the photographers, together with halogen lamps from the garage. Throughout all their measured, meticulous activity, the snow continued to fall, thick and fast, coating everyone and everything. It laid a spuriousmantle of innocence over the scene, disguising its real character beneath a spotless veneer.
Recognising one of the cameramen as he shook his head free of its white thatch, Alice asked to see the images that he had taken of the victim’s face. In the biting cold, he showed her, shivering theatrically to hurry her along. But it was academic. She knew, in her heart of hearts, before seeing a single picture, that the dead woman would be Annie Wright. And, sure enough, her pale features had been captured by the camera. Her soul, lost.
‘Seen enough?’ the man asked gently, brushing the snow from Alice’s shoulders as she continued to gaze at the face, deep in thought.
Walking down a corridor formed by parallel rows of rusting gas cylinders, the dismembered entrails of a digger littering her route, she spotted the DCI, tucked behind a skip, hugging herself, trying to keep warm in the raw wind. She was in conversation with someone, and every time she spoke a cloud of pale vapour billowed from her mouth like smoke from a small dragon, followed immediately by an answering puff from the other person. Suddenly catching sight of her sergeant, she hollered across, ‘What news?’
‘We can identify the victim, Ma’am,’ Alice called back, finding that even forming the words was an effort in the biting cold, her mouth numb, lips curiously inflexible. ‘It’s Annie Wright, the prostitute who was raped a couple of months ago. I told you about her, remember – the trial that went ahead not so long ago and we lost? I’ve just seen a photograph and it’s her.’
Elaine Bell closed her eyes. ‘Christ Almighty! All hellwill be let loose now. They’ll think it’s another bloody Ipswich . And it can’t be the sodding priest this time, either, we’ve had him babysat ever since we let him go.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Dr Zenabi began, stepping away from the skip and finding himself interrupted instantly.
‘What d’you mean, Ahmed, ‘not necessarily?’ the inspector demanded.
Taken aback by her intensity, and with an uneasy smile on his face, he mumbled, ‘Nothing. Well, we’ll see at the PM, eh?’
The kitchen was tiny, lit by a single, bare light bulb, and smelt faintly of stale gas. Diane led her into it, puzzled that a policewoman should call on them at such an hour. But she showed no signs of concern, her fingers travelling deftly on her play station as she walked.
‘It’s about your mum,’ Alice said, already feeling sick to her stomach.
The girl looked up from the flashing screen and replied, in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘She’s oot the noo. I’ve been away at Aviemore on a school trip the last three days, got back at tea-time. She’ll no’ be hame till later, but I can phone her if it’s important, like.’
No, she won’t. No, you can’t, Alice thought, still saying nothing but preparing herself for her role as the bearer of bad news, the destroyer of happiness. And the task became no easier for her however many times it had been done, and practice did not seem to make perfect. Over her ten years in the force she had been chosen as the herald of death nineteen times, and remembered every single occasion. Each differed from the others, but they were all, without exception, horrible. Parents weeping over theloss of a child, husbands over wives, sisters over brothers . And most other combinations, too. All of them, when linked with the word ‘death’, bringing about the collapse of small worlds, the ending of any pure, unmingled joy.
Old Mrs Wilson had been no exception, her grief as real as all the rest. But this was the first time Alice had had to break the news to a ten-year-old, fatherless girl that her mother had been killed. Hearing her own voice, she felt that in telling the child she
Recognising one of the cameramen as he shook his head free of its white thatch, Alice asked to see the images that he had taken of the victim’s face. In the biting cold, he showed her, shivering theatrically to hurry her along. But it was academic. She knew, in her heart of hearts, before seeing a single picture, that the dead woman would be Annie Wright. And, sure enough, her pale features had been captured by the camera. Her soul, lost.
‘Seen enough?’ the man asked gently, brushing the snow from Alice’s shoulders as she continued to gaze at the face, deep in thought.
Walking down a corridor formed by parallel rows of rusting gas cylinders, the dismembered entrails of a digger littering her route, she spotted the DCI, tucked behind a skip, hugging herself, trying to keep warm in the raw wind. She was in conversation with someone, and every time she spoke a cloud of pale vapour billowed from her mouth like smoke from a small dragon, followed immediately by an answering puff from the other person. Suddenly catching sight of her sergeant, she hollered across, ‘What news?’
‘We can identify the victim, Ma’am,’ Alice called back, finding that even forming the words was an effort in the biting cold, her mouth numb, lips curiously inflexible. ‘It’s Annie Wright, the prostitute who was raped a couple of months ago. I told you about her, remember – the trial that went ahead not so long ago and we lost? I’ve just seen a photograph and it’s her.’
Elaine Bell closed her eyes. ‘Christ Almighty! All hellwill be let loose now. They’ll think it’s another bloody Ipswich . And it can’t be the sodding priest this time, either, we’ve had him babysat ever since we let him go.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Dr Zenabi began, stepping away from the skip and finding himself interrupted instantly.
‘What d’you mean, Ahmed, ‘not necessarily?’ the inspector demanded.
Taken aback by her intensity, and with an uneasy smile on his face, he mumbled, ‘Nothing. Well, we’ll see at the PM, eh?’
The kitchen was tiny, lit by a single, bare light bulb, and smelt faintly of stale gas. Diane led her into it, puzzled that a policewoman should call on them at such an hour. But she showed no signs of concern, her fingers travelling deftly on her play station as she walked.
‘It’s about your mum,’ Alice said, already feeling sick to her stomach.
The girl looked up from the flashing screen and replied, in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘She’s oot the noo. I’ve been away at Aviemore on a school trip the last three days, got back at tea-time. She’ll no’ be hame till later, but I can phone her if it’s important, like.’
No, she won’t. No, you can’t, Alice thought, still saying nothing but preparing herself for her role as the bearer of bad news, the destroyer of happiness. And the task became no easier for her however many times it had been done, and practice did not seem to make perfect. Over her ten years in the force she had been chosen as the herald of death nineteen times, and remembered every single occasion. Each differed from the others, but they were all, without exception, horrible. Parents weeping over theloss of a child, husbands over wives, sisters over brothers . And most other combinations, too. All of them, when linked with the word ‘death’, bringing about the collapse of small worlds, the ending of any pure, unmingled joy.
Old Mrs Wilson had been no exception, her grief as real as all the rest. But this was the first time Alice had had to break the news to a ten-year-old, fatherless girl that her mother had been killed. Hearing her own voice, she felt that in telling the child she
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