Secret Sins: A Callie Anson (8 page)

Fair enough: a Detective Sergeant could look into a missing person, but when a dead body was involved, a more senior officer was called for. Still, Neville felt sorry for Cowley. ‘Never mind, chum,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll be the one with the headaches, then.’

‘Headaches, for sure, Guv.’ Cowley gave him a grim smile. ‘As crime scenes go, this one isn’t the greatest. We don’t even know that it
is
the crime scene. He could have gone in anywhere along the canal.’

Neville watched the white-suited SOCOs in action, going about their business—taking photos, crawling on their hands
and knees looking for evidence. ‘He drowned, I suppose?’ he asked the sergeant.

‘The doc said so. Water in the lungs. Won’t know for sure till he gets him on the slab, of course.’

Something didn’t quite add up, as far as Neville was
concerned
. ‘Are we sure it’s a crime?’ he demanded. ‘How do we know that he didn’t lose his footing in that wretched rain, and just fall in?’

‘He’s been bashed on the head,’ Cowley stated matter-
of-factly
. ‘Before he went into the water. I saw him—it wasn’t an accident. I didn’t need the pathologist to tell me that. Neither did Evans. That’s why he’s put you in charge.’

‘Bloody hell.’ He glanced at the bank of the canal, where a sheet concealed what was left of the victim. ‘And are we sure it’s our man? Trevor Norton?’

Cowley took the gum out of his mouth, wrapped it in tissue, and popped a fresh piece before replying. ‘He’s not carrying any ID, if that’s what you mean, Guv. But he fits the description. White male, late twenties. Wearing running gear. Expensive trainers.’

‘And the iPod?’ Neville asked, remembering Cowley’s
covetous
expression the day before.

‘No iPod.’ Cowley gave a sage nod. ‘I know it’s your case now, Guv. But if I was in charge, that’s what I’d be looking for. I think the poor bugger was killed for his iPod.’

Morag made a fuss over Bella, which endeared her to Callie. ‘I do miss Macduff,’ the older woman confided. ‘He was such a grand little dog. Small dog, big heart.’

‘Would you think about getting another dog?’ Callie
suggested
. ‘Lots of people in London have dogs. And we’re so close to Hyde Park.’

Morag walked along the pavement beside Callie, looking straight ahead. ‘When Macduff died, I thought I’d never get another dog,’ she stated, her words visible as soft puffs of mist
in the cold morning air. ‘Too much…pain. Losing him. Then, lately, I started thinking about how much company it would be to have one.’

‘Well, then.’ Callie was enthusiastic. ‘I’m sure you could get a rescue dog. Or if you wanted one like Macduff—he was a Cairn, wasn’t he? There must be breeders somewhere. I could look on the internet.’

‘No.’ Morag shook her head. ‘No, it wouldn’t be fair to the dog.’

‘But like I said. It’s not a big deal to have a dog in London. And you’re at home most of the time, aren’t you?’

Morag stopped; Callie, pulling on Bella’s lead, stopped as well and swung round to face her.

At last Morag turned towards Callie, and Callie could see that there were tears in the other woman’s eyes—tears which began to spill over and trickle down her weathered cheeks. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Callie said, stricken. ‘I didn’t mean to bully you or anything.’

‘I’ve been to the doctor,’ Morag said, so quietly that Callie strained to hear. ‘That’s why it wouldn’t be fair to get a dog. I…’ Her voice caught on a sob. ‘I have cancer.’

It was a part of his job that Neville hated: breaking the bad news to family members. But now that he was in charge of the case, it was up to him to tell Rachel Norton about the body in the canal. And it couldn’t be put off, either; once he’d done everything he could at the crime scene, and the body had been removed to the mortuary, he would need to escort Rachel Norton, as
next-of
-kin, to provide formal identification.

‘God, Sid,’ he said as they approached the Victorian semi. ‘Times like this, I wish I still smoked. I could use a fag right now.’

‘Me, too, Guv,’ Cowley stated glumly. ‘It’s been—’ He
consulted
his watch. ‘It’s been thirty-seven hours and twenty-two minutes since my last fag.’

‘But who’s counting, eh?’ Neville sighed. ‘What if she goes into labour or something? We need to get a woman FLO here right away.’

They had reached the Nortons’ home. Just before Neville pushed the bell, he and Cowley looked at each other and said the name together. ‘Yolanda Fish.’

‘Ring her on your mobile,’ Neville directed. ‘Get her to meet us at the mortuary, if it’s humanly possible.’

He waited with his finger hovering over the bell, glad of even a brief reprieve, until Cowley had done as he’d been told, and nodded in confirmation. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She’ll be there.’

‘Thank God for that,’ Neville muttered, giving the bell a savage push.

It didn’t take long for Rachel Norton to answer the door. It was almost as if she’d been waiting just the other side of it since they’d taken their leave of her nearly twenty-four hours earlier. Her eyes were shadowed, and looked huge in her pale face. She moistened her lips with her tongue. ‘Come in,’ she said in a voice that was already heavy with tears, stepping to one side to allow them through.

Once again they followed her into the sterile lounge. Neville declined her offer of a seat, preferring to deliver the news
standing
up. But he gestured for her to sit down.

Obediently she sat, looking from Neville to Cowley. She opened her mouth as if to say something, then shut it again and sighed.

‘Mrs. Norton,’ Neville began. God, how he hated doing this. ‘I’m afraid we may have some bad news for you.’

Morag Hamilton shivered and pulled her coat closer. ‘Do you mind if we keep walking?’ she said. ‘It’s awfully cold this morning.’

Callie’s impulse was to give Morag a hug, but her body language discouraged it. Instead she fell into step beside her, heading towards Hyde Park. ‘When did you…when did you find out about the cancer?’ she asked awkwardly.

‘Yesterday. The consultant rang with the test results. I’d
suspected
for a while, of course. You do, don’t you? If you know your own body. Especially if,’ Morag added with an ironic smile, ‘you’ve spent most of your life married to a doctor.’

‘What…what did he say?’ She didn’t want to pry, didn’t want to press her with questions that Morag wouldn’t want to answer. Questions like ‘What sort of cancer is it?’ or ‘Have they caught it in time?’ or ‘How long are they giving you?’ Better to let Morag take the lead, and tell her only as much as she wanted her to know.

‘Actually, my consultant is a she,’ Morag corrected her.

Callie felt foolish: she, of all people, should know better than to make assumptions about professions and gender. She glanced at Morag and caught another shiver. ‘Listen, if you’d rather go to a caff and warm up with a coffee—’

‘I’m all right.’ She smiled. ‘Wee Bella wouldn’t be best pleased with that. Look at her—she’s having a grand time.’

The worst ones, thought Neville, were the ones who screamed and shouted and refused to believe what they were being told. Rachel Norton wasn’t like that. She sat very still, her arms wrapped round her huge belly, and shook with silent sobs.

He stood awkwardly, wishing like anything that Yolanda Fish were there. Sid Cowley, in his new subordinate role, wasn’t proving very useful. It was if he had opted out: your case now, Guv. You deal with it.

Neville caught Cowley‘s eye and mouthed the word ‘tea.’

Cowley appeared grateful for the chance to escape; he headed for the back of the house.

To Neville the room seemed stuffy and overheated, its
radiator
chugging away efficiently. After the damp chill outside, it was like a hothouse in there. Neville felt a trickle of sweat down the middle of his back. He closed his eyes, unable to bear the sight of Rachel Norton’s distorted face. Her eyes were screwed up, her mouth twisted. She wasn’t having the baby right here on the spot, was she?

After what seemed like an age, Sid Cowley returned with an inexpertly assembled tea tray and put it down on the coffee table. At least he’d remembered the sugar. Neville poured the tea into an incongruous Homer Simpson mug and spooned in three sugars.

Rachel Norton just looked at him, still saying nothing. She made no effort to take the mug from him when he held it out to her, forcing Neville to kneel beside her and wrap her hands round it, guiding it to her mouth. ‘Drink it,’ he ordered. ‘It will do you good.’

She complied with a sip, then grimaced. ‘I hate sweet tea.’

‘It’s good for shock.’

‘Too hot. Too sweet.’ Rachel’s words caught in her throat. Another gush of tears followed. ‘Trevor likes…liked…two sugars.’

There was nothing to say to that.

‘His favourite mug,’ Rachel added, swallowing hard. ‘Homer Simpson. His hero.’

On the mug, the round-bellied man with yellow skin and three hairs on the top of his head held up a can of beer. ‘Everything’s better with Duff,’ it proclaimed.

‘There’s a chance that it’s treatable,’ Morag said in her
matter-of
-fact way. ‘They’re not making any promises, of course, but it isn’t totally hopeless.’