Avoiding words that might be construed as a promise, Watts went with: ‘That’s our aim. Do you know any of your brother’s friends, his colleagues?’
She shook her head. ‘Not directly.’
They followed her through the house.
‘Mike loved his work. He and Molly loved each other, had made a life together. We just can’t accept what’s happened.’
They approached the front door. Mrs Lawrence was talking to Brendan a few feet away. Watts picked up her quiet words.
‘All I’m saying is that you haven’t visited her and I think you should.’
He turned to her, his face weary. ‘Mom, you know how busy I am. I should be at work right now and from what you’ve told me, Molly’s really bad and – yes, all right, I’ll try and get there later.’
They left the house, Judd looking wiped out. Watts felt much the same. John Lawrence was right. It was senseless.
TEN
Saturday 8 December. 8.58 a.m.
His phone to his ear, Watts was relating to Traynor the little they had learned from the Lawrence family the previous day. He looked down at the memo he’d received five minutes before.
‘It won’t surprise you when I say that Brophy’s agitating for progress. He’s also anticipating that local residents will feel targeted by the investigation because of the use of a gun. I don’t give a rat’s backside how they might feel. This investigation will be as sensitive as possible but our priority is to find this shooter pronto.’
‘I agree. Is there any news as to when Mrs Lawrence might be well enough to talk?’
‘I phoned the hospital a few minutes ago. I’m waiting for a call back. I’ll ring you when I know something.’ He ended the call. The desk phone rang.
Judd reached for it. ‘Hi, Adam … yes, he is. No!’ She turned, looked at Watts. ‘He’s right here. OK, I’ll tell him.’ She replaced the phone. ‘Ready for some really good news?’
‘When am I not?’
‘SOCOs have found the gun!’ She watched his face register it. ‘Correction. They’ve found a gun but I’m betting any money it’s the one. It’s being processed. Adam will let you know the results.’
‘Where was it?’
‘In a deep hole, a few metres from the Lawrences’ car.’
The phone rang again. She reached for it, held it towards Watts. ‘It’s the hospital, for you.’ He took it from her.
‘DI Watts … Yes. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’ He replaced the phone and stood.
‘How is she?’ asked Judd.
‘That wasn’t about Molly Lawrence. It was the hospital letting me know that Mike Lawrence’s post-mortem is in half an hour. As SIO, I have to be there.’ He fetched his coat. ‘Ever attended a hospital post-mortem, Judd?’
‘No.’
‘How’d you feel about seeing one done?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve been in the PM suite as Dr Chong showed us stuff. It won’t bother me.’
He waited as she got her coat. He was thinking about confidence. He’d had plenty when he was Judd’s age. Back then, life was simple. You hadn’t yet developed that voice in your ear telling you to be careful, watch what you were doing. If you had, you ignored it. That voice had started to register with Watts when he hit forty, although its owner by then was long dead. It was the voice of somebody who had prized security above all else. His mother. His eyes moved over the multiple files on the table. Right now, the security that came with the job didn’t seem to him to be that great a deal.
Forty-five minutes later, they were waiting, gowned and masked, inside one of the hospital’s pathology suites. Watts gave the cold tiles and metal surfaces a quick once-over. It was much like the one Chong presided over at headquarters but on a larger scale. Hearing a security pass being keyed in and the door opening, he straightened, with a quick glance in Judd’s direction. What he saw wasn’t quite what he was expecting. Her face wasn’t too dissimilar to the pale green scrubs they’d been given to wear. A guided tour of the aftermath of a headquarters’ post-mortem with Connie in charge was one thing. Being here, inside this vast hospital complex with …?
‘Detective Inspector Watts! Dr Wexler here.’
He watched the massive gowned figure approach them, a smaller man following, camera in hand. According to what they’d been told on arrival, Dr Anton Wexler, pathologist and specialist in head injuries, would be conducting the post-mortem on Michael Lawrence. Wexler beckoned them with a gloved hand to a series of light boxes. Taking an X-ray plate from the large envelope he was carrying, he pushed it upwards, did the same with a second. Watts and Judd stared up at them.
‘I’ll keep the technicalities to a minimum.’ Wexler turned to another gowned figure which had just appeared. ‘Take Mr Lawrence from storage, please. Place him on table C.’ Wexler gave Watts a wink. ‘Don’t want to keep him waiting, so shall we begin?’ He pointed at one of the X-rays.
‘Can you make out the track of the bullet which entered Mr Lawrence’s head close to his chin?’ He indicated the other X-ray. ‘It’s probably easier to discern on this one.’
Watts stared at what looked to him like a narrow, worm-like area in the midst of not much else. ‘This will be a full post-mortem. If I find no other injuries to Mr Lawrence’s body, I’ll focus on the excision of the bullet, which I’m assuming to be of significant interest to you, Detective Inspector.’
He pulled the X-rays free. They followed him to a distant table, its occupant covered by a thin green sheet, surrounded on three sides by centimetres-high glazed panels. Wexler glanced up at the wall clock, pulled a microphone close to his face, intoned his and their names and titles. ‘My colleague John Haynes is responsible for post-mortem photography. It is now nine thirty-eight a.m. on the eighth of December. We’ll begin.’
Watts and Judd watching, pens and notebooks in hand, Wexler neatly folded away the sheet. Mike Lawrence was now as exposed as
