Jason was handling the single PM booked for that day which meant Cassie was able to get on with some admin, starting with the regular inventory of guests in the body store. Winter was always peak season in the mortuary – bad weather and dark evenings brought a spike in road traffic accidents, viruses morphed into pneumonia in elderly lungs – all of which meant a constant battle to prevent a backlog of bodies building up.
As she opened each drawer to check the identity tag on the occupant’s body bag against the inventory she murmured a few words of greeting. ‘Good morning, Mr Khan, you’ll be leaving us tomorrow . . .’ ‘Hello, Mrs Perlman, you’ve got your daughter Becca coming to see you later . . .’ Simple words of human comfort. The way that she hoped a mortuary technician might have treated her mum when her broken body had come in that night twenty-one years ago.
She was impatient to meet Phyllida Flyte that evening. Going by his picture in the local paper, Gerry Hobbs, the investigating officer on her mother’s case had only been in his late twenties in 1997, so he could still be a cop – might even still work at Camden nick. If Flyte could be persuaded to put a word in, maybe he would answer her questions about her mother’s murder – and settle any lingering doubts about her father’s guilt.
Reaching the drawer marked Bradley Daniel Appleton, DOB 06/07/2003, she rolled it out on its castors. ‘I’m going to chase up the toxicology department today, Bradley,’ she told him. ‘Hopefully we can get your mum and dad some closure.’ She pictured Bradley’s girlfriend, Naenia, again – her nerviness, the hair plucking and scarf tugging: the very image of a girl with a guilty secret. Again, she experienced that niggle at the back of her mind: the feeling that Bradley’s death wasn’t a straightforward suicide.
Her check revealed just four unoccupied berths out of twenty-four – which could fill up in a heartbeat with the next surge of check-ins. She’d have to inform the coroner’s office so they could chase up collection of the bodies that had already been autopsied; it was they who paid the mortuary guests’ ‘board and lodging’ – the daily storage fees.
Having made her calls, she changed back into civvies before heading out to buy lunch. On her way down to central Camden she got a call from Kieran, her old squatting buddy.
‘Cass! Can you meet me?’ He sounded so hyped that she wondered for a bad moment if he was using again.
‘What, right now?’
‘Yeah. It’s a surprise!’
He named a backstreet a good way off the main drag, but would say only that their meeting point was ‘a shop’ next to a solicitor’s. On reaching the parade, she realised with a little jolt of excitement why he’d brought her here. Under a storefront sign that read HONEST BOB’S VINYL she could see a half-dozen hipsters inside, their heads bent, expressions as devout at monks at prayer, leafing through racks of old albums. According to her gran, Cassie’s mum had done a stint in a second-hand record shop; Kieran knew she was keen to find out more about her mum. Ipso facto this must be the place where the young Katherine had worked.
Cassie had passed Honest Bob’s many times; it was one of a handful of indie shops and bars that had survived Camden’s colonisation by chain stores and upmarket apartment blocks. Until the vinyl revival came along, the place must have limped along on the custom of a few nerds but now she noticed its recent paint job and the addition of a cafe area with gleaming espresso machine at the back of the shop.
This was where she found Kieran, chatting over coffee with an older guy – tall and lean, wearing a waistcoat, his long steel-grey hair tied back in a ponytail. He had the seamed look of an old rocker but his age was hard to pin down – one of those guys who could be anything between a dissolute late fifties and a well-preserved early seventies. A set of chunky amber-coloured Greek worry beads hung loosely from his right hand.
It wouldn’t have occurred to Kieran to perform introductions, bless him, so she said, ‘Hi, I’m Cassie Raven.’ He introduced himself as Bob, his eyes flicking over her chest before acquainting themselves with her face.
‘“Honest Bob”, I assume?’ she asked.
His half-smile, half-grimace revealed a platinum incisor. ‘It’s what people have called the place since the Stone Age.’ His voice sounded like gravel marinated in Jim Beam.
Kieran stood up. ‘I’m off to have a browse. I’ll leave you two to talk.’
Bob turned to the girl behind the counter. ‘Make us some coffees, would you, darling?’ which gave Cassie the chance to run an eye over him. A repaired hole in one ear from wearing a tunnel piercing and, climbing one side of his neck, the ghost of a lasered-off tattoo. Probably the wrong look when it came to trying to swing a business overdraft at the bank.
‘So you’re Kath and Callum’s daughter? Who’d have thought it?’ He let his gaze rest on her, flipping the worry beads over his knuckles. Clack . . . clack. ‘It was terrible, her dying so young – and a tragic loss for you, of course.’
He sounded insincere, but then people reached for these phrases – overused to the point of being meaningless – because they had no idea what to say to the bereaved.
‘How long did Kath work here?’ asked Cassie, trying out the shortened version of her mother’s name.
‘Now you’re asking . . . Probably about a year, off and on? She was a lovely girl, your mum’ – he flashed his platinum tooth – ‘almost as pretty as you.’
Yecch, she thought, managing what she hoped would pass for a grateful smile.
‘Kath was passionate about music – about everything, really. That girl didn’t do anything by halves.’ The worry beads clacked over his hand. ‘I remember when Van Morrison played Glastonbury, she was desperate to see him but it was sold out. Off she went anyway. When she came back she said she’d got someone to smuggle her through the gate in the boot of their car. It was the same with the whole anti-roads thing.’
‘Oakwood Common, you mean?’
‘Yeah, Oakwood Common. Most people would just go down for the day when there was an action on, you know? Not Kath. Said she was off to go and live there.’
His expression was neutral, but a stillness around his eyes made Cassie wonder if he’d been pissed off at the time.
‘Were you sorry to lose her? I mean, was she good at her job?’
‘She wasn’t the greatest for turning up on time but she knew her stuff – especially new folk, folk rock – that was her bag, really. And her being so pretty didn’t hurt with the customers. But Kath was a free spirit.’ He broke into a rusty chuckle. ‘I just realised something. If it wasn’t for me, you might not ever have been born.’
Cassie just stared at him.
‘A few months after Kath left she came back into the shop with some bloke on her arm. Not Callum’ – he shook his head at her questioning look – ‘and she told me, pleased as Punch, that she’d been made one of the organisers at Oakwood. The guy was her boyfriend, and the pair of them were in charge of putting on a benefit gig down there.’
Another nugget of her mum’s past – she had an eco-warrior boyfriend before she met Callum.
‘She wanted a favour – could I put them in touch with any local bands who might be up for doing a free gig. I gave the guy some numbers, including the manager of your dad’s band.’
‘Barney Cotter.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. Anyway, that’s how Poitín ended up headlining the Oakwood gig a few months later – which is how your mum and dad met. So you see, if I hadn’t made the introduction you might not be here!’
Bob looked chuffed, seeming to have forgotten that his accidental matchmaking had ended in murder.
‘What about after Oakwood Common? Did you see much of her after she came back with Callum?’
‘Not really. After she had you, I only saw her now and again in the street pushing a buggy.’ It was clear from his expression that he’d lost interest once Kath the ‘free spirit’ had morphed into the harassed young mother.
‘She was too young to have a baby, don’t you think?’
‘Well, she didn’t strike me as particularly happy. She’d got very thin, and I dunno, it was like she’d lost her . . . sparkle.’
Cassie allowed the misery to settle within her – her suspicion solidified into a bitter conviction: having a baby had been the biggest mistake of Katherine Raven’s life. She had been happy – sweet and lovable, if a little wild – until Cassie had come along. If she hadn’t got pregnant she might still be alive today.
‘How well did you know Callum?’ she asked.
‘Only by reputation. People whose opinion I respected said Callum Raven could sing and played a tidy lead guitar. I suppose it was inevitable your mum would end up with a good-looking rock musician.’
Picking up a trace of jealousy in Bob’s voice, Cassie was eyeing his face when something landed on the table between them. ‘Look what I found!’ Kieran crowed.
It was an old-school album, the cover showing a moody black-and-white image of two men and a woman, shot beside the canal, which gleamed like mercury in the light. Her father stood at the back, the other two sat on a low wall in front of him, the man – who must be Barney Cotter – in profile, smoking a cigarette, the girl facing camera. Under the picture, in an Irish-style typeface, the single word POITÍN.
Bob leaned forward. ‘That’s a rare one. They pressed it themselves. They had quite a following and I remember there being some chatter about a record deal until . . .’ He didn’t need to finish the thought. ‘Irish folk rock was never really my cup of tea, but it was huge in the 90s, y’know?’
‘I don’t suppose you still have Barney Cotter’s number?’
‘Nah. Afraid not.’ Then he tapped a gnarled nail on the image of the woman, her dark curls cascading around a heart-shaped face. ‘I met her once or twice, good-looking girl. I think she still sings round here, pub gigs. Maria something.’
Cassie turned the cover over. ‘Maria Maguire, vocals.’
‘That’s her. Decent blues voice she had.’
‘I’d like to buy this.’
‘Have it.’ Bob waved a munificent hand. ‘It’s the least I can do for Kath’s girl.’
*
Leaving Kieran paying for an old Metallica album she went outside and took the Poitín album out of its bag. Staring at her dad’s curly hair and long lean face she felt her insides churn like they did after a big love affair went sour.
When Kieran emerged she offered to buy him lunch in return for his sleuthing.
‘Ah, sorry, Cass, I’ve got a webinar on social media for small businesses in half an hour.’
Seeing the way he stood a little taller as he said this, Cassie reached out to squeeze his arm. ‘That’s brilliant, Kieran. I’m so proud of what you’re doing . . . So, how did you find out about my mum working here?’
‘It was a lucky break,’ he said modestly. ‘A mate at the hostel put me on to Bob – said he knew every band who played Camden, going back to the Seventies. But when I mentioned Poitín, he said your mum had worked there and that he’d love to meet you.’
She looked down at the album. ‘I wish I had a way to play this.’
He frowned. ‘I think there might be a record player in the social room at my hostel.’
‘Great! Could you record it for me? I’d love to hear my dad sing and none of their stuff is online.’
‘Sure, Cass, not a problem’ – jerking his head back towards Honest Bob’s. ‘I was chatting to the guy on the till, and guess what?’ A little grin on his face.
She shook her head.
‘Maria Maguire sings at The Dublin Castle every other Wednesday – and she’s on tomorrow. Fancy going?’
‘Yeah, love to.’ But the chance to meet someone who had known her dad – and probably her mum, too – set up conflicting emotions. Excitement, but with an edge of panic – like she was walking in slow motion into a quagmire from which she might never escape.
Kieran must have seen something in her face because his perpetual smile faded to a look of concern and he gave her shoulder a rub. ‘Are you doing OK, Cassie Raven? All this stuff about your poor mum, that’s some pretty heavy shit you’re churning up.’
‘I’ll survive.’ She dredged up a grin. ‘Remember what you used to call me, back when we were squatting?’
‘Yeah!’ he chuckled. ‘“Teflon”. You were the youngest one there but you were the toughest one of us all.’
‘There you go.’ She smiled reassuringly.
Then a thought struck her: Teflon was unarguably tough – but it was just a layer.