The Man on Hackpen Hill Page 17

  Silas checks the two plant rooms and then regroups with Strover outside the door to the mortuary. His dad was very peaceful in his last few days, ready to die, but it had still been difficult for Silas to let him go. There was so much left unsaid but Silas had checked himself, knowing that a heart-to-heart might have made him feel better but would only have exhausted his dad.

  There’s one person in the mortuary, a technician who has been waiting for them. It’s not exactly a warm welcome. The man’s unhappy about the disturbance, and the suggestion that someone might be hiding in the mortuary without his knowledge. He’s also not big on eye contact as he stands in the doorway, blocking their way.

  ‘Have you been in here all the time?’ Silas asks.

  ‘I went out earlier, for a cup of tea,’ he says, nodding down the corridor in the direction of the staff canteen. ‘Otherwise, yes. We’re quiet today.’

  ‘How much earlier?’ Silas asks.

  ‘An hour ago? No one’s in here. It’s not possible. I’ve checked.’

  ‘Mind if we come in?’ Silas asks.

  ‘If that’s what you need to do,’ the technician says, stepping aside for them. Again, he keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the ground.

  The first part of the brightly lit mortuary, the fridge room, is lined on one side with a bank of floor-to-ceiling refrigerator units. Beyond it is where the hospital post-mortems are carried out to establish medical causes of death. There are no coroner-requested autopsies done here, none of the investigations into violent or unexplained deaths that Silas has to attend, but the sight of the well-drained, stainless steel work surfaces, sinks and sluices has the same effect on Silas. This is a place of postscripts rather than prefaces, of deaths explained rather than prevented. For Silas, mortuaries will forever be synonymous with professional failure.

  ‘Anyone else been down here this morning?’ Silas asks.

  ‘A consultant came in earlier,’ the technician says, glancing at a worksheet on the counter.

  Silas looks up. ‘Who?’

  The technician checks the worksheet. ‘Dr Armitage – to sign off some cremation forms.’

  Silas glances at Strover. ‘And were you here with him?’

  The technician stares at his feet. ‘Most of the time. As I say, I went to fetch a tea at one point. I know Dr Armitage well. Everyone does.’

  ‘But you went out when he was here?’ Silas asks.

  ‘I know him well,’ the technician repeats. He turns away, visibly agitated now, eyes darting around the room but never at Silas. ‘He’s a highly respected consultant. Is there a problem with that? Me leaving him here on his own to fetch a brew?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  Silas walks over to the row of refrigerator doors, each one with a list from one to five on the outside with the names of the deceased kept within.

  ‘What’s the temperature in there?’ Silas asks.

  ‘These are positive temp cold chambers,’ the technician says, his tone suggesting that Silas should know. ‘Two to four degrees – cold enough to keep a body respectable for a few weeks.’

  But not cold enough to kill someone. At that temperature, a person could hide in one for a while and survive.

  ‘Are they full?’ Silas asks. As part of the original contingency planning for Covid-19, the hospital had to build a temporary mortuary at the back of the staff car park for five hundred bodies.

  ‘Twenty per cent,’ the technician says. ‘As I say, we’re quiet at the moment.’

  ‘Can we take a look?’ Silas asks.

  ‘Nobody could get themselves into one of these,’ the technician says.

  ‘To reassure ourselves?’

  ‘And the bodies are all sealed up in heavy-duty bags,’ the technician continues. ‘You wouldn’t be able to do one up from the inside either, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘It should be easy to tell then, if someone’s hiding,’ Silas says, ignoring him. Everyone remembers the ‘spy in the bag’ case in Pimlico – except this man, it seems. The GCHQ employee, seconded to MI6, was found dead in a sealed-up North Face holdall. ‘Can we start? Time isn’t on our side.’

  The technician turns to the first refrigerator. According to the list, there are two bodies inside. He’s well built and swings open the heavy door with ease. There are three empty racks and bodies in black bags on the lowest two rungs. Silas glances at the technician, who finally looks up at him with tired, deep-set eyes. It’s been a busy time for mortuaries.

  ‘One arrived this morning, the other yesterday,’ he says, turning away again. ‘I put them in myself.’

  ‘Check them,’ Silas says. ‘Please.’

  Silas and Strover watch as he slides the body tray out by eighteen inches. He then unzips the top of the black bag to reveal a pallid complexion.

  He reads out the man’s name, his voice growing in confidence. ‘Just as it says on the list.’

  ‘Next,’ Silas says, nodding at Strover. It was his dad who taught him to be thorough. Do something well or not at all.

  They watch the technician repeat the process, sliding the body out with as much care and dignity as he can in the circumstances. Silas doesn’t like asking him to do this, but he needs to find his man and there aren’t many other places where he could be hiding.

  After five minutes, they reach the final refrigerator unit. There is only one name on the list, in the lowest bay. The technician glances at Silas and swings open the heavy door. One body bag at the bottom of the fridge – and another on the level above. He closes the door a fraction, checking the list. Silas checks too. One name. Two bodies.

  ‘That’s not possible,’ the technician says, blood draining from his already pale face. ‘It can’t be.’

  Silas’s mouth turns dry. Strover shifts on her feet, glancing at the uniforms behind her. They all look nervous.

  ‘Bottom one first,’ Silas says, watching the technician slide the tray out. He pauses for a second before unzipping the bag and then smiles in relief as he recognises the face. Swallowing hard, he slides the tray back in and puts his hands on the next one, checking with Silas, who gives the faintest nod.

  Slowly, the tray slides out on its well-oiled wheels. Silas signals for the uniforms to be ready. Will the fake doctor make a run for it or accept that the game’s up? Bracing themselves, they all watch in silence as the technician reaches over to the zip, fastened at the top. The technician’s hand hovers above the bag. And then he pulls it open.

  58

  Bella

  ‘Thanks, Gladys, I really appreciate it,’ Bella says, heading west in her mum’s car. Gladys had managed to stall the policeman long enough for Bella to drive away from the migrant centre.

  ‘You should have seen his face when I dropped the pot,’ Gladys says, laughing. ‘The soup went all over them shiny black shoes he was wearing.’

  Bella’s grateful but she’s in no mood to laugh. ‘I’ve got to get off the phone,’ she says, remembering Jim’s words about not being tracked. ‘Send me a text if Mum shows up.’

  ‘Course, girl. I’m sure she will. But first you need to tell me wah gwaan with you and the feds.’

  ‘It’s nothing, really,’ Bella says, thinking of Erin. ‘I phoned the police with some information and now they want to speak to me. That’s all.’

  ‘So why don’t you speak wi’ them?’

  Gladys is right. She should just go to the police. About Erin. Maybe her mum too if she doesn’t show up.

  ‘Long story – I’ve got to go. Thanks again, Gladys.’

  Bella cuts Gladys off before she can ask any more awkward questions. Before the tears come. She doesn’t trust herself to talk about Erin. It’s as if a switch is flicked every time she thinks of her, diverting Bella into a parallel world. Her friend’s death is just too extreme to be true. She tries her mum’s mobile number again but it goes straight to voicemail. Same with the landline. It’s so not like her. Unless she really is having an affair with Dr Haslam, in which case she m
ight not be behaving rationally.

  Bella turns on the radio, glancing in the rearview mirror. No one seems to have followed her out of London but she can’t forget the man with jet-black hair who appeared in her street. The crop circle killings are still headline news, but there’s no mention of Erin or the identity of any of the victims, which remains a mystery. Once again, there’s an appeal for information – this time from amateur codebreakers. A group of academics is helping Wiltshire Police in their efforts to decipher the complex patterns. And a leading cereologist in California has claimed that the deaths are a warning from another civilisation about climate change. Whatever it takes.

  She changes channels, thinking of the radio game. A road sign catches her eye. The next turning, in a mile, is to Salisbury… and to Porton Down. She remembers Jim’s answerphone message from the pet shop at Porton. It’s been haunting her ever since. Something about it wasn’t quite right, the familiarity of the voice. Jim must be a good customer, but she seemed to know him better than that.

  She glances at her watch. Jim had texted earlier, asking how she was doing, what time she would arrive in Swanage. She’d told him late afternoon. Another road sign to Porton Down. Taken on their own, the two words are innocent enough, but together they have an unsettling strangeness, forged over decades of dark rumours and conspiracy theories. She can’t write a story about the place without a visit.

  She pulls off the A303 and joins the A338 towards Salisbury. A quick detour, nothing more. She’ll drive around the Porton Down site, get a feel for it. If the place really is involved in Erin’s death, it’s the least she can do for her. She’ll also drop in on the pet shop, say that she’s a friend of Jim’s.

  After driving through Cholderton and Allington, she turns off into the village of Porton. The pet shop is clearly signed but she carries on and is soon passing high-security wire fencing and the entrance to a long, tree-lined avenue. The Porton Down campus sign on the verge is familiar: the same as the one in the photo of Jim at his house. For a moment, she’s tempted to drive down the approach road and ask at reception if she can talk to someone about the crop circles. They’d think she was mad.

  She spins the car around and heads back to the pet shop, pulling up in the car park. It’s better to start here, find her feet, reassure herself about the answerphone message. Two minutes later, she’s walking around the aisles, looking at cute white rabbits, hamsters and big hairy spiders. She pauses in front of some guinea pigs before walking over to the reptile section to see if there are any lizards like Rocky.

  ‘May I help you?’ a voice says. She recognises it at once, from Jim’s answerphone machine. Hi, Jim, just checking to see if you’re coming in to work today?

  ‘Having a look around, thanks,’ Bella says, offering a nervous smile of apology. The woman, in her forties, has kind eyes and is wearing a turquoise top.

  ‘No worries, shout if I can be of any assistance.’

  ‘Actually, there is something you might be able to help me with,’ Bella says, as the woman starts to walk away.

  ‘That’s what we’re here for,’ she says, turning back to face Bella.

  ‘I’ve got a friend who… comes here regularly, I think,’ Bella says. ‘He’s got a chameleon called Rocky. And, well, I wanted to get him something for his birthday.’

  ‘For Rocky or for your friend?’

  Bella’s sounding ridiculous, hasn’t thought this one through.

  ‘Both, really,’ she splutters. ‘You might know him, actually. I think he’s a good customer. Jim. Jim Matthews.’

  ‘Jim?’ she says, her whole demeanour changing. ‘Jim’s not a customer. He works here. Should be on the tills now, in fact. Can’t get hold of him. Don’t know where he is, do you?’

  59

  Silas

  Silas looks at the mortuary technician, his face drained of all colour, and steps forward to peer into the black body bag. The man staring back at him is not the fake doctor. He’s not alive either.

  ‘Recognise him?’ Silas asks, but he already knows the answer.

  It’s a while before the technician replies. ‘Dr Armitage,’ he whispers, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘I don’t know how… I have no idea…’ The technician bites his lip. ‘He was such a good man.’

  Silas whips out his phone and calls the estate manager, noticing a message from Mel to call her. Not now. Not when the body count’s just risen to four and he’s the SIO. Did the fake doctor lead them down here to buy himself time? After failing to be picked up at the front of the hospital, he entered the lower ground floor through the small staff entrance they came in by and walked straight out through the training academy, somehow avoiding the cameras. And what about earlier? He must have known that Dr Armitage was on his own in the mortuary. And then he killed him, put his body in the refrigerator and took Dr Armitage’s security pass with him up to ICU.

  ‘Did you see Dr Armitage leave here?’ Silas asks the technician. The estate manager is not answering his phone.

  ‘He’d gone by the time I came back from the canteen,’ he says, looking down at the black body bag. ‘At least, I thought he’d gone.’

  The estate manager finally answers.

  ‘It’s DI Hart,’ Silas says, glancing around the mortuary. ‘You need to check the CCTV footage for the training academy, shortly after you saw the fake doctor coming into the lower ground floor. And search the footage for earlier too – for Dr Armitage.’

  ‘We’re still trying to locate him,’ the estate manager says. ‘His wife’s really worried.’

  Silas closes his eyes. Another person whose life is about to change for ever.

  ‘We’ve just found his body in the mortuary refrigerator.’

  *

  Silas and Strover drive back to Gablecross police station in silence. Once again, a mortuary has left Silas feeling that he’s come up short. The boss is not going to be happy.

  ‘Any word from your boffins?’ Silas asks, as he sits down in the Parade Room with Strover and glances at his phone. Three missed calls from Mel. It’s her big day today. The fancy wedding. Lots of tuberoses. He’ll ring her back later.

  ‘Not yet,’ Strover says. ‘They’re still convinced all three patterns loosely represent molecular structures – they’re working through the Vigenère cipher codes.’

  Silas sits back, contemplating the case, his options. The fake doctor has disappeared, along with the driver and passenger from the Range Rover. Forensics has yet to come up with anything from the vehicle. Samples have been sent for DNA analysis but there’s a backlog, and Silas’s repeated requests for fast-tracking have so far fallen on deaf ears.

  All three people appear to be linked – the fake doctor signed the other two’s hospital release forms – but Silas needs to establish a common motive. First the two men in the Range Rover visit Noah, trying to get him to reveal who had commissioned the crop circles. And then the fake doctor kills the third victim in hospital. If it was done to stop him talking, it would suggest that they thought he was the one who had commissioned Noah. What exactly did they fear would be revealed? And what is Jim Matthews’s possible involvement in it all? According to Jim, the Range Rover tried to drive him off the road before visiting his house later the same day. And now he seems to have forced them to crash.

  ‘Any more ANPR sightings of Jim’s car?’ Silas asks.

  ‘Nothing,’ Strover says.

  Silas has taken his eye off Jim, the government scientist with an interest in mathematical crop circles. The two deaths at the hospital have become a priority, overshadowing all other lines of inquiry. But what if Silas is looking the wrong way and Jim holds the key? He should risk the boss’s ire and contact Porton Down, find out what he can about Jim, report his conversation in the pub with Bella. And then there’s Strover’s hunch that Bella, who just happened to meet Jim in the pub, was the one who had called Crimestoppers with information about her friend Erin, the second victim.

  ‘What do we actually know abo
ut Jim Matthews?’ Silas asks.

  They need to run the rule over him, if only to count him out. His gut feeling is that Jim’s not a bad person. An oddball, yes, but not the sort to go around placing dead bodies in the centre of crop circles.

  ‘Only what you found out in your interview,’ Strover says. ‘Have you rung MOD Police at Porton?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Strover’s silence says it all. She still thinks he should ring them. But she doesn’t know their boss like he does.

  ‘Want me to do some digging on the quiet?’ Strover says, leaning towards her computer screen. ‘See what I can turn up on him?’

  Silas likes it when Strover gets her spade out. And he’s learnt not to ask too many questions about her methods, how she uses Tor, the open source software, to trawl the depths of the Dark Web and contact her network of ethical hacker friends, the so-called white hats who perform SVAs – security vulnerability assessments – for companies.

  ‘We just need to find out why the Range Rover was following him today,’ Silas says. ‘And why it might have tried to drive him off the road yesterday.’

  ‘I could get Jim’s tax records checked, see how much he earns,’ she says. ‘Maybe his bank account too. He might be in debt, susceptible to being blackmailed.’

  It doesn’t sound right, in keeping with the tidy, organised man he interviewed. ‘Can we find out exactly what sort of work he’s involved with at Porton Down?’ he asks.

  ‘Beyond what he lists on LinkedIn?’ she says, looking at his entry on the networking site.

  ‘I want to know more about his interest in BZ,’ he says. ‘What level of security clearance he has.’

  ‘MOD Police could tell us,’ Strover says, raising her eyebrows.

  ‘And the boss will close us down like that’ – Silas clicks his fingers – ‘if he thinks we’re making trouble, asking awkward questions. See what you can find out first. Maybe we haven’t taken his meeting with the journalist in the pub seriously enough.’