“Oh that.” I shrug. “That’s just Dave. Don’t mind him, he has Tourette’s.”
“I noticed.”
“He’s such a lovely guy,” I muse. “Shame.”
“What happened?”
“He showed up about six weeks ago. Apparently, he was well known for having one too many Jägerbombs and doing stupid shit. He took a dare that went a bit awry, resulting in a rather spectacular head dive into the Thames from what I hear. They fished him out two days later,” I tell her. “Lovely funeral though. I’ve always liked bagpipes.”
“But what’s he still doing here?”
“Oh,” I purse my lips thoughtfully. “We haven’t quite figured out what his unfinished business is yet. He wasn’t murdered, it was a case of death by being a prat, but he’s such a sweet, happy-go-lucky guy. Doesn’t hold a grudge against anyone. In fact, he’s taken being dead completely in his stride.”
“Just when I think I’ve seen it all.” Dusty shakes her head.
“Dusty, I have a feeling we’ve barely scraped the surface.” My lips twitch as I pick up a pair of blue latex gloves and snap them on, glancing at the shroud-covered corpse on the table and then back at Mrs Abernathy.
“Come on, Delores.” Dusty tows her to the other end of the room. “You don’t need to watch that gruesome mess, but lucky for you”—she flicks her fingers, and a chair slides across the room, stopping in front of them—“for one night only”—she seats the tiny lady in the chair, facing away from the table—“the Fabulous Miz Dusty Le Frey floor show is returning just for you.”
I cross the room and slip my phone into the docking station alongside a small Bluetooth speaker. “Try and keep it down,” I whisper to her. “We don’t want to wake the dead.”
“I can’t make any promises, boo,” she snorts.
I cross back to the table as I hear my phone start to cycle through my playlists until the opening chords of Abba’sWaterlooblare out, accompanied by Dusty’s incredible voice. I glance back and chuckle. She’s gone full-on showgirl in a brightly coloured skin-tight sequined jump-suit with matching knee-high platform boots. The shoulder pads are so enormous I don’t know how she fits sideways through a doorway in them, let alone dances like she is. Still, I suppose she doesn’t have to sweat the technicalities now she’s dead and can pretty much do what she wants.
I watch for a moment, smiling as she dances through the first number, while Mrs Abernathy claps along in delight. Shaking my head with a quiet laugh, I pull the rolling screen across, blocking them from my view as I step up to the table. Pulling the sheet back slowly, I sigh at the sight of Mrs Abernathy’s grey skin and slack features.
“I am so sorry about this,” I whisper as I pick up the scalpel and begin.
5
Iglance down at the almost illegible scrawl on the piece of paper in my hand and check the address once again.
“Okay, this is the one,” I announce.
“Why are we here again?” Dusty leans against the fence, Mrs Abernathy still clutching her hand like an obedient child.
“Because we need to find out as much about Mrs Abernathy as we can.” I unlatch the rickety gate and shove it open awkwardly, wiping the flakes of old white paint from my hand. “Even if Danny manages to solve her death, there’s no guarantee that will be enough to get her into the light. If she has unfinished business, we need to try and figure out what that is.”
I head up the path and ring the doorbell, conscious of the fact Dusty and Mrs Abernathy are both trailing behind me but no one else can see them. I guess it’s just as well. The three of us standing aimlessly on the doorstep with me looking like a slightly scruffy student, Dusty wearing tiny sparkly pink hotpants and five-inch platform stilettos, and Mrs Abernathy in her tea-cosy hat clutching her handbag like she was about to be mugged, we look like a really odd bunch of Jehovah’s Witnesses.
I’m about to lift my hand and ring the bell again when the door finally opens and Mrs Abernathy’s niece appears, once more in her Sainsbury’s uniform, looking exhausted.
“Hello, Tristan,” she greets me in surprise, as if she wasn’t actually expecting me to use the address she gave me.
I smile. “Hi, Larry. Is this a bad time? I just wanted to stop by and see how you’re doing.”
“Oh, um no, it’s fine. I just got in from work, and I’m about to put the kettle on. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“That would be lovely.” I step over the threshold as she moves aside to allow me in.
“Sweet of you to come out of your way.” Larry closes the door behind me. “You live in Hackney, don’t you?”
“I do, but Stepney’s really not that far.” I follow her along the dark narrow hallway to the kitchen at the back.
Much like me, she seems to live in a narrow Victorian terrace which has been converted into one-up one-down flats. Unlike me though, she’s on the ground floor, causing my thoughts to momentarily flick back to my leaky roof which my landlord is still dodging.
“Tea?” Larry asks as we enter a small well-kept kitchen. “Or would you prefer coffee?”
