Part 14 (1/2)

A man wearing a surgeon's gown and cap, his mask resting on his chest like a small bib, was standing in the white-tiled room beside the trolley. He watched Charlotte's impa.s.sive face through the gla.s.s for a little while, then stepped forward and bent towards a microphone.

'Miss Maybury,' he said gently, 'can you confirm that this is the body of your brother, Christopher John Maybury?'

Charlotte gave no sign of having heard the police surgeon.

Mike reached out and touched her bare arm.

'Charlotte,' he said. 'Is it Chris?'

Apart from her lips, no part of her body moved. 'It doesn't look like him,' she said bleakly.

'So it's not Chris -' began Mike.

Her head snapped round and the expression on her face was awful to see. Part anger, part confusion, part horror, but all of it for the moment mostly repressed, crushed down by numbing shock. 'No,' she said, her voice rough and exhausted as if she was close to breaking, 'it is is him. It just... him. It just...

doesn't... look like him.'

Her face crumpled and she bowed her head. She looked to be weeping tearlessly and soundlessly. Mike reached out again and this time put his hand on her back. Feeling her bra strap beneath her pink top he withdrew it immediately, flus.h.i.+ng with embarra.s.sment.

Annoyed at himself, he glanced at the police surgeon, nodded and raised his eyebrows, silently asking the question: Is that all you need? Can we go now Is that all you need? Can we go now? The police surgeon nodded back and Mike said, 'Come on, Charlotte, let's get out of here.'

Charlotte blinked up at him, then looked blearily at her dead brother through the gla.s.s once again. 'What will they do with him?' she asked plaintively.

'Nothing,' said Mike, caught off guard by the question.

'Will they look after him?'

'Of course they will. Come on.'

Charlotte had to sign a couple of forms and then they were outside, blinking in the suns.h.i.+ne. As Mike drove her and her mother back to the boarding house, he had to fight down a constant urge to apologise for all the people they could see enjoying themselves. There were kids eating ice-creams; couples walking hand in hand on the promenade; shrieks of delight accompanying the blare of music from the fun-fair; groups of rowdy young men sitting outside pubs, drinking beer.

By the time they pulled up in front of Ambrosia Villa, Mike felt as if he was sweating not from the heat but the silence.

He cut the engine and looked at Charlotte, who had either fallen asleep or merely closed her eyes to blot everything out for a while. Glancing into his rear-view mirror, he saw Imogen sitting stiffly in her seat, staring into the distance.

'Mrs Maybury?' Mike said quietly. When there was no response he raised his voice a little. 'Mrs Maybury, we're here. Would you like me to come with you while you speak to your husband?'

Imogen's eyes flickered as if with fear. 'I can't,' she whispered.

Mike was considering how to respond when Charlotte murmured, 'I'll do it.'

Mike looked at her. She hadn't moved, but her eyes were open. 'Charlotte, you've done enough,' he said gently.

'I'll do it,' she said more fiercely. 'I'll do it now.'

Mike was naturally mild-mannered, but he couldn't help feeling a flash of irritation towards Imogen Maybury. He understood how utterly devastated she must feel, but all the same surely she should not continue to allow the full burden of responsibility to fall on the shoulders of her teenage daughter. He glanced again at Imogen in the rear-view mirror, but she failed or refused to meet his eye.

'Look, Charlotte, are you sure you want to go through with this?' he asked after a moment.

She nodded, her face set, giving nothing away. 'I'm sure.'

'All right,' Mike said. 'I'll come with you then - that's if you want me to, of course.'

The smile she gave him was stiff, but full of grat.i.tude. 'I would,' she said. 'Thanks.'

'Right,' he said. 'If you don't mind, I'd better just tell the Brigadier what's going on first or he'll be wondering where I am. Is that OK?'

Charlotte did her utmost to look brave, grown-up, mature.

'Of course,' she said.

It was only when the Brigadier switched off the RT that he realised he had hardly taken in a word that Mike Yates had said. He had conducted the conversation on autopilot, had presumably made all the correct responses - but to what information he had no idea. His mind felt like a landscape wreathed in fog, grey and vague and difficult to negotiate. He forced himself to concentrate hard, pressed his fingertips into his forehead and closed his eyes until eventually a phrase swam up through the murk. Just before putting the phone down, he remembered himself saying, 'All right, Yates, I'll get the Doctor on to it straight away.'

But on to what exactly? What was was it Yates had told him? it Yates had told him?

Something about... about... No, it was no good. He could recall the sound of Yates's voice, but his Captain might as well have been talking in double Dutch for all the sense it had made.

The Brigadier was appalled. He prided himself on his decisiveness, on being able to think quickly in tough situations. Healthy body, healthy mind and all that. Perhaps he was simply tired. Overwork. But he had never allowed it to affect him like this before. No, this one went on till he dropped. Hundred per cent commitment. Always been the case, always would be. There was something... something at the back of his mind. Oh, d.a.m.n it! What was it now? Think, man, think!

Something. Something the Doctor had said. Something about fish?

Absently the Brigadier rubbed at his shoulder, which had begun to itch and p.r.i.c.kle.

'Are you all right?' Tegan asked.

Andy blinked and puffed out a deep breath, shook his head quickly like a character in an old black and white comedy who has been bopped with a frying pan. 'Yeah, I'm fine,' he said.

'Just feeling a bit woozy all of a sudden.'

'Too much sun,' Tegan said decisively. 'Do you want to sit down?'

'No, honestly, I'll be all right in a minute.'