Warren was talking to Ian Bergen in the car park when Janice came and found him, to tell him that Ryan Jordan had just phoned. Warren made it back to his office in record time to return his call.
The pathologist’s voice was weary, his American accent more pronounced than usual.
‘I just finished the PM on the baby.’
Warren steeled himself, the image of the tiny bundle under the leaves flashing back to him. He felt the heat rise in his cheeks.
‘What did you find?’ Warren managed.
‘The remains were almost skeletal, but it’s clear the baby was nonviable. From the size and development of the long bones, I’d estimate between five and six months’ gestation.’
‘How …?’
‘There were traces of what appears to be placental tissue, and the remains of the umbilical cord. I’d say the mother gave birth very prematurely.’ Jordan’s tone was professional, but Warren could hear the tenderness in his voice. ‘We’ll probably never know for sure, but the baby was likely stillborn. Even if it wasn’t, I doubt it survived very long.’
The pathologist’s voice faded into the background, drowned out by the sudden roaring of blood in Warren’s ears. He felt light-headed. Grasping the edge of his desk, he forced himself to focus on Jordan’s voice.
‘… too decomposed to work out the baby’s sex, but a chromosome count will tell us that when they do the DNA. I’ve also taken a sample from the placental material; with any luck we’ll also get a maternal profile.’
Somehow, Warren forced his mouth to thank the man before he hung up.
Six months old. Warren and Susan’s unborn children had been much younger than that, but he still couldn’t get the image of what had lain beneath the leaves out of his head. Would the babies have been recognisable at that stage? How big would they have been? Susan had not yet begun to feel the babies kick and move. Did that mean they were too small or were they already struggling to survive?
Suddenly Warren was on his hands and knees, scrabbling under the desk for the wastepaper bin. He’d eaten hardly anything all day, and the vomit left the taste of acid and coffee in his mouth. Was it too late to hand over the case to someone else?
‘Warren, I need a word.’ John Grayson looked grim, as he ushered Warren into his office. Warren hoped that the mints he had eaten disguised the smell of vomit on his breath. At least he’d managed not to be sick on his tie.
Grayson sat down behind his desk and steepled his fingers. The atmosphere in the room was heavy. Warren braced himself.
‘Joey McGhee. Care to tell me what happened?’
‘He was found dead, from a suspected overdose on Monday.’
‘I see. And this was after your interview with him, the previous Monday.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘Yes.’
‘What happened after the interview?’
Warren sighed. Grayson hadn’t invited him to take a seat or offered him coffee. It was clear that a bollocking was on the cards.
‘I walked him to reception. He had probably missed evening meal down at the Sikh Community Centre and had nowhere to stay that night. I gave him some money so he could buy some food and get into a shelter.’
Grayson looked pained. ‘Christ, Warren, have you taken leave of your senses? The man was a heroin addict, and you gave him money? Money that he then spent on drugs that killed him.’
‘That’s a bit unfair,’ said Warren. ‘I couldn’t have known that he was going to spend it on drugs.’
‘It was a bloody good bet,’ snapped Grayson.
‘When he was found, most of the money was unspent. He didn’t buy enough heroin to kill himself,’ countered Warren, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks.
‘According to his dealer,’ said Grayson, ‘who has something of a vested interest in claiming that she wasn’t responsible.’
‘We believe that he was injected a second time …’
‘By some mysterious northern bloke, that we still don’t have evidence even exists,’ interrupted Grayson.
‘There was only one, single-use needle found with the body, and only one plastic bag …’
‘He’d been lying next to the river for God only knows how long. The bag could have blown away or he could have thrown the needle into the river.’
‘Look, I’m sorry, Sir. It was pissing down with rain that night. He’d missed the last chance to get some food and had nowhere to sleep. He didn’t even have a sleeping bag, after we dismantled his shelter. It was the least I could do. You can’t tell me you haven’t given money to homeless people in need.’
‘Not in the sodding reception area of the police station,’ said Grayson.
Warren sighed. He wasn’t going to win the argument. It wasn’t the first time he’d butted heads with Grayson, and he doubted it would be the last. He decided to take the reprimand on the chin and get on with his day.
‘Yeah, OK. I probably shouldn’t have done. And I feel bad that he used some of that money to feed his habit. I’ll try and be more careful in future.’
Grayson picked a golf ball off the decorative stand at the edge of his desk. He contemplated it carefully, before placing it back where it belonged. Warren steeled himself.
‘It’s not about the drugs,’ Grayson said quietly, ‘as tragic as that was. It’s about you giving money to a key witness in your investigation.’
‘Oh, come on …’
‘Warren!’ snapped Grayson. ‘Let’s suppose this mysterious northern gent does exist. His defence team will have a bloody field day with this. You’ll be accused of bribing a witness.’
‘That’s ridiculous; you know I’d never do that.’
‘It doesn’t matter. It’s about appearances. You’ve potentially scuppered that whole lead.’
‘It won’t come to that,’ said Warren. ‘We have McGhee describing what he saw on video before I gave him any money.’ Warren swallowed. ‘And now he’s dead, he’s not going to be cross-examined by the defence anyway.’
Warren felt dirty even saying it. He’d made an error of judgement, he knew that, and he’d been beating himself up about it ever since. But whilst he would have to live with the tragic outcome of his decision, he could see no way that the defence would ever be able to use the decision against him.
‘Unfortunately, Professional Standards don’t see it that way.’
‘What have they got to do with it?’ asked Warren, incredulously.
‘There’s a video.’
‘What?’
‘The security camera in the reception area picked up the whole exchange. Unfortunately, there’s no sound, and we can’t see your lips, but the two of you are clearly having a conversation, and the footage of you taking money out of your wallet is as clear as day.’
‘I don’t understand …’
‘They received an anonymous tip-off yesterday, and they seized the footage this morning.’
Grayson paused. ‘It doesn’t look good, Warren.’
Warren felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. His knees felt weak.
‘Warren, you’ve been under a lot of strain lately …’
‘That’s not fair …’
‘You were right next to Gary Hastings when he died. Then there’s the health worries about your grandfather, and Tony Sutton. And now the baby …’
‘That’s got nothing to do with how I do my job.’
‘I think it does. I also saw you taking your wastepaper bin down to the gents toilets minutes after receiving a call from Professor Jordan.’
‘What, are you bugging my calls now?’
‘Don’t be bloody silly. Janice stopped me in the corridor and asked if I’d seen you. When did you last see your counsellor?’
‘That’s none of your business,’ snapped Warren.
‘Yes, it is,’ countered Grayson. ‘According to Occupational Health, you haven’t been to see them for weeks.’
‘I haven’t needed to,’ said Warren. ‘I saw them weekly after Gary died, and then after the murders at the abbey. They told me to come back if I felt I needed their support again. I’ve been fine.’
It was a lie, and both men knew it.
‘Warren,’ started Grayson, his voice quiet, almost kind, ‘I’m telling you this as your boss and as your friend. You are not fine. You’re on the edge. You haven’t had a proper day off for weeks, and you’re living off coffee. You look like death warmed over and I think your judgement is impaired. After the incident with the baby in the woods, I should never have let you continue on the case.’
‘That was my decision,’ said Warren.
‘And it was the wrong one.’
‘What are you saying?’ Warren could hear the note of desperation in his voice, but he didn’t care. Grayson was right. Perhaps he had been working too hard, and with all the stress over Granddad Jack, and the babies, he had been feeling a bit overwhelmed. And he knew that he – and the team – were still grieving the loss of Gary Hastings. But he wasn’t letting it impact upon his work. He was too experienced for that, wasn’t he?
‘I’m sending you home.’
‘You’re suspending me?’ Warren felt light-headed.
‘No, I’m sending you home until your head’s straight.’
‘You can’t do that.’
‘I can and I am. You are not to set foot inside here until Monday, after you have been to Occupational Health, and they are satisfied that you are fit to return to work. I will take their views into account when deciding if you should continue on this investigation or move to another case.’
Warren reached out to steady himself on the doorframe. ‘You can’t demand that, you don’t have the right. I’ll speak to Human Resources about it.’
‘Damn it, Warren, don’t make this any more difficult than it already is. I’m doing this for your own good and the good of the investigation. Get yourself home and get some sleep. Arrange some counselling and for Christ’s sake, spend some time with your wife and your family.’