Free Sisters of Mercy by Andrew Puckett Page B

Got everything?’ asked Jones as I got back into the car.
    I nodded. ‘Yes.’
    ‘ You were a long time.’
    ‘ Ran into someone. Do we take the car?’ St Chad’s was an old hospital and covered a large area.
    ‘ No, we’ll leave it here and walk.’
    Our footsteps were unnaturally loud. No one was about, but I felt painfully conspicuous — what possible legitimate reason could we have for being here? We were approaching the boiler house …
    ‘ It’s the next building along,’ I said quietly.
    ‘ We’ll go past it and round the back,’ he said.
    There was a light outside the front. We walked past, then, without looking round, turned into the shadows on the far side. It was like walking into blindness.
    He took out a pencil torch and flashed it — I bumped into him to avoid a drain.
    We turned into the passage at the back. Found the door. He shone the light around it.
    ‘ No sign of an alarm neutralizer,’ he murmured, handing me the torch. ‘You’ll have to hold this for me.’
    He brought out a bunch of keys. I shone the pencil beam on to the lock. He inserted one of them; tried moving it about before withdrawing it.
    I ’d just begun to think we weren’t going to do it when the fourth key turned. He pushed the door a little way and listened before pushing it open. He put the keys away and took the torch from me. We went in and he shut the door. The faint, nutty smell of formaldehyde clamped on to my nostrils.
    He said, ‘Where’s the front door?’
    ‘ Straight up there.’ I pointed.
    Our shoes clacked on the tiled floor; echoed on the tiled walls. Past the marble slabs of the post-mortem theatre; past the humming units of the refrigerated body store.
    He shone his torch on to the front door, found a bolt and pushed it across.
    ‘ Now,’ he said. ‘Let’s find her, shall we?’ His own voice held a slight tremor, I noticed.
    He led the way back to the body store.
    ‘ Shall we put the lights on?’ I asked.
    ‘ No. Might get somebody wondering.’
    He fiddled with the torch and the light strengthened. ‘Shine it up there,’ I said, pointing to the stainless steel refrigerator doors. ‘The names should be there.’
    There were four doors in a row, four names on each …
    Underhill, Finch, Prescott, Williams …
    Next door.
    Lynch, Newman, Sutton .
    He reached up and pulled the handle … it clicked and the door swung open.
    The cadavers were stacked, each on a metal tray, each wrapped in a sheet, the head towards us. She was the third one down; approximately thigh height.
    ‘ These just slide out, don’t they?’ he said.
    ‘ Yes, but they’re not —’
    Before I could stop him, he’d grasped the handle at the front of the tray and pulled it out … and the tray and body fell on to the floor with an orchestral crash . . .
    I gazed at him, appalled. ‘How could you … ?’ was all I could find to say to him.
    He was on his knees, lifting and straightening the body back on the tray.
    ‘ Check that it’s her first,’ he said.
    ‘ But we can’t … oh no …’
    ‘ Do it ! ’
    He ’d pulled out a penknife and cut the cord tying the sheet. It fell away to reveal the blonde hair and still, slack face of Mrs Sutton. Through everything, I observed that rigor mortis had passed off.
    ‘ We’ll be caught,’ I said. ‘Someone must have heard us.’
    ‘ Not necessarily. And even if they did, we’ve got at least five minutes. The arm?’
    I nodded vacantly.
    ‘ Get your equipment out.’
    I knelt, opened my bag, took out the syringe and stripped the plastic covering away into my pocket. Found and fitted a needle. The tiles were cold on my knees.
    He ’d pulled the calico shroud up her arm. I felt in the cubital fossa for a vein … couldn’t find one … of course not — no blood pressure …
    I swallowed, inserted the needle into the cold flesh, pulled on the plunger … nothing. Pushed the needle deeper, tried again, felt sick. Still nothing.
    ‘ I — I can’t.’
    ‘ Keep