LITMIR.BIZ

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he then held the pack towards the young man who had just put out his own cigarette.

      ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said the man. From his eyes it was clear he had been crying. Manfred lit the fellow’s cigarette, and then his own, with a gold lighter.

      ‘Who’d you lose?’ asked the young man.

      ‘My sister.’

      ‘Mother,’ said the young man. And that was the end of the conversation, to the evident relief of George Wallace, who observed with a cool, dispassionate eye. Hollis looked at the young man, considering the likelihood that the woman with the swollen liver had been his mother.

      ‘How does this & work?’ asked Manfred.

      Hollis turned. ‘One of you will need to identify her.’

      ‘We would all like to see her,’ said George Wallace, though Gayle’s expression suggested otherwise.

      ‘You’ll then need to sign the body-release form, and that’s it.’

      ‘That’s it?’ Manfred said.

      ‘The funeral directors can then take her away. I imagine they’ll be coming up from the city …’

      ‘She wanted to be buried here,’ said Gayle.

      ‘We don’t know that,’ interjected George Wallace.

      ‘Father, we’ve already had this conversation.’

      ‘She loved East Hampton.’ Manfred’s words were directed at Hollis, but intended for his father’s ears. George Wallace had evidently conceded defeat on the matter, but had wished to flag his disapproval one final time.

      ‘Can you recommend a local funeral home?’ Wallace elder asked.

      ‘I’m afraid I’m not allowed to do that. There are several in town.’

      ‘Livingstone’s is best,’ interrupted the young man. ‘Buried my Nan, Grandpa, and my old man, good and deep, no frills, don’t need ’em, not where they gone.’

      ‘Thank you,’ said Manfred.

      ‘Ain’t no skin off my nose.’

      Hollis suspected that, thanks to the young man, Livingstone & Sons now stood little chance of attracting George Wallace’s custom.

      At that moment, the receptionist manning the front desk approached. ‘Mr Hamel, like I said, it’s going to be several hours before we’re ready for you. There’s really no point in you waiting around.’ The young man looked at her long and hard. If he suspected he was being moved on for the benefit of the others, he gave no indication of the fact.

      ‘So long,’ he said, getting to his feet and leaving. The receptionist waited for the door to swing shut behind him.

      ‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’

      Hollis had been wrong. Even here in the morgue, the Wallaces and their kind received preferential treatment.

      ‘No thank you,’ said George Wallace.

      ‘A glass of water, please,’ said Manfred.

      ‘Yes, water, thank you,’ said Gayle quietly.

      The receptionist left without even glancing at Hollis.

      He placed a brown-paper parcel on the table. ‘These are Lillian’s, her bathrobe and towel, from the beach. I went down there when I was at the house yesterday.’

      Following in her final footsteps, he had wandered past the swimming pool, out of the back gate in the garden, down the bluff and across the sandhills. He hadn’t expected to find anything, but a short search revealed the bathrobe and towel folded beside a clump of beach grass on the frontal dune. They were clearly visible from the beach, and it was evidence of the class of bather frequenting that stretch of shoreline that in almost twenty-four hours no one had taken them.

      He had approached the spot carefully, but the soft, windblown sand had absorbed any tracks there might have been. Back at headquarters, a closer examination of the articles had revealed nothing out of the ordinary, just a hair band and a brush in the pocket of the terry-cloth bathrobe.

      Hollis removed two documents from his pocket and laid them in front of George Wallace. ‘A personal-effects form, to say you’ve received them.’ George Wallace took the pen offered him and signed both copies. Hollis replaced one in his pocket.

      ‘There’ll be another form to sign for the effects found with her.’ He threw in a brief pause. ‘Her swimsuit … and her earrings.’ Mention of the earrings triggered no reaction.

      ‘Do you know what happened exactly?’ asked Manfred.

      ‘It’s hard to say. There were no witnesses that we know of. I’m sure you’re aware, the currents can be pretty dangerous. The autopsy confirms that she drowned.’

      Manfred straightened in his seat. ‘The autopsy?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘You mean you cut her up!?’

      Hollis took a moment to formulate his response. ‘An internal examination was conducted by the Medical Examiner. The law calls for it in all cases of unattended deaths.’

      ‘Unattended deaths’: what was he thinking, reducing the tragic loss of their loved one to a piece of police-manual jargon?

      ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Manfred, ‘they cut her up!’

      ‘Manfred …’

      ‘Don’t you at least have to ask for our consent or something!?’

      ‘Manfred.’ This time, George Wallace raised his voice.

      ‘They should have asked for our consent.’

      ‘It’s not required,’ said Hollis.

      George Wallace turned to him. ‘All the same, it would have been good to know.’

      Hollis had to concede the point. It was an oversight on his part, and one he wouldn’t have committed if he hadn’t been so caught up in his own private speculations. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I apologize.’

      ‘What exactly did you do to her?’ Manfred’s tone remained accusatory.

      ‘Manfred, the gentleman has apologized,’ said George Wallace firmly. ‘He has explained the situation and he has apologized.’

      Thankfully, at that moment the receptionist reappeared with the glasses of water. ‘The Medical Examiner will see you now, if you’d like to come with me.’

      Manfred stared forlornly at the glass in front of him. Without touching it, he got to his feet and followed his father.

      Gayle lingered a moment longer, sipping from her glass. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘They were very close.’

      As she left, Hollis called after her. ‘Miss Wallace.’ She turned back. ‘Try Yardley’s Funeral Home. They’re on Newtown Lane.’

      ‘Yardley’s. Thank you.’

      And she was gone.

      Eight

      Oyster shells crunched beneath the tires as Conrad turned into the parking lot. The lone headlight swept over the other vehicles already gathered there before settling on a space in the shadows, beyond the pool of light thrown by the lamp above the door of the ramshackle oyster house.

      Conrad stepped from the vehicle. It was a still, warm evening, humid and close, the breeze too light to cool the skin. He could hear the hum of raised voices from inside the hall, then a barked reprimand calling everyone to order.

      He shouldn’t have come, but what else was he going to do, sit at home with his swirling thoughts? He needed distraction and this was as good as anything on offer. He pulled the tobacco pouch

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