, a jolly farewell blast before the car moved off.
Denise Finn’s eyes filled with tears. She took a cigarette from the packet on the side table and Rachel felt her own cravings kick in.
‘Are you sure?’ Denise said. The lunge for hope making her twist in her seat towards Janet.
Sure she’s dead? Sure it’s Lisa? Rachel could imagine all the chinks of light tempting the woman, a futile, last-ditch attempt to make the nightmare go away.
‘We still need you to formally identify the body, but as she was found in Lisa’s flat by Lisa’s boyfriend Sean, who called the police, we are pretty certain that it is your daughter Lisa.’
Trembling, Denise lit her cigarette, the snick of the lighter, the first scent of burning tobacco, triggering saliva in Rachel’s mouth. She breathed steadily in, happy to do a little passive smoking until she could get to the real thing.
‘The post-mortem is being conducted this evening,’ Janet said. ‘We expect it will confirm the cause of death, and then we’d like you to come to the mortuary, probably tomorrow morning, to make the formal identification. The family liaison officer will come with you and they’ll be able to answer any further questions you have.’
Denise nodded. She drew again on her cigarette, but her lips quivered as though she had lost control of them.
‘You thought Lisa was in bother?’ Rachel spoke, ‘Why was that?’
Janet turned to Rachel, glaring daggers. Pardon me for breathing.
‘She had…’ Denise’s words petered out, she closed her eyes, tilting her face upwards to the ceiling. ‘Erm, she’d had a few run-ins with your lot. Shoplifting. Messing with drugs.’
Janet turned to Denise, turned more than was necessary, her back to Rachel, excluding her from the conversation. Tosser, Rachel thought to herself, acting as if Rachel had farted at the funeral. Well, she wasn’t some newbie in uniform who would put up with being shut out. If Janet wouldn’t give her the breaks, she would just have to grab them for herself. And she could do sympathy. Talk nice. She’d seen the videos.
‘Is there anyone you’d like us to call, someone who can be with you?’ asked Rachel. She looked at the photos. ‘Your son, perhaps?’
Denise Finn stared at Rachel, her face collapsing, mouth drawn back in pain. ‘Nathan’s dead,’ she stammered. ‘He died in January.’
Oh, fuck. Just my piggin’ luck.
And Denise began to cry.
‘Nice one, Sherlock,’ said Janet. The FLO had arrived and at last they could escape.
