by Alex Walters
'How is he?' Winterman asked.
'Difficult to say.' Brain glanced nervously towards the cell door. 'He really broke down at first. Crying and wailing. He seemed as shocked by it as I was. Claimed he'd seen nothing last night. That he hadn't noticed the blood or the knife.'
'Did you think he was telling the truth?'
'I don't know. If the knife was already in the body when he first found it, I don't really see how he could have missed it.'
'It was dark in the garden, presumably, and he was drunk.'
'He was very drunk, by his own account. But then we've only his own account.'
Smart boy, Winterman thought. 'But he had been drinking? When he first came and found you this morning, I mean.'
'I suppose so. He smelled of drink. Stale drink.'
'How did you persuade him to come back here?'
'It wasn't easy.' Brain suddenly looked anxious. 'Did I do the right thing? I wasn't sure what to do. It didn't seem right to leave him there.'
'At the crime scene? No, I don't think that would have been right. It's important to protect the evidence. If he's a suspect, or even if he isn't, you handled it well.'
'It wasn't easy to get him back here.' Brain spoke with more confidence. 'He wasn't in a state to do much at all, to be honest. I virtually had to carry him. I just kept saying it would be better for everyone if we tried to leave things undisturbed. He didn't argue.'
'I don't know how you got him back through this snow.' It had been hard enough for Winterman and his team. After they'd received the message from Brain, he'd immediately asked Mrs Sheringham to put a call into the local council to get the road to Framley cleared. He'd spent fifteen minutes being fobbed off by officious jobsworths before Mrs Sheringham had finally taken the telephone from him.
'Let me,' she said. 'They know me.'
She was, of course, quite right.
Five minutes later, she had poked her head back into the main office where Winterman was sitting with Hoxton and Marsh. 'All done. They say to give them half an hour or so, and they'll have the road open.'
It had taken slightly longer than that, but not much.
Eventually, with Marsh navigating the Wolseley along the still-treacherous road, they had arrived here back at the village. They dropped Hoxton at Fisher's cottage with instructions to ensure the crime scene was sealed off until they could get the experts in from HQ. Back at the office, Mrs Sheringham had been busy trying to track down Pyke who seemed – like half the world in the face of this snowstorm – to have gone to ground.
'He didn't mind you putting him in the cell?' Winterman asked.
'I don't think he really even realised,' Brain said. 'I didn't make a big deal of it. Just implied that it was the official place for him to wait until you arrived.'
Winterman snorted with amusement. 'We ought to get you on the Bench. You'd have them all behind bars before they even realised it.' He smiled to show his approval. 'But well done. You've handled everything just right.'
Brain beamed. 'Do you want to see him now?'
'In a minute.' Winterman looked up at Marsh who was sitting at the far end of the room, reading carefully through the detailed case notes that Brain had prepared while waiting for them to arrive. 'Are you ready?'
'Ready as I'll ever be.' Marsh stacked up the notes and smiled at Brain. 'I think you've told me everything I need to know.' It was difficult to tell whether there was any undertone of irony to his words, but Brain seemed happy to take them at face value.
'How do you want to play this?' Marsh asked.
Winterman shrugged. 'Gently, I think. To start with anyway. He sounds as if he's in a bit of a state, though we shouldn't jump to any conclusions about why that should be.'
'But we should take advantage of it?'
'If you like. But gently.'
'As a lamb,' Marsh agreed.
Winterman glanced at Brain. 'How well do you know him? Before yesterday, I mean?'
'I knew him a bit. I had to deal with him and his friends once or twice when they were the worse for wear.'
'He caused trouble?'
'Not really. A little boisterous.'
'Stole your helmet?' Marsh chipped in, his face deadpan.
'No–' Brain said, then blushed. 'Well, once. Just high spirits. I thought they were good lads, on the whole.'
'Varsity types?' Winterman asked.
'No, not really.' Brain frowned. 'I mean, William himself is, of course. Medical student. But his friends round here are a pretty mixed bunch. Just the local youths. Farm workers. Office types. You name it.'
'Spends a lot of time here still, does he?' Winterman said. 'If he's an undergraduate, term's started by now.'
'Don't know about that,' Brain said. 'I'm told there's some bad blood between him and his father, so it won't be that that keeps him hanging around.'
Winterman nodded, looking interested. 'What about the father? Who is he? Local gentry?'
'Not really. He really is a varsity type. Retired. Widower.'
'Oh.' Winterman's passing interest seemed to have faded. 'Maybe someone for us to interview in due course, depending on how this goes. Perhaps it's a girlfriend that keeps young William here.'
Brain shrugged. 'I've seen no signs of one. There are some girls who tag along to his crowd, but I don't know that any of them's sweet on William particularly.'
'And what about Fisher?' Winterman said. 'How did William come to know him in the first place?'
'Everyone knew the reverend. But in William's case…'
Winterman sensed some discomfort in Brain's tone. 'Yes?'
'They reckon Fisher's wife left him for William's father. The professor.'
'Ah.' So this was the Cambridge don Hoxton had referred to. Local gossip had clearly given little credence to the suggestion that Fisher's late wife had been only the professor's housekeeper. 'What did William think about that?'
'I don't rightly know.' Brain looked slightly embarrassed. 'Professor had a bit of a reputation as a womaniser already, if you get my drift. Never seen any sign of bad feeling between William and the reverend though – not that the reverend was exactly sweetness and light with anyone. William would sometimes exchange words with him in the pub, seemed to want to make the effort, even if the reverend didn't always return it.'
'So what made William go there last night?'
'Just shelter from the storm.' Marsh brandished Brain's report. 'That's what you reckoned?'
'It's the only house out there,' Brain pointed out. 'Between the village and the prof's house. William was drunk, snow was coming down. He was just looking for somewhere out of the weather. That's what he said.'
'And a clergyman should be obliged to provide refuge,' Marsh added.
'That's his explanation?' Winterman sounded like a teacher challenging a bright pupil's hypothesis, but with no real expectation that he would refute it. 'And no motive for murder?'
'Can't see it,' Brain responded. 'I mean, William was drunk, so he might not have been in control of his actions…'
'Does he strike you as the violent type?' Marsh said. 'When you've dealt with him and his chums before?'
'I wouldn't say so. One or two of his mates are a bit on the rough side – might get into a scrap at chucking-out time. But even they're not really what I'd call violent. Couldn't see any of them attacking an old man.'
'What about robbery?' Marsh offered. 'Maybe old Fisher had a nest egg tucked away?'
Brain's expression suggested that, while it might be acceptable to accuse a middle-class undergraduate of murder, robbery was quite another matter. 'I wouldn't have thought William was short of money.'
'Who knows?' Winterman said. 'I've seen less likely candidates seduced by the prospect of some easy money. And undergraduates are always skint. But it doesn't seem likely. Why was the body in the garden? Why did William hang around? If there was money, what's happened to it?'
'Maybe he's still got it,' Marsh said. 'I don't imagine anyone's searched him
yet.'
Brain coughed. 'I have actually. Pretty much.'
Winterman raised his eyebrows. 'How did you manage that without attracting his attention?'
Brain smiled smugly. 'It was easy actually. His clothes were sodden when we got back here – not to mention slept in. I offered him a change. He's more or less my size. His clothes are drying out over there. But I took the opportunity to check the pockets. Nothing of significance.'
'Smart boy,' Winterman said. 'I suppose it's still conceivable that he might have hidden something somewhere – in the garden at Fisher's maybe, or on his way back here when he first came to find you. But again if he was sufficiently compos mentis to do that, why come and find you at all? Why not just make himself scarce? But we'll need to have Fisher's house checked. See if there's any sign of anything missing. Does Fisher have any relatives?'
'Not as far as I know,' Brain said.
Winterman glanced across at Marsh. 'Something for us to check up on. Okay, let's go and talk to young William. You'd better sit in,' Winterman said to Brain. 'You might spot something. Some inconsistency with what he told you before.'
Brain nodded enthusiastically, and for a moment he reminded Winterman of an enthusiastic spaniel. 'Only too pleased to help, sir.'
Chapter 24
The police cell was not what Winterman had expected.
It was an intrinsic part of the house, the whole building combining a part-time local police station – a sub-branch of the main station in a larger adjoining village – with domestic accommodation for the incumbent officer. Winterman imagined the holding cell had rarely been used in recent years. Erringford was hardly a hotbed of crime. The cell had probably been maintained during wartime as a precautionary measure in readiness for that legendary creature, the parachuting German airman.
Brain had effectively annexed the cell as part of his own living accommodation. Although the room's décor remained spartan, it was furnished with a battered old leather sofa and a pair of matching armchairs, complete with neat antimacassars. There was a small cabinet with a wireless on top of it, and even a couple of cheap-looking framed prints on the grey walls.
William was slumped face down on the sofa, his head buried under his arms. At first, Winterman assumed William was asleep but then the young man raised his head, staring in some bafflement at his new visitors. His face was drawn and pale, his eyes bloodshot.
'Am I under arrest?'
Winterman lowered himself into the armchair opposite William. Marsh took the other seat, leaving Brain hovering awkwardly by the door.
'Is there any reason why you should be?' Winterman settled back and felt in his pocket for his cigarettes.
'I don't know,' William said. 'I don't know what's happening.'
Winterman held out the cigarette packet. William accepted one with an expression of gratitude, and took a light from Winterman's proffered lighter. The young man's hands were shaking badly, though it was unclear whether this was the result of nerves or the previous night's alcohol. 'No, we're not sure either,' Winterman said finally. 'But you're not under arrest. We just want to talk to you as a witness.'
William pushed himself upright. 'I'm not an idiot. You must have me in the frame for that–' He stopped. 'And I don't even know–'
Winterman held up his hand. 'We just want to hear what you've got to tell us.' He nodded towards Marsh. 'DC Marsh will be taking notes. You know PC Brain. I'm DI Winterman. We're CID officers. Detectives. All we want you to do is tell us, as fully and accurately as you can, everything you remember from last night and this morning. We don't want speculation or guesses. Just the facts, as best you can recall them.'
The lengthy speech appeared to have had the desired effect of calming William. He nodded.
'First, your full name and address, for the record.' Winterman's experience was that, in dealing with nervous witnesses, it was helpful to start with the basics. It might be difficult to start them talking, but once started it was often equally hard to get them to stop.
'William Nigel Callaghan,' William began. 'Westland House, near Framley, Cambridgeshire.'
'That's your permanent address?'
'I'm a student. In Nottingham. The City Hospital.'
'A doctor?'
'One day. If the police or booze don't get me first.' It was obviously a well-used line, but suddenly rendered inappropriate. 'But that's my father's house, so I suppose that's my permanent address. Permanent for the time being anyway.'
'So, Mr Callaghan, talk us through everything you remember from last night. Start from when you left the pub. What time was that?'
'Ten thirty or so. Didn't even stay for last orders.'
'Then what?'
William slowly described the events of the previous night – leaving the pub, the slow trudge home through the thickening snow, the decision to seek shelter at Fisher's. The unlocked front door, the ice-cold interior of the cottage, the open rear door. Fisher's body lying prone in the snow.
'He was dead when you found him?'
William hesitated. 'I think so. I must have checked. I'm a medical student, for goodness' sake.'
Winterman eyes were fixed on the young man. Eventually, William went on. 'I don't know. I was drunk – I'm struggling to piece it together now. I remember looking out of the windows, seeing his body out there on the snow.'
'You didn't have any doubt who it was?'
'I didn't really think about it. It never occurred to me it was anyone but the reverend. Everyone knew he lived on his own.'
'So you went outside?'
'Of course. I thought he must have had some sort of accident or collapsed.' He stopped, as though catching his breath. 'So I must have gone out to see if he was – well, whether he was all right.'
'But he wasn't.'
'I don't think it took me long to realise that.'
'You checked his pulse? His breathing?'
'It's all a bit of a blur after that. I don't know. Maybe it was the shock of finding him. I've been trying to get it clear in my mind, but I can't. It's just a series of disconnected images. But it was clear that he was dead.'
'What about the blood?' Winterman's tone was casual.
There was another longer pause. 'I don't know.' For the first time, William sounded genuinely anxious. 'I didn't see it. I'm sure I didn't. Not last night. I just assumed he'd had a heart attack or a stroke or something. It never occurred to me that–'
'That he'd been stabbed? You're a medical student.'
'I wasn't trying to pass a bloody examination.' William's voice was cracking. 'I was drunk. I was incapable. I'd just stumbled across a dead body. But I'd no reason to imagine–'
'Of course. I'm just trying to get the facts straight.'
'If you think I killed him, bloody arrest me, so we can deal with this properly.'
'Did you kill him, Mr Callaghan?' Winterman spoke calmly, as though inquiring about the weather.
'Of course I didn't kill him. Why would I want to kill him?'
'People kill for a lot of different reasons. You'd be surprised.'
'I hardly knew him.'
'You knew him well enough to enter his house uninvited.'
'I've told you–' William stopped. 'Is that what you're thinking? That – what? – that I broke into his house and killed him? What for? To rob an old man?'
'I'm not thinking anything. I just want the facts. I understand the Reverend Fisher wasn't on the best of terms with your father.'
William was clearly surprised by the apparent non sequitur. 'They weren't on any terms, as far as I'm aware. You've obviously heard the story. How my father stole Fisher's wife. It's pretty much true. From what I know now, she'd have left Fisher anyway. But my father was only too happy to greet her with open arms. As long as it suited him anyway.'
'How did you feel about all that?'
'It was nearly ten years ago. I was a boy. She wasn't the first of my father's floozies. She was just one of the older ones.' There was a note of bitterness in hi
s voice. 'To be honest, I liked Christina more than most of them. I largely kept out of their way, but she was kind to me. Showed a bit of interest, which is more than most of them did. I was sorry when she went, but that was always going to happen in the end. Sorrier still about what happened…' His voice trailed off.
'Did you blame Fisher for what happened?'
'You think this was some sort of revenge for Christina's death? Hardly. I was sorry about what happened to her. Sorrier still about Amy, her little girl. Poor little thing had done nothing to deserve that fate. But it wasn't as if Christina was my mother or anything. She was just another of my father's unfortunate conquests. As it turned out, more unfortunate than the rest of them.' He stopped, as if worried that he might have said too much. 'As for Fisher, yes, he was responsible, along with my father. But my father had no excuse for what he did. Fisher was hardly responsible for his own actions.'
'Not everyone would be so forgiving.'
'It's not my place to offer him forgiveness,' William said. 'I suppose that was a matter for his own faith. Not that he had much of that left by the end, poor bugger.'
'Why do you say that?'
'If ever there was a lost soul, it was Fisher. The only spirit he believed in came in a bottle.'
Winterman pushed himself to his feet, hovering momentarily over the young man. 'And how about you?'
'Me?'
'What do you believe in?'
'Apart from the booze as well, you mean. I don't know. Life. Justice. Freedom. All that stuff, I suppose. The stuff we fought a war for, so they tell me.'
'So we did,' Winterman agreed. 'What are your plans now?'
'Plans?'
'For the next few days. Were you planning to return to college?'
'I suppose so. I'd intended to go back yesterday in fact, but the trains weren't running.'
'Simpler for you if they had been. We don't want to keep you from your studies for any longer than we need to, but I'd appreciate if you'd stay around here for the moment. And I'd be grateful if you could provide DC Marsh with your contact details, here and at medical school.'
