After a minute or so Yvonne excused herself and I was left alone with Helen.  I wanted to touch her, may be even kiss her for the final time, but for whatever reason I couldn’t bring myself to.  All I could do was stare at her as I tried to work out how my life had just disintegrated.

Five minutes later Yvonne returned and took me back to the relatives’ room.  The rest of the evening and well into the early hours of the morning became a blur.  Some time after midnight WPC Shaw returned to the room and sat down opposite me.  Her eyes were red and I wondered whether she’d been crying. “We’ve found your father’s body.  It appears the impact with the van threw his body over a wall and it was found in the undergrowth by a police dog.”

I couldn’t react to the news, in part because it came as no great surprise, but also because I had no more emotions to give.  She gave me a few seconds to take it in before continuing: “I’ve spoken to the sister in A&E and she says that all the bodies have been taken to the morgue.  It will be at least an hour or so before you can see them and confirm their identities.  As it’s so late already I could take you home if you want, and arrange for you to come back later – maybe after you’ve had some sleep.  It’s really up to you.”

I had no desire to drag it out any longer than was necessary and after just a moment’s thought I answered, “I’d rather stay if that’s all right, get things sorted out now.  I don’t want to be coming back.”  She nodded and the waiting began again.

At 3:35 a.m. a male nurse knocked and stuck his head round the door.  Not making eye contact with me, he spoke to Yvonne. “They’ve just phoned, they’re ready for you.”

I let out a deep breath.  It flickered across my mind that it might be better to go home, get some rest and then come back later.  Yvonne, presumably picking up on my uneasiness, turned to me. “Are you sure you want to do this now?”

I just nodded, knowing that I had to stay strong and that delaying the inevitable wouldn’t help me.

Yvonne led the way to the morgue, with Shaw and me following in silence.  The single storey redbrick building was about a hundred metres from the main hospital complex and required a short walk in the moonlit open air.  We headed straight to the back entrance of the morgue and to a huge set of double doors, big enough for an ambulance to comfortably drive through.  Yvonne pressed the bell and it chimed loudly inside.  As we waited I glanced into Shaw’s face, eerily illuminated by a fluorescent light on the side of the building.  She looked harrowed and almost as if she had aged a couple of decades in the last few hours.  I suspected, like me, this was one night she’d never forget.

Within twenty seconds there was a grating of metal from inside and the sound of a heavy bolt sliding, and then the big doors slowly opened.  It took a second for my eyes to adjust to the brilliance of the light from inside and to see a man, probably close to retiring age, standing in front of us.  He had a sallow, pale complexion that seemed appropriate for his line of work, and as he stroked his full beard he beckoned us in.  Taking just a single step inside, the strong smell of chemicals hit my nostrils and I recognised the distinctive and unpleasant whiff of formaldehyde from the university labs.

I was taken through to a small viewing area with a patterned floral carpet, pale pink walls and two large vases containing plastic flowers on tables at either end of the room.  Though I tried not to look, almost pretending they weren’t there, the room was dominated by three metal trolleys, on castors, covered in crisp white sheets with the forms of bodies of different sizes clearly evident beneath.

Over the next five minutes I was taken to each table in turn; the sheet was removed to reveal the face and I simply nodded while the superintendent, hovering a few paces behind clutching a clipboard, would then step forward and I would sign an official-looking document confirming the identity.  Perhaps surprisingly, I felt little in the way of emotion, just totally numb.  After the identification of William, the third body, I was taken back to the waiting area for a few minutes while the trolleys were wheeled out and the remaining members of my family were brought in for the procedure to be repeated.

Around 4:00 a.m. the process was finally over.  The superintendent turned to me. “Sir, would you like to spend any more time with your family?”

I didn’t.  I wanted to go home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 3

 

In the cold damp alley off Station Road my thoughts are sharply brought back to the present as the door of the Earl of Arundel pub opens and releases a shaft of smoke-filled light into the dark street.  My heart begins to pound and I tighten my grip on the machete handle as an indistinct figure appears in the shadows of the pub entrance.  But almost immediately comes the acute sense of anticlimax with the realization that it’s not Musgrove.  The man, probably at least seventy and walking with a stick, clears his throat loudly, spits on the pavement and drunkenly meanders down the street.  I silently urge him forward, fearful that Musgrove could appear at any time; an eye-witness, even a pissed old bloke, is the last thing I need.  After thirty seconds or so, the man stops halfway down the street, fumbles with his keys for what seems like an age and then lets himself into one of the terraced houses.  As the door closes behind him, the scene is once again deserted and I find myself breathing more easily.

With last orders approaching, the next few minutes drag by uneventfully.  The chip shop girl has scoffed her last chip and, with the lights turned off, the street is in darkness as the wind howls shrilly down the narrow alley.  A fine drizzle begins to fall and I tuck the long knife into the top of my jacket to stop the handle getting slippery.  The door of the pub opens again and I quickly look back up as a blast of raucous laughter crosses the street.  A figure steps out of the pub; it’s certainly a man but his back is turned as he struggles to light a cigarette in the squall.  After several failed attempts, the tip of the cigarette glows orange and forms a beacon in the darkness.  He then turns and starts across the road, his head down, bowed into the wind and rain.  His face remains obscured as my heart thunders against my sternum.  Look up, look up, I silently plead, but for a painful few seconds his gaze appears fixed to the ground at his feet.  Then finally, now just a few paces from me, he lifts his head.  Musgrove, it’s Musgrove, my thoughts scream as I recognise his distinctive features.  He’s looking directly at me but is apparently oblivious to my presence in the shadows.  I feel sick but I know what I’ve got to do.

With my gloved hand, I delve into the jacket and pull out the heavy metal machete in a single action.  I feel a sharp pain to the underside of my jaw and immediately feel warm fluid running down my neck, but nothing can stop me.  I step from the alley and walk slowly and purposefully towards him.  He’s now just a couple of yards away and, for the first time, he sees me.  There’s a look of vague recollection in his eyes but in his alcohol and drug-induced stupor he’s got no time to react.  I raise the heavy instrument to initiate the swing but then stop momentarily as a shaft of light from a car’s headlamps sweeps into the road along with the rattle of a diesel engine.  But way past the point of no return, my gaze remains focused on Musgrove and I lunge at him with the force of my entire body.  In an instant, the brutal blade slices deep into the side of his neck.  I quickly step aside to avoid the pulsatile spray of blood and then watch as his knees buckle and he collapses face-down to the ground without uttering a sound.