Page 112 of 56 Days
Today
There’s a tiny,shed-sizedcoffee shop in the little park opposite the Crossings. As per restrictions, it’s only offering takeout service from a little open hatch at the side, but Lee flashes her ID to gain access to the interior and thus, theircupboard-sizedcustomer toilet. When the young barista hands over the key, Lee finds she can pinpoint the exact moment he smells the death on her: his smile falters, is replaced by a flash of confusion, and then is followed swiftly by a wrinkling of the nose and the clamping shut of the mouth.
“I’ll just be a minute,” Lee tells him, smiling sweetly.
In the bathroom, she pulls the toilet lid down and unloads her wares. After herwalk-throughof the scene, she went scrounging for donations. She’s managed to rustle up a cleanGarda-issueT-shirt—size 3XL, but she’d rather wear that as a muumuu than keep her own shirt on. She swaps them over now, typing a knot in the hem of theT-shirtand then stuffing the knot inside her trousers because detective inspectors shouldn’t really be seen dressing like teenage girls wearing their boyfriend’s clothes. She’s swiped a thick elastic band from the Tech Bureau van; she uses it now to gather her hair into a knot on top of her head, off her face and out of reach of her nostrils. Finally, to what will be her saving grace: acare-packthat Garda O’Herlihy produced from the glove compartment of her patrol car.
It’s a little ziplock bag, the size they give you at the airport, containing atravel-sizedshampoo, shower gel, and women’sspray-deodorant; a mini toothpaste and toothbrush; two sanitary pads; apocket-sizedpack of antibacterial wipes; and a bar of chocolate wrapped in gold foil. Garda O’Herlihy explained that she makes these up herself, that she always keeps a few in the car, especially when she’s on nights, because that’s when you tend to meet the most vulnerable.
Today, it just so happens to be saving the arse of a detective inspector who smells like she’s beenslow-dancingwith a rotting corpse.
Lee makes a mental note to buy O’Herlihy a pint.
And/or donate a gift card.
She brushes her teeth—it can’t hurt—and sprays the deodorant everywhere, including over her hair. She squirts half the bottle of shower gel into a cupped hand, adds water to make a foam and then slathers it all over her face, neck, and forearms. She regrets putting on theT-shirt, which now has a dark rim of damp around the collar—she should’ve done this bit first, really. She dries herself with fistfuls of toilet paper that quickly clump and stick, and eats half the chocolate because she hasn’t eaten yet today.
When she’s done, the little mirror above the sink informs Lee that she looks absolutely terrible, but at least she doesn’t smell anymore.
Well, no, actually, she smells of many things—Fresh Cotton, Eucalyptus Revive, Zesty Blast—but at least none of them are advanced decomposition.
She stuffs her shirt in the trash can by the toilet, goes to leave, then feels bad and goes back to tie a knot in the top of the liner so the shirt doesn’t stink up the bathroom.
She tries not to think about how bad things might have been if she hadn’t been in full protective gear in there. Tom said he didn’t smell anything off her when they climbed out of their suits, but she wouldn’t trust that man’s nose. Whatever’s up there has probably been long cauterized.
When she hands the key back to the barista, she studiously ignores the way his eyes widen as he takes in the state of her. She buys two cappuccinos to take back with her across the street, out of guilt more than anything.
Karl is waiting for her by the car, holding a laptop that he lifts when he sees her approach. She thinks for a second it might belong to Laura Mannix, and is about to congratulate him on working wonders in apartment fourteen while she was in apartment one, but when she reaches him he says, “CCTV is in.” And then, “What the fuck happened to you?”
“I think it started twenty years ago when I thought,You know what? I think I’ll apply for the Guards.” Lee holds up the coffees. “You ready for another round?”
“What I really want is some food.”
“I’ve half a bar of chocolate in my pocket.”
“Since when? Because if it’s been on a tour of the crime scene, nah, you’re grand.”
“Any luck with herself upstairs?”
“None at all,” Karl says. “She clammed up after you left. Refused to say any more. But I did Google Lois Lane. Former host ofCrimecall, my arse.”
“So you’ve had a productivehalf-hour, is what you’re telling me?”
“How was the scene?”
“Worse than before. But get this: Tom Searson thinks the guy might have drowned.”
“Drowned? I thought you said he was on the floor of the shower?”
“He is. Tom thinks the shower was on and a couple of inches of water collected in the depression around the drain. Guy’s unconscious but breathing, facedown, and he inhales enough of it to drown.”
“Jesus,” Karl says. “What a way to go.”
“And there’s more: someone turned off the water. It could’ve been him, but it might not have been. But here’s the real kicker: the entire apartment has been wiped clean.”
“Shit. Do you think that could’ve been...?”
“I think,” Lee says, “let’s watch that CCTV.”
