White Bodies(59)

31


I’d thought Felix would be in a refrigerated drawer, in a stack of cavities filled with the recently dead. But he wasn’t. Instead he’d been wheeled into a small white room in the basement and covered with thick sheets. A policewoman introduced herself as Melody Sykes, asked Tilda if she was ready, and pulled the sheet down so that we could see his face. His eyes were closed so that we would never again see their grayness, or that aloof gaze; and his desiccated lips were dark, and parted, as though he was about to say something as he died, words that were now lost for all eternity. I felt nothing other than repulsion as I looked at him—a ghastly, yellowing waxwork. Tilda was practically hysterical. She laid her face on his chest, stroked his hair, kissed his forehead, then turned into me, nestling her face into my shoulder, saying, “I can’t bear it. . . . I can’t bear it.”

Afterwards, in the parking lot, Melody Sykes said she belonged to Reading police station and explained that there would most likely be no more police involvement. The postmortem would take place, and then we’d be free to have the funeral. She had a strong, rich voice and an accent from somewhere north of Newcastle; and after she drove off in her red Peugeot I said to Tilda, “If she were a tree, it would be an oak tree.” But she wasn’t really listening, and said, “I want to see where he died.” She had cleaned up her face and was looking presentable, and as she spoke it seemed like a reasonable thing to do. So we phoned for a minicab to take us to the Ashleigh House Hotel.

In the taxi, I had my arm through hers and, looking out the window, she said, “When people see a dead body they say, Oh, it wasn’t him, that it’s obvious the spirit has left. But it wasn’t like that. To me, that was Felix, it’s what he’s become. . . . Forever alone.”

The car took us along a wooded lane, then turned into the driveway of the hotel, a straight gravel path cutting through long lawns, arriving at a white building with a Georgian-style facade. The reception area was large, with leather comfy chairs arranged on one side, the reception desk on the other, and straight ahead a wide staircase up to the bedrooms. Felix’s last steps would have taken him up that staircase, I thought. Behind the desk, a young woman was working at her computer; she looked up and asked if she could help. Her name badge read Agnes, and her accent suggested she was Eastern European, maybe Polish.

“My name is Callie Farrow, and this is my sister, Tilda. Her husband was staying here, for the London–New York conference. And he died here. Just yesterday.”

“Oh, I’m very sorry. Yes, it was terrible. I was here, and I saw him go for his run. He looked so well! I’m really very sorry.”

Tilda turned away, like the words were hurting her.

“We were wondering if we might look around,” I said. “Maybe see the room where he died. We think it might help.”

“Of course. I’ll call the manager.”

Within a minute, the manager arrived and introduced himself as Otto, and he explained that he had been one of the people to find Felix in his room. Tilda gripped my arm as she asked, “Where was he, exactly? I have an image of him lying on the floor, and nobody knowing he was down there, nobody coming.”

“Oh no . . . It wasn’t like that. He was on the bed. It was as though he was lying in some comfort. If you’ll forgive me, I’d say that he looked peaceful, like someone in a painting. It was a strange thought of mine, but I thought it might reassure you to know this.”

“Yes,” said Tilda. “In a way it does.”

“I went to the room because I was summoned by Mr. Julio Montero, a colleague of Mr. Nordberg’s, I understand.”

“Yes . . . yes he is,” said Tilda. “Is he still here, in the hotel?”

“No I’m afraid not. But, excuse me, what is it that we can do for you?”

“I’d like to see his room. The room where he died.”

It was decided that Agnes should show us, and as she led us up the stairs, she kept turning around as if about to say something before changing her mind.

My first impression was that the room was so light and white and uncluttered that Felix would have been happy here. Tilda and I looked at the bed, as though it could tell us something about his last moments, but it had been remade into a state of pristine neatness, as though his death was a minor event, easily erased with the changing of sheets and the puffing of pillows. I went to the window to see Felix’s view, which was of a garden and a golf course, and silvery woods in the distance. At the same time, Tilda walked round the room, skimming the surfaces with her fingertips, touching where she thought Felix had touched.

“Everything’s gone,” she said, “but I can feel his presence. I can see him in this room doing ordinary things, having a shower, changing into his running gear.”

Her eyes were wet again, and Agnes said, “I took some photos yesterday morning. Of him, and of the room. Just in case they might be important . . . I didn’t know whether you, or others in his family, might like to see them. . . .”

Tilda looked at her harshly, her voice a strained whisper: “What? What are you saying? That you photographed his dead body? Why would you do that?”

“I don’t know. For some reason, I thought it important to make a record. I don’t really understand why.”

Tilda sat on the bed, her head drooping as though she were too tired to think, but she rallied herself and said, “I’d like to see them. Come here and show me.”