Whispers of the Dead - Страница 3

‘They could, I suppose.’ Tom turned to me, a sparkle of excitement in his eyes. Even before he spoke I knew what he was going to say. ‘How about you, David? Care to do a little field work?’

CHAPTER 2

THE HIGHWAY OUT of Knoxville streamed with slow-moving traffic. Even this early in the year it was warm enough to need the car’s air conditioning. Tom had programmed the satnav to guide us when we reached the mountains, but for the moment we hardly needed it. He hummed quietly to himself as he drove, a sign I’d come to recognize as anticipation. For all the grim realism of the facility, the individuals who’d bequeathed their bodies there had all died natural deaths. This was different.

This was the real thing.

‘So it looks like murder?’ Homicide, I corrected myself. It was a safe bet, otherwise the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation wouldn’t be involved. The TBI was a single-state version of the FBI, for whom Tom was a badge-carrying consultant. If the call had come from them rather than a local police department, then chances were that this was serious.

Tom kept his eyes on the road. ‘Seems like it. I wasn’t told much, but from the sound of things the body’s in bad shape.’

I was starting to feel unaccountably nervous. ‘Will there be any problem with me coming along?’

Tom looked surprised. ‘Why should there be? I often take someone to help out.’

‘I meant because I’m British.’ I’d had to go through the usual red tape of visas and work permits in order to come out here, but I hadn’t anticipated anything like this. I wasn’t sure how welcome I’d be on an official investigation.

He shrugged. ‘Can’t see why that should be a problem. It’s hardly national security, and I’ll vouch for you if anyone asks. Or you could keep quiet and hope they don’t notice your accent.’

Smiling, he reached to turn on the CD player. Tom used music the way other people smoked cigarettes or drank whisky, claiming it helped him to both clear his mind and focus his thoughts. His drug of choice was fifties and sixties jazz, and by now I’d heard the half-dozen albums he kept in the car often enough to recognize most of them.

He gave a little sigh, unconsciously settling back in the car seat as a track by Jimmy Smith pulsed from the speakers.

I watched the landscape of Tennessee slide past outside the car. The Smoky Mountains rose up ahead of us, shrouded in the blue-tinged mist for which they’d been named. Their forest-covered slopes stretched to the horizon, a rolling green ocean that was a stark contrast to the commercial bustle of the retail outlets around us. Garishly functional fast food outlets, bars and stores lined the highway, the sky above them gridded with power lines and telegraph wires.

London and the UK seemed a long way away. Coming here had been a way to regain my edge and resolve some of the issues preying on my mind. I knew that there were some hard decisions to make when I got back. The temporary university contract I’d held in London had ended while I’d been convalescing, and although I’d been offered a permanent tenure, I’d received another offer from the forensic anthropology department of a top Scottish university.

There had also been a tentative approach from the Forensic Search Advisory Group, a multi-disciplinary agency which helped the police locate bodies. It was all very flattering, and I should have been excited. But I couldn’t muster enthusiasm for any of it. I’d thought coming back here would change that.

So far it hadn’t.

I sighed, rubbing my thumb across the scar on my palm without realizing it. Tom glanced across. ‘You OK?’

I closed my hand on the scar. ‘Fine.’

He accepted that without comment. ‘Sandwiches are in my bag on the back seat. Might as well share them before we get there.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Hope you like bean sprouts.’

The country outside the car became more thickly wooded as we drew nearer the mountains. We drove through Pigeon Forge, a brash resort whose bars and restaurants chased along the roadside. One diner we passed was themed in a faux frontier style, right down to the plastic logs. A few miles further on we came to Gatlinburg, a tourist town whose carnival atmosphere seemed almost restrained in comparison. It had sprung up on the very edge of the mountains, and although its motels and shops clamoured for attention, they couldn’t compete with the natural grandeur that rose up ahead.

Then we left it behind and entered another world. Steep, densely forested slopes closed in around us, plunging us into shadow as the road wound through them. Part of the huge Appalachian Mountains chain, the Smokies covered eight hundred square miles and spanned the border between Tennessee and North Carolina. They’d been declared a National Park, although looking out of the car window I thought that nature was blithely unaware of such distinctions. This was a wilderness that man had even now barely scratched. Coming from a crowded island like the UK, it was impossible not to be humbled by their sheer scale.

There was less traffic now. In a few weeks it would be much busier, but this was still spring and there were hardly any other cars to be seen. After a few more miles Tom turned off on to a gravelled side road.

‘Shouldn’t be much further now.’ He checked the satnav display mounted on the dashboard, then peered up ahead. ‘Ah, here we are.’

There was a sign saying Schroeder Cabins, Nos 5–13 by a narrow track. Tom turned off on to it, the automatic transmission complaining slightly as it compensated for the gradient. Spaced well out from each other, I could make out the low-pitched roofs of cabins set back amongst the trees.

Police cars and unmarked vehicles I took to belong to the TBI lined both sides of the track ahead of us. As we approached, a uniformed police officer strode to block our way, hand resting lightly on the gun holstered on his belt.

Tom stopped and wound down the window, but the officer didn’t give him time to speak.

‘Sir, you cain’t come up here. Y’all have to back up and leave.’

The accent was pure deep south, his politeness like a weapon in itself, implacable and unyielding. Tom gave him an easy smile.

‘That’s all right. Can you tell Dan Gardner that Tom Lieberman’s here?’

The uniformed officer moved away a few paces and spoke into his radio. Whatever he heard reassured him.

‘’Kay. Park up there with the rest of the vehicles.’

Tom did as he was told. The nervousness I’d been feeling had solidified into a definite unease as we parked. I told myself that a few butterflies were understandable; I was still rusty from my convalescence, and I hadn’t banked on working on an actual murder investigation. But I knew that didn’t really account for it, even so.

‘You sure it’s all right my being here?’ I asked. ‘I don’t want to tread on anyone’s toes.’

Tom didn’t seem concerned. ‘Don’t worry. Anyone asks, you’re with me.’

We climbed out of the car. After the city, the air smelled fresh and clean, rich with the outdoor scents of wildflowers and loam.

Late afternoon sunlight dappled through the branches, picking out the coiled green buds like fat emeralds. This high up, and in the shade of the trees, it was quite cool, which made the appearance of the man walking towards us even stranger. He was wearing a suit and tie, but the jacket was slung over one arm, and his pale blue shirt was stained dark with perspiration. His face was flushed and red as he shook Tom’s hand.

‘Thanks for coming. Wasn’t sure if you were still on vacation.’

‘Not any more.’ Tom and Mary had only returned from Florida the week before I’d arrived. He’d told me he’d never been so bored in his life. ‘Dan, I’d like you to meet Dr David Hunter. He’s visiting the facility. I said it’d be OK for him to come along.’

It wasn’t quite phrased as a question. The man turned to me. I’d have put him just the far side of fifty, his weathered, careworn face lined with deep creases. The greying hair was cut short, with a side parting that might have been drawn with a ruler.

He extended his hand. His grip was tight enough to be a challenge, the skin of his palm dry and calloused.

‘Dan Gardner, Assistant Special Agent in Charge. Pleased t’meet you.’

I guessed the title was the equivalent of Senior Investigating Officer in the UK. He spoke with the distinctive twang of Tennessee, but the easygoing manner was deceptive. His eyes were sharp and appraising. Reserving judgement.

‘So, what have you got?’ Tom asked, reaching in the back of the station wagon for his case.

‘Here, let me,’ I said, lifting it out for him. Scar or no, I was in better shape than Tom to carry it. For once he didn’t argue.

The TBI agent started back up the trail into the trees. ‘Body’s in a rental cabin. Manager found it this morning.’

‘Definitely homicide?’

‘Oh, yeah.’

He didn’t enlarge. Tom gave him a curious glance but didn’t press. ‘Any ID?’

‘Got a man’s wallet with credit cards and a driver’s licence, but we can’t say for sure if they’re the victim’s. Body’s too far gone for the photograph to be any use.’

‘Any idea how long it might have been here?’ I asked without thinking.

Gardner frowned, and I reminded myself I was only here to help Tom. ‘I was kind of hoping you’d be able to tell us that,’ the TBI agent answered, though to Tom rather than me. ‘The pathologist’s still here, but he can’t tell us much.’