had a call from Mr Leslie Faraday at the Home Office. His orders come from Mr Kasavian, and his orders come directly from the Prime Minister. They want you to start work immediately. A matter of priority.’
‘But I thought the team had split up.’
‘No, sir. I’ve located all of them except one.’
‘Why, who’s missing?’ asked Land.
13
IDENTITY
T he steep-roofed Gothic building at the back of Camley Street had a melancholy air, even for a coroner’s office. The wet green banks of the St Pancras Old Church graveyard sloped down on either side of the walls, as if threatening to inundate the little house with the cascading tombs of the dead. Even a modern extension could not erase the sense of desolation that enveloped it. Tall black iron railings, each spear topped with a gold-painted fleur-de-lis, surrounded the doorway. Beneath a rowan tree, a muscular grave digger stood motionless, looking down at them with feigned disinterest. He was young, but it seemed to May that the mournful atmosphere had stained his features with sorrow.
King’s Cross was increasingly becoming an area of paradox; the more its pavements filled with commuters dashing between the stations, the less travelled were its backstreets. The morgue was only a few hundred yards from the huge international terminus that linked England to Europe, yet it was bordered by plane trees and beeches, waterways where herons stalked the reed beds and a nature reserve so quiet that often the only sound to be heard was the bleating of geese. Apart from the grave digger, there was not a soul to be seen in any direction.
‘What a bloody miserable place,’ muttered Renfield, glancingup at the swaying branches that scraped against the building’s low roof.
‘You haven’t been here before?’ asked May.
‘No, I always met Rosa at the pub around the corner. I dumped her.’
‘Why?’
‘She gave me the willies. She’s got a funny attitude to the dead. A bit like old Bryant. Believes in spirits and all that malarkey.’
‘Why is she doing this for you if you broke up with her?’
‘I don’t know. I was a bit surprised myself.’
Renfield thumbed the door buzzer. A slender olive-skinned woman with centre-parted black hair and dark, haunted eyes opened the door. She had an air of recent bereavement about her, which was at least appropriate considering where she worked. ‘Come in,’ said Rosa Lysandrou, checking the empty street behind them. ‘There’s someone here who wants to see you.’
May shot Renfield a look as they passed into the gloomy nicotine-brown interior. Rosa was dressed in mourning black, an outfit she regarded as respectful and proper for processing the dead. She looked like a woman who had lost any reason to smile soon after her teenage years. It seemed entirely natural for her to be in such a solemn place as this, although she did come over a bit like a character from a Daphne du Maurier novel.
‘Hullo there, Giles, what are you doing here?’ asked May, shaking Giles Kershaw’s hand as he stepped into the corridor.
‘I applied for this position as soon as I heard about the vacancy,’ replied Kershaw, unzipping the top of his green disposable suit. ‘St Pancras Coroner—it’s a huge step up for me. Come on, I’ll show you around.’ He led them into the building.
‘I must say I feel bad about what happened, the unit closing just after we recommended you for the position at Bayham Street mortuary. We put in a good word for you. I’m glad you landed on your feet.’
‘Well, I owe you a favour. Perhaps I can find a way to pay it back. Here, take a look at this.’ Giles opened a carved church door that led into the Chapel of Rest. Usually such places were bare white cells adorned with a single plain oak cross and a bench or two, but this one was elaborately Gothic, a proper Victorian chapel with brass candlestick holders and a life-sized painted statue of Christ crucified. His anguished eyes were turned
‘But I thought the team had split up.’
‘No, sir. I’ve located all of them except one.’
‘Why, who’s missing?’ asked Land.
13
IDENTITY
T he steep-roofed Gothic building at the back of Camley Street had a melancholy air, even for a coroner’s office. The wet green banks of the St Pancras Old Church graveyard sloped down on either side of the walls, as if threatening to inundate the little house with the cascading tombs of the dead. Even a modern extension could not erase the sense of desolation that enveloped it. Tall black iron railings, each spear topped with a gold-painted fleur-de-lis, surrounded the doorway. Beneath a rowan tree, a muscular grave digger stood motionless, looking down at them with feigned disinterest. He was young, but it seemed to May that the mournful atmosphere had stained his features with sorrow.
King’s Cross was increasingly becoming an area of paradox; the more its pavements filled with commuters dashing between the stations, the less travelled were its backstreets. The morgue was only a few hundred yards from the huge international terminus that linked England to Europe, yet it was bordered by plane trees and beeches, waterways where herons stalked the reed beds and a nature reserve so quiet that often the only sound to be heard was the bleating of geese. Apart from the grave digger, there was not a soul to be seen in any direction.
‘What a bloody miserable place,’ muttered Renfield, glancingup at the swaying branches that scraped against the building’s low roof.
‘You haven’t been here before?’ asked May.
‘No, I always met Rosa at the pub around the corner. I dumped her.’
‘Why?’
‘She gave me the willies. She’s got a funny attitude to the dead. A bit like old Bryant. Believes in spirits and all that malarkey.’
‘Why is she doing this for you if you broke up with her?’
‘I don’t know. I was a bit surprised myself.’
Renfield thumbed the door buzzer. A slender olive-skinned woman with centre-parted black hair and dark, haunted eyes opened the door. She had an air of recent bereavement about her, which was at least appropriate considering where she worked. ‘Come in,’ said Rosa Lysandrou, checking the empty street behind them. ‘There’s someone here who wants to see you.’
May shot Renfield a look as they passed into the gloomy nicotine-brown interior. Rosa was dressed in mourning black, an outfit she regarded as respectful and proper for processing the dead. She looked like a woman who had lost any reason to smile soon after her teenage years. It seemed entirely natural for her to be in such a solemn place as this, although she did come over a bit like a character from a Daphne du Maurier novel.
‘Hullo there, Giles, what are you doing here?’ asked May, shaking Giles Kershaw’s hand as he stepped into the corridor.
‘I applied for this position as soon as I heard about the vacancy,’ replied Kershaw, unzipping the top of his green disposable suit. ‘St Pancras Coroner—it’s a huge step up for me. Come on, I’ll show you around.’ He led them into the building.
‘I must say I feel bad about what happened, the unit closing just after we recommended you for the position at Bayham Street mortuary. We put in a good word for you. I’m glad you landed on your feet.’
‘Well, I owe you a favour. Perhaps I can find a way to pay it back. Here, take a look at this.’ Giles opened a carved church door that led into the Chapel of Rest. Usually such places were bare white cells adorned with a single plain oak cross and a bench or two, but this one was elaborately Gothic, a proper Victorian chapel with brass candlestick holders and a life-sized painted statue of Christ crucified. His anguished eyes were turned
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