Phil almost ran into the room. ‘I got here as quick as I could.’
Sperring, sitting on a chair, looked up from reading the Daily Mail. ‘It’s all right. Our pal’s not going anywhere.’ He went back to his paper, ignoring Phil.
Phil stood there trying not to bunch his hands into fists. ‘So what are the findings?’ No response. ‘Obviously if you think it’s more important to find out how gay Kosovan refugee benefit-scroungers are coming to take your job and undermine your way of life, you just keep on reading.’
Sperring gave a last glance at his paper, folded it and stood up. ‘You’re very funny. Sir.’
Phil didn’t rise to it. ‘The post-mortem?’
Sperring, disappointed not to be having a confrontation, said, ‘This way,’ then turned and walked off along the corridor. Phil followed.
The halls of the mortuary were like every other mortuary Phil had been in. Bare and cold. He heard occasional snatches of pop songs and radio jingles as he walked, incongruous bursts of life that just made their surroundings all the more deathly. At least that was how he felt. He had never been comfortable with this aspect of the job.
‘So where were you when I called?’ asked Sperring.
‘I’d just been to the letting agents,’ said Phil.
Sperring grunted.
‘Apparently Glenn McGowan had a wife. We can give her a call when we’ve finished here. I’ve got some files about the house too. Letting agreements, that kind of thing.’
‘Give them to the juniors. Got to earn their keep somehow.’
‘There’s something else,’ said Phil. Sperring didn’t reply. Phil went on. ‘The boss of the letting agency. Something about him. Red flag.’
‘Yeah?’ Sperring couldn’t have sounded more uninterested if he’d tried.
‘Yeah. Name of Ron Parsons.’
Sperring stopped walking. Turned to face Phil. ‘Ron Parsons? You sure? Older guy, suit and braces type. Trilby.’
‘There was a trilby hanging up in the office. He was wearing the braces.’
‘Jesus bloody Christ. There’s a name from Jurassic times. Ron bloody Parsons.’
‘Who is he?’
Sperring opened his mouth as if about to tell all. Before he could, something flitted across his eyes. ‘Long story. All you need to know is Ron Parsons is as bent as bloody fuck.’
Before Phil could say anything else, Sperring stopped in front of a heavy industrial rubber and plastic door. ‘Through here.’ He opened it, and let it fall back on to Phil as he walked through. Phil managed to catch it before it connected with his face. He followed Sperring into the room.
White-tiled walls, angled cement floor with drainage channels and gratings. Stainless-steel body-shaped beds. And on several of the beds were plastic-sheet-covered bodies. The cutting room.
Esme Russell, wearing her blood-smeared work clothes, entered from her office at the far end of the room. ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ she said, smiling.
‘Very cheerful,’ said Sperring.
‘That’s because you’re here, handsome,’ she said, laughing.
Sperring, Phil noticed, reddened.
She turned to Phil. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘have we got something interesting for you.’
‘Good interesting or bad interesting?’ asked Phil.
‘Depends what you make of it. Come on.’ She walked along the rows of bodies, coming to a stop before the final one in the row. ‘I bumped this up. I know I said I couldn’t, road accidents and all that, but once I’d got it back here and taken a good look, I thought I’d better.’
‘Why?’ asked Phil.
She pulled the sheet back. ‘See for yourself.’