The Unquiet Dead. Gay Longworth
more than usual. When asked what was usual, the friend replied, “Most days there was something …”’
‘I hope the poor woman isn’t listening to any of this,’ said Sally.
Jessie experienced the same feeling of apprehension as they left the bright light of the boiler room behind them and approached the final set of doors. Sally pushed them open and they both felt a rush of cold air. It was Sally’s turn to shudder. The long narrow walkway came to an abrupt end where it fell away to darkness. Jessie could hear someone crying. A woman. They walked towards the sound. Sarah Klein was sitting at the bottom of the stone steps, her head in her hands. Jessie immediately changed her mind about the actress. She’d heard too many women cry not to know the difference between crocodile tears and the real thing. When she heard them approach, Sarah Klein looked up, startled.
‘Sorry,’ said Jessie. ‘We didn’t mean to frighten you.’
The woman started sobbing again. Sally carried on without stopping, but Jessie held back. Sarah Klein shouldn’t be on her own. There should have been a family liaison officer with her. Where was the tea, the hanky, the gentle arm on the shoulder, the offer to call someone, drive her somewhere? Why wasn’t she being looked after? Sally called her from inside the ancient boiler room. Jessie didn’t respond.
‘Jessie –’ it was Sally again, this time more insistent – ‘I think you’d better come in here.’
Reluctantly, Jessie left the sobbing woman and walked into the dank and dimly lit room. Curled up on a piece of tarpaulin, on the dry earth between the tanks and the coal stores, was the body of a perfectly preserved middle-aged man.
His skin was yellow and pulled taut over the bones. His eyelids sunk over the empty sockets. His lips were stretched back over his blackened teeth. His dark hair was slicked back and held in a ponytail. It was a terrifying death mask. His clothes had stiffened as hard as armour; each crease in the jacket, each fold in the shirt as unyielding as bronze. He was not a man any more, he was a mummy. The sleeves of his jacket were rolled up to the elbow, revealing more yellowing flesh that bore the signs of a vicious attack. Worse still, the tip of each preserved finger was missing. His thumbs were nothing but stumps.
‘What is it?’ asked DCI Moore. ‘And how the hell did it get here?’
‘It’s the corpse of a Caucasian male, approximately forty years of age.’
‘Is it real?’
‘Yes.’ Sally pulled on a pair of synthetic gloves and began to feel around the body.
‘Are you sure? It looks plastic.’
‘The corpse is showing visible signs of preservation. The body has been drying out, not decomposing. The skin takes on a leathery consistency, like biltong.’
‘How long has it been here?’ asked DCI Moore.
‘Check the date,’ interrupted Jessie, peering over Sally Grimes’ shoulder. ‘On the watch.’
Sally leant over so that she could get a better look. ‘That’s strange.’
‘What is?’ asked DCI Moore.
‘It’s today’s date.’ Sally put her ear to the timepiece. ‘It’s stopped.’
Mark Ward was pacing the perimeter of the room like a caged beast. One of the lights flickered on and off, making his actions look jerky and disconnected. He stopped and barked at Sally: ‘What does that mean, if he didn’t die today?’
‘I don’t know, but he definitely didn’t die today.’
‘What the hell can you tell me?’ DCI Moore’s red lips were outlined by a faint trace of blue. She’d been standing in the cold room for some time.
‘I’d say he’s been here since the eighties,’ said Jessie, jumping to Sally’s rescue.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Mark. ‘A watch battery doesn’t last that long.’
‘Look at the clothes. My elder brothers used to dress like that – winklepickers, baggy trousers. Look how the jacket sleeves are folded and pushed up the arm. It’s the New Romantics: Depeche Mode, Nick Kershaw, Madness – remember?’
He clearly didn’t.
Sally bent down to get a better look. She carefully slipped her fingers into the back pocket of the jeans. She pulled. Nothing happened. After a few more attempts she took a pair of scissors and began to cut off the pocket. The square of stiff material came away in her hands. Sally turned it over. Stuck to the material was a canvas wallet of indeterminate colour. It was the type that folded over itself and fastened along a Velcro strip. She pulled the Velcro apart. The inside was orange. Bright orange with black edging.
‘I remember those,’ said Jessie. ‘They were very trendy. They came in all the fluorescent colours.’
‘So this man took his eighties retro look very seriously,’ concluded DCI Moore.
‘Not retro,’ said Sally. ‘This is genuine. Look at these –’ she held up some flimsy rectangles of paper – ‘one-pound notes.’ In the side zip pocket there was a collection of change. Sally ran her fingers over the coins. ‘I’d forgotten how big they were.’ The ten-pence pieces looked like giant money, filling her dwarf palm; the five-pence pieces were twice the size of the new ones, and there was something that Jessie had almost forgotten existed: a halfpenny.
‘Anything useful like ID in there?’ asked the DCI.
‘No.’
‘Are you telling me this man has been down there since the eighties?’
‘Not necessarily, but it looks as though he’s been dead since the eighties. He should have decomposed by now. Where did you find him?’
Moore pointed to the cleared site of the fourth open pit. ‘It’s an old ash pit – lead-lined and sealed.’
Sally touched the wall. ‘It’s very cold, but it would have to be dry, too.’
‘It was when we prised it open, but all four pits used to be connected to the sewers.’
‘And they’re not any more?’
‘We won’t know until the contractors have been down here. Something still is, you can smell it.’
‘What I can tell you is that he’s been in this foetal position for a long time. Either here, or a large domestic refrigerator. Because of his immaculate condition, the day he died, and therefore the way he died, is set in stone. I’ll get him to the lab and –’
‘No,’ said DCI Moore.
‘What? Why did you call me down here?’
‘As a favour.’
‘I don’t mind doing favours, Carolyn –’
‘DCI Moore.’
‘I don’t mind doing favours, DCI Moore, but I like to know when I’m granting them.’
‘I have to think about our budget,’ Moore replied tartly.
Jessie stepped forward. ‘But, boss, this is a suspicious death. Look at his hands – someone cut his fingers off. No fingers, no ID.’
‘That may be, DI Driver, but according to you he could have died twenty years ago. Hardly the sort of case we want to blow a lot of money on.’
‘Unlike Anna Maria Klein, you mean, who guarantees the police much more press?’
DCI Moore pulled herself up. ‘If you care so much about this, it’s yours. I’m putting you in charge. Identify him, find a match in Missing Persons and if any of his family are