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Chapter

Twenty-Nine

A nyone watching our little posse as we approached the Mathers Street mortuary would likely have been able to deduce a great deal about our individual personalities from the way we were walking.

Naturally Quentin Hightower took the lead, striding ahead with a long gait, not glancing back to make sure we were keeping up.

He expected people to follow him without question and there was no doubt that his straight back and marching swagger were designed to prove that he was a figure of authority.

Adrienne certainly believed in him; she scurried as close to him as possible.

He didn’t look at her. To be fair, I didn’t think that Hightower had forgotten his sweeping promises to keep her safe, he was simply distracted by other matters – such as the important act of putting one foot in front of the other and looking superior while doing so.

I decided he wasn’t the sort of person who could multi-task.

Although it had been her idea to visit the mortuary, now that we were on our way, I suspected that Adrienne was having second thoughts.

She possessed a steely inner core and wouldn’t voice her fears, but her jerky looks from side to side showed her nervousness about what might happen on the mean streets of Coldstream. She knew she was a target.

She shouldn’t have worried: Thane was sticking close to her and if anyone attacked he would be there to protect her within a breath.

I knew he was scanning every possible viewing point and alleyway for lurking suspects.

His hands were in his pockets and he appeared casual, but a closer look revealed coiled tension.

He was ready for action and, if it came to it, he’d look very good kicking arse.

I pushed away a surge of regret that Hightower and Adrienne were with us.

I wasn’t used to working in a team, and I certainly didn’t enjoy being part of this group.

Thane was the exception; somehow everything felt easier when he was around.

Hightower didn’t turn around because it didn’t occur to him to check on us; Thane didn’t turn around because he knew I was right behind him and I could take care of myself.

Their movements were the same but the reasons behind them were very different.

Me? I felt relaxed. We wouldn’t be attacked en route to the mortuary.

The killer had no fear of public places – he’d stabbed Simon Campbell in broad daylight close to a busy market before shoving him into the river.

Neither was he afraid of blood or gore; Knox Thunderstick’s hideous death had proved that.

Our man possessed the calm capability to force his way into a building such as the MET office to take out a Fetch – but I could still poke holes in his performance.

I’d give him six out of ten for his efforts thus far, with considerable room for improvement.

I listed his errors. He’d almost allowed himself to get caught at Knox Thunderstick’s house.

He should have dealt with Fetch Jackson long before the MET brought the council witch in for questioning.

He should have tidied up after himself at Simon Campbell’s flat; by leaving the place in a mess he’d shown he was looking for something and set us on the path towards the silphium.

Finally, and most importantly, he’d had the chance to kill two birds with one stone at the river market – and he’d missed.

Quentin Hightower had obviously been meeting Simon Campbell to discuss silphium.

The smart move would have been to kill them both at the same time but the killer had missed his opportunity.

He’d left Hightower alive, suggesting that he didn’t feel confident about taking on more than one person at a time.

I reckoned our group of four would be safe as long as we stayed together – and that the killer’s days were numbered.

Cindy’s desk was empty when we trooped into the mortuary’s reception area. That was unexpected. A tickle of wariness scratched at me.

‘Nobody’s here,’ Hightower declared, his overly loud voice bouncing around the small room. ‘What a shame. We should leave.’ He spun around, pushed past me and reached for the door.

‘Hello? Can I help you?’ A young man carrying a box of tissues appeared from the corridor to the right.

His nose was red and his eyes were puffy and watering, which was not a particularly good look for someone working in a mortuary.

Surely grieving relatives wanted calm professionalism, not weepy emotions.

The man sneezed and I realised it wasn’t sadness making him cry but illness. I took a precautionary step backwards.

‘Sorry,’ he apologised. ‘My allergies are playing up. It happens sometimes. People bring their dogs with them to appointments, the dogs shed fur and I sneeze.’ He blew his nose. ‘I’m alright really.’

I instantly knew that it was far more likely to be a cat than a dog that had triggered his allergies. One particular adventure-loving, roaming cat, in fact. ‘Is Cindy here?’ I asked.

‘She only works Monday to Fridays.’ He gave a wet sniff. ‘I’m Matt – I cover weekends. How can I help?’ He put down the box of tissues and clasped his hands together solemnly. ‘Have you suffered a recent loss?’

Adrienne started to nod but it was Quentin who spoke up. ‘You know who I am.’

Matt rubbed his eyes, making a bad situation worse and causing even more raw, red blotchy marks to appear on his face. ‘Uh, no. I’m sorry. Who are you? Are you related to Mrs Wooton? Her body was brought in this morning, but I’m not sure it’s ready for viewing yet.’

‘I am Quentin Hightower!’

Matt scratched his head. ‘Hightower?’ he asked, looking confused.

‘From the Hightower coven!’

‘Huh?’

This was almost too entertaining. Unfortunately Thane stepped in before matters could descend further. Spoilsport. ‘We’re here to support Adrienne McDonald.’ He pointed to the nymph. ‘She wishes to see the bodies of her friends to say goodbye to them.’

On surer ground now, Matt smiled. ‘Do you have an appointment?’ he asked. ‘And permission from the families?’

Not exactly. I stepped closer to him; inevitably he sneezed again as soon as I moved. ‘Is Dr Singh here? Perhaps you should get him for us.’

Matt’s teary reddened gaze travelled from the pompous witch to the confident wolf to the sad nymph and to me. ‘Yeah,’ he said, clearly deciding that our motley crew was above his pay grade. ‘I think I’ll do that.’

The locker room was even colder and more sterile than I remembered.

Then again, last time I’d been searching for a body with an unknown identity and this time I knew who I was looking for.

Adrienne’s grieving presence by my side heightened the cold, clinical atmosphere in a way that my earlier dispassionate visits had not.

Adrienne was crying, albeit silently. Thane put a comforting arm around her shoulders, which she seemed to appreciate. Hightower just looked ill.

Dr Singh held up the now-familiar clipboard. ‘You’ll have to sign in to view each separate body,’ he said. He gave me a faint smile. ‘It’s procedure.’

I reached for the clipboard and pen, flipped through the pages and signed where necessary.

Gavin Ravensheart and Margaret Ravensheart had signed the page for Ian the troll; doubtless they were his parents.

Grimacing, I wrote my name beneath theirs.

Harriet and the two remaining Blue Tattoos had been in on behalf of Knox, and I added my name to that list. On the final page, I noted that nobody had come to see Simon Campbell since Fetch Jackson and myself. ‘Do I have to…?’ I asked.

‘Sign it again?’ Dr Singh finished. ‘Oh yes.’

I scrawled my name then passed the clipboard down the line.

‘I heard what happened to the Fetch.’ The pathologist shook his head. ‘What a terrible tragedy.’

‘Has his body been brought here?’

‘No. The witches’ council will deal with his remains. Besides, we’re almost full. There have been far too many deaths lately – the Redcaps have been bringing in more bodies than usual. It happens that way sometimes. We only have so much space.’

I acknowledged his point distractedly but Hightower blanched. ‘You’re clearly very busy,’ he muttered. ‘We should come back later when things have quietened down.’

‘The bodies are only held here temporarily,’ I reminded him. ‘This is probably Adrienne’s last chance to see her friends.’

Dr Singh nodded. ‘Ian Ravensheart’s funeral is taking place on Monday morning. Simon Campbell and Knox Thunderstick’s services are in the afternoon.’ Adrienne looked even more upset.

‘They’ve been here for a few days now,’ Hightower muttered. ‘Won’t they smell?’

I gazed at him. He really didn’t want to be confronted with the reality of a corpse, let alone three of them.

‘Don’t worry,’ Dr Singh reassured him. ‘All the bodies here are refrigerated. You don’t have to worry about any unpleasant smells.’ He eyed the witch; none of us wanted to deal with Quentin Hightower’s vomit. ‘You can go outside if you’re uncomfortable. We have a very pleasant waiting room.’

Hightower puffed out his chest. ‘Absolutely not. I must remain by Adrienne’s side at all times. I am her protector.’ Thane was doing far more to fulfil that role but none of us said that aloud.

‘I can give you a senses spell,’ Dr Singh suggested. ‘Everyone who works regularly with the dead uses such magic sooner or later.’

My professional interest was stirred. I knew such spells existed; there had been whispers that a couple of EEL assassins who hated the sight of blood used them regularly to guard against physical reactions.

I had always thought that if their reactions were so strong they should consider a different career, but we each made our own choices.

‘I think that would be a good idea,’ Hightower said. ‘Such magic will help Adrienne.’ It wasn’t Adrienne who needed the spell.