Trick of the Dark (25 page)

'You wouldn't have to be a psychologist to work out that music's very important to me,' Nick said, a sardonic twist to his mouth. 'I'll get the wine.'

Charlie watched him disappear into a narrow galley kitchen. He was looking good, she thought. When she'd first met him, he'd resembled the king of the alley cats - skinny, feral, vibrant and good-looking in the piratical style. He'd filled out a bit, built some muscle round his basic wiriness, learned how not to frighten the horses. His jeans were slung low on his narrow hips, his shirt unpressed, his hair shaggier than the last time they'd met. He did not look like an off-duty cop. That was one of his professional strengths. He returned with a bottle of chewy red wine and a couple of tumblers, giving her that familiar twinkling smile, brown eyes crinkling at the corners. 'You look well,' she said.

'It's an illusion. I need a holiday. I'm tired all the time.' He perched on the edge of a high wooden stool and poured wine, passing a glass to Charlie. 'Cheers.' He leaned forward to clink glasses and she got a whiff of his smell-a faint animal muskiness overlaying the citrus sharpness of shampoo.

'Too much work or too much play?'

He chuckled. 'Too much playing.' He jerked a thumb towards the guitars. 'The more shit I see in the job, the more I want to lose myself in the music. But never mind me.' He shook his head. 'Are they out of their minds, or what? Axing the best profiler and analyst in the game? I cannot believe what's happening to you.'

'You should. You've been in the game long enough.'

'So what can I do to help? That's why you're here, right? For my help?'

His eagerness made her feel cherished in a way that little had since Bill Hopton's second trial. 'I wish my professional problems were straightforward enough that you could help,' she said. 'But the reason I'm here is totally different.'

Nick's eyes turned wary. 'You came for the cop, not the friend?'

'I like to think they're both on my side,' Charlie said. 'Let me tell you what I've got myself into.' She outlined the task she'd accepted from Corinna succinctly, leaving nothing out except her discussion with Lisa Kent. The last thing she wanted was to introduce the subject of Lisa with someone as acute as Nick. 'Maria wants me to take this on,' she finished up. 'She thinks I need something challenging to keep me from going mad. But I don't have the skills or the access for this.'

Nick gave her a sceptical look. 'You've got the skills,' he said. 'No question of that. I've never seen a better interviewer. But you're right, access is a problem.'

'Right. If I'm going to make any progress with Jess Edwards, I need that inquest report. I've got no authority to get sight of it. But you have.'

Nick shook his head and Charlie felt suddenly numb. She'd thought she could rely on Nick, but it seemed she'd been mistaken. It was a harsh blow. But when he spoke, it wasn't what she expected. 'You don't need the inquest report.'

'How else do I make progress?'

'If anything of any substance had come out in court, it would have made it into the paper. My guess is that this was written up as an accident from the get-go, that it barely rippled the surface of CID. There's not going to be anything in the police evidence and there's not going to be a copper walking around with this case engraved on his memory. The one person who might have something to say - and it's a big "might" - is the pathologist. Sometimes they notice things that don't end up in their final report because they're too insignificant. Or they're details that are unnecessary for the legal resolution of a case. The only thing you need from the inquest report is the name of the pathologist who did the PM.'

'So how do I get that?'

Nick smirked. 'You don't. I do. I'll call the county archives and blag it out of them.'

'You don't mind?'

'It'll make a nice change.' He looked away. 'I'm working on trafficking kids in the sex industry right now. Anything that isn't that feels like a holiday. I'll do it first thing tomorrow. I need to make the call from work so they can call back and check my bona fides, otherwise I'd do it now. Will you still be in Oxford?'

Charlie's spirits sank. Oxford with no prospect of whiling away the hours with Lisa. Because she couldn't let that be an option now, however much it hurt to turn her back, not given what she'd seen earlier. She sighed. 'Yeah, I'll still be there.'

'OK. I'll call you as soon as I have what you need.' He leaned over and topped up her glass. 'You want to hear what I've been working on?'

Charlie couldn't help smiling, admiring his bounceback skills. 'Why not?' she said. It had to be better than listening to the arguments inside her head.

15

Tuesday

O
thers might fail her, but Nick hadn't let Charlie down. Just after ten, he texted her with all she needed to know. Dr Vikram(Vik) Patel. Still @ John Radcliffe Hosp. At least Dr Patel was local. She could try to talk to him today then get out of Oxford before the depression that was nibbling at her really took hold.

Listening to Nick's multitextured guitar compositions had been the last enjoyable element in her day. The train had been overheated and overcrowded, the Chinese takeaway she'd picked up on her way back to her cheerless guest room at Schollie's had been greasy and bland, and Maria had been out at the cinema with a colleague so she couldn't even whinge to her. By the time they'd been able to talk, Charlie had been too tired to be bothered. The one thing she could point to with pride was that she hadn't gone near Lisa. Hadn't phoned her, texted her, emailed her or even checked her Facebook page.

In spite of her exhaustion, she'd slept fitfully. She'd almost fallen out of the narrow bed at one point, waking just before her body reached the tipping point. 'I can't even manage to lie in bed now,' she said aloud. 'Is it just me or is everything shit?' By any objective measure, she had to concede it was just her. Sometimes she wished she could acquire a taste for drugs. At least that would keep the world at a distance.

Breakfast had been an ordeal. Faces from her student days kept drifting past her or stopping to say hello. From kitchen staff to college fellows, it seemed she'd made more of an impact than she knew. Or maybe it was just that they all read the
Daily Mail
and it was notoriety jogging their memory rather than affection. Of course, they were all curious to know why she was there. Luckily Oxford's personnel and libraries always provided the easy answer of 'doing some research'. Even the disgraced could hide behind that excuse.

As she'd been leaving the dining hall, Corinna had walked out of the Senior Common Room opposite. A furtive glance to see how close any observers might be, then Corinna hurried across to her. 'How are you getting on?' she said. Her face looked strained, her eyes tired. Charlie imagined things had not been particularly pleasant in the Newsam household since Magda's Saturday revelations.

'It's not easy,' Charlie said. 'You'd have been better off hiring a private investigator.'

Corinna gave her a shrewd look. 'They wouldn't understand the way you do. And they wouldn't have anything at stake. I've got confidence in you, Charlie. I know you will do whatever you can to protect my daughter. Just keep me posted, eh? A quick phone call every day, that should do it, right?'

'I'm sorry, Corinna, but that's not going to happen,' Charlie said firmly. 'I don't do my best work when I feel like somebody's looking over my shoulder. Leave me to get on with things in my own way, and I'll talk to you when I have something to say.' The door of the SCR opened and two other fellows emerged. It signalled the end of their conversation and spared Charlie from getting into an argument.

'We'll talk soon,' Corinna said, frustration drawing her brows down.

'When I'm ready.' Charlie walked away, wondering again how she'd let herself be sucked into this.

By the time Nick's text arrived, she was prowling round the remains of the boathouse, checking out the scene of the alleged crime for herself. It had changed dramatically since Jess's death, replaced now by a more modern facility on the Isis. The wood was grey with untended age, the dilapidation far advanced. Charlie was surprised the college hadn't demolished it on the notorious grounds of health and safety. But enough remained for her to conjure up its image. The main change, apart from the state of disrepair, was that famous non-slip surface. It covered all the exposed wood of the decking, its bright green faded now to a dull mud colour, its edges nibbled at by the passage of time. Evidentially, this was a meaningless visit. But it made more vivid the hazy images of memory. Charlie could envisage the scene much more clearly now.

And then the text had arrived that gave her no more excuse to hang around Schollie's. Charlie took the Marston Ferry Road towards the John Radcliffe Hospital, trying out various strategies in her head as she drove. She had confidence in none of them. Only if Vik Patel had been living on Mars for the past year did she have any chance of getting him to talk to her.

Like most hospitals, the John Radcliffe did not advertise the location of its mortuary on the maps conveniently provided for patients and visitors. Charlie headed for the information desk and mustered her best smile. 'I'm looking for Dr Vikram Patel, the pathologist. I wonder if you could direct me to the autopsy suite?' By one of fortune's lucky oversights, nobody had asked her to surrender the Home Office ID card she had been given to allow her entry to police premises. She slid it in front of the woman on the information counter, who gave it a cursory glance. She pulled a map towards her and scribbled on it, then passed it to Charlie. 'You're here. You need to be here.' She pointed. 'There's the entrance, the lifts are down the hall.'

Charlie couldn't quite believe her luck. She'd expected a knock-back; at the very least, a call to Dr Patel to check whether she was expected. Perhaps it was because she'd taken the trouble to look like a medical professional, with her best suit and laptop bag slung over her shoulder. It almost made her feel she was on a roll.

The building that housed the mortuary was either pretty new or had recently been refurbished. It didn't have that slightly scuffed, entirely unloved feeling that Charlie associated with NHS premises. The walls were clean, the doors fit properly and the signs on the doors were all in the same font. She followed the directions and ended up in a tiny reception area with two chairs facing a desk that barely had room for the monitor and keyboard that formed a barrier between the public and the receptionist, a scrawny man in his early twenties dressed in pale blue surgical scrubs. Not for the first time, Charlie thought she had never encountered anyone whose appearance was improved by scrubs. Real life was never like
ER
in that respect.

The receptionist didn't look up when Charlie entered. His eyes were focused on the monitor, his freckled fingers flying over the keys. It took her a moment to realise that under the thatch of springy ginger hair, he had ear buds that were presumably pumping dictation directly into his brain. She moved closer and waved a hand at him.

He started and pushed back from the desk as if she'd physically hit him. 'Jeez,' he said, yanking the ear phones clear. 'You nearly gave me a heart attack.'

'Sorry,' Charlie said. 'I'm looking for Dr Patel. Vik Patel.'

The young man frowned. 'Is he expecting you? Only, he's doing an autopsy right now.'

Charlie made a rueful face. 'I know I should have phoned ahead. But I found myself in the area and I thought I'd take the chance.' She smiled. 'Any idea how much longer he's going to be?'

The young man looked surprised, as if nobody had ever asked such a question before. 'Can I ask who you are?' Charlie produced the ID again. This time, it was carefully scrutinised. Blank-faced, he said, 'What is it that you want to see Dr Patel about, Dr Flint?'

'I want to talk to Dr Patel about an old case,' she said. 'I won't take up much of his time.'

'I need to go and see what's possible,' he said. He glanced at her, frowning again, and closed down his computer before he left by a door in the back of the room. Charlie sat down on one of the visitor chairs, crossed her legs, and waited.

It took almost ten minutes for the young man to return. 'If you can hang on for quarter of an hour, Dr Patel will meet you.' He stared at her, as if committing her face to memory in case he needed to take part in an identity parade at some point down the line.

Charlie smiled. All this pleasantness was starting to hurt her face. 'Thank you. That'll be fine.'

In the end, it took almost twenty-five minutes for the door at the back of the room to open again. A short, squat Asian man in green scrubs appeared in the doorway and stared at Charlie. He ran a hand over thick black hair brushed straight back from his forehead in an impressive quiff and his mouth twitched. 'You're Dr Flint?' he said.

Charlie stood up. 'That's right. Dr Patel?'

'Call me Vik,' he said. 'Come through. We'll need to make this quick. I've got another autopsy before lunch.'

Charlie followed him into another unspoiled corridor. Halfway down, he wheeled left into a cubicle office. One internal wall was a long window that looked on to a pathology suite. A technician in a white overall and rubber boots was methodically cleaning surfaces. Patel tutted and pulled the blinds down. 'Have a seat,' he said, gesturing to a folding chair squeezed into a corner at the end of his desk. Neat piles of paper flanked a flashy laptop. A stainless steel Thermos and a phone sat beside the computer. Charlie couldn't imagine a life that involved being constantly up to your elbows in human remains, but she did envy Vik Patel his obvious capacity for neatness.

He pushed black-rimmed glasses up his nose and gave Charlie a puzzled stare. Closer up, she could see a few strands of silver in his hair and fine lines in his tea-coloured skin. He was older than she'd thought at first. 'I'm bemused,' he said. 'You're a psychiatrist, right?'

That detail wasn't on her ID. They'd either recognised her name or quickly Googled her. But still Patel had decided to see her. That was probably a point in her favour. 'That's right,' Charlie said, on her guard nevertheless.