Dead Men's s Boots

Not on Carla’s side, anyway: I have to admit, her thanks sat heavily in my stomach right then, given that the main r [hat Noeason I was there was because I thought I might be able to get a clue about who was trying to kill me.

‘It’s part of the basic service,’ I assured her, deadpan. ‘The de luxe includes lawn care.’

‘I haven’t got a lawn.’

‘Then the basic should suit you just fine.’

I helped her take the bedding through, then went back down the steps to collect the rest of the kit I’d brought with me. It was already dark – but then, the slate-grey mountains of cumulonimbus had made it dark for most of the day. The wind had blown most of that mass away to the west now, though, and a sliver of moon as thin as a sickle blade was cutting what was left into grubby-looking tatters. Tomorrow was going to be fine, and as cold as charity.

I lingered out there, because there was something about the east wind heavy with unborn frost that felt clean and even refreshing. I called Juliet and got Susan Book. I asked her if she could pass a message on: I just needed to talk to Juliet about some work she’d done for the Met. She said she’d tell Juliet as soon as she came in.

‘We never seem to see you any more, Fix,’ she chided me. ‘Where are you working these days? In some terrible wilderness on the edge of civilisation?’

‘Southgate,’ I said. ‘I think the nearest civilisation is Wood Green Shopping City.’

‘Good grief, you’re only twenty minutes’ drive from here! You’ve got to come over for dinner. Jules would love to see you.’

‘Well, I will.’

‘Tomorrow.’

Cornered. ‘Okay, tomorrow,’ I said.

‘Actually, could you make it Thursday? I’ve got the prayer circle tomorrow night.’

‘Thursday it is, then. Thanks, Sue. See you then.’

I hung up, pondering on the mysteries of the human spirit. It was inexplicable on the face of it how someone who lived in sin with a succubus – a consenting adult demon of the same sex – could still be so active in the Church and see no inherent contradictions in her lifestyle. Susan Book was one of a kind. I was getting to like her, even if she had stolen my woman.

I took my time stowing the phone away, collecting my things and climbing the stairs again.

When I got back inside, I felt the difference even before I saw Carla frozen on the floor in a defensive crouch. Staining the carpet between her and the coffin was an elongated teardrop of spilled beer, with the starburst remains of the broken bottle at its narrower end. Clearly, during the few minutes I’d been outside, John had woken up – in a pretty sour mood.

Carla was crying. I went over to her, knelt and put a hand around her shoulders. She melted into me, powerful sobs making her shudder and shake. ‘I just –’ she managed to get out ‘ – said goodnight – to him!’

I’m not good in this kind of situation. I’m familiar with the noises that have to be made, but people who know me, and know what I do for a living, find it as hard to take consolation from me as they would from a professional hangman. I tried anyway. ‘Carla,’ I said, ‘the reason he’s so scared and so angry now is because fear and anger are pretty much all he is. His body’s gone – it’s in the casket there. He’s jumped the rails. Ri [ thttyght now he’s just a collection of emotions so strong there isn’t even much room left for memories. That’s why so many ghosts seem to spend their time replaying their own deaths: they’re caught in a loop, going through the same events again and again because there’s so much fear and pain tied up in them.

‘John’s not trying to hurt you. You said yourself that none of the things he’s thrown have ever touched you. He’s lashing out because he doesn’t understand what’s happened to him and he doesn’t know how to get free of it. But if he threw that bottle when you touched the side of the coffin –’ her head buried in my chest, she tried to nod, and I felt rather than saw the movement ‘– then that’s a good sign. It means he recognises the body as his own, and wants to protect it. It means he remembers enough of his past to make that identification. On some level, he knows who he was. Who he still is. So you did the right thing, agreeing to this. I think you’ve helped him.’

Carla still had to cry it out, but the point seemed to sink in and she slowly started to calm. After a minute or so, I let go of her and took my tin whistle out of my pocket.

‘I’m going to play him some more music,’ I said.

That alarmed her all over again. She surfaced from the now slightly soggy depths of my lapels with a look of horror on her face. ‘Fix, if you send him away now—’

‘I didn’t send him away the first time,’ I said. ‘I just made him . . . drowsy. These are tunes I use on Rafi, so I’ve had plenty of time to get them down right.