“What is it?”
“Happy New Year to you too.” Leo hears the tiny exhalation that means his ex-wife is rolling her eyes. “Can I speak to him?”
“He’s out with Dominic.”
“Can I ring later?”
“We’ve got some friends coming over for drinks.”
“Tomorrow, then?”
“You can’t expect me to drop everything and—”
“I just want to wish a happy New Year to my son!”
Allie leaves a silence so long Leo thinks she’s hung up. “I write it down, you know,” she says finally, her tone clipped. “Every time you lose your temper.”
“For God’s sake, I don’t—” He stops himself, clenching a fist and driving it through the air, stopping just short of the steering wheel. How can he ever win, when the very existence of the allegation provokes him into proving it right? “This isn’t fair, Allie.”
“You should have thought of that before…”
“How many times do I have to say I’m sorry?” Leo’s voice rises again. Over and over again, the same narrative, the same guilt trip.
“You’re lucky I let you see him at all, after what you did.”
Leo counts to ten. “When would be a convenient time for me to call again?”
“I’ll text you.” The line goes dead.
She won’t. Leo will have to ask again, and by the time he gets to speak to his son,Happy New Yearwill feel like an afterthought.
As Leo drives, the distances between the villages grow, and even the sky seems to open up, until he can look in every direction and see nothing but emptiness. Bleakness.
One day, when his lad is a teenager, Leo will be able to simply pick up the phone and call him. They’ll make their own arrangements to meet after school or to go to a football match without Allie as a self-appointed gatekeeper. Without her constantly reminding Leo of what he’d done.You’re lucky I didn’t call the police, she’s fond of saying.Or Social Services. I still could, you know.It hangs over him, shadowing every conversation, every brief contact she allows him to have.
I still could.
God, it’s miserable in Wales. It isn’t raining, which is a blessing—not to mention a rarity—but clouds are rolling in from the north, and wind bends the trees sideways. What do the policedoall day out here? There must besomecrime, Leo supposes—sheep theft, the odd burglary—but he doubts their Criminal Investigation Department is a hotbed of activity. Today’s drowning will be the highlight of the CID year.
The mortuary is in Bryndare, and Leo’s glad of the GPS as he winds his way around the mountain roads before dropping back down into what passes for civilization. A light drizzle hangs in the air, settling on the town’s slate roofs. Leo follows the hospital signs to a small car park, empty except for a silver Volvo XC90 and a brown Triumph Stag held together with rust. The mortuary itself is a low, boxy building. Leo presses the buzzer.
“Push the door,” comes the tinny response. “There’s no one on reception today, but I’ll be through in a sec.”
Leo does as he’s told, finding himself in a small L-shaped waiting room. The clock on the wall reads 10:35. Sensing he isn’t alone, he turns, and his mouth drops open. Standing in the corner of the room, her face flushed and uncertain, is a woman.
Harriet.
“What are you doing here? Did you…” Leo can barely find the words. “Did youfollowme here?”
The woman gives a bark of laughter. “I was here first! If anything, you must have followed me.”
Holy crap. Harriet. Harriet Jones, or Johnson or something. A primary school teacher from Bangor, a detail Leo only remembers because he did indeed bang her.
He’s about to interrogate her further when a door opens on the far side of the room, and a woman in a white lab coat brings with her the unmistakable smell of death and antiseptic.
“Leo Brady, I presume? I’m Izzy Weaver, the pathologist handling your man. Shouldn’t be here, to be perfectly frank, but my mortuary technician’s gone AWOL. He’s on borrowed time, that one. I’ve already told your senior investigating officer I can’t do the postmortem till the day after tomorrow, but if we can get an ID on him, that’d be great.”
“Leo?” Harriet says loudly.