like talking to a child. She was more fragile than he had ever seen her. ‘Yes. Yes. It’s all formality.’ He started to walk. She stayed still, her feet fixed to the pavement. ‘Come on, it’ll be fine.’
She wasn’t convinced. ‘Are you sure?… It’s not her, is it?’
He eased her into a first step. ‘Come on, my love.’
DC Stephen McGuire had appeared at the gate once more. He pointed up to the entrance. ‘Let me know when you’re ready. There’s no rush.’
The minister nodded. ‘We’re on our way.’ At first he had to drag his wife a little. It was like when Carly was a child and she didn’t want to go to the dentist. The thought wounded him.
On the stairs to the morgue the couple held on to each other; they must have looked like some four-legged beast, he thought. Moving slowly, taking the steps one at a time. At the doorway stood a young woman, an Asian with a pretty smile. She seemed very welcoming and he was glad to see her comforting presence. The young policeman had been very good, but there was something perfunctory about his demeanour in comparison with the woman.
‘Hello, Minister,’ she said. ‘I’m Misa, the pathologist.’
The word seemed to have a physical presence as they stood on the steps, in the cold. Pathologist — he had never met a pathologist before. There was a reason why he had to meet one now and it hung over the step with him like a pall. The minister removed his right hand from his wife’s arm and extended it towards the woman. ‘Hello, Misa.’ He couldn’t say he was pleased to meet her; that would be wrong. It wasn’t that it would be a lie, though it would. It was because the statement was out of sorts with the situation. Meeting someone who had the potential to deliver news like Misa had was no cause for joy. He thought of the woman standing before him, and what must have been on her mind when she was presented with the remains of the girl. Had she felt any grief for her? Did she place herself in the minds of the girl’s family? Or had she been doing the job so long that it had become no more than a perverse sort of butchery?
Misa edged backwards towards the door. She went inside the squat building and ushered the way in for the minister and his wife. The police officer followed behind them. ‘Just right the way to the end of the hall there. Follow the carpet down to where the tiles start.’
They walked slowly. Gripping each other. The place seemed dark and gloomy. A smell like bleach lingered in the air. It seemed to have been masked with something, a patchouli oil, perhaps. Whatever it was, it hadn’t been strong enough. The odour reminded him of decay and of his days as a schoolboy in the science labs. He followed the line of the wall, where it met the carpet. It was an industrial colour of grey — like they painted battleships. Why didn’t they brighten the place up, he thought? Would it be too much trouble to have some brighter colours about the place? Flowers, perhaps? That’s what they did at funeral services. It reminded everyone that even in death there was still much to be thankful for on God’s earth.
‘And round to the right here, Reverend.’ The girl had a sweet voice, like a nurse; he could hear the compassion in her tones.
As they turned the corner he saw the large double doors. They had heavy plastic skirts along the bottom and two circular windows. As the neared the doors the minister felt his mind suffused with a weary fog. The closer they came he saw the scuff-marks and scratches on the doors where he assumed they had been pushed open by heavy trolleys. It suddenly occurred to him that they were similar to the doors of an operating theatre, though this was no place where life was extended, or saved.
The DC spoke: ‘Now, if I could just have your attention for a moment, please.’
Misa slid past him. ‘I’ll go through now.’ She edged into the door like before, creasing her lips as she went.
The minister felt his wife gripping tighter to him.
‘The pathologist has prepared the…’ the police officer stalled, ‘young girl for your visit, but…’ He paused again. ‘I should warn you, her appearance might be a shock to you, whether you can identify her or not.’ He hurried the last words.
The minister nodded. ‘We understand.’ He did not turn to his wife again as they were led through the doors. He could hear her sobbing already, tried hard to steady her gait, but by now his own steps were faltering.
The room was large and well lit. Misa stood in the centre by what at first glance looked like a bed, but on closer inspection appeared to be more like a kitchen counter with shiny steel coverings on the sides. There was a heavy wooden board at the end and a tap that could be raised like a shower head. On top was a small, green bundle. At once the minister knew what must be under the covering but it seemed too small. His mind stilled — it couldn’t be her.
As they reached the centre of the room, and the side of the mortuary slab, they all stopped and stared at each other. It was as if no one wanted to be the first to speak.
DC McGuire broke the silence. ‘If you’d like to let me know when you’re ready, Misa will remove the sheet.’
The minister and his wife held firm to each other; nothing in this world seemed real any more. A flurry of emotions he didn’t recognise swept over him. His mind returned to bright days in the summer months when his daughter played in the garden, in a paddling pool or with a badminton sets. She was such a lovely child. She had always been so content, so playful as a young girl. And as a young woman, even when she was tested by circumstance, she had been brave. If there was one thing the minister wished from God it was to return to those sunny days of the past when they were all so happy, when there was nothing but peace in their home, but they were gone. He braced himself for God’s will and nodded towards the young woman. Her hand moved slowly towards the green cloth. As she removed the covering there was a flash of blonde hair — thin wispy hair scraped back in an unfamiliar style. The minister stared but did not recognise the face before him. The skin was pale, blue almost, and the eyes were blackened. A dark line of stitching ran the length of her brow. The eyes were closed — if they had been open, it might have made a difference.
He turned to his wife. She seemed as still as the girl. She seemed to have stopped breathing. The minister grabbed her shoulders. ‘Frieda. Frieda…’
There was no reply.
The officer moved into his view. ‘Reverend Donald.’ He placed an arm on his wife’s back; the minister brushed it away.
‘Leave her alone!’ The harshness of his tone surprised him. ‘Frieda. Frieda.’ His wife didn’t reply.
As the officer stepped back, Frieda lost her balance and slumped away from him. She fell into the officer and he grabbed her; in one smooth movement he took up her weight and lowered her to the floor. The minister watched as his wife lay lifeless. The pathologist ran to her side, supported her head. ‘She’s fainted. She’ll be okay. She’ll be just fine…’
As the minister looked at his wife on the cold floor of the mortuary, he knew she would never be fine again.
Chapter 18
DI Rob Brennan had gone straight home from the morgue the night before. Despite a loose agreement to meet Lorraine, he’d driven directly to his Corstorphine address and spent the night with two tins of Stella Artois and a peaty malt as his wife and daughter kept their distance. He would have liked to be able to switch off his mobile phone but the job didn’t allow that, so he had kept it on vibrate and let the two calls from Lorraine go to voicemail. He knew this was storing up trouble for himself but he was content to let that sit in the back of his mind whilst the rest of it filled up with thoughts about a young girl lying on a mortuary slab, and her killer walking free.
Brennan was woken by Joyce shouting at Sophie about being late for school and looked at the clock. It was nearly 9 a.m. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, tried to make sure he hadn’t made a mistake. No, it was nearly 9 a.m. His mobile phone sat next to the bed, still on vibrate. He had missed another call but this time it was from
