bodies!’
‘Not exactly. They do perform the autopsies there but they do all sorts of other forensic tests as well. It’s not like in CSI,’ said Lilly.
Luella’s eyes were wide with horror. ‘You won’t see any dead bodies, surely?
‘No. I’m not allowed in the actual lab, to avoid contamination, I suppose, but I’m meeting one of the pathologists to talk about one of his reports,’ Lilly said.
‘How exciting,’ giggled Penny.
Lilly shook her head. It amazed her how other people saw her job. ‘Not really. The reports are turgid but I’m hoping he can clear a few things up on one of my cases.’
‘What’s it about?’ asked Penny, her tone somewhere between the Secret Seven and Dan Dare.
Lilly put down her croissant. ‘I represent the eldest child of a woman who was murdered on the Clayhill Estate.’
‘The prostitute!’ said Penny.
Lilly was surprised that the women seemed to know who she was talking about. She’d assumed their contact with the outside world stopped at the hairdresser’s; maybe she’d been too hasty in her analysis of them. David had always said the chip on her shoulder was so big it was a wonder she didn’t lean to one side.
‘I suppose we, the taxpayer, will have to keep the girl living in the lap of luxury from now on,’ said Luella.
Lilly pushed away her plate, her appetite gone. She warned herself not to react. These were the mothers of her son’s friends, she’d come along today because he wanted her to fit in, not pick fights.
‘It will cost thousands to keep her and she doesn’t have to contribute a penny. Not a penny,’ said Luella.
Don’t do it, Lilly. Don’t do it.
‘I wish someone would give me some free money,’ said Luella, whose husband had just become a tax exile in Dublin.
Lilly couldn’t stop herself. ‘She’s fourteen, Luella, are you suggesting she fend for herself?’
Luella reddened.
‘Have you ever been inside a children’s home?’ Lilly asked.
Luella shook her head.
‘Then what makes you think it’s the lap of luxury?’
Luella shrugged. ‘You see things in the papers.’
Lilly was caught between amazement and exasperation. ‘Can I suggest you don’t believe everything you read.’
Yes, the chip was heavy, but it was perfectly balanced by the weight of other people’s prejudice which she carried on the other side.
* * *
Jack finished a can of Coke and crunched it in his fist. Not a healthy breakfast, he conceded, but the only other choice in his fridge had been the leftovers of last night’s chicken korma.
He was looking forward to seeing Lilly and although the path lab was not the most romantic place for a date, even by his low standards, he felt pleasurably nervous.
That morning he’d intended to make a bit of an effort and iron his shirt, but when he’d pulled out the old Phillips steamer he remembered he’d used the plug for his radio alarm and there wasn’t time for a regraft. Still, he’d had a wash and combed his hair.
He waited for Lilly in the foyer, skulking in the shadows. From the outside the lab looked like any other government building, three storeys high, dull red bricks, an identical plastic blind at each window. Inside was grey and eerily noiseless, the sound of footfall muffled by nylon carpet tiles. Jack hated it and had no intention of going in alone. He would have waited in the street but for the overwhelming brightness of the day.
When she finally arrived, Jack was surprised to see Lilly’s unruly hair raked back. He didn’t like it at all, not because it didn’t suit her but because he loved the mass of waves that usually tumbled around her face.
‘Sorry I’m late, I had a coffee morning,’ she said.
He winked. ‘Top priority, eh?’
‘What would you know about my priorities?’ she barked.
Jack took a deep breath. Lilly’s mood was as severe as her hair.
They moved through the building to a waiting area. Dr Cheney was already there, rocking on his heels and glancing at his watch. He was a tall man with hair almost as wild as Lilly’s, a haystack that slipped past his shoulders, tucked behind his ears to reveal a shooting gallery of piercings. On his nose were perched black glasses, the standard issue of the NHS in the Seventies. Jack couldn’t easily picture him poring over photographs of blood-splatter patterns or checking particles of dust under a microscope, but knew that this was precisely how Cheney spent his time.
Jack had first met Cheney five years ago at a leaving party for a mutual acquaintance who had been promoted to the Drug Squad. They had argued over a technician called Debbie, who they both claimed had given them the eye and for whom they had both bought a rum and Coke. When she finally left with her lips wrapped around a recently divorced dog-handler from Essex, Jack and Cheney went on a bender that finished the following lunchtime in a twenty-four-hour café next to King’s Cross. They’d been friends ever since.
The doctor pulled off latex gloves. A tribal tattoo encircled his left wrist. ‘Officer McNally, Ms Valentine. How can I help you?’
It was usual for the police officer to explain their visit, but Lilly was obviously in no mood for niceties.
‘I represent Kelsey Brand, the daughter of Grace Brand. The court is in the process of deciding whether a Care Order should be made.’
‘Judging by the condition of her mother I think that’s inevitable, Ms Valentine,’ the doctor said.
One of the things Jack liked about Cheney was his sense of humour. Dark, irreverent, like his own.
Lilly smiled politely. ‘I’ll be frank, Doctor Cheney, her mother’s death is the least of my client’s worries. If the police have their way she’ll be locked away until she’s too old to have children of her own, presuming she survives prison at all. They think Kelsey murdered her mother.’
‘That’s not entirely true,’ said Jack.
Lilly’s eyes flashed. ‘Bullshit. You’re not investigating anyone else.’
Dr Cheney coughed. Jack knew he would be amused by the scuffle, only too happy to see his friend snubbed, particularly by an attractive member of the opposite sex.
‘And you want to head them off at the pass,’ said the doctor.
‘Yes. I need them to drop this nonsense so I can get the poor kid into a decent foster placement. If you have any information in advance of the autopsy report I’d appreciate it,’ Lilly said.
‘How about confirmation that a fourteen-year-old couldn’t have committed this crime,’ said Cheney.
Jack was irritated to notice that, despite herself, Lilly’s shoulders relaxed and a smile played at the corners of her mouth. ‘That would be great, but anything at all would do.’
The doctor laughed and flopped into a chair. Lilly and Jack followed suit.
‘As you know, the cause of death was a trauma to the base of the skull.’ Cheney touched the hairline at the nape of his neck. ‘It was made by a blunt instrument, and by my estimation there were two blows, both hard, both clean.’
‘What about the knife wounds?’ asked Jack, determined not to be excluded from the discussion, which was in danger of becoming a cosy chat á deux.
Cheney answered Jack’s question but kept his eyes firmly on Lilly. ‘They’re extensive but not deep, without the blow to the head I doubt any would have proved fatal. In any event, they’re