‘What a bloody miserable place,’ muttered Renfield, glancing up at the swaying branches that scraped against the building’s low roof.
‘You haven’t been here before?’ asked May.
‘No, I always met Rosa at the pub around the corner. I dumped her.’
‘Why?’
‘She gave me the willies. She’s got a funny attitude to the dead. A bit like old Bryant. Believes in spirits and all that malarkey.’
‘Why is she doing this for you if you broke up with her?’
‘I don’t know. I was a bit surprised myself.’
Renfield thumbed the door buzzer. A slender olive-skinned woman with centre-parted black hair and dark, haunted eyes opened the door. She had an air of recent bereavement about her, which was at least appropriate considering where she worked. ‘Come in,’ said Rosa Lysandrou, checking the empty street behind them. ‘There’s someone here who wants to see you.’
May shot Renfield a look as they passed into the gloomy nicotine-brown interior. Rosa was dressed in mourning black, an outfit she regarded as respectful and proper for processing the dead. She looked like a woman who had lost any reason to smile soon after her teenage years. It seemed entirely natural for her to be in such a solemn place as this, although she did come over a bit like a character from a Daphne du Maurier novel.
‘Hullo there, Giles, what are you doing here?’ asked May, shaking Giles Kershaw’s hand as he stepped into the corridor.
‘I applied for this position as soon as I heard about the vacancy,’ replied Kershaw, unzipping the top of his green disposable suit. ‘St Pancras Coroner—it’s a huge step up for me. Come on, I’ll show you around.’ He led them into the building.
‘I must say I feel bad about what happened, the unit closing just after we recommended you for the position at Bayham Street mortuary. We put in a good word for you. I’m glad you landed on your feet.’
‘Well, I owe you a favour. Perhaps I can find a way to pay it back. Here, take a look at this.’ Giles opened a carved church door that led into the Chapel of Rest. Usually such places were bare white cells adorned with a single plain oak cross and a bench or two, but this one was elaborately Gothic, a proper Victorian chapel with brass candlestick holders and a life-sized painted statue of Christ crucified. His anguished eyes were turned Heavenwards and were weeping tears of blood. Livid wounds in His side gushed crimson rivers. Was this a deliberate psychological ploy, May wondered, that after relatives identified the bodies of their loved ones in the morgue they should come in here and see how Christ suffered? Was the idea to place their own grief in perspective and bring them to a better understanding of their religious beliefs? Or had it simply been done to creep them out with guilt?
‘A bit over the top, isn’t it?’ observed May.
‘Constructed by the architect of the church behind us. There was never a shortage of money for its upkeep, because of the fine residents in the graveyard.’
Kershaw took them along the passage to the autopsy room, and turned on the overhead lights, green tin circles that dated from the 1940s. ‘Come on in. Sorry about the smell of damp. I asked Rosa about it, and she said, “What smell?” I think she’s been here too long.’
‘Renfield used to go out with her,’ May whispered.
‘Oh, no offence meant. She’s very nice in her own way.’ Kershaw flicked the lank blond hair from his eyes. ‘Anyway, now I’m the new St Pancras Coroner. Rather an honour.’
‘You always had ambition,’ said May, following him.
‘I’m sure Mr Bryant would appreciate the circumstances surrounding my employment.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Didn’t you hear? The old coroner, Professor Marshall, apparently had some kind of nervous breakdown last October and vanished. Rosa knows all about it. She’s still very loyal to him. Gets a bit Mrs Danvers-ish if you ask too many questions. They couldn’t keep his job open any longer.’
‘Death doesn’t wait. I imagine you’ve stepped into a bit of a backlog.’
‘They had someone covering, but he rubbed Rosa up the wrong way and was forced to move on pretty sharpish. I couldn’t have taken on the position without you and Mr Bryant showing so much faith in me. Sadly I don’t think I can repay that faith today. I’m afraid I’ve no ID on your freezer man. I can’t access any of the old PCU databases. It’s annoying because I wanted to check his fingerprints through IDENT1, but we’re not allowed to use the system. Fifty identification agencies in Great Britain, and we’re locked out of all of them.’