Post Mortem (15 page)

He could see three figures on the edge of the building. He thought he had seen the boy in his bear suit on the ledge. But he wasn't clear whether he could really make out that detail. Perhaps he'd misremembered. He'd definitely seen a short figure anyway, and a taller one besides it, the third figure further off. Perhaps he was filling in his memory with what he knew had happened. They'd have to check his transmissions. People had started to gather, wanted to know what was going on. Rubberneckers. He had tried to push them back. He was on his own and had struggled to control the growing numbers. Some members of the crowd had been hostile. People were enjoying it: he was just getting in the way. One young man – he remembered him clearly – had snarled at him to fuck off.

In the middle of all this Arif had looked up and transmitted about the police officer on the roof. He'd been pretty sure from the start it was Hadley. But he'd been distracted by the public, had
been trying to move people a safe distance from the building. They weren't listening to him and he wasn't sure of his powers or what to do. He'd called for backup, made an emergency transmission. That was when he'd turned round and seen Hadley. At the moment of falling. The sight was . . .

Arif paused. He tapped on the desk with his middle finger. He could not find the word. He had surprised himself by arriving at this moment. Finally the word came out of him like a guilty secret that still had the power to shock him.

‘Funny.'

He pressed his lips together. They were a thin white line. Collins waited.

Arif went on. ‘How can I explain it? Like a comic. Hadley was trying frantically to back-pedal as he fell, trying to get back to solid ground.'

Collins recognized that sensation of disbelief from numerous crime scenes and years of seeing the improbable. Arif was continuing, in the grip of memory now.

‘Sarge, it was . . . how can I say?' He paused and then lighted on the word with something like satisfaction. ‘Cartoonish – a fat man trying desperately not to fall. But then it wasn't at all, because it was . . .'

He trailed off, lost for words once more.

Collins said, ‘Yes, of course. It was real.'

Arif drew his hand over his mouth and closed his eyes. When he opened them again he didn't seem to be seeing the office any more but something else, more compulsive.

‘Hadley, he braced himself before he hit the concrete. He put his hands in front of his face. It was somehow the worst thing. As if there was any protection. From that fall. There was no way back.'

Collins waited, and then, when Arif seemed to have lost himself, prompted, ‘And the girl?'

‘The girl, yes. I think she fell slightly before Hadley but I can't picture it exactly. People fall at the same speed, do they? Irrespective of their weight, that is. I can't hold it in my mind. I can't be sure. I think she leaned out into the drop almost as though she could fly. I remember her thin in the sky like a branch. And then, close up. A girl.'

‘Which one hit the ground first?'

‘I don't know.' He paused and rubbed his eyes. ‘The girl, I think. Yes. The girl.'

Collins said the time and stopped the tape.

Steve said, ‘You all right?'

Arif gave a barely noticeable nod, just a tip of his nose.

‘You want a cup of tea?'

Arif shook his head, another slight movement.

‘Smoke?'

‘No.'

Steve reached his cigarettes from his shirt pocket.

‘I go out the window for a fag. The DS turns a blind eye. Feel like joining me on the roof terrace? We're a long way from the edge. Only danger is of falling in on a senior management meeting.'

They climbed through the window on to the moss-covered flat roof. Sid hopped about at the edge. Steve gestured towards the crow. ‘Don't worry about that bastard. He
can
fly.'

Arif gave a half-smile.

Steve said, ‘Well done. You shouldn't be in the job if you can't laugh at the worst things.'

Arif took a packet of gum from his pocket and offered it.

‘No thanks.'

Steve turned towards Arif, using his back to shield the lighter from the wind. Arif popped the gum into his mouth. They both leaned against the wall and looked out towards the horizon.

Steve said, ‘How much service you got?'

‘I've been on borough three months.'

‘Christ. Just three months.'

‘I've been loving it, actually. I love the team. They've really welcomed me. I thought it might be an issue, me, well . . .'

‘You being gay?'

Arif blinked. ‘That obvious, is it?'

Steve flashed him a grin. ‘Yep, it is.'

Arif laughed. ‘OK, I guess it must be.' There was a pause. ‘Anyway, it hasn't been a problem, not at all. Even Hadley. He was really old-school but he always welcomed me. I had to put up with the jokes, of course, but they don't bother me. It's just a way of people showing you they trust you not to be a cunt.'

Steve inhaled.

Arif said, ‘Sounds corny, but I really loved them. All three of them.'

‘Doesn't sound corny.'

‘No?'

‘Not at all.'

‘Anyway, who cares, right?'

‘Right.' Steve took a final drag on his cigarette and threw it on the roof. He stamped it out with his foot. ‘What do you mean, all three of them?'

‘Hadley, Lizzie, the guv'nor. I don't want Lizzie or the guv'nor to be in the shit.'

‘Why would they be in the shit?'

‘I dunno. Lizzie and the guv'nor, they've been . . . well, you know.' Arif smiled, a bit embarrassed perhaps.

‘I didn't know. He's married, isn't he?'

‘Yep. I probably shouldn't say any more.'

‘No, probably not.'

23

L
izzie knew she had to keep moving. She put the silent phone back in her bag, then opened her wallet and counted her money. She left the café and walked up the street. Two PCSOs, their backs turned to her, were putting up a poster in the entrance to a Lidl. As she passed, Lizzie looked over her shoulder and saw that it was her own face sellotaped to the glass door. She recognized the Sea Crest Hotel, blurred in the background of the image – the photo must have been captured by the CCTV camera in the lobby.

On her left was a side street, and at the far end she could see a hairdresser's sign:
Hair Today
. As she approached, she saw that the shop was a converted chemist's. The windows still showed the stained-glass emblems of the pharmacist: large apothecary jars in green and blue and red. There was a television set mounted on the wall but the sound was off. A radio was playing. A woman was sitting behind the counter reading a John Grisham novel. Her hair was bleached blonde and her fake tan shone under the LED spotlights. She put the book down on the counter and looked without expression at Lizzie.

‘You're lucky. We can fit you in. What do you want?'

‘A cut and colour, please.'

‘Full head or highlights?'

Lizzie wanted a bob. She'd decided to go dark, she said. The woman sat her down and wheeled over the colouring tray.

‘It'll suit you brown,' the woman said, looking at her in the mirror. ‘Dramatic.'

‘How long will it take?'

‘About a couple of hours.'

The woman's eyes met Lizzie's, her gaze travelling over her with professional indifference. She began to paint her hair with a thick cream and wrap it in squares of foil.

From where she was sitting Lizzie watched absent-mindedly the television that was reflected in the mirror opposite. The screen showed a helicopter shot: night falling over London. Only gradually did Lizzie realise that the camera was focusing in on Portland Tower, circling the block and then travelling high and away, the drop to the concourse even more vertiginous than in memory.

Lizzie's hair was almost entirely covered in foils. She glanced in the direction of the hairdresser who seemed absorbed in the business of dabbing on the colour. Lizzie judged that from the angle she was standing she would not be able to see the television screen, but she couldn't be sure.

Her gaze went back to the television. The image had cut to a thin man with straw-coloured hair and a freckled face. Underneath him ticker tape writing spooled out but Lizzie could not read it – the script was reversed and illegible. Then Lizzie saw – the same image as the PCSOs had been putting up in the Lidl – her own unmoving face.

She glanced back to the hairdresser, who caught her eye in the mirror and frowned. ‘Everything OK?'

‘Yes. Thanks.'

Lizzie did not dare look back to the television. She stared forward while the hairdresser folded in the last few foils.

‘It'll be about 45 minutes. OK?' she said.

‘Yes, fine.' She flicked her eyes sideways for a second. The images had changed. Two glossy presenters were sitting on a
couch holding mugs and talking. ‘Do you mind if I see if I can find a film on the TV?'

The hairdresser was tidying up her trolley. She shrugged. ‘Be my guest but please don't put the sound on. I like listening to the radio.'

24

O
utside the door of the male constables' locker room, someone had left a bunch of flowers in a glass jar. Collins put the takeaway coffees on the floor and bent down: bluebells, buttercups and cow parsley. There was no note.

She picked up the coffee, stood up and knocked at the door.

‘Female,' she called out. ‘I'm coming in.'

The room was subterranean and deserted. Light filtered through foxhole windows above head height. A narrow corridor ran down the right-hand side of the room, giving way on the left to rows of gunmetal-grey lockers. She walked to the end and turned along the furthest row. Sitting on the ground by a cordon of blue and white crime tape was Jez. He was reading a Jack Reacher. He put it down with a little embarrassed wag of his head and began to get up.

‘Sarah.'

‘I've got you a coffee. Two sugars, right?'

‘Yeah. Do you want me to help?'

‘Don't worry. Drink your coffee.'

A different DS would have let him go to the canteen while she cracked on with the search. Never mind. She didn't want any allegations. She did things by the book and so he'd have to stay to corroborate anything she found. She'd brought him a coffee. He'd have to be happy with that.

She was meeting Steve in an hour and a half and she needed to work quickly. Hadley had had two lockers. She slipped the key
into the lock of the first. The door opened outwards. Taped to the inside was a photograph of a plump middle-aged woman sitting on a beach with four sunburned boys ranged around her. The eldest was about thirteen. The youngest was definitely primary-school age – seven perhaps. The eldest boy had his arm round a surfboard. The youngest was standing between the woman's legs, leaning his head against her chest. The woman's left arm was looped around his waist, her hand spread open on his chest. In her right hand was an ice cream with a flake. She had brown curly hair and was laughing towards the camera.

Collins photographed the locker with a digital camera and then began to empty it systematically. She started from the top shelf and worked towards the bottom, making a note of the contents as she went. A box of epaulettes. Plastic over-trousers. Still in its cellophane bag, the white cover that allowed a stab vest to be worn covertly. A jar of Brylcreem. Deodorant. Shower gel. A tin of biros. Too many shirts. At the bottom, a smelly towel. A half-empty tube of mints. She returned everything to its place and closed the door.

The second locker was very much like the first. Crammed and disordered. On the door of this one was sellotaped a faded picture of a football team, cut from a newspaper. The players wore red jerseys and old-fashioned, endearingly brief white shorts. She recognized George Best in the middle row. Another face was familiar. Was that Bobby Charlton? She wasn't sure; football wasn't her thing. Anyway, it was clearly one of those football moments. They were all sitting in rows behind a cup and shield. Again she photographed the locker and listed its contents. More biros. A spare handcuff key. Two police jumpers. Cavernous trousers. Shirts on wire hangers. She checked each pocket and then hung them all back up. Old tissues, a packet of gum. A formal tunic on a wooden hanger. On the floor, an old-style truncheon and, in a box, a silver whistle on a chain.

She closed the locker and signed off the crime scene in the book. She signed paper seals and stuck them over the two doors.

Jez said, ‘All done then?'

‘Yes.'

‘Do you want me to take the keys back?'

‘No thanks. I'll do it.'

The civilian in Resources was past fifty and overweight. Her breath was audible and she moved slowly. She wore tortoiseshell-framed glasses, a green Tyrol-style cardigan, a high-necked blouse, a brown pleated skirt.

Collins showed her warrant card. ‘I wanted to return the key to PC Hadley's lockers. I'm Sarah, by the way – I'm the DS investigating PC Hadley's death.'

‘Yes, dear, that's all right. I know who you are.'

She glanced at the warrant's detail nevertheless, and her small eyes briefly flickered towards Collins' face. She did not immediately accept the master key. Instead she took a key out of her handbag and used it to open her desk drawer. In it was another key that opened a metal cupboard on the wall. She unlocked the cupboard and then stretched out her hand to take the locker key from Collins. She hung it on a peg inside the cupboard labelled with a small laminated note:
M3
. Then she locked the cupboard and replaced the key in her drawer.

Collins said, ‘I can see you do a good job of keeping everything in order.'

‘You have to.' It was said with something like conceit.

Collins gave an exhale of agreement. ‘Around coppers, I expect.'

‘Well some of them can't be counted on. They'll always lose something.'