The Secret Dead (London Bones Book 1) (25 page)

49

Until as late as 1958, it was perfectly legal to burn zombies without so much as a by-your-leave, and from then until 1964, you needed to apply for a permit because while it was still legal to burn the living dead, it wasn’t legal to burn their property.

Finally, the Protection from Necroambulism Act was passed and arson for any reason was banned, with anyone attempting to burn zombies looking at a hefty prison sentence. That’s when the Necroambulist Response Team was created, the first ZDC refurbished, and the emergency line introduced.

All so much more civilised, except for the zombies who were suddenly sentenced to spend their afterlives starving and shambling around in stinking darkness instead of a quick fiery death.

What had happened to Rosa had all the fingerprints of a zombie burning, except that she was still alive when the fire was started. It wouldn’t be the first time someone got the wrong end of the stick and tried to burn someone who was still alive, but Rosa actually was a zombie. That would be quite a coincidence.

I read through the medical report. The court ruling that forbade autopsies on the living dead without their express permission had only been made in 2008, and she’d had one whether she’d wanted it or not.

The report put her age at thirty-four and noted that she was showing signs of infected nasal passages, but had been in otherwise good health. Her height was given as 5’ 7” and weight as 130 pounds. It marked off a few minor scars and noted that there was evidence she had broken her leg in early life but seemed to have made a full recovery.

Cause of death was given as smoke inhalation, and it was noted her body hadn’t fully made the conversion from living to living dead. There was no doubt it was the fire that killed her and the reanimation came afterwards.

I took a sip of my coffee and made a face. Bleeurgh, cold. I ordered another one at the counter, keeping half an eye on my table in case anyone decided my backpack looked like it might have something interesting in it.

After the machine finished spitting and steaming, I collected my coffee and went back to the table, where I flipped over the medical report to see Patricia, bless her cotton socks, had inserted three neatly cut newspaper clippings.

The first was a rehash of the fire and showed a slightly yellowed version of the photo of Rosa I’d already seen, but didn’t provide me with any more information. The second was only a few lines and indicated that an arrest had been made in connection with a fire in Wimbledon. The last one was dated almost a year after the fire and confirmed a prison sentence for the arsonist. The name in the headline was familiar but unexpected. It read simply ‘Ogunwale Sentenced Ten Years.’

50

According to the newspaper report, Moses Ogunwale was a man obsessed with the living dead. He’d been six when an outbreak had devoured his village in a part of Nigeria I’d never heard of, turning both his parents into ravenous fiends. The boy survived by climbing a tree and waiting it out until help arrived. He was the sole survivor and was sent to live with the only family he had left—an uncle in Birmingham.

The older Moses was already known to the NRTs. He had thirty-four calls to the emergency line to his name, and each turned out to be nothing at all. Paul Ward had been sent to have a word with him about a year before Rosa died, and the calls stopped. On the day Rosa burned to death, both Adam and Per testified that he had asked Adam to check if his mother was still breathing.

A half-hearted defence was made, testifying to his history and the state of his mental health, but the jury was having none of it and Moses was convicted.

I recalled the old man I’d seen peering out when the NRTs were at the house. The face had looked nervous at all the police standing round, but I’d thought it was the standard guilt that most people got when confronted by police or other figures of authority. Now I was wondering.

I looked at the time on my phone. It was getting close to midday, and the coffee shop was beginning to fill up. I packed up my paperwork, glugged the last dregs of my coffee, and tried not to get annoyed at the people who sat down at the table before I’d even stood up. That would have been completely unfair considering how long I’d been sitting there.

I popped my head into the chippy on the way back to the office, but the suited ghost hadn’t returned. I’d had so much coffee I was sure I could hear sloshing as I walked. But I hadn’t had anything substantial and I was starting to get peckish, so I picked up a box of chips to soak up the caffeine. I sat at the back in my usual seat, taking care to keep my distance from Plague Girl. Not that she was contagious or anything, but dripping sores at close range put me off my food.

I drowned the chips in vinegar and salt then ate them one by one while I watched the ghosts. The Graveyard Theatre only renewed its billing once a week. The ghosts were getting restless. You can only watch
Grease
so many times before your non-brain implodes.

I was very aware of the weight of Rosa’s death file in my backpack. I’d told Per I thought Malcolm’s zombiehood was probably STD based, and he’d just nodded. I remembered thinking he looked uncomfortable. He must have known Rosa was the likely infector, and he hadn’t said anything. I suppose you wouldn’t in the circumstances. He probably thought it had nothing to do with Ben. Except I was sure it did.

My brain whirled. Rosa was murdered. Leslie was murdered. Someone had tried to murder Alister. And then Berenice was murdered. The person I really wanted to speak to was Alister, but I didn’t know where he was.

I did know where to find Moses. He’d been convicted of murdering Rosa, but he couldn’t have killed Leslie or tried to kill Alister—he’d been in prison. I wanted to hear his side of the story.

51

I wish there was some way to claim air miles for the amount of time I spend on one train or another. I’d started out in Sydenham, visited Wimbledon, gone to the office in Croydon, and now I was going back to Wimbledon again. At least it was all south of the river.

It was time someone invented a transporter. I don’t quite like the idea of my whole body being atomised and shot across the city, but I’d take it to save myself yet another journey on public transport in rush hour.

The air inside the packed tram was hot and wet. The windows dripped with condensation; nothing outside was visible. Somehow I managed to drift off, and if it wasn’t for a kind fellow passenger who shook me awake at the end of the line, I would have gone all the way back to Croydon for the return journey.

I stepped off the tram, grateful for the rush of cold air on my skin. I looked at my phone. It was seven thirty and had been fully dark for four hours.

Police tape still smothered the front of Malcolm’s house, and the space where the door should have been had been covered with slatted boards nailed into the frame. There was no sign of anyone about. The Christmas lights were still draped over the house, but they had been switched off and the house was dark.

Next door, the light was on in the front room in Moses’s house. Blue light flickered from a television set. There was no bell or knocker, so I rapped on the door with my knuckles.

The middle-aged woman who opened the door was familiar, and it took a few seconds before I placed her as the neighbour on the other side of Malcolm, the one whose cat had been eaten. She was out of the dressing gown but looked just as comfortable in a mumsy pair of jeans and shapeless cream jumper. She gave me a polite smile.

I showed her my Lipscombe ID. She gave it a cursory glance before handing it back. ‘My name’s Vivia Brisk. I was wondering if I could speak to Mr Ogunwale.’

‘I’m afraid he’s in the bath.’ She gave me a frank, curious look.

‘I don’t mind waiting.’

‘Can I ask what it’s about?’

‘I used to work with Malcolm. I wanted to have a word with him about what happened here. I’d like to talk to you too, if you have the time.’

She perked up, apparently pleased to tell her part in the drama. ‘I already told the police everything I know, but I’m happy to go over it again if you like. Give me a minute, I’ll tell Moses you’re here.’

She introduced herself as Florence Edley, and I followed her inside. The living room she showed me to was beautifully decorated, if a little too floral for my taste. I took a seat in a pastel covered armchair opposite the door and looked around while she went upstairs. China cats and shepherdesses dominated the mantel. The sound on the TV was off, but subtitles to
EastEnders
streamed along the bottom. Half of them didn’t make any sense. Florence came back in after five minutes with a tea tray and a box of shortbread. She set it down, then clicked the TV off with a remote.

‘Hope you like tea. Coffee gives Moses palpitations, so he never has any in the house.’

‘Tea’s lovely.’

A fat black cat the size of a small panther padded into the room, took one look at me, and evidently decided he liked what he saw because he jumped onto my lap with one bound and began kneading at my thighs.

‘Just push him off if he’s a bother.’

She poured tea from a pot into two china cups with pink roses on them. She asked about milk and sugar, and passed me a cup.

‘How long have you been living in the road?’ I asked.

‘Just over five years.’ Not long enough to know Leslie.

‘Can you tell me what happened? I know what the police told me, but it’s always better to have it from the horse’s mouth.’

‘Oh, I know what you mean. I’m so sorry about that poor family. I always quite liked Malcolm. He was so friendly. You don’t see that so much these days. People don’t know their neighbours anymore, but he always had a compliment ready.’ She dunked a piece of shortbread in her cup. It fell off into the tea. She fished it out with a teaspoon.

I’m sure he did.
‘Go on.’

‘It’s such a tragedy. Such a tragedy. And his little boy’s so young to grow up without a daddy. And he was such a good daddy too. He took that boy out to the park every day, sometimes for hours. He had so much patience. I’m sure Jillie appreciated the break, but I don’t think that’s why he did it. He adored that boy.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘Terrible.’

‘Yes, terrible! Poor child. At least Malcolm took his hunger out on the cat.’

‘You were the one who called the police.’

She nodded. ‘I was just standing out on the step at the back having a fag. I don’t smoke in the house anymore. I look after the grandkids during the day and my daughter insists on it. She says the whole house is filled with carcinogens, and all them little particles are still floating around in the air even if I smoke when they’re not here. Personally, I think she’s overreacting, but it’s not such a big thing to smoke out there. I’m down to a pack a day anyway. Another biscuit?’

I took one, and she did the same. Crumbs fell into her cleavage with the first bite, but she didn’t notice. ‘Anyway, I was standing out there with my fag, and I spotted Malcolm next door. At first I couldn’t see what he was doing, but it was weird enough that I didn’t say hello like I usually would. He was running about the garden like he was chasing something—not even paying attention to those nettles. I’m glad the police chopped them down. They were always coming through the fence into my side, and they sting like buggery. I’ve got special gloves for them, but they don’t do much good. Anyway, then he stops, and I see he’s got my cat, my Coco. My first thought was that she’d been shitting in his garden again. It really annoys the people on the other side.’ She pointed. ‘Although why he would care in that jungle, I don’t know. But then he just picks Coco up and takes a bite out of her neck. I don’t know how I didn’t just scream. Maybe because he just got such a chunk that that was it for the poor thing straight off. I was in such shock. I never believed that about zombie teeth, about them being so much sharper, but I do now. No normal person could bite like that. The police took Coco away, you know. They wouldn’t even let me bury her. Said she was evidence.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s all right. She was old. I don’t think she was going to last much longer. She had such bad arthritis. At least it was quick.’

‘What about Ben? Did you see him fly off?’

‘Oh yes, wasn’t that something?’

‘Did you know him well?’

‘Oh no. He was only here over Christmas usually. I’d forgotten what his name was until it was in all the papers. I see they’re claiming he killed that girl. That’s a shame.’

‘Did you ever see her around?’

‘Oh sure. She was over there almost every day before Christmas. Hung off every word the boy said. No idea why. He’s so skinny. When I was a girl that was a right turn off.’

‘When did you see her last?’

‘Don’t know really. Oh, wait, I do. It was Christmas evening. The grandkids were acting up, and I sent them into the garden to let off steam. She was out there talking to Jillie. I told the kids not to talk to her. I know she’s only half and half, but that’s at least half I don’t trust.’

And once again, it came round to Christmas. I’d spent my own Christmas talking Stanley out of a sulk because he’d wanted to put my mother at the table with us and spent the rest of the evening worrying about Sigrid because I couldn’t find the tinsel and thought she might have eaten it. It turned out she had, which made for a somewhat festive nappy change.

Berenice’s foster mother said she went out Christmas day and didn’t come home. Jillie said she hadn’t seen her, but she’d lied. I couldn’t think of any good reasons why she would, but I could think of one very bad one.

A bell sounded from upstairs. ‘I better give Moses a hand, poor thing.’ She hesitated halfway out the door. She lowered her voice. ‘He is a lovely man, but he’s getting on a bit, and he’s a real chatterbox. And a little’—she made a twirling gesture with her hand—’you know. He was in prison, you know. I think that did it for him. It was arson. He burnt down my house. It was rebuilt of course.’

‘What happened?’

‘Oh, apparently he thought the woman living there was a zombie. Crazy old fool. But if you talk to him, he swears blind she really was a zombie so it’s a good thing she burned. But then says he didn’t do it. Doesn’t even realise that doesn’t make any sense. You know his son’s that bloke who cut his legs off? Crazy obviously runs in the family.’

‘Obviously.’ I swallowed the last of my tea. The cat was seriously weighty. I was starting to lose feeling in my legs.

She gave me a nervous smile. ‘I just wanted to let you know you’ll have to be a bit patient with him.’

‘I understand,’ I said.

Moses came down the stairs ten minutes later, holding onto the bannister, Florence right behind him. He wore pyjamas and a dressing gown. She settled him into a chair and poured him a cup of tea, then put the TV remote on the table next to him.

‘I’ve got to get back to feed the cats. You okay to get yourself to bed?’ He nodded. ‘You call if you need anything. You got your mobile?’

He patted the pocket of his gown. She looked satisfied. She let herself out.

Moses took a slurpy sip of his tea, then said, ‘You wanted to ask me about Malcolm?’ His voice was rough and gravelly.

I gave him what I hoped looked like a friendly smile. ‘Actually I wanted to ask about Rosa.’

The teacup stopped halfway to his lips. It shook slightly, then he set it down again.

Before he could say anything, I blurted out, ‘I think whatever happened to Malcolm has something to do with what happened to Rosa. I’m not here to make any judgements or anything like that. I just want to know your side of the story.’

His rheumy eyes met mine. ‘I didn’t kill her. I don’t know who did, but it wasn’t me. She was a nice lady. No one ever believes me.’

‘I believe you,’ I said. ‘Just tell me what happened.’

‘I don’t know. I was home watching TV, and I smelled smoke. I was the one who called 999. They never mention that.’

‘You were alone?’

‘Yes. No. Well, yes. I was by myself, but I had an alibi. A good one. I had a friend on the phone. Leslie, that was Malcolm’s first wife.’

I nodded.

‘We always used to watch the soaps together. She was at her sister’s, but she phoned me and we talked all the way through both episodes. We’d both taped them, and we watched them together. She was going to make a statement to the police for me.’

‘She didn’t make a statement?’ I asked, but I already knew.

‘No. She just ran off after Malcolm cheated on her. She didn’t even say goodbye. She just ran off and left me to go to prison.’