31
Identifying his grandfather’s body at the city morgue hit Elliot Milburn hard. It was a task no grandson should ever be asked to perform, one he’d been dreading all day. His mother was too upset and his father was working away, too busy and too selfish to do this one last thing for his own flesh and blood. It was common knowledge that the two men hadn’t got along and Elliot wasn’t entirely sure why.
Neither one would talk about it.
The morgue assistant was a compassionate woman, softly spoken, with caring eyes. She’d insisted on keeping Elliot company while he waited to view the body, supporting him and yet still managing, somehow, to allow him the silence he craved. He was staring at the green door opposite, willing it not to open. Inevitably, after a while, it had. Elliot froze. Without saying a word, the assistant gently touched his elbow, eased him to his feet and into the viewing room to go through the motions of identification.
It was sad moment; the worst of Elliot’s life so far. He found it incredibly hard to be there in that room. His grandfather meant everything to him. He idolized the man. Who would give Elliot guidance now this wise old man was gone? Even though he’d had a good long life, they had so much more to do together. This was to be their very last meeting and yet Elliot couldn’t bring himself to look at him.
But then he realized he had to.
It was the sole reason he was there.
Raising his eyes from the floor, they came to rest on the old man’s weather-beaten face. He looked so peaceful, like he did on a sunny Sunday afternoon in his garden at the allotment where they’d go after lunch, where he’d fall asleep in his deckchair, his belly full of roast beef, Yorkshire pud and veggies he’d grown himself.
Giving George a final kiss goodbye, he turned away in tears.
Outside, in the anteroom, the old man’s belongings were handed to him in a transparent plastic bag: the clothes he’d been wearing the last time they saw each other; his ancient watch rendered useless as a timepiece, its numerals blurred by deep scratches on the face from handling brambles in the allotment; his rose gold wedding band, soft and smooth with wear; a few quid and some loose change.
Not much to show for nearly eighty years of exemplary life.
It’s not much. They were his grandfather’s very words when he held up the brown paper parcel at the garage with his money inside. It’s not much but it’s all I’ve got, lad, and I want you to have it.
Elliot suddenly got to his feet, panic rising in his chest. The morgue assistant looked genuinely shocked when he asked her where the rest of the money was. Taken aback by the question, she asked him to sit down while she rechecked the property log, specifically the entry made when his grandfather’s body was transferred to the morgue from the hospital emergency room.
She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Milburn. I’m afraid that’s all there was.’
‘No! That’s not right!’ Elliot tried not to display his anger after the kindness she’d shown to him earlier. ‘My granddad had over a thousand pounds in his pocket, his life savings. I want it back.’
Taking the only avenue open to her, the assistant referred him to the police to make a formal complaint of theft. He’d been stewing over it ever since. It wasn’t the money that worried him but the thought that his grandfather may have been murdered for it. Had he been mugged in the street? There were no obvious signs of injury on his person, no bump where he’d fallen – or so they said. Cause of death had been determined as sudden cardiac arrest according to the medical examiner. Not suspicious in nature, just plain old natural causes.
But that didn’t quite cut it for Elliot. Cardiac arrest could’ve been brought on by shock, couldn’t it? If his grandfather had been attacked, or even threatened, it might well have contributed to his death. In his mind, that was tantamount to murder. No different to that of a thief plunging a knife into the old man’s chest. And if foul play was even suspected, then, much as it pained him to do it, he would insist on a second post-mortem.
Poor Gramps.
Elliot took out his handkerchief and blew hard, choking back a flood of tears he still had left to shed, wondering how he’d fill the void left by his grandfather’s demise. The clock on the wall opposite ticked forward a notch to three-fifteen. He’d been waiting for ages to see Detective Chief Inspector Kate Daniels, the woman in charge of the Murder Investigation Team. He’d asked for her by name but was told she was dealing with a major enquiry, which he presumed was the arson in Ralph Street. He’d seen her on the television many times appealing for witnesses or talking to the press. She’d always impressed him as a compassionate human being, a person determined to seek justice for victims of crime. Not like some of the tossers you get on the box nowadays, only interested in getting their sound bites in, their main aim to look good in front of the camera in order to attain the next rank.
A big man appeared through a security door marked Staff Only Beyond This Point. He crossed to the counter and talked in low whispers for a second to the desk sergeant, who pointed at the bench where Elliot was sitting. Then the big man turned to face him, giving him a sympathetic half-smile as if somehow he knew about his grandfather and understood exactly what he must be going through.
‘Mr Milburn?’ he said. ‘I’m DS Gormley, Murder Investigation Team. I understand you’ve been waiting to see DCI Daniels.’
Elliot nodded cautiously.
‘I’m sorry, but she’s been delayed. Please come this way.’