Settlers' Creek by Carl Nixon Page A

train. But the rescuers were already hard at work. He wasn’t sure what he could do to help, where he was most needed.
    ‘I’m sorry, Box, but you weren’t here.’
    ‘No, it’s fine. Really. Thanks.’
    ‘I used the same place that we had for Mum. Do you remember? Box?’
    ‘Sure.’
    Box kept one arm around Heather as they both followed Liz through into the kitchen. The man in the suit was sitting at the breakfast table with some papers spread out in front of him. There was a plunger of coffee on the table next to a plate with a neat pyramid of scones. The man stood and Box saw how some crumbs, which had fallen into the lap of his suit, landed on the kitchen floor. The funeral director held out his hand and Box shook it.
    ‘Mr Saxton. It’s good to meet you. I’m Bevan Rogers.’
    ‘Box. Everybody calls me Box.’
    The funeral director’s smile thinned slightly. ‘Box. Is that a nickname?’
    ‘It’s what everyone’s called me since I was a kid.’
    ‘Box, then. I’m very sorry about the circumstances. The suicide of a young person is probably the most difficult situation for a family to deal with.’
    Box only nodded. No shit, Sherlock. And then wondered why he was already angry at this guy. Liz had called him in to make things easier. He was just doing his job.
    The three adults sat down at the kitchen table but Heather remained standing.
    ‘Mum?’
    ‘That’s fine, love.’
    Box gave Liz a questioning look.
    ‘Two of Heather’s friends from her old school are coming here soon — Kate and Grace. They might stay the night. I said it would be all right.’
    ‘Fine, that’s good. It’s good that your friends are here for you.’
    Heather hugged him with her arms around his neck. Her long pale hair fell in front of his face. He could smell apple and cinnamon shampoo.
    ‘I’m really glad you’re home, Dad.’
    ‘Me too. I love you.’
    His big hand came up and briefly settled again on the top of her head. He was glad that he had finally found something to say to his daughter apart from the obvious lie that everything was going to be all right. She started to cry again and pulled free and quickly left the kitchen.
    Box turned back to the funeral director. ‘When can I see Mark?’
    The man exchanged a look with Liz. Box again got the feeling that he was the last person to turn up at the train wreck.
    ‘It depends on when the autopsy can be done.’
    ‘Autopsy? Are you serious? Why the hell does there have to be an autopsy?’
    ‘I’m afraid that in all cases of suicide the coroner has to conduct an investigation and make a report. An autopsy is a legal requirement.’
    ‘When, then? Today?’
    The man looked down at his papers and noisily cleared his throat. ‘No, unfortunately. I’m sorry, but because today’s Sunday it won’t be possible until tomorrow, at the earliest. Even then it will depend on what type of backlog they’ve got.’
    ‘I need to see him.’
    ‘I’m sorry, you can’t until after the autopsy. The law is quite clear.’
    ‘Doesn’t someone have to identify him?’
    That’s how it always was on those American cop shows, thought Box — someone had to go in and identify the body. The clear sharp thought came to him that this was all a stupid mistake. Mark must be sleeping off a hard night at some mate’s place. He’d been too pissed and too stupid to call home. Some poor bastard had died on the hills last night, but it wasn’t Mark. They would go to identify the body and it would be someone else — a boy who looked like Mark or a thief who had stolen Mark’s wallet. That must be it.
    ‘Elizabeth has already identified Mark.’
    Box’s fantasy shattered. He looked at Liz. She hadn’t said anything about that on the phone. She was staring into her cup of coffee. Box didn’t have a clue what to say to that broadside. He couldn’t even start to imagine how that had been for her.
    The funeral director was still speaking. ‘I fully expect thecoroner will