Blackman.'
That look again, he noticed.
'And you are?'
'My name is Matt Browning.'
The nurse hesitated, running her eyes coolly up and down. 'Come with me,' she said.
Matt followed her towards the back of the corridor. The office was just a small room, painted pale grey, with a desk, and a kettle and collection of mugs. 'Ken Blackman died in the night,' she said. 'If he was a friend of yours, I'm sorry.'
The tone of her voice suggested she didn't mean it.
'What happened?'
Smollett looked down at her notes, as if she was searching for a phone number. 'He had serious injuries,' she said flatly. 'It was always touch and go whether he would pull through. He didn't.'
Matt leant over the desk, looking directly at her. 'No, what happened exactly?' he said. 'What was the cause of death? Blood clot, internal bleeding, heart failure?'
He could see the irritation in her eyes as she looked back at him. 'You'll have to talk to one of the doctors,' she said.
'Give me a name.'
A smile started to spread across her lips. 'I can't tell you that. You'll have to apply to one of the administrators.'
'Can I see the body?'
Smollett shook her head: he could tell she was starting to enjoy saying no to him. 'It's already been taken down to the mortuary,' she replied. 'Access restricted to next of kin.'
Matt turned round and started walking from the building.
My friend has died, and I haven't even been able to say goodbye.
Pride Park was on the outskirts of the city. A modern set of family houses, they ranged from the prosperous to the ragged. A couple of kids were kicking a football across the street, and some teenagers were gathering around the bus stop. As the taxi drew up outside the house, Matt could see the curtains were drawn in Number Sixteen and an officer was sitting in a panda car outside.
He had to ring the bell twice before the door was answered.
'Who are you?'
The man putting the question could have been sixty or more. His eyes were bloodshot, and his skin pale and grey. Matt felt he had seen him somewhere before but he couldn't quite place him: a relative he'd met at the christening, or someone who'd come to see Ken back when they were in the regular army together.
'Matt Browning. I was a friend of Ken's.'
As he stepped into the hallway, Matt felt bad he hadn't brought anything. No flowers, no cards. In his black jeans and blue polo shirt he was hardly even dressed for the occasion. 'I just wanted to see Sandy,' he continued. 'To say how sorry I am.'
'You were in the army with him, weren't you?'
Matt nodded. The old man broke into something approaching a smile. 'I'm Ken's dad, Barry,' he said. 'Maybe we met at the barracks once, back when he was in the forces? Come on through, we're just finalising arrangements for the funeral.'
Matt hesitated. 'But', he started, 'Ken died last night. Surely . . . ?'
Barry looked back up at him. 'Not Ken. Sandy.'
'Sandy's dead?'
Barry nodded. 'Two days ago. Ken stabbed her the same day, before he went to the surgery. They didn't find the body until later.'
'I'm so sorry.'
Matt had used those words before, talking to the relatives of men who'd died in the regiment: each time he'd been struck by how little they measured up to the enormity of the sorrow he was confronting. But what else could you say? The words just didn't exist.
'Since you're here, come and get a cup of tea.'
Matt followed him towards the kitchen. The back door was open, and a pair of plastic chairs were sitting out on the patio that led into the small, ten-foot-by-eight garden. The woman was sitting alone, and Matt could only see the back of her head. Her long blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail, and her shoulders were slumped forward.
'This is Matt Browning,' said Barry towards the patio. 'He was a friend of Ken's in the army.'
The woman looked round. Eleanor, Ken's younger sister. Matt had met her once before, at the christening, but she looked different now. Her eyes were puffed and blotched with tears, and her skin was drawn with
That look again, he noticed.
'And you are?'
'My name is Matt Browning.'
The nurse hesitated, running her eyes coolly up and down. 'Come with me,' she said.
Matt followed her towards the back of the corridor. The office was just a small room, painted pale grey, with a desk, and a kettle and collection of mugs. 'Ken Blackman died in the night,' she said. 'If he was a friend of yours, I'm sorry.'
The tone of her voice suggested she didn't mean it.
'What happened?'
Smollett looked down at her notes, as if she was searching for a phone number. 'He had serious injuries,' she said flatly. 'It was always touch and go whether he would pull through. He didn't.'
Matt leant over the desk, looking directly at her. 'No, what happened exactly?' he said. 'What was the cause of death? Blood clot, internal bleeding, heart failure?'
He could see the irritation in her eyes as she looked back at him. 'You'll have to talk to one of the doctors,' she said.
'Give me a name.'
A smile started to spread across her lips. 'I can't tell you that. You'll have to apply to one of the administrators.'
'Can I see the body?'
Smollett shook her head: he could tell she was starting to enjoy saying no to him. 'It's already been taken down to the mortuary,' she replied. 'Access restricted to next of kin.'
Matt turned round and started walking from the building.
My friend has died, and I haven't even been able to say goodbye.
Pride Park was on the outskirts of the city. A modern set of family houses, they ranged from the prosperous to the ragged. A couple of kids were kicking a football across the street, and some teenagers were gathering around the bus stop. As the taxi drew up outside the house, Matt could see the curtains were drawn in Number Sixteen and an officer was sitting in a panda car outside.
He had to ring the bell twice before the door was answered.
'Who are you?'
The man putting the question could have been sixty or more. His eyes were bloodshot, and his skin pale and grey. Matt felt he had seen him somewhere before but he couldn't quite place him: a relative he'd met at the christening, or someone who'd come to see Ken back when they were in the regular army together.
'Matt Browning. I was a friend of Ken's.'
As he stepped into the hallway, Matt felt bad he hadn't brought anything. No flowers, no cards. In his black jeans and blue polo shirt he was hardly even dressed for the occasion. 'I just wanted to see Sandy,' he continued. 'To say how sorry I am.'
'You were in the army with him, weren't you?'
Matt nodded. The old man broke into something approaching a smile. 'I'm Ken's dad, Barry,' he said. 'Maybe we met at the barracks once, back when he was in the forces? Come on through, we're just finalising arrangements for the funeral.'
Matt hesitated. 'But', he started, 'Ken died last night. Surely . . . ?'
Barry looked back up at him. 'Not Ken. Sandy.'
'Sandy's dead?'
Barry nodded. 'Two days ago. Ken stabbed her the same day, before he went to the surgery. They didn't find the body until later.'
'I'm so sorry.'
Matt had used those words before, talking to the relatives of men who'd died in the regiment: each time he'd been struck by how little they measured up to the enormity of the sorrow he was confronting. But what else could you say? The words just didn't exist.
'Since you're here, come and get a cup of tea.'
Matt followed him towards the kitchen. The back door was open, and a pair of plastic chairs were sitting out on the patio that led into the small, ten-foot-by-eight garden. The woman was sitting alone, and Matt could only see the back of her head. Her long blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail, and her shoulders were slumped forward.
'This is Matt Browning,' said Barry towards the patio. 'He was a friend of Ken's in the army.'
The woman looked round. Eleanor, Ken's younger sister. Matt had met her once before, at the christening, but she looked different now. Her eyes were puffed and blotched with tears, and her skin was drawn with
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