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I hesitate, knowing what I am about to say might come off insensitive, or worse downright rude. “Are you a friend of Lynesse Jones?”
I half expect him to be angry and ask me if I am a journalist. Instead he leans forwards in his chair, looking at me intensely. “Are you with them?” he says, jerking his head in the direction of the autopsy room. “Can you help me?”
I am relieved. “Yes. I do want to help. Do you know what happened to her?”
“Can you tell her I have the key?” he says intensely.
>
I frown. “Tell who?”
“They won’t listen to me,” he says. “I’ve tried to tell them I need to speak to her, but they won’t help.”
I bite my lip. He must not know that Lynesse is dead. He must be hoping that she is still alive.
“Please,” he says. “I can’t wait long. I got the key for her just like I promised. She mustn’t wait any longer. She has to leave. Will you help her?”
The desperation in his voice speaks of love, which takes me a little by surprise as I was so sure they were just friends. I nod my head. I can’t help Lynesse the way that he wants, but I can damn well help her by catching the man who murdered her.
I don’t know how to break it to him that she is dead. I don’t even know if I am allowed to tell him that. Perhaps Storm would want to tell him himself. Particularly if this guy is a witness.
“Do you know anyone who might have had a reason for hurting her?” I ask him.
“It’s my fault,” he says his voice cracking. He looks down at his hands distractedly. They are trembling violently. He shakes his head as if in denial. “I should never have bought her here. Who is going to look after her now?” He stands up abruptly, looking towards the doorway as if he has heard someone coming.
“How is it your fault?” I ask him hastily. I don’t want him to leave before finding out what he knows.
“I belong to one of the Great Families,” he says. “I’m not allowed to mix my blood. They warned me, but I did it anyway, and now my Zarina is the one who is going to pay for it.”
I frown. Zarina? I had assumed he was talking about Lynesse. I open my mouth to cajole an explanation but then there is a sharp clacking noise and the redheaded woman gives a cry of dismay. She is at the water dispenser machine and water is sloshing out of the little tap and all over the floor.
“Goodness me!” she says in dismay. “Oh dear!”
I go over to see what the problem is, and find that the little plastic valve at the top of the tap has snapped off. Water continues to flow out, forming an ever larger puddle on the floor. The woman fusses, fidgeting with the broken nozzle, trying to stop the water and all the while growing increasingly distressed that her pretty suede kitten heels are getting thoroughly drenched.
I tell her I can handle it, and then fiddle with the remnants of the plastic valve until I am able to grasp it with my nails and twist it. The water stops flowing. The woman fervently thanks me.
I turn back towards Raif, and to my dismay I find that his chair is empty. He has slipped out of the room while my back was turned.
“Damn it!” I murmur, going to the waiting room door to check if he is outside in the corridor.
He is not there. I walk into the corridor and over to the double doors leading to the autopsy room. Perhaps he went inside to demand for Storm to listen to him. There is a glass panel on each door. I peer inside.
The autopsy room seems to be mainly made of steel and ceramic tiles. It is a cold clean place. The most disturbing aspect is a gurney with a body on it. Storm and Leo and a woman who must be the coroner are looking at it, all talking.
I cannot hear what they are saying. I cannot see Raif. He must have left. I sigh. I wish I’d asked for his surname. It is going to be hard to track him down without it.
Meanwhile, whatever the coroner is telling Storm seems to have his full attention. I am too intrigued to resist pushing at the door slightly with my toe. When it moves without squeaking, I push it open a couple more inches. Just enough to be able to hear the conversation.
“…succubus,” the coroner is saying. “It appears she was immobilized, possibly with the aid of magical intervention. She was subsequently bound with ligatures before being savaged with what appears on initial inspection to be a sharp instrument with a short chopping blade, possibly a hatchet or small axe. There are shallower cuts in parallel groupings, as if some effort was made to simulate a set of large claws.”
“Bound with ligatures?” says Storm, frowning.
The coroner nods. “Here and here.” She points with a gloved hand to the ankles and the wrists.
“And Dr Silverstone, the male victim?” says Storm, still frowning.
“No ligatures for him,” says the coroner. “No need. He was attacked first, and from behind. Bashed over the head with a heavy blunt instrument.”
