that she had seen women in childbirth go through absolute misery, their bodies tearing open and wracked with agony, yet they barely cried out beyond an involuntary whimper, while others, through easy births, had howled enough to wake the dead. After she told them that, she surveyed the crypt, the wall of stainless-steel drawers marked with ID labels, and the tables with sheets pulled up over their occupants. Then she looked at the body of Eleanor Drummond. “Well, maybe not wake them up, but to scare hell out of them, anyway. And look at those fakirs in India. We don’t know how they control blood flow to self-inflicted wounds, but they do. And apparently pain, as well.”
“There was a woman in Mexico,” Morgan said, “who went into labour and was alone. When the baby wouldn’t come, she knew something was wrong. She took a carving knife and delivered the baby by Caesarean. Both mother and baby survived.”
“So we’re agreed?” asked Miranda. “She was a very determined woman whose options had narrowed to zero. That leaves us with a bigger mystery than ever, I suppose. The big question is why? And how does all this connect with the death of Robert Griffin?” She took a deep breath. “Is her suicide an implicit confession that she killed the old boy? Or that she couldn’t live without him? I mean, it’s got to connect, but I’m at a loss.” She smiled. “I’ve had enough for one night. Triumph is tiring. I’m going home.”
“You’d better talk to the girl out there,” Ellen reminded.
“Sure, on my way. Good night, Ellen. Night, Morgan.” Miranda slipped out into the brightly lit corridor. The lights were kept high, she observed, even in the dead of night.
The girl was sitting on a bench by the soft drink machine, legs outstretched, staring at the floor.
“Hi,” said Miranda. “Are you here with someone?” She noticed the girl was playing with a lighter, but there were no butts on the floor and her fingers weren’t stained.
“My mom said to wait for her.”
“Here?”
“She left a note.”
“What’s your mom’s name?”
“Molly Bray.”
“There’s no Molly Bray here.”
“Maybe there is,” said the girl.
“What’s your name?”
“Jill.”
“Well, Jill, this is no place for you. You’d better go home. I’ll give you a lift. I’m a police detective.”
A tremor of apprehension passed over the girl’s face, which resolved into a mask of studied composure. “No, thank you. I’ll wait. She said I should come here.”
“To the morgue? Jill, do you know what this place is?”
“Yeah, I think so. It’s for dead people.”
“Do you think your mother’s dead?”
There was a long pause.
“Yes.”
The girl regarded her with astonishing self-possession. At the same time there was vulnerability in her eyes, as if she might suddenly collapse but didn’t know quite how to do it. This girl was used to self-restraint — and self-reliance. But she was so young, and underneath the bravado she must be incredibly frightened.
“Is there anyone I can call?” Miranda asked.
“No. Thank you.”
“What’s that pin you’re wearing? It’s very beautiful.”
“A fish.”
“Is it silver?”
“It’s black and white. The silver’s where the white parts are and the black is empty. So it’s whatever colour you’re wearing. I mostly wear black. My mother gave it to me.”
“Do you know what kind of fish it is?”
“Shiro Utsuri.”
Miranda shuddered. “Jill, does the name Eleanor Drummond mean anything to you?”
“No.”
Miranda reached into her purse and retrieved the envelope with the photograph. She examined the picture, then held it out to the girl.
“That was me when I was nine.”
“I think you’d better come with me, Jill.” Miranda preceded the girl into the autopsy area of the crypt and asked Ellen to cover the body of Eleanor Drummond, except for the head.
Miranda held the girl by the arm and drew her close to the table. Gazing at the composed features of the dead woman’s face, the haunting pallor giving her skin the translucent quality of a Lalique sculpture, Jill seemed mesmerized. No one said anything. Jill reached out tentatively and touched the back of her hand to the woman’s cheek. She didn’t flinch when contact was made with the cool flesh, as Miranda had expected. Jill related to the brutality of death in ways Miranda did not at the same age, or even now.
The girl turned and walked out of the room, and Miranda followed her, with Morgan close behind. Jill sat by the soft drink machine, staring at the floor, uncertain what to do next. Miranda wanted to comfort her, but the girl apparently needed distance.
Morgan tried for clarification, speaking in a quiet voice to Miranda. “It seems out of character. She wouldn’t just leave a message saying, ‘Pick up my body at the morgue.’”
“Jill, do you have your mother’s note?” Miranda asked. “Could we see it?”
The girl handed her a folded sheet of pale blue vellum. On it were clear instructions to meet her at this address. Miranda expected a spidery script, but the writing was slanted all to one side.
“Your mother didn’t write this, did she?” Miranda asked.
“No.”
“Did you write it?”
“Yes.”
“Why? I don’t understand how you knew to come here.”
She gazed into Miranda’s eyes with the bewildered look of a bird plucked from the air.
Miranda resisted taking the girl in her arms. They had to sort this out. “How did you know to come here, Jill?”
The girl seemed to be searching inside for an answer.
“When did you last see your mother?” asked Morgan, sitting beside her. Miranda was sitting on the other side; between the two of them they were shoring her up without touching her.
“This morning … when she drove me to school. She said not to worry and I wasn’t worried until she said that. Like, of course, I worried. She sometimes does strange things. She told me Victoria, our housekeeper, would look after me. She said you, the woman cop, would look after me. I asked her why would I need anyone to look after me. I asked
