It was almost midnight by the time the police escorted a sober Tony Thorpe to the mortuary, inside Cambridge University Hospital. It was a short drive from his house to the sprawling facility on the outskirts of the ancient town. He was taken in a squad car and as he sat in the back seat, he listened to the police radio reporting petty crime from around the compact tourist attraction, famed for its university spires and colleges. They drove past busy restaurants on the edge of the river Cam and groups of people getting on with their lives, untouched by murder, laughing and embracing casually on a Friday night, unaware of the underbelly of villainy surrounding them. Tony stared, dead-eyed, out at the scenes as they whizzed by. He’d changed into dry, smart clothes to attend the formal identification of his dead wife.
Monika’s name would be released to the press as soon as he’d identified her, but he knew already that it was her. The fat viper on her back, that he loathed so much, was a uniquely distinctive branding. The fact that she hadn’t used her bank account, or her phone, or contacted her mother in Latvia also told him what he already knew.
So far, he hadn’t been arrested, or charged with her murder, but he knew, just as sure as they looked at him with disapproving stares, that it was only a matter of time. His mind drifted to Carrie and he wondered if she’d given a statement. He knew he could count on her for one thing: she wouldn’t compromise him if she had a choice. If she didn’t have a choice, she’d just as surely throw him under the bus. To be fair, he’d do the same. They were identical creatures.
He hated hospitals. He avoided them, believing that illness was as much a sign of weakness as poverty. They parked in an emergency bay and a police officer got out of the car to open his door. Tony got out and felt the night warmth wrap around him, but it was anything but comforting. He was escorted to the entrance, and the driver sped off. He knew what they were thinking: woman goes missing, husband fools around, body turns up, and things get ugly. As time ticked by, all he could think of was how unprepared he was for this.
DI Hunt waited for him in the foyer.
‘Evening,’ Hunt said. Tony could tell that he was enjoying his smug superiority over his prime suspect. He saw the way he’d coveted his home and his cars, and Carrie’s near nakedness.
Tony followed him.
He’d been briefed on the state of her body.
The gravity of what he was about to witness hit him, and he paused for a moment as they entered the busy reception hall. People came and went, some searching for signs to the right ward, others reading posters, and some trailing drips and oxygen tanks with them, looking forward to fresh air as relatives and staff escorted them outside for a cigarette. His desire for some chemical release gripped him and he began to sweat. The noises of a functioning hospital all merged into a low hum and conspired to make his head thump. He worried that people were staring at him, but some part of his rational self was still working and assured him this wasn’t the case at all. It was simply a place of despair and, no matter how odd people looked, they were plainly suffering their own trauma, not reflecting his.
He recoiled from the sight of such sickness.
His escalating heart rate made his Garmin watch sound an alarm. His stress levels were through the roof and the watch told him to sit down and rest. Funny that when he was snorting coke off Carrie’s breasts, the digital computer was quite happy that he was taking care of himself. He figured that if these were his last days of freedom, then such an activity was not a bad way to go out; she had spectacular breasts. But he checked his crassness and squinted against the bright lights, which were glaring at him conspiratorially. He asked himself absently why hospitals couldn’t choose more soothing ways to welcome visitors.
He followed Hunt like an automaton, numb to any sensations apart from his own dread. His internal warning system was in overdrive and it told him to run away. He wasn’t in control and his brain was at a loss as to how to process such an unusual eventuality. He had no idea where he was going. Private hospitals were small and homely places compared to this giant monstrosity of malady.
‘Here,’ Hunt said. They went through a door and took a lift, away from the main corridor, and Tony guessed that the route to the bowels of the facility wasn’t something that was advertised. It was simply a metal door and a shaft down to the basement. He felt the cold now, so unused was he to anything less than thirty degrees for weeks. The cocoon of the lift cubicle was suffocating though, and he sniffed Hunt’s stale body odour. He wrung his hands together and tried to wipe the sweat away from his brow and wished he’d popped a tablet of chewing gum into his arid mouth before they left. His back was drenched and he felt trickles of perspiration run down his spine, despite the coolness once the lift doors opened.
Hunt surveyed him like a hawk on the wing.
The corridor was bright and they stepped out into it. Down here it was quieter, but Tony still felt pressure in his temples. He followed Hunt and they were greeted by an older woman in a white lab coat. She gazed at him sympathetically and Tony took this as a bad sign. Was it because of the state of Monika’s body? Had she already seen what he was about to behold? Or was he misreading her, and she thought he did it?
She introduced herself and he was vaguely aware of shaking her hand but he missed her name, or title. He remembered the last time he’d seen his wife.
‘In here,’ the woman said.
They were led into a room with no windows. She closed the door behind them and through the dim light he could see a window, beyond which was a gurney. On the table was a lumpy figure underneath a white sheet. He knew it was Monika. He turned to Hunt, who stared at him, expressionless.
‘Ready?’ he asked.
Tony nodded. He was on auto pilot.
‘Take your time, Mr Thorpe. I must remind you not to touch the victim.’
Tony nodded.
‘I’ll lift the sheet when you’re ready and all you need to do is nod or shake your head.’ Hunt put on white plastic gloves.
They went into the next room and stood by the table. Tony’s stomach tightened and he thought he might faint. His hands began to shake again and he wished he had a gram of something to calm him. He regretted not accepting Alex’s offer to accompany him. She was the most level-headed person he knew, though he didn’t know many.
‘Can I call someone?’ he asked.
‘Last-minute nerves?’ Hunt asked him. ‘I was told you wanted to come by yourself.’
There was a moment of ludicrous hesitation as his thoughts caught up with his body. Of course he could do this alone.
Hunt went round the side of the gurney and put his hand on one end of the sheet; Tony guessed the head end.
He lifted the sheet and Tony felt his knees give way.