Angel of Death

‘Oh, around twenty thousand.’ Declan Murphy gave him a dry look sideways. ‘This is a far cry from London.’

Neil laughed humourlessly. ‘I’m sure.’

‘We get bodies drifting up on the beach now and again, but mostly we just have the odd burglary, petty shoplifting, vandalism, taking and driving on a Saturday night, when the pubs kick out, and a murder around once every couple of years – often domestic, the last one a man hit his wife on the head with a meat hammer, and before that a wife poisoned her husband because he was sleeping around.’

‘Sounds a nice quiet life.’

‘It’s very much a community life. We know most people, they know us. When a house gets done, we go round and lift the usual suspects. They’re not too bright upstairs, our criminals. We often find the goods stored in a garage, or under the stairs. We have a good clear-up rate.’

‘I might move here.’

Declan laughed. ‘Have you found somewhere to stay for the night?’

‘Not yet. I came straight to the station.’

‘Ah, well, now, I’ll find you somewhere.’

They were walking round to the back of the hospital. The morgue was housed in a stone building not much bigger than a garage. Neil shivered at the coldness inside and Declan gave him one of his shrewd, piercing looks.

‘Sure you want to do this?’

‘Yes,’ Neil said, hesitated, then confessed, ‘I need to see she’s really dead.’

‘Did you know her?’

‘No, but for a while I thought my witness might be lying, or crazy.’

‘Ah, sure, you want to set your own mind at rest. I understand. OK, Michael, bring her out.’

The attendant pulled out a drawer from the row of metal cabinets along one wall, then whisked back the white cotton sheet.

The body was horrific; swollen, silvery, glistening like some great fat fish, no features left on the inflated head for him to recognise. His eyes flashed briefly to the naked body then away again as sickness rose in his throat.

‘Enough?’ Declan asked, watching him.

Neil managed a nod. He reeled out of there and leaned on a low stone wall.

As they drove back to the police station, he kept his eyes shut, the window open beside him and a rough, clean wind from the sea filling his lungs, helping to expel the after-taste of the morgue. That scent of decay and antiseptic was deadly. He hated it.

Back in his small, shabby office Declan opened a drawer and got out a bottle and two glasses.

‘Join me?’

‘Please,’ Neil said through white lips, afraid he might throw up any minute, which would be humiliating in front of this stranger. He had seen dead bodies often enough before, but that one had been the worst in his experience.

Declan put a file box on the desk. ‘X-rays – she’d been to a dentist recently, she broke an arm in childhood and it was set badly, and there’s a scar on the abdomen. Appendix. Forensic says it’s quite old; she was maybe late teens when she had that done.’

‘Yes, that fits what we know.’

‘Did you know she was pregnant when she died. Around three months gone.’

Neil nodded. ‘I was told she said she was.’

‘Ah, but it’s sad. I always hate it when the corpse is pregnant. Two deaths for the price of one, God help us, and the babe with no life at all. You should be able to get a fix on her with all that, though.’

‘Oh, yes. I’m sure she’s the girl I’ve been looking for – what about the lungs?’

‘The lungs?’ Declan stared at him blankly.