The Tunnel Rats (Coronet books) Page 9

  ‘What the hell are you playing at, Nick?’ she hissed. Janie rarely shouted. If anything, the angrier she got, the quieter she became.

  Wright was stunned. He had no idea what he’d done to upset her. ‘What’s wrong?’ he said.

  ‘What did I say to you about telling Sean war stories?’ she said. ‘He had nightmares all last night and I had to take him to school with bags under his eyes. What the hell did you think you were doing?’

  ‘He wanted to—-’

  ‘Just how long do you think the judge is going to allow you to see our son if he finds out the sort of photographs you’ve been showing him? Crime scene pictures, for God’s sake. You showed him a photograph of a dismembered corpse.’

  ‘Okay, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry doesn’t cut it. I’m supposed to be able to trust you with Sean. I specifically told you not to talk about that case.’

  ‘Janie, it was raining, the zoo was a washout, I couldn’t think what else to do with him. It was a mistake. I’m sorry. What do you want me to do, open a vein?’

  ‘An artery would be nice,’ she said. ‘Don’t do it again, Nick.’

  The line went dead. Wright banged the receiver back on its cradle. He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. ‘Shit,’ he whispered. He stood up and went over to the coffee machine and poured himself a cup. He sipped it but the hot, bitter liquid couldn’t shift the bad taste in his mouth. Wright went over to Reid’s desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. The bottle of vodka was wrapped in a Kentucky Fried Chicken bag. Wright took it out and poured a slug into his coffee, then drank half of it in one gulp. He added more vodka, then put the bottle away and closed the drawer. Reid was out trying to interview dog-walkers and wasn’t planning to put in an appearance that afternoon. More than likely he’d be in a pub somewhere. Wright raised his polystyrene cup in a silent salute to his absent partner.

  Wright sat down at his own desk and ran his finger down the list of missing persons. He’d already discounted most of the names on the first sheet. As he flicked over to the second sheet, his mobile telephone rang. The noise startled him and coffee slopped over his hand. He cursed, put the cup down and licked his hand as he picked up the phone and held it to his ear. He had a sinking feeling that it was his ex-wife, but the voice on the other end of the line was cultured and soft-spoken, the sort of voice that might belong to the wife of a Conservative Member of Parliament. ‘Sergeant Wright?’ she said.

  ‘Speaking,’ said Wright.

  ‘You left a message for me to call you,’ she said. ‘My name’s May Eckhardt.’

  Wright ran his eyes down the sheet. No Eckhardt. ‘Do you by any chance have a relative missing, Mrs Eckhardt? A man?’

  ‘My husband,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Have you found him?’

  Wright found the name on the fourth sheet. Max Eckhardt. A forty-eight-year-old American living in Maida Vale. May Eckhardt didn’t sound at all American, her accent was pure Home Counties. ‘I just wanted to ask you a few questions about your husband, Mrs Eckhardt.’

  ‘Have you found him?’ she repeated, a harder edge to her voice this time.

  ‘Mrs Eckhardt, at this stage all I’m trying to do is to eliminate names from a list of missing persons. A body was found in a railway tunnel and I’m trying to identify it. Could you tell me, was your husband circumcised?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Your husband. Was he circumcised?’

  She hesitated for several seconds. ‘Oh, I see. Yes. Yes, he was.’ She had obviously realised why he had asked the question, for which Wright was immediately grateful.

  ‘Did he wear contact lenses?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, he did.’

  ‘And were there scars on his back? Old scars, small ones.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ she whispered.

  ‘Mrs Eckhardt, did he have scars on his back?’

  ‘Yes, he did. It’s him, isn’t it?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say, Mrs Eckhardt, but I would like you to come in and take a look at the body we have.’

  ‘You think it’s him, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ Wright admitted.

  ‘What about his wallet? He had a driving licence, his press card, his credit cards.’

  ‘There were no personal effects on the body, Mrs Eckhardt.’

  ‘But you said he was found in a tunnel. He was hit by a train, wasn’t he?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t hit by a train. Look, Mrs Eckhardt, I really don’t want to say any more until you’ve had the chance to identify the body.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘As soon as you can,’ said Wright. He gave her the address of the mortuary and arranged to meet her there within the hour. Wright put his mobile phone into his jacket pocket. He drank the rest of his coffee, but the bad taste was still in his mouth. He hoped that the body wouldn’t be that of May Eckhardt’s husband, but he had a feeling that his search was over.

  Wright arrived at the mortuary in St Thomas’s Hospital fifteen minutes before he was due to meet Mrs Eckhardt. He wanted to check with Dr Littman that the corpse was in a fit state to be viewed. The last time Wright had seen it the face was cut to ribbons and smeared with blood. Dr Littman wasn’t there but Robbie Ballantine was, washing up after yet another post mortem.

  ‘What state’s the tunnel body in after the post mortem?’ Wright asked him. ‘I’ve got a possible relative coming to identify him.’

  ‘The face was pretty cut up,’ said Ballantine. ‘We’ve put it back together as best we can, but it’s still a mess.’

  ‘Recognisable?’

  ‘I should think so. How close a relative?’

  ‘Wife.’

  ‘Poor cow,’ said Ballantine sympathetically.

  ‘If it’s her,’ said Wright. He looked across at the large clock on the wall over the sink. ‘I’d better go along to reception. Can you get it ready?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Ballantine. ‘Does she know about the injuries?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Because the body isn’t . . . complete. If you see what I mean. His dick’s in a specimen jar, to put it bluntly,’ Ballantine said. ‘So if she’s any thoughts about checking up on other parts of his anatomy to confirm that it’s him, I’d think twice before you let her pull the sheet back.’

  Wright walked through to reception. There were two uncomfortable-looking orange plastic chairs to the left of the main entrance with a metal coffee table on which lay a few well-thumbed magazines. A bored receptionist was pecking away at a computer keyboard and she looked up as Wright walked up to the counter.

  ‘I’m waiting for a Mrs Eckhardt,’ he said. ‘She’s here to view a body. Can you point her in my direction when she gets here?’

  The receptionist nodded but didn’t say anything.

  Wright went over to a window which overlooked the car park. Dark clouds rolled slowly overhead, threatening rain. A black VW Golf cabriolet nosed into the car park, driven by an Oriental girl. The top was down and as she parked she cast a nervous look at the sky. ‘Yeah, it looks like rain,’ Wright said out loud. ‘Better safe than sorry.’ He smiled to himself as she put the top up.

  Wright picked up the magazines, wondering what sort of reading matter was thought suitable for a mortuary. Most of them were old copies of Hello!

  He looked up as the Oriental girl walked in. She was a little under five feet six, with shoulder-length glossy black hair. As she approached Wright he realised that she was older than he’d first thought, certainly in her late twenties, maybe older. The fringe and her small frame gave her the appearance of a schoolgirl from a distance, but she walked with authority and he saw the swell of firm breasts under her open fawn Burberry raincoat. She had an expectant look on her face and Wright figured that she worked in the mortuary. He was about to point to the receptionist when she spoke.

  ‘Sergeant Wright?’

  Wright’s mouth fell open in surprise. The cultured upper-middle-class voice was totally at odds with
the petite Oriental. ‘Yes?’ he said, momentarily confused.

  ‘May Eckhardt.’ She held out her hand. ‘We spoke on the phone.’

  She seemed to be deliberately trying to put him at ease and he realised she must have sensed his confusion. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, trying to regain his composure. ‘Of course, Mrs Eckhardt, I’m sorry, my mind was elsewhere.’ He immediately regretted the words. It was possibly the worst day of May Eckhardt’s life and he’d told her he was thinking about something else. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated. He shook her hand. It felt tiny within his own, but it was strong and firm and he felt her nails press against his flesh. The sensation was decidedly sexual and he felt a slight tingle down his back. She withdrew her hand quickly and seemed flustered herself as if she’d sensed what he was thinking. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he added, and felt another surge of embarrassment. It wasn’t as if he’d invited her to a party.

  Wright took her down the corridor to the viewing room in silence. He didn’t trust himself to speak without making a fool of himself again. The viewing room was little more than a cubicle, about six feet wide and ten feet long, painted a putrid yellow. The only furniture was a narrow table on which stood a white oval vase containing a bunch of faded silk flowers. Set into one of the walls was a white-framed window, and on the other side was one of the post mortem rooms. Robbie Ballantine was waiting on the other side of the glass. Wright nodded that they were ready and Ballantine pushed a trolley over.

  The body was covered with a sheet the same colour as Ballantine’s scrubs. He slowly pulled back the sheet until the face was revealed. It was considerably less bloody than when Wright had last seen it, but the cuts were clearly visible in the pale dead flesh.

  Wright looked across at May Eckhardt. She was staring at the body, her face devoid of expression. ‘Is it your husband?’ he asked.

  She didn’t reply and Wright wondered whether or not she’d heard him. He was going to ask her again when she gave a small shake of her head. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said, her voice a hoarse whisper.

  Ballantine looked at Wright expectantly. Wright shrugged. ‘Take your time,’ he told her.

  She wrapped her arms around herself as if she was feeling the cold. ‘It’s just . . .’

  She didn’t finish, but Wright knew what she was trying to say. People never looked the same after death. ‘There’s no rush, Mrs Eckhardt.’

  She turned to face him. ‘Can I get closer?’

  Wright wanted to dissuade her, but he knew that her request made sense. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Come this way.’ He took her along the corridor to the post mortem room. Ballantine had realised what was happening and was holding the door open for them. He flashed Wright a warning look as he went by, a silent reminder not to allow her to pull back the sheet. Wright nodded.

  May seemed not to notice the non-verbal communication between the two men, and walked hesitatingly over to the trolley. She stared down at the body for a few seconds, then looked up at Wright. Her lower lip was quivering. She tried to speak, but words wouldn’t come and she just nodded. Wright reached for her arm, wanting to guide her away from the trolley, but she took a step back, leaving him grabbing at empty air. She turned, bent down and kissed her husband on the forehead. Her hair swung across the corpse’s face, then she straightened up and walked quickly out of the room.

  Wright gave a small sigh of relief. He had feared that she might break down and he wasn’t sure how he would have dealt with that. Her high heels click-clacked along the tiled floor and Wright had to jog after her as she hurried along the corridor. She rushed through the door to reception and it slammed in Wright’s face. He pushed it open and called after her. She stopped in the centre of the reception area, facing away from him. The receptionist was engrossed in her computer.

  Wright walked up behind her. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Eckhardt,’ he said, ‘but I have to ask you, for the record. Is that your husband in there?’

  She spun around, her eyes filled with tears and contempt. ‘What do you think?’ she spat.

  Wright held up his hands as if trying to ward off her rage. ‘Please, Mrs Eckhardt, I have to ask. I can see you’re upset . . .’

  ‘Upset!’ she hissed. ‘Upset? That’s my husband in there and you can see that I’m upset?’

  Wright ran a hand through his hair, wondering what he could possibly say that would calm her down. ‘I’ll be asked at the inquest, Mrs Eckhardt. I’ll be asked if you positively identified the body as being that of your husband, and it won’t be enough for me to say that you reacted as if it were. I have to hear you say the words. I’m sorry.’ He kept his head close to hers and his voice down to a hushed whisper.

  She took a deep breath, and gradually regained her composure. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m the one that’s sorry. You’re right, of course. Yes, that is my husband. Max Eckhardt.’

  The strength seemed to fade from her legs and Wright reached for her as her eyes closed and she fell forwards. He grabbed her around the waist. She was as light as a child and he swept her up and carried her over to the chairs, where he sat her down and loosened her coat.

  Wright looked over his shoulder; the receptionist was continuing to type obliviously. ‘Excuse me, do you think you could get me a glass of water?’ Wright asked her.

  The receptionist gasped when she saw May slumped in the chair. ‘Oh my goodness,’ she said. ‘That’s the third one this week.’

  ‘A glass of water,’ said Wright. ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

  He fanned May’s face with a copy of Hello! until the receptionist returned with a plastic cup of tepid water. By then May had opened her eyes again and she sipped gratefully at the water. ‘What happened?’ she asked.

  ‘You fainted,’ said the receptionist. ‘You’re the third one this week.’

  Wright glared at her and she shrugged carelessly and went back to her desk behind the counter. He took the cup off May. The rim was smeared with pink lipstick.

  ‘What happened to Max?’ she asked.

  Wright shook his head. ‘I’m afraid he was murdered, Mrs Eckhardt.’

  ‘Murdered?’ What little colour remained in her face visibly drained away and Wright put a hand on her shoulder, afraid that she was about to faint again.

  She shook him away. ‘I’m all right,’ she insisted, but she took the cup off him and drank again.

  ‘Is there someone I can call for you? A friend? A relative?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t have any friends in London,’ she said. ‘We’ve only been here a few weeks. And I don’t have any relatives.’

  ‘What about on your husband’s side of the family?’

  ‘He left home when he was a teenager.’ She snorted softly. ‘Not that he ever called it home. He hasn’t spoken to his parents for thirty years, doesn’t even know if they’re alive.’ She bit down on her lower lip. ‘Didn’t,’ she corrected herself. ‘He didn’t even know if they’re alive.’ She looked at Wright with large, tear-filled eyes. ‘When do you start thinking about them in the past tense?’ she asked.

  Wright took one of her small hands in his own. This time she didn’t seem to resent the physical contact. ‘It takes a long time,’ he said. ‘Sometimes you never get to think of them in the past.’

  She shuddered and slowly withdrew her hand, a faraway look in her eyes. Wright gave her back the cup of water and she sipped it. ‘What am I going to do?’ she asked.

  Wright didn’t know what to say.

  ‘I have to go home,’ she whispered. ‘I have to take the car in for its service. I have a lot of things to do.’ The words came out singly, each separated by a distinct pause.

  ‘Are you going to be all right?’ he asked, the words sounding woefully inadequate.

  She looked up at him as if she’d forgotten that he was there. ‘I’m sorry?’ she said, frowning. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Will you be all right?’

  She stood up and adjusted the belt of her raincoat. ‘I’ll be fin
e,’ she said, her voice robotic.

  ‘I’ll need to talk to you again,’ he said. ‘There are questions I have to ask you.’

  She turned away. ‘Of course,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll telephone you tomorrow,’ he said.

  She pushed open the door. ‘Do that,’ she said. The door swung closed behind her.

  Wright went over to the window and watched as she went over to her car. He half expected her to break down in tears, but she opened the door, climbed in, and a few seconds later she drove away. She didn’t look in his direction.

  Ballantine walked into the reception area. ‘Did she identify him?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s her husband. Max Eckhardt.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll do the paperwork. Do you want to stay and watch a post mortem? I’ve got a victim of parakeet poisoning.’

  Wright frowned. ‘Don’t you mean paraquat?’

  ‘Nah, someone shoved a parrot down his throat.’ Ballantine chuckled and slapped Wright on the back. ‘Just trying to lighten the moment, Nick.’ He walked away, still chuckling.

  Wright drove back to the office. Reid was squinting at his VDU and cross-checking a list of names against a computer printout.

  ‘The victim is Max Eckhardt,’ said Wright. ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ said Reid. He sat back and massaged his right shoulder. ‘I think I’m getting RSI,’ he complained. ‘You want to contact the press office?’ He shook his hands, then clicked his knuckles.

  ‘I think I’ll wait until I’ve interviewed his wife.’

  ‘Widow,’ corrected Reid. ‘Speaking of ex-wives, your solicitor rang.’ He handed Wright a piece of a Burger King wrapper on which he’d scrawled a telephone number.

  ‘Did he say what he wanted?’

  Reid shook his head.