The Caller. Alex Barclay
younger, and spent most of his time dressed in a suit so his staff would take him seriously. He ran a successful catering business he bought after offloading an overvalued software firm nine years earlier.
‘Hello there,’ he said, hugging Mary and kissing her on the cheek.
‘David,’ she said. ‘Yaaay!’
‘If only everyone had that response when they saw me.’
‘Yaaay!’ said Magda.
He laughed. ‘Why thank you, both. I feel very special. So,’ he said to Mary. ‘I believe it’s time for bed.’
Mary frowned. She looked at the clock. ‘But it’s only 10 a.m.!’
He smiled. ‘Flower-beds.’
She shook her head. ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just because you say so, I’m still not sure that means it is.’
He held his hands up. ‘It actually wasn’t funny at all.’
‘It was dumb,’ said Magda.
‘Worth a try, though,’ said David. ‘Let me go change. And can I ask? What are you wearing?’
‘Do I look nuts?’ said Mary.
‘You look … creative.’
Mary smiled because David did. ‘I thought it was kind of cool.’ She was wearing a pair of orange baggy cotton pants that tapered at the ankle, a green vest and white sneakers.
David laughed and disappeared into the bedroom with his sports bag.
‘OK,’ said Magda. ‘Have you got what you need for gardening?’
Mary pointed to the tools lined up on the table: ‘Two trowels, mat to kneel on, watering can, fork thing … is that everything?’
‘Yes,’ said Magda. ‘There’s a faucet at the back of the building.’
David appeared in a battered pair of jeans, a blue long-sleeved T-shirt and green retro Pumas. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I am ready to garden. I am proud – no, I’m shocked – to be assisting in such a noble endeavor. Come on, lady in scary pants, let’s go down and bring that dirty brown soil to life.’
‘I’ll take the elevator with you,’ said Magda.
Mary laid down the mat in front of the flower-bed that ran along the edge of the property, fifty feet away from the back of the apartment block. A row of pots filled with chrysanthemums in bright shades of yellow, orange and magenta was lined up against the wall.
‘They’re so beautiful,’ said Mary.
‘They are,’ said David. ‘Stan always sticks with the same color theme, doesn’t he? Just changes the flowers in fall.’
She nodded.
David turned to the bare flower-bed and laughed. ‘Look – he’s marked out where we can plant: the shadiest, quietest corner—’
Mary smiled. ‘In case we do it wrong?’
‘I’d say so.’
‘But I’ve helped him before, he knows I’m good.’
‘You. But not me.’
‘OK,’ said Mary. ‘We need to take the flowers out of the pots, break up the roots gently and plant them here in a pattern.’ She handed him a piece of paper with a rough diagram.
‘That should be easy,’ said David.
Mary knelt down on the mat and started to dig a hole. David tended to the pots, pushing a small trowel into the first one, working it around the roots, pulling the plant free and shaking off the excess soil.
‘Everyone I know is at the office right now,’ he said. ‘Do you know how good that makes me feel?’
Mary smiled. ‘Thanks for helping me.’
‘Helping you? I’m helping myself, here,’ he said. ‘This is therapy. This is what life’s all about. Outdoors, fresh air, office avoidance.’
He spotted a weed, growing by the grass at the edge of the flower-bed. He pulled it out and held it up. ‘Isn’t it funny?’ he said. ‘How easy it is for beauty to attract such ugly, clinging things.’
‘Like the garden in Manderley,’ said Mary.
‘Yes!’ said David. ‘Exactly.’
They worked on, talking and laughing for over an hour. David stopped and watched his little sister, her concentration unwavering, stooped over the bright petals, holding them gently in her tiny hand, pouring her heart into the job.
‘How are you doing?’ he said.
She looked up at him. ‘I guess I’m OK.’
He squeezed her hand. ‘That’s good. That’s good, Mare.’
She smiled. They continued in silence until David stopped again. He looked at her and started a quote from Rebecca: ‘We all of us have our particular devil who rides us and torments us.’
Mary smiled sadly and continued. ‘And we must give battle in the end. We have conquered ours . . .’
David let out a breath. ‘Or so we believe.’
The body of Ethan Lowry was laid out on the perforated surface of a stainless steel table in the basement of the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. A body block lay under his back, forcing out his trunk that had been emptied of its organs. A handwritten, bloodstained list with their weights lay by the scales.
Joe and Danny were dressed in scrubs, gowns and gloves, with face masks hanging around their necks. Joe’s digital camera and notebook were on the counter beside him. He had taken photos and notes and asked questions through every step of the three-hour autopsy.
Dr Malcolm Hyland was young for an ME. Cops liked him because he didn’t expect them to be doctors, but he didn’t expect them to be stupid either. He was soft-spoken until he had to use the microphone – then he turned stilted and loud.
‘OK, doc,’ said Joe. He grabbed the notebook and flipped it open again.
‘OK,’ said Hyland. ‘Estimated time of death somewhere between 11 p.m. and 3 a.m. Cause of death was a point-blank GSW to the head – you saw the small entry hole by his eye socket and the bruised and battered twenty-two caliber bullet taken from the skull cavity. The bullet’s trajectory was left to right, lodged in the temporal lobe. You remember the grazing around the wound margins as the bullet was spinning in. Because it was directly over bone, you got the radiating splits in the skin and the stellate effect – that star shape. Mechanism of death was an intracerebral bleed.
‘But before we even get to the gunshot, we had evidence of compressive asphyxia which is what I was saying about the diaphragm not being able to expand. I’d say the killer sat on the guy’s chest or pressed a knee down on it and the vic got the full force of his body bearing down on him. Subdued like that, the killer was able to assault him with what was probably a medium-sized hammer. With regard the facial injuries – you already saw that – extensive bruising and swelling, several irregular lacerations. The upper and lower lips showed external and internal lacerations … this is very common in homosexual killings.’
‘He was alive for all the facial injuries,’ said Danny.
Hyland nodded. ‘He’d inhaled blood and teeth fragments.’
‘And what you’re saying is this guy was already dying when he was shot, he wasn’t able to breathe properly,’ said