Chapter 11

The redbrick building was next to a patch of rough grass. A single tree had shed its leaves, but the sun was shining and the expression glad to be alive ran through Erin’s mind and for an instant she was filled with guilt that she was alive and the rest of her family were dead. Except for the baby. She was her closest relative now and she desperately needed her to survive.

Outside the entrance to the mortuary, a couple of cars had been parked so carelessly there was no space for anyone else. The policewoman glanced in her mirror and swung round, pulling up in a “no parking” area next to a battered grey van, with whatever logo had been on its side, painted out a darker shade of grey.

‘All right?’ The policewoman said her name was DS Smith. ‘Maria, please call me Maria’. That was the only piece of information she had provided during their short journey. That and the fact she had hoped Erin would be accompanied by a friend or relative.

‘I prefer to do this on my own.’

‘Fair enough.’ Then, afraid she had sounded a little harsh. ‘Yes, I can understand how you feel. You’ve been through a lot these past few weeks.’

It was Ollie, she was sure of it, and seeing him, facing the reality of his death would be unbearable but also, if she was honest with herself, almost a relief. She was worn out, speculating where he might have gone, and whether he was dead or alive. No, that was wrong. Not a relief. His death would turn Claudia’s accident into a double tragedy.

She could have let Jon come with her to the mortuary. Someone to share the ordeal. When she said she wanted to go on her own, his face had fallen – perhaps he thought he had more right than she did to identify Ollie’s body – but if it was Ollie, it was partly her fault. She should have gone along with what he wanted for Claudia and the baby. But how could she?

Already – she would not have admitted this to anyone – she was planning what would happen to the baby. She would keep her, love her, teach her how to draw and paint, bring her up as her own. But supposing they stopped her, they being social workers. She would have to be vetted and the fact that she was single would go against her. Or would it? Single women were allowed to adopt these days. But how could she afford to look after a child? If Claudia had not made a will what would happen to the house? Was it mortgaged up to the hilt? She ought to check, look in her desk again, search through her papers.

Whatever she found, she would sort it out somehow. For the sake of the baby. Her baby. Unless someone else came forward, claiming to be the father.

‘Right then.’ DS Smith sprang out of the car and opened the passenger door. ‘I should warn you, when we go inside there’ll be an unpleasant chemical smell. If you feel faint let me know. There may be a short wait but we can get some coffee from the machine.’

Don’t worry about me, Erin wanted to say, I’m used to chemical smells. Much of my time is spent with the sick and dying, apart from when I retreat to the safety of my flat. Was her flat safe? Lately, Claudia’s house had felt empty and inhospitable, and at night she heard sounds that could come from the street but could equally well mean someone had got in and was prowling about. Clicks and creaks. Tapping noises. A branch banging against a window? Except there was no wind. She thought about the basement flat that Jennie had let to the “smartly-dressed woman from London”, and wondered if a basement would be preferable, and thought it might be.

As soon as they entered the mortuary building, questions flooded into her head. Who would show her the body? Would it be pulled out on a freezer tray? Would there be blood, injuries, or would only the head be visible?

DS Smith gave her a half-smile, appropriate to the situation. ‘This way. I’ll tell them who we are and then we wait to be called. There’s always a short delay.’

Erin had expected to feel fear. Fear that it was Ollie or fear of death itself? Her squeamishness about dead mice and birds could be seen as a fear of death. Claudia had laughed about it. Honestly, Erin, you’re so sensitive. It’s only a dead bird. Or a mouse. Or once it had been a rat.

The waiting room was too large. Surely only one person at a time was allowed into the building. Instead of the dread she expected, she felt nothing. All her emotions had closed down as though she had been drugged. It was a task to be done. She was a character in one of those gruesome television series, walking down a tiled corridor, pausing while someone came out and ushered her into an ice cold laboratory.

Naturally, it was nothing like television. They sat in the waiting room for what felt like an age and she started to panic as she struggled to remember what Ollie looked like. Fair hair, small nose, firm chin. Did he have a firm chin? And what colour were his eyes? Brown, she thought, or grey, but they would be closed, at least she hoped they would. She had only known him for a few months, and had never studied his face closely, but even if you were unable to recall the details of how someone looked, you recognised them instantly, even from quite a distance, the shape of their body, the way they walked.

Ollie would be still, lying on his back with skin as white as dough. Why dough? Why had she thought of dough? Because no one’s skin was pure white, not even when they were dead.

She wanted to ask if he had carried a donor card. He had a social conscience – it was one of the things Claudia loved about him – but he was too young to imagine his own death.

‘Do you know how he died?’ she asked, her voice sounding too loud in the silent room.

DS Smith hesitated. ‘He was found hanged.’

‘Oh.’ It was not what Erin had been expecting. An overdose. She realised she had assumed he would have taken a lethal dose of painkillers. ‘So it was definitely suicide.’

‘It looks that way.’

Looks that way? But it was too late to ask any more. A man, wearing a white jacket had come to fetch them and, picking up her bag, she swallowed hard, trying to compose herself. She agreed to be escorted to the end of another tiled corridor, where they entered a small room with a bright light and a single bench, and where a body lay, covered by a sheet. The walls were bare. Of course they were. What kind of pictures could there be? More stupid thoughts raced through her brain. Did some poor person come in early and clean the place each morning? How many more corpses were lying in the freezer compartments?

After a few moments, to allow her to acclimatise she supposed, she was asked if she was ready and she nodded, watching as the sheet was drawn back to reveal the head and neck, and the top of pathetically bony shoulders.

His neck was marked – by a rope, or had he made an improvised noose from his clothes – but his face was smooth and unblemished and he looked so young and, like Claudia in her hospital bed, if he had not been so unnaturally still, he could have been asleep. Erin forced herself to study his face, although there was no need. His hair stood up in tufts and there were freckles on his nose.

It was not Ollie.

As she turned away, shaking her head, it occurred to her they thought she was too shocked to speak, and she felt obliged to take another heart-breaking look. ‘It’s not him,’ she said, ‘it’s not Ollie.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Certain.’ Her voice cracked and DS Smith reached out a hand as though she feared she was going to faint.

‘Thank you for your help.’ She nodded to the pathologist. ‘Come on, I’ll drive you home.’