Dead To Me - [8]

Rachel parked herself in the only armchair. Looked about. The television occupied one alcove at the far side of the chimney breast, in the other recess were shelves with knick-knacks and photos. Lisa as a toddler and older. One of her on a merry-go-round horse at the fair, another, an early teenager at some do, dressed up in skin-tight clothes: white skirt, silver boob tube and hoop earrings. There was a boy in other photos, and one of the two children together, a school photo, be about eleven or twelve, Rachel guessed. The boy looked older, but not by much. They shared the same snub nose and rosebud mouth. In every picture his hair was cropped close, his ears stuck out like jug handles.

‘I am sorry, I’ve got some very sad news,’ Janet spoke steadily, slowly.

Rachel waited, studying her own hands.

‘Your daughter, Lisa, was found at her flat this afternoon with fatal injuries.’

Rachel glanced over. Denise froze, the room was pin-drop quiet and Rachel could hear Denise’s breath, a suck of sorts, a gulping sound, choking on the truth.

‘Lisa is dead,’ Janet added, lest there be any misunderstanding, in case fatal wasn’t enough.

‘Injuries?’ Denise said dully, putting the remote on the arm of the sofa.

‘Yes, we think she was attacked.’

Denise Finn gave a muffled shriek. And her feet shifted on the carpet as if they wanted to carry her away.

‘I am very sorry, Mrs Finn. We will be trying to find out who did this to Lisa. A colleague of ours will be acting as your family liaison officer, they will support you and let you know how our inquiries are going. They’re on their way now.’

Denise’s hand clutched at the neck of her sweater. From outside, Rachel heard the thump of a car door and the cough of an engine, then the car horn, toot-toot-toot, a jolly farewell blast before the car moved off.

Denise Finn’s eyes filled with tears. She took a cigarette from the packet on the side table and Rachel felt her own cravings kick in.

‘Are you sure?’ Denise said. The lunge for hope making her twist in her seat towards Janet.

Sure she’s dead? Sure it’s Lisa? Rachel could imagine all the chinks of light tempting the woman, a futile, last-ditch attempt to make the nightmare go away.

‘We still need you to formally identify the body, but as she was found in Lisa’s flat by Lisa’s boyfriend Sean, who called the police, we are pretty certain that it is your daughter Lisa.’

Trembling, Denise lit her cigarette, the snick of the lighter, the first scent of burning tobacco, triggering saliva in Rachel’s mouth. She breathed steadily in, happy to do a little passive smoking until she could get to the real thing.

‘The post-mortem is being conducted this evening,’ Janet said. ‘We expect it will confirm the cause of death, and then we’d like you to come to the mortuary, probably tomorrow morning, to make the formal identification. The family liaison officer will come with you and they’ll be able to answer any further questions you have.’

Denise nodded. She drew again on her cigarette, but her lips quivered as though she had lost control of them.

‘You thought Lisa was in bother?’ Rachel spoke, ‘Why was that?’

Janet turned to Rachel, glaring daggers. Pardon me for breathing.

‘She had…’ Denise’s words petered out, she closed her eyes, tilting her face upwards to the ceiling. ‘Erm, she’d had a few run-ins with your lot. Shoplifting. Messing with drugs.’

Janet turned to Denise, turned more than was necessary, her back to Rachel, excluding her from the conversation. Tosser, Rachel thought to herself, acting as if Rachel had farted at the funeral. Well, she wasn’t some newbie in uniform who would put up with being shut out. If Janet wouldn’t give her the breaks, she would just have to grab them for herself. And she could do sympathy. Talk nice. She’d seen the videos.

‘Is there anyone you’d like us to call, someone who can be with you?’ asked Rachel. She looked at the photos. ‘Your son, perhaps?’

Denise Finn stared at Rachel, her face collapsing, mouth drawn back in pain. ‘Nathan’s dead,’ she stammered. ‘He died in January.’

Oh, fuck. Just my piggin’ luck.

And Denise began to cry.

‘Nice one, Sherlock,’ said Janet. The FLO had arrived and at last they could escape.

‘How was I supposed to know?’ Sarky cow.

‘You weren’t. Which is why you should have kept your mouth shut and let me handle it,’ Janet spoke quietly. ‘That woman is a victim, it was our job to inform her of the death and of the immediate procedure. You wade in asking questions. We were not there to take a witness statement. We were not there to ask questions. We were there to deliver a death message. Got it?’

‘But she said it first-’ Rachel began.

‘Got it?’ Janet repeated, unsmiling but still keeping her voice quiet like some frigid headmistress.

‘I need a fag,’ Rachel said.

‘Well, I’m not standing out here, freezing to death.’ Janet opened the car door. ‘Those things will kill you.’

Save you the bother. Rachel lit up, took the first drag deep, held the smoke and waited to feel the drug work its magic. Nick didn’t like her smoking, they bickered about it, so when she was with him she had Nicorette – foul-tasting stuff, made her breath stink worse than cigarettes. She would give up probably, but not just yet. You needed to time it right, and at the start of a major new job was not the right time.