The Lover's Children novel Chapter 49

KLEMPNER

Tapping on the door of the press vehicle for City TV, I balance my tray, actually the upturned lid of a carton of soft drinks. As it opens, I brush past an acne’d face-scape into the smoky interior. “Hi, wasn’t sure how many I was buying for…” I present a stuffed box.

“Hey, those donuts?” Faces spin from screens and control panels. A variety of sweaty bodies crowd round and I try to hold my breath.

“Yeah. I got a bit of all sorts. There’s jelly, custard-filled, chocolate coated, and sugar dusted and…” Injecting some apology into my voice. “… I didn’t know if you wanted your caffeine hot or cold so I got half coffees and half Pepsis…” I let my voice trail off. From the size of the van I was estimating a crew of maybe five or six maximum, so a box of a dozen donuts is plenty. Maybe I underestimated. Hands snatch from all directions.

Worse than pigeons…

An Asian type, clutching the custard option, looks properly at me. “Sorry, but who…?”

“Central sent me over. They reckoned you’d need an extra pair of hands on this one.”

“Too right.” She bites into a donut and yellow cream squirts backwards. Her mouth full as she speaks, “Hey, can you get these print-outs to Max? It’s what the researchers came up with from the archives on the Boswell Knifer.”

“Sure. Where’ll I find him?”

“Over in the Press Enclosure. You got your press pass?”

“Yeah…” I tap my lapel badge, half-concealing it with my hand in the process.

“No, you’ll need the red pass. They’re limiting numbers now. Here, I’ll get you one.”

Perfect.

*****

A stack of files under one arm, I stride toward the enclosure entrance. “I’m looking for Max.” Blondie and Bruiser give me a cursory glance and wave me through to the press section.

*****

Dumping the files onto the nearest City News rep I can find, I find a corner away from the general melee of preening, narcissism and occasional reporting. Muttering into my phone as though dictating some report, I take in the scene.

A couple of non-uniformed but obvious cops exit from beyond the screen, then hang by the access, talking quietly. Through the almost-but-not-quite opaque screen, vague shadows move. Voices murmur, annoyingly almost below the threshold of hearing.

How to get inside…

Without being arrested…

Press can’t go in…

Police will be recognised…

Forensics too…

Brazen it out?

From the park entrance, a voice rises. “This is an infringement of citizen’s rights…”

All heads swing toward the excitement. Cameras follow.

The complaint grows louder. “… We’re living in a fucking police state…”

A leather-clad smoothie towers over Blondie. He looks to have seen too much alcohol and not enough soap. His chums are keeping Bruiser occupied. “Streets aren’t safe any more. What the fuck are you doing about this? We’ve gotta right to know!”

The shouting spreads, the crowd surging. Cameras whirr and click. Journalists chatter into microphones. Police officers dash in from all directions…

Snatching up a clipboard, I stroll to the access flap and inside…

*****

A blur of impressions…

A circle of turf, rimmed by the screen…

A fold-up table with a scatter of coffee cups, files, labelled packets, envelopes and plastic containers… Jackets and coats tossed at one end…

The marquee…

A raised flap…

Inside… canvas-filtered sunlight on grass… Scattered bloodstains… Pegged markers, numbered… 37a… 37b… 42… 43… 5c… 5d… Men and women moving, taking measurements and photographs. One sketching.

Organ bags…

A bin containing discarded paper overalls…

…

Swing back to the jackets… A grey zip-up hoodie…

…

A figure emerges…

White-clothed. A pale man. Tall. Long-legged. Silver-haired. Blood bright on his hands

Borje…

*****

For an instant, he clearly doesn’t recognise me. Then, his eyes widen. “Larry? What the hell…”

I react by instinct, locking a hand to his throat. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Jolted back against a supporting post of the marquee, arms flailing, he gurgles against the vee of my thumb and fingers. Red-faced, scrabbling at my hand... “Choking me…”

I relax my hold a bit.

“What was that?”

“Doctor. I'm a fucking doctor!”

?

I release my grip and he drops, gasping, to all fours. “Doctor?”

“Yes, a doctor.” On hands and knees, he coughs and splutters, clearing his airway. “I'm a police pathologist, you fucking… maniac.”

For a moment, my thoughts freeze…

Then my brain kicks in again, collecting the detail my first freaked-out impression missed:

The white coverall…

The hair netted back…

And the blood…