Discarded by M. Hunter (fantasy books to read .txt) 📗

and, pulling a phone from his pocket, he moves along the corridor, but not far enough that I can’t hear his end of the conversation.

‘Thanks for calling me back, Tamara. I have a work thing that’s going to keep me out until late tonight and I need you to collect Mila from school and watch her until—’

He falls silent as he’s cut off by whoever he’s speaking to. He’s never mentioned anyone called Tamara before, and for all I know she could be a new girlfriend.

‘Yes, I understand that, Tamara, but there’s nothing I can—’ Another pause. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but a body’s been found, and I can’t leave my post until—’ Again. ‘That’s not fair. You know Mila is my number-one priority…’

I feel guilty about eavesdropping and pull out my own phone, looking for any kind of distraction to block out the sound of Jack’s hurt and restrained voice. He’s doing his best to remain patient with this Tamara, but even I can hear how close to breaking he is.

‘I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate. I can come and collect Mila from you when I get back… No, I don’t know when that will be… Come on, Tamara, please? You’re her grandmother, for pity’s sake!’

Well, that answers the question about whether Tamara is his new girlfriend. I’d be shocked if he refers to his own mother by her first name, so she must be the maternal grandmother. Jack’s mentioned very little about Chrissie other than that they have a good relationship despite going their separate ways. I’ve always thought how lucky Mila is to have two parents willing to put their differences behind them for her sake. After Anna’s disappearance, my parents could barely stand to be in the same room as one another, so I’ve seen the effects of separation first-hand, although my parents didn’t formally divorce.

‘Sorry about that,’ Jack says quietly, returning to the seats, the phone now back in his pocket.

‘If you need to leave and fetch Mila, this can wait,’ I offer. ‘Assuming the pathologist won’t confirm any details to me directly, I’m sure she could phone you, and then you could pass on the news.’

‘No, it’s okay. Tamara is Mila’s grandmother and her baccarat night can be postponed until tomorrow for the sake of her granddaughter. Chrissie’s always saying that she doesn’t do enough babysitting. And with Chrissie still at the pre-natal unit, it’s the least she can do.’

The bags beneath his eyes look so dark under the ultra-bright halogen bulbs hanging above our heads. I sensed he was under stress when we were at the Pendark site, but I don’t think I appreciated just how much he’s carrying alone.

‘If there’s anything I can do to help?’ I say, knowing there’s very little I could do from my poky flat in Weymouth.

‘Thanks. Don’t worry about it. Tamara was never my biggest fan. She never thought I was good enough for her precious Christine. When we first got together, she’d go out of her way to make me feel as though I was worth less than the dirt on her shoes. When we did eventually call it a day, she actually sent Chrissie a bottle of Moët in celebration. Thankfully, my interaction with Tamara is now limited to the occasional awkward encounter at Chrissie’s house when I collect or drop off Mila, but that’s about it.’

He smiles in defeat. ‘I’m sure she’ll give me hell for it, but she’s agreed to collect Mila from school and look after her until I can get there. You’d have thought any other grandmother would be thrilled to spend extra time with their offspring, but she’s one of those grandmothers by convenience. She loves to tell her sewing circle about everything Mila excels at, and is happy to show her off when it suits, but woe betide you if you expect anything more.’ He pauses. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be dumping all of this on you.’

‘It’s okay,’ I tell him, smiling back. ‘That’s what friends are for.’

He looks down at his feet, before returning his eyes to mine. ‘Listen, I’ve been meaning to—’

We start as a woman’s shrill voice echoes down the corridor. ‘PC Serrovitz?’

Turning, I now see a woman in face mask and stained overalls standing just inside the secured door.

‘Yes,’ Jack says, standing. ‘And this is my colleague Emma Hunter. She’s civilian liaison but has clearance to be here.’

I don’t know how true that statement is, but the pathologist doesn’t bat an eyelid, holding the door open with her shoulder and beckoning us through. The air inside the secured doors instantly feels much cleaner, as if every molecule has been sanitised before being pumped in through the air-conditioning system. And the entire place just feels cleaner. The walls are bright white in comparison to the dreary mustard shade in the corridor, and the doors are all made from shiny stainless steel. It feels as if we’ve stepped onto some kind of spaceship, rather than into a place that few feel comfortable in.

The pathologist shows us to a small room with a round table at its heart and even brighter lights than those we’ve emerged from. Naively, I’d thought she would show us into her lab, but I suppose for hygiene reasons that won’t be the case. She closes the door and dims the light before tapping buttons on the side of the round table. Lights flicker on the table top and a moment later a 3D image of a skeleton is projected just above it. I have to give it to the hospital, no expense has been spared on this equipment. Without being told, I can see we are viewing the remains discovered in the suitcase, which have been systematically catalogued and then rearranged into a kind of digital jigsaw puzzle of a skeleton.

‘The victim was female,’ the pathologist begins, without any introduction. Her name badge reads ‘Dr V Chang’, though I’ve no idea what the ‘V’ stands for. She must be in her early forties,