by Alex Walters
'She scares the hell out of me, anyway,' Marsh said.
Hoxton shot him a look of what Winterman initially took to be disapproval. Then, unexpectedly, both men burst out laughing.
'She keeps us on our toes all right,' Hoxton said. 'Don't need no DI when she's around.' He suddenly seemed to have relaxed, his posture changing, as he slumped forward across the desk. He still resembled a bloodhound, but now perhaps one about to be taken for a walk.
Winterman was slightly taken aback by the sudden release of tension. But it was not so surprising. The men had been living for days with a substantial responsibility and the prospect of his own impending arrival. Winterman wasn't quite sure what he'd done in these first few minutes, but it appeared it was something right. They obviously thought that, if he could handle Mrs Sheringham, he could handle anything. Perhaps they were right.
'You've seen the file, sir?' Marsh said.
'I've read nothing else for the past two days,' Winterman said. 'Since they decided I was coming here. Not that it leaves me much the wiser.' This was partly, he didn't add, because the quality of the statements left something to be desired. 'Let me make sure I've got it clear. You've got an unidentified body?'
Marsh nodded, as though he might be about to produce the object in question.
'The body of a child,' Winterman went on. 'Aged – what? – between about eight and nine years?'
Hoxton nodded, his former lugubrious manner returned. 'That's what the doctor chap reckoned.'
'A body that's been dead for at least five years?'
'Doctor reckoned he didn't know for sure, but something like that, he said. Body'd been preserved.' He spoke the last word with relish. 'Skin was like leather. Doctor reckoned the fens can do that.'
'They didn't know how old the body was at first,' Marsh elucidated. 'Apparently you sometimes find bodies like that in the fens that have been there for decades, centuries even. But the clothes were fairly modern, so they reckon probably between five and ten years.' By contrast with his colleague, Marsh's tone was one of barely suppressed horror.
'So the body's been preserved in the fens, and then it turns up in some deserted cottage in this village – Framley? It couldn't have been there all along?'
'Seems unlikely,' Marsh said. 'Cottage had been empty since before the war. But it's a small village. Folks had been in there. You know, taking stuff that wasn't wanted–'
'Anything as wasn't nailed down,' Hoxton annotated. 'And some stuff as was, I shouldn't wonder.'
'If they were in there helping themselves,' Winterman pointed out, 'they might not have wanted to report anything to us.'
Marsh shrugged. 'If someone had found a child's body, they'd have found some way to let us know, surely. Even anonymously.'
'Aye,' Hoxton agreed, 'and there was kids always in and out of that place. You know, daring each other. If one of them had found a body, they'd have screamed the bloody place down.'
'It was found in the kitchen?'
'Not even just in the kitchen,' Marsh said. 'Half out into the back yard. Not hidden at all.'
Winterman sat back in his chair. 'Maybe some animal dragged it in.'
'Maybe,' Marsh said, sounding unconvinced.
'What about the chap who found the body? Do we see him as a suspect?'
'Possible, I suppose.' Something in Marsh's tone suggested he had more to tell.
'Who is he?' Winterman prompted. 'This Fisher?'
'Fisher,' Hoxton said. 'The Reverend Joseph Fisher.' There was something in Hoxton's tone too, something in the emphasis he placed on Fisher's title. Something a long way from reverence.
'Fisher's a clergyman?' Winterman said in surprise. As far as he could recall, the fact hadn't been noted in his statement or any of the reports.
'Was,' Hoxton said. 'Retired.'
'Tell me about him,' he said. 'Fisher.'
Hoxton glanced across at Marsh, who coughed gently. 'He has a bit of a reputation,' Marsh said.
'What kind of reputation?' In Winterman's experience, retired clergymen always had a bit of a reputation, one way or the other.
Marsh made a drinking gesture with his hand. 'That for one thing. Bit of a lush.'
'And for another thing?'
Another meaningful glance passed between Marsh and Hoxton. Finally, Marsh shrugged. 'There are all kinds of stories,' he said. 'He's not a popular man locally.'
'No?' Winterman nodded. 'What do they say about him?' He had a sense that Hoxton, at least, was not finished yet.
Marsh sat in silence. Hoxton looked across at him, but received no answering glance this time. 'It's not for me to say,' he began finally, with the air of one about to say as much as he wanted. 'But they says he treated his wife badly. And his daughter. And they says more than that.'
'They say a lot of things,' Marsh interposed. 'The way I read it, Fisher never made himself popular. A cold fish, fire and brimstone preacher. Plenty of enemies in the parish. And because of all that, they say–'
Hoxton leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Winterman. 'They says,' he interrupted, 'as how he killed his wife.' He paused, apparently for dramatic effect. 'And as how he killed his young daughter.'
Chapter 5
Afterwards, she had felt proud of her response, though she was unsure whether that was an appropriate emotion in the circumstances. She had managed to prevent herself from screaming, or even from letting the child see how terrified she was.
'Graham,' she had said quietly. 'Come here. Come here at once.'
The boy was still sitting on the snow-covered planks, legs swinging gently. He was wearing his black wellington boots, she noticed irrelevantly, and he'd put on his green duffle coat and even the bright blue balaclava she had knitted for him. A good boy, she thought, who usually did what he was told. He looked up at her.
'Nan. What is it? What is that thing?'
'Come here, Graham. As a quick as you can, love.' She moved a step closer, her eyes fixed on the dyke, the darkness under the rows of planks. She didn't want to look, but she needed to be sure she wasn't just being a hysterical old woman.
The snow-covered lane was still empty, her cottage gate standing open. In the distance, she could see the rest of the village – the church, the pub, the rows of cottages, the land designated to build the new council houses. But no sign of human life, other than herself and the boy.
It suddenly struck her that Ann was alone in the cottage. 'Graham, we need to get back into the house. I think it's going to snow some more.'
He looked up at the empty sky, the scattering of grey clouds to the east. 'Do you think so, Nan?'
'I think so, love. You can't be too careful. Come here.'
Reluctantly, the boy climbed to his feet and stepped carefully across the snowy planks. His grandmother took his hand, her eyes flickering towards the shadows beneath his feet.
'Nan, what's–?'
'Let's get inside, love. Then we can talk.' She felt his tiny fingers between hers, the warmth of his hand. Her mind was racing ahead, wondering what she would say to him. Wondering how she might get to a telephone. How she could let someone know.
'Come on, Graham. Hurry up, love.' She was almost pulling his hand, her steps quickening as she reached the garden gate.
She glanced back towards the dyke. She could still see it in her mind, as vividly as if it were burned into her retina. The tiny fist of bone, skeletal fingers slightly unclenched, raised upwards as though reaching into the air. As though seeking help.
Chapter 6
'Look what the cat's dragged in.'
For once, there was no real venom in Professor Callaghan's voice. His tone suggested he was past all that, that all he felt was weariness, an endless impossible burden.
William stopped in the doorway and regarded the old man. 'Do I look as bad as I feel then?'
'Only if you feel like a recently exhumed corpse.'
'That just about sums it up. With your characteristic precision.'
'You were back late
.' It wasn't a question.
'I was back early,' William corrected. 'The wee small hours.'
Callaghan had commenced the endless ritual that would conclude with the lighting of his pipe. 'I know exactly when. You made enough noise about it.'
William slumped in the armchair opposite his father. 'Sorry if I woke you.' His tone was devoid of any conspicuous regret.
'I was awake.'
'And why wouldn't you be? Do you ever sleep?'
The old man was still fumbling with his pipe, tapping the bowl into a metal bin by his armchair, blowing down the stem, selecting an appropriate measure of tobacco. 'How long do I have to put up with this?'
'With what?' William had climbed restlessly to his feet again, and was prowling up and down by the mahogany drinks cabinet, inspecting the contents through the leaded glass.
'With this. With you,' his father said. 'How long are you planning to stay this time?'
'Is there any hurry?'
Callaghan looked up at him, then pointed with the pipe stem. 'You're supposed to be at medical school. Making something of yourself.'
'It's the Christmas vac.'
'Christmas has been and gone,' the old man said. 'I'd be grateful if you'd consider doing the same.'
'The paternal spirit.' William had pulled open the drinks cabinet and lifted out an expensive-looking malt. It was unclear whether his words were addressed to his father or the bottle.
'I don't want you here,' Callaghan said. 'Is that clear enough?'
'Perfectly.' William had found a glass in the bottom of the cabinet and was in the process of pouring himself a generous measure of the whisky. 'As clear as this delightful liquid. Can I get you one?'
'For God's sake, William. It's three o'clock in the afternoon. You've only just managed to drag yourself out of bed.'
'I know.' William slumped back down into the armchair, spilling some of the whisky across his white shirt. 'Ain't life grand.'
'Look at you. You can barely hold that glass steady. And you're training to be a surgeon.'
'Makes it more of a challenge. Can't have things too easy, can we? You've always made that principle very clear.'
'I don't recall you ever taking much notice of anything I might have to say.'
'You'd be surprised.'
'I think the only surprises you've ever given me have been unpleasant ones.' Callaghan had struck a match and was holding the flame to the bowl of the pipe. 'Though there have been plenty of those.'
William looked at the old man over the top of the nearly drained whisky glass. 'You really hate me, don't you?' he said, as if the thought had only just occurred to him.
Callaghan laughed suddenly. 'Do they teach you some psychology on that course of yours then?' He puffed on the pipe, clouds of noxious smoke drifting in William's direction. 'Freud and all that.'
William shook his head. 'I don't think Freud got it right. He'd say I should want to kill you.' He paused, and swallowed the last of the whisky.
'You don't agree?' The old man was wreathed in smoke, his bald head shining in the afternoon sunset.
'No,' William said, rising from his chair. 'No, I don't. Funnily enough, it's always seemed to me that quite the opposite is true.'
Chapter 7
It was turning even colder, Winterman thought. A chill wind was sweeping across the flat fields, low grey clouds scurrying across the sky. 'We could get more snow,' he shouted to Marsh, who was driving. 'Wouldn't surprise me.'
As far as Winterman could remember, before the war hardly anyone knew how to drive. Now everybody seemed to have learnt – in the forces or the Home Guard or whatever they'd been doing. Marsh seemed a capable enough driver, but Winterman hadn't asked him where he'd picked up the skills. It was better to be cautious about enquiring into others' backgrounds. Those who'd had a bad war didn't want to talk about it, and those who'd had a good one were often even more reticent.
'How much further?' he asked.
It was late afternoon, and already growing dark outside. The snow-bound fields were eerie under the pale, heavy sky – the contrasting black lines of dykes, the drifts against the low hedgerows, an occasional angular scarecrow dispassionately observing their passing. The main road had been cleared for the moment, but, apart from an agricultural truck that had sped past shortly after leaving the town, they had seen no other traffic.
'Couple of miles,' Marsh said. He was driving more cautiously than Winterman might have expected, given his excitable manner back in the office.
'This is Framley again?' Winterman looked over his shoulder at Hoxton, who was hunched in the rear seat.
'Just outside anyway,' Hoxton said. It was clear, not least from Marsh's good-natured but recurrent jibes about inbreeding, that Hoxton, though not a native, had lived in the area for some years. Marsh was a definite incomer – born in one of the rougher parts of Nottingham, he had said, though he'd given no reason for his move eastwards.
'And the same story,' Winterman mused, as if to himself.
Marsh shrugged. 'We'll see.'
'Bloody coincidence though, ain't it?' Hoxton said. 'Our Mary, I mean. Of all people.'
'Suppose so,' Marsh said. 'But it's a small world.' He peered through the front screen at the empty landscape. He had turned on the headlights, and it was as if their existence had been reduced to the narrow yellow cones of light. 'Anyway, somebody had to find it.'
The call had interrupted their meeting, and Winterman had never discovered quite why or how the Reverend Fisher was said to have to killed his young daughter. He had assumed from Marsh's demeanour that the truth would be less startling than had been suggested by Hoxton's melodramatic pronouncement.
In any case, the call had been startling enough. It had come from the local police station that covered Framley and the surrounding villages – a shocked-sounding village PC reporting that a body had been found in one of the nearby dykes. Winterman had taken the call, transferred from Mrs Sheringham, and had at first assumed the man was talking about the victim of some farming accident.
'Do you have any reason to suspect foul play?' Winterman had enquired, as gently as he could. 'I mean, do you think this is a case for CID?'
'CID?' the policeman said, as if the concept was unfamiliar.
'Yes,' Winterman said patiently. 'You know, detectives. Plain clothes.' It was conceivable that the man had never had reason to deal with the sister branch of the force.
'Don't know about that. It was Mrs Griffith asked me to phone you.'
'Mrs Griffiths?' Perhaps this was some kind of local celebrity. Winterman felt he had a lot to learn.
'Yes, Mrs Griffiths,' the man went on patiently. 'Mary's mam.'
'Mary's mam?' It was possible that the man was mad. Or drunk. Most likely drunk.
'Mrs Griffiths said she might well be there.'
Winterman lifted his head, placing his hand across the Bakelite mouthpiece. 'Does anyone know a Mrs Griffiths?'
Hoxton nodded. 'Aye. Mary's mam.'
'So I understand,' Winterman said. 'Who's Mary?'
'Mary,' Hoxton repeated. 'Works here.'
Winterman glanced across at Mrs Sheringham. 'You're not–?'
She shook her head, perhaps more vehemently than strictly necessary. 'Mary's my assistant. Works part-time.'
Winterman nodded, finally beginning to make sense of the telephone conversation. He spoke back into the mouthpiece. 'I'm afraid Mary's not in today. Is she the reason you called here, Constable–?' He realised that the PC had not so far revealed his identity.
'Brain. Bryan Brain. That's Bryan with a y,' Brain had added, apparently for the avoidance of any doubt.
Winterman found he was chewing on the inside of his cheek. 'Well, PC Brain. I think your best bet is probably to call Divisional HQ and report it to them. I take it you've already called an ambulance–'
'Bit late for that.' Brain's tone had become more clipped, as though suspecting that Winterman was not taking his call seriously.
'You
can't be too–'
'Years too late, I'd say.'
There was a moment's silence. 'You mean this isn't a recent fatality?' Winterman said at last.
'Could put it like that,' Brain said. 'What with it being a skeleton and all.'
'I see. So do you have any idea how long–?'
'Poor little thing. Shocking to see.'
'Poor little thing?' Winterman had a sudden startled suspicion that perhaps they were talking about the body of some domestic animal, rather than a human being.
'Aye. I'm no expert, but not more than nine or ten, I'd say. Just a child.'
Winterman looked up at the others in the office. Marsh was watching him eagerly, as if trying to learn something from Winterman's example. Hoxton was slumped back in his chair, discreetly picking his nose. Mrs Sheringham was hovering nearby, determined not to be excluded from whatever might result from the telephone call.
'You think these are the remains of a child?' Winterman said slowly. 'Is that what you're telling me?'
'Isn't that what I've been saying?' It was Brain's voice that now took on a note of condescension. 'We've found the skeleton of a child.'
That had been an hour earlier. Slightly to Winterman's surprise, Hoxton had revealed that the unit had the use of a police car, an unmarked black Wolseley, garaged at the rear of the building. The information had been volunteered readily enough, but Winterman was left with the suspicion that, prior to his own arrival, the two constables had effectively commandeered the vehicle for their own use, along with the even more valuable petrol ration that accompanied it.
As they had climbed into the stately vehicle, he had wondered how often the car had previously been used for official business.
Whatever its history, the car had been maintained in perfect condition, and Winterman had been glad of its relative comfort as they travelled through the darkening afternoon. They had sat in silence for much of the journey, watching the white landscape, each of them lost in his own thoughts.
'Tell me about Mary,' Winterman said at last. 'Mary Griffiths?'
