by Alex Walters
She strode through to the kitchen, trying to shake off the feelings weighing down her body and her mind. Pull yourself together. Grit your teeth. She filled the kettle and set it on the gas ring. A nice cup of tea.
While the kettle boiled, she unlocked the back door, feeling the sudden gust of frozen air. The snow was still falling, the sky grey and heavy. The garden fence and the gate were almost invisible beneath the drifts.
Behind her, the kettle began its stuttering whistle, the pitch rising as the water reached boiling point until the shrill incessant noise filled the house, unignorable.
Chapter 21
Winterman spent the morning flitting around the office with the air of a bird trapped in a particularly unattractive cage. He had started with good intentions, sitting himself down in his box-like office, determined to review the case files, make productive use of the time.
After half an hour of flicking through endless typewritten pages, he had slammed closed the cardboard folder, acknowledging he was taking nothing in. He walked over to the window, staring out at the snow-covered fields. The previous day, he had been pleased by the view. Now, he already felt trapped by the featureless landscape.
Why had he come back here? Because he had little choice, he told himself. But even that wasn't really true. He hadn't needed to return to the force at all. He'd built up some good Whitehall connections from the war. He could probably have found himself a nice little billet in the Civil Service, stayed in London pushing paper.
But he'd have hated that even more. He'd got himself out of the backroom job as soon as he decently could, managed to land a secondment to the Met. He'd had a good year there, still backroom but at least doing something useful, helping to collate intelligence on organised crime. He'd almost concluded that the powers-that-be had overlooked him when he'd been summoned by his commanding officer, DCI Renton. Renton had been brandishing a letter.
'Just got this.' He squinted at the signature. 'From one Detective Superintendent Spooner of the Cambridgeshire Constabulary. Know him?'
'Vaguely. Don't think our paths really crossed.' Winterman had had an image of a stocky, overweight figure. Spooner had been a DCI in Winterman's time, a career copper who had progressed mainly just by keeping his nose clean. The opposite of himself, Winterman acknowledged ruefully.
'He's written to remind me that, whatever we might think, you still belong to them. I've checked and, unfortunately, it seems he's right. Officially, you've been on secondment all along. Now they want you back.'
He could probably have resisted and Renton, who knew talent when he saw it, would have supported him. But it struck him that, after everything that had happened, he had been half looking for an excuse to get out of London, to leave behind this part of his life and responsibilities. A week or two later, Winterman's mother had fallen ill and that had brought him back here anyway. When she had died unexpectedly and the family house had become his, it had seemed only to confirm the inevitability of his return.
Spooner's original letter had referred to a supposed shortage of experienced officers, but that had turned out to be largely eyewash. Winterman assumed the request for his return must have emanated from some bean-counter keen to balance the books. Whatever staffing shortages there might be, no one had much enthusiasm for getting too close to Winterman and his history. After a few weeks, Spooner had announced he was transferring Winterman out to Erringford. Erringford was the market town in which Winterman had been born and brought up, and in which his parents had lived and died. More destiny.
'I thought you were short of manpower,' he had said to Spooner at the time.
'We are,' Spooner replied. 'Especially in Erringford.'
Winterman had assumed this was simply the force's obscure way of punishing him for his past indiscretions. When, a day or two later, Spooner had handed him the file on the child's corpse, that assumption had seemed to be confirmed.
Now, after another five minutes staring at the blank panorama, he made his way downstairs. Mrs Sheringham was standing at the bottom, as though she had been waiting for him.
'I was about to offer you a cup of tea.' Her tone suggested he had somehow spoiled the gesture. 'There's no milk though.'
He shook his head. 'Thanks for the thought. I was going to ask you to show me the filing system.'
'I'm happy to give you the tour. But it's really very straightforward. And very dull.'
He briefly considered disputing the point, but guessed she was right. 'And I was going to ask you to put a call through to HQ.' He should formally report Fisher's as yet uninvestigated death in the half-hearted hope he might be offered more resources. Or, failing that, at least ensure his own back was covered.
Mrs Sheringham was shaking her head. 'I've been trying. No luck in that direction, I'm afraid. The lines must be down.'
'The telephone's dead?'
'Not ours. I can call out to the exchange, but they can't connect me to Cambridge. Local calls seem all right.' She paused. 'I called the council to find out about the roads. They're doing their best to get them opened.'
'What about the road to Framley? We've got this old chap Fisher to find out about now as well.'
'The reverend,' she said. It wasn't clear whether she was supplementing or correcting his description. 'They've said they'll give it priority.' She turned on her elegant high heels and disappeared with an unexpected abruptness back into her office, leaving Winterman wondering whether he had managed once again to offend her.
He pushed open the door into the main office. Hoxton was sitting with his feet up on the desk reading the previous day's copy of the Daily Mirror. He made no obvious move to alter his posture as Winterman entered. Marsh's desk was still empty.
'Snowman finished?' Hoxton said.
'You were right about the coal.' Winterman lowered himself into Marsh's chair and swung his feet up on the desk to match Hoxton's. 'Tell me about Fisher.'
'De mortuis nihil nisi bonum,' Hoxton said surprisingly. 'That's what I always say.'
'I imagine so. But you could start by finishing your story from yesterday. You know, about how he killed his wife and daughter. How did he manage that? Without being hanged, I mean.'
'During the war.' Hoxton spoke as if that explained everything. Which, to be fair, Winterman thought, it often did. 'Wife left him, taking the kiddie. Ran off with another bugger.' Hoxton shook his head, his expression suggesting one who had grown inured to the iniquities of his fellow man. 'Can't really say I blamed her though. Even without the drink, he was a violent angry bugger. Pick a fight with anyone.'
'Including his wife?'
'Especially her, by all accounts. But that was a bit odd anyway. She was a lot younger than him. A widow.'
'War widow?'
Hoxton nodded. 'Husband bought it in North Africa somewhere, I think. Left her with a young child – five, six years old. Vicar comes round to offer comfort. You know the deal.'
'It's hard to imagine,' Winterman said. But it wasn't really. He knew only too well. However unattractive a character Fisher might have been, it wasn't usually difficult to charm the vulnerable.
'Well, that's how it was.'
'And he was violent with her?'
Hoxton's face betrayed nothing. 'Aye, I'd say so. No real evidence, mind you. But everybody knew.'
'And the child?'
'I honestly don't know. Maybe.' Hoxton looked as if he was about to say something more, but then shook his head.
'So she left him.'
'Don't know the whole story, but he just woke up one morning to find them gone. Wife and kiddie. The war was a bloody nightmare, but it did some good. Don't think a vicar's wife would have dared up sticks like that ten years ago, do you?'
Winterman raised an eyebrow. 'Do you think that's a good thing then?'
'In this case.'
'So where'd she go? It can't have been easy. Even in this day and age.'
'She must have planned her departure pretty carefully. She and the kiddie slipped away overnight.
The reverend woke up to find them gone, apparently. Not even a note. I don't know how much of it was planned but she ended up moving in with a don from the university. He told everyone he'd offered her shelter, but no-one believed it was just a noble act. He was a widower, and she was an attractive woman. Passed herself off as his housekeeper.
'So what's all this about Fisher killing them?' Winterman said finally, when it became clear that Hoxton was waiting for some dramatic prompt.
'No one seems to know exactly what happened Well, I don't, any road. But the wife had some bust up with the don, and she turns up one day back on Fisher's doorstep.'
'She must have been desperate.'
'I'd have thought so. I imagine she thought she could throw herself on Fisher's mercy, what with him being a vicar and everything. Hoped for some Christian charity.'
'But she didn't find it?'
'Fisher was a mess by then. He'd been drinking more and more since she left. Increasingly eccentric on the job. He'd already been relieved of his duties in the church – you can imagine what it must have taken for the authorities to do that. Don't think there was much evidence of Christian anything, let alone charity. He just threw her out, with the kiddie.'
'What happened?'
'I don't know exactly. I don't think anyone really wanted to know. It was the middle of winter. Nothing like as cold as this bloody one, but cold enough. Late at night.' He stopped and for a moment his expression changed.
There was something different there, Winterman thought, as if briefly some genuine emotion had emerged from behind Hoxton's usual bluff cynicism.
'Someone would have taken them in,' Hoxton went on. 'If she'd asked. It's that sort of place. But instead she just went off, out into the fens. They walked a long way, apparently. Away from the village. Into the darkness …' His voice trailed off. He was staring at nothing, his expression suggesting that he still couldn't believe it had happened. 'It was a couple of days before anyone found them. It was one of the farmers, spotted something in the middle of one of his fields. Turned out to be them. Hypothermia, they reckoned.'
'She allowed her own child to die like that?'
'Not of sound mind, that was the judgment. You're bloody telling me. Farmer who found the bodies recognised them, so the coppers were soon back at Fisher's.'
'Awkward questions for him then?'
'I should think so. Certainly enough to destroy any lingering standing that Fisher might have had in the community. Maybe that was her final revenge.'
Winterman leaned back in the seat and stared at the ceiling. It needed painting, he noticed. But then everything in this bloody country needed a coat of bloody paint. He was about to offer some similar thought to Hoxton when the office door opened and Marsh peered in.
'Just got in, sir. Mrs Sheringham says to tell you there's a message. From that chap Brain. Sounded a bit panicked. He wants us to try to get out there as quickly as we can.' Marsh paused, sounding out of breath, then went on. 'That chap, the vicar. Says he told you they found the body.'
'He told us that earlier,' Winterman pointed out. 'We'll get out there as quickly as we can.'
'Doesn't he know there's a war on?' Hoxton intoned hollowly. 'Can we still use that one?'
Marsh shook his head. 'No. This was a new message. It's not just that the vicar's dead.' He stopped, this time apparently mainly for dramatic effect. 'Brain reckons he'd been murdered. Stabbed.'
Silence followed the last word. Winterman glanced across at Hoxton, his mind replaying the horror story he had just heard.
'It goes to show,' Hoxton said, his eyes avoiding Winterman's. 'There's always room for one more revenge.'
Chapter 22
Pyke hesitated momentarily on the stairs. He had dressed fully before coming down, wanting to risk no further misunderstandings. Now he felt absurdly formal in his heavy dark grey suit, his college tie and his sturdy polished shoes. Howard, he had no doubt, would be lounging in some ornate dressing gown. Pyke wondered whether all actors took the concept of "resting" quite as literally as Howard.
He pushed open the door into the small but beautifully furnished living room. The smell of bacon assailed his nostrils. How the hell did Howard get hold of bacon? But that was always the way with Howard. As far as Pyke could recall, the imposition of rationing had had no discernible impact on Howard's standard or style of living. Howard knew people, and people – the right people – knew Howard. That had always been one of his attractions.
As Pyke had expected, Howard was looking relaxed, apparently unaffected either by the previous night's intake of alcohol or Pyke's presence. He had taken Pyke's presence for granted, right up until the moment it had ceased. Even then, as last night's drink-fuelled conversation had confirmed, he had seen Pyke's absence as merely a temporary deviation from the normal state of affairs.
For the moment, despite all Pyke's protests to the contrary, he had been proved right. To Howard, it was the same as always. He got what he wanted, usually without appearing to lift a finger.
'Good morning!' Howard said brightly. He was lounging on the leather sofa, a half-eaten bacon sandwich and a cup of tea on the occasional table beside him. He was dressed in a blue and gold silk dressing gown, garish even by Howard's unique standards. 'Can I get you some bacon, dear boy?'
It was a style modelled loosely on Noel Coward or perhaps Ivor Novello, and it no doubt had gone down a storm with Howard's actor friends, but Pyke had grown weary of its repetition. He shook his head.
'Tea and toast is fine. I'll get it.' Howard had, in any case, made no move to rise from the sofa.
Pyke busied himself in the tiny kitchen, pouring tea, lighting the grill, slicing bread – even the bread seemed better than the stuff everyone else was forced to eat.
'You can stay, you know?'
Pyke was crouched over the grill, manoeuvring the bread so it would toast evenly. He looked over his shoulder. Howard was leaning against the doorway, a faint smile playing across his face.
'I know,' Pyke said. 'You said so last night. Several times. But I can't. Won't.'
'But you're here.'
'An accident. I told you.'
'You were passing. Yes, I know.'
'It's true. I didn't have a lot of choice. Even so, it was a mistake.'
'Don't say so, dear boy,' Howard exclaimed in mock dismay. 'It's always lovely to see you.' He sounded as sincere as Howard ever did.
'And it's good to see you, Howard. That's not the point.'
'So what exactly is the point? What people will think?'
The toast was beginning to burn. Pyke flipped it over and looked up at Howard. 'We've been through this. Repeatedly.'
'Have we?' Howard nodded. 'Your job, your profession, your career. All of that? Yes, I suppose we have.'
'We've said everything there is to say.'
'I suppose so, dear boy. If you say so.'
Pyke felt nervous when Howard conceded the argument so easily. It meant only that Howard was re-grouping to approach the topic from some other, more devious direction.
'What is this work you're engaged in anyway?'
Pyke pulled the toast from under the grill, swearing as the hot bread burnt his fingertips. Howard obligingly handed him a plate.
'Language,' he chided. 'But you never did tell me why you were out here in the first place. What the job was, I mean.'
This was new. Howard had never previously expressed much interest in Pyke's admittedly rather off-putting line of work. Then Pyke realised where the queries were heading. Howard assumed the case was nothing more than an excuse, that the visit had been pre-planned.
'I told you,' Pyke said, though he knew he hadn't. 'It was a body they found.'
'A body?' Howard spoke as though Pyke had referred to some local tourist attraction.
'Two bodies, actually.' Pyke decided there was little point in pulling any punches. 'Children.'
Howard turned from the window with unaccustomed rapidity. 'Children? Dead children?'
Howard drifted past Pyke back into the living room, as though he'd lost interest in what was being said. Not an unusual outcome to their conversations. Pyke followed him, plate of toast in one hand, mug of tea in the other.
Howard was once again slumped on the sofa, but he looked unexpectedly interested. 'This was in Framley? These bodies, I mean?'
'Yes, of course.'
'And that's all you know? No explanation. No reason for them to be there.'
Pyke frowned. 'Not as far as I know. What are you getting at?'
Howard smiled, suddenly reverting to his familiar relaxed self. 'Still, they'll blame us, you know.'
'Blame who? '
'The queers.'
'I don't think–'
'It's children. Who kills children? It's the queers. We'll get the blame.'
Pyke sighed and lowered himself on to the sofa next to Howard, munching on the toast. 'That's your trouble, you know, Howard. Whatever I talk about, whatever I do, whatever happens in the world, somehow you always make it about you.'
Howard was lying back on the sofa, his eyes closed. 'It's a gift, dear boy. Or perhaps it's a curse.'
Chapter 23
'He's in there.'
Brain looked exhausted. Mentally and physically. Winterman's respect for the young man was increasing all the time. At first, he had dismissed Brain as the usual fumbling yokel flatfoot. There were plenty of them about, particularly the ones who'd kept their heads down and their noses clean during the war, hiding behind their "reserved occupation" status. The good ones had generally taken the opportunity – the increased demands, the shortages of manpower – to make something of themselves. The others, especially the little Hitlers who'd taken full advantage of their temporarily enhanced powers, didn't generally have much else going for them.
But Winterman had quickly decided that Brain was a lot smarter than he'd originally appeared. And the young man was also much more resilient than anyone had any right to expect. Certainly, his ordeal had been enough even for the most experienced officer.
