Page 11

Chapter

Nine

F or reasons known only to himself, He Who Roams Wide chose to accompany me on my return visit to the mortuary.

It was in a central location that I knew the sleek black cat visited of his own accord, so perhaps he wanted to ensure my safety.

Or perhaps he was merely bored and wanted something to do.

Either way, I was glad of the company and I knew that his presence wouldn’t provoke anyone in the way that the unfamiliar figure of Thane Barrow might.

I hoped rather than expected that a Fetch from the witches’ council would be in attendance. It wouldn’t be easy to persuade a council official to tell me any relevant information, but their presence would ensure that John Doe’s death was being taken seriously.

That was all I wanted to happen, and I had dressed accordingly in smart black trousers and a crisp white shirt instead of my fuzzy, cat-lady attire.

Witches who rose to the lofty heights of the council approved of businesslike, transactional relationships with important and serious people.

They weren’t likely to offer time or information to someone who wandered in off the street in a colourful old jumper covered in cat hair .

I’d even brushed my purple hair and smoothed it down with an anti-frizz potion that had been lurking in the back of my bathroom cabinet for months.

I didn’t bother doing anything about the dark circles under my eyes.

I’d had a restless night of tossing and turning and my disturbed sleep showed on my face, even though I knew I had enough grim enthusiasm and dark energy to attack the day.

There was a glimmer of sunlight when we set out, but once He Who Roams Wide and I arrived at Mathers Street it had been subsumed by grey skies and a morose drizzle.

Such was the way of a dreary Scottish winter.

It didn’t affect the cat, who darted through the streets and leapt across puddles; he was having the time of his life.

His attitude rubbed off on me and by the time I pushed open the mortuary doors, hastily stepping out of the path of two Redcaps who were just leaving, I was buoyed by my sense of purpose.

I was sure that I’d learn John Doe’s real identity by the end of the day.

Cindy was sitting behind the front desk in exactly the same position and with the same dour expression she’d displayed the previous day.

If nothing else, I admired her consistency.

I was also pleased that she didn’t look surprised when I appeared; Dr Singh must have warned her that I was planning to return.

‘I preferred what you were wearing yesterday,’ she grunted.

I didn’t take offence; I preferred my comfy cat-lady clothes, too. I gave her my most disarming smile. ‘It was an impromptu visit yesterday. I thought that I ought to be more respectful today.’

‘The dead don’t care.’

My smile didn’t dim. ‘Nobody actually wears black for the dead, they wear it for the living. It’s a way of saying that a life might be over but that life still mattered.’

She gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘I hear a lot of pop psychology when I’m behind this desk. I don’t know why I thought you’d be different.’ She peered down. ‘Is that a cat ?’

I expected her to launch into a long lecture about why animals were forbidden from the mortuary hallways, but instead she jumped up and launched herself towards He Who Roams Wide. ‘My goodness, you’re a handsome boy!’

I blinked in surprise, but the cat took her admiration as his due. He butted his head against her leg and miaowed, charming her into immediate submission. I should have brought him along yesterday; I’d have saved myself some money.

Cindy cooed over him for several moments until eventually I cleared my throat. ‘Is Dr Singh here?’ I asked. ‘Can I go through?’

She didn’t look up. ‘Yes, yes, on you go. He’s in his office. Third door on the right. How about a treat?’

‘I’m still waiting for yesterday’s cup of tea,’ I told her.

‘Not you,’ she snapped. She tickled He Who Roams Wide under his chin. ‘Would you like a treat? Maybe some chicken?’ She angled her head up to me. ‘I made chicken salad for my lunch today. I can pick out some bits for him. Is that alright? I don’t want to upset his wee tummy or anything.’

‘You’ll upset him if he doesn’t get any chicken now he’s got it into his head that a feast is coming,’ I told her.

‘He deserves it,’ Cindy said. ‘Don’t you, my lovely? You deserve some chicken for being so very handsome.’

Uh-huh. I gazed at the pair of them then shrugged and left them to it.

The door to Dr Singh’s office was already ajar but I knocked anyway and waited.

I needed to keep the pathologist on my side, so observing the professional niceties was wise.

Besides, I could hear the murmur of voices and I had no desire to intrude if he was talking to a family member about their loved one.

When he opened the door, smiled and beckoned me inside, however, I realised that his companion had to be a Fetch from the witches’ council.

It wasn’t the air of sniffy self-importance that confirmed it – although that was impressive – but the tall, pointed black hat that the council members wore without any sense of irony that gave it away.

‘Ms McCafferty,’ Dr Singh exclaimed with unexpected warmth.

The witch took off his silly hat and placed it on the desk, then peeled off his black leather gloves. I eyed the embroidered insignia on the cuffs: DJ. Maybe the Fetch was a big R’n’B fan.

‘It’s good to see you again.’ Dr Singh gestured towards the witch. ‘This is Fetch Jackson.’

‘Please, call me Daniel.’ The Fetch smiled and the welcoming twinkle in his eyes left me faintly nonplussed.

‘Fetch always feels so formal.’ He gave a small, embarrassed laugh.

‘Every time I hear it, I feel a surge of imposter syndrome even though I’ve been with the council for more than eight years.

’ He held out his hand. ‘Dr Singh told me about your concern for the poor John Doe who was pulled from the river yesterday. I understand that you were there when it happened.’

I’d not expected any of this. The fact that the Fetch was there in person was surprising, even more so that he was being friendly towards me and appeared grateful for my intrusion. I shook his hand and matched his smile with one of my own. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I was there.’

Daniel nodded. ‘I also know,’ he said quietly, ‘that you saved Quentin.’ He touched his chest and bowed his head. ‘We are all very grateful for your intervention.’

Now I was even more surprised. The Fetch had done his homework.

Hightower wasn’t part of the witches’ council so he must have gone to some lengths to find out about me.

Doubly so given that Hightower had been unwilling to admit that he’d been rescued.

Doubtless Dr Singh had played matters by the book and told the council of my involvement when he’d informed them of the unknown witch’s murder.

‘I wish I could have done more and saved John Doe as well,’ I said.

‘What happened is a tragedy. Did he say anything to you?’

‘Uh, no. He was already dead when I came across him.’

Daniel’s eyes widened. ‘Oh no, I mean Quentin. Did he say anything to you?’

I shook my head. ‘No.’ But why would the Fetch care what Quentin Hightower might have said?

His eyes grew sharper. ‘Are you sure?’

I felt an odd tension ripple through my veins and a deepening pressure in my temples. Interesting. ‘He didn’t say a word,’ I replied truthfully.

The Fetch nodded again. ‘Well, on his behalf, thank you for what you did.’

I stepped back to put some space between us. ‘You’re welcome.’

Dr Singh clapped his hands, apparently relieved that we were all getting along.

No doubt he’d had more than enough conflict after yesterday’s shenanigans.

‘Fetch Jackson,’ he said, determined to use the witch’s official title, ‘and I have been discussing John Doe. Although it is unorthodox, he is perfectly happy to include you in the investigation.’

Unorthodox? It was unheard of for the witches’ council to be so accommodating even to their own kind without considerable persuasion. ‘That’s … good,’ I said cautiously.

I eyed Daniel Jackson more closely. He didn’t look like a maverick council member.

He was in his mid-thirties, on the young side for someone in his position, but his smooth clear skin and carefully manicured fingernails suggested he came from wealth as most of them did.

His brown hair was short and neat, and there was no visible evidence of anything that the witches’ council would frown upon – no jewellery, no tattoos, no overpowering cologne.

‘You are clearly a public-spirited woman who can offer a fresh perspective on matters and who cares about her community.’ Jackson splayed his hands to indicate he had nothing to hide. ‘The least we can do is work together so that this poor man’s family is located and informed of his tragic demise.’

Dr Singh clapped his hands together again, which seemed somewhat inappropriate given our reasons for being there. ‘Excellent, excellent. I completed the post-mortem last night. If neither of you is averse to the idea, I shall take you through to the main room and show you my findings.’

If the thought of seeing a dead body made Fetch Daniel Jackson feel queasy then he didn’t show it. He nodded and picked up his briefcase. ‘Yes, that would be good,’ he said.