Wake the Dead

by Dorothy Simpson

  ‘Looks as though the victim fell through a window, cutting his throat in the process. There’s a lot of blood about. And glass everywhere.’

  Bad, but it sounds as though I’ve seen far worse, thought Thanet. ‘Do we know who he is yet?’

  ‘Owner of the vineyard, sir. Chap called Randish.’

  Of course! Randish, that was the name. And Thanet remembered now where he’d heard it. He wondered if Lineham would.

  The sergeant had, of course. ‘Randish,’ repeated Lineham as they walked through the wide passageway into a big yard some sixty feet square, surrounded by buildings. ‘That’s the bloke I told you about, remember? A couple of years ago? Louise was worried about one of the mothers in Mandy’s playgroup, she’d noticed bruises, usually in places where they weren’t easily spotted, and she suspected the husband was knocking her about. She’d tried to get the woman to open up, but she wouldn’t and Louise wanted to know if there was any way we could help her.’

  ‘Yes, I remember. And we said no, there wasn’t. If the wife chose not to lay a complaint against her husband, there was absolutely nothing we could do about it.’

  ‘So. Interesting,’ said Lineham. ‘Incidentally, what did Tenby mean, “laboratory”, sir? What do you need a laboratory for, on a vineyard?’

  Thanet shrugged. ‘No idea.’ He had come a halt and was looking around, trying to absorb the geography of the place. There was a lot to take in.

  The whole of the right-hand side of the yard was taken up by the building PC Tenby had pointed out, the bottling plant. This was a relatively new construction, presumably purpose-built. Huge sliding doors stood open, spilling light into the yard. Thanet caught glimpses of tall stainless-steel vats, complicated machinery and, to the right, some of his men moving around near an open door to an inner room, the laboratory, presumably.

  Straight ahead on the far side of the yard was an open-sided building. Harsh strip-lighting shone down upon a cylindrical stainless-steel structure some twelve feet long – a press, perhaps? – standing to one side, opposite a couple of trailers. A tractor, with a third trailer still attached, stood in between. Obviously the grapes were driven straight into this area from the vineyard beyond. Of course, at this time of the year they must be in the middle of the grape harvest, their busiest period. The floor glistened wet, as if newly hosed down.

  Thanet became aware that Lineham was shifting from one foot to the other, trying to contain his impatience to get on and into the heart of the activity behind them. He was aware, too, that although he genuinely felt it important to take time to absorb his initial impressions of a place, part of the reason for this delay was his reluctance to proceed to the next stage. But it couldn’t be put off for ever; he might as well get it over with. With a quick, comprehensive glance at the other buildings, at whose use he couldn’t even begin to guess, he sighed and turned. ‘All right, then, Mike. Come on.’

  Lineham set off with alacrity, Thanet trailing behind.

  Inside, the huge space was divided lengthwise by a plate glass wall, on the far side of which was the bottling plant, its tiled floor and walls spotless, the machinery of the plant itself gleaming hygienically. To the left of the double doors stood the row of vats which Thanet had glimpsed earlier, and two shorter rows of huge oak barrels supported by stout, crossed stretchers. The open door to the laboratory was in an inner wall to the right of the double doors and Thanet’s stomach gave an uneasy heave as he noticed a pool of vomit nearby. A couple of SOCOs were talking to two patrolmen. As Thanet and Lineham approached a flash went off inside the laboratory.

  ‘Bit tricky in there at the moment, sir,’ said one of the SOCOs to Thanet. ‘Never seen so much broken glass in my life. We took all the shots we needed of the body and then thought we’d finish taking the floor first so we could sweep up a bit.’ He handed Thanet and Lineham some heavy-duty plastic overshoes.

  They put them on.

  ‘We’ll be careful,’ said Thanet. ‘Just take a quick look.’ He turned to the patrolmen. ‘Who discovered the body?’

  ‘Chap called Vintage. He’s the assistant winemaker here.’

  ‘Appropriate name,’ said Lineham, with a grin.

  Thanet shot him a quelling glance. This is no laughing matter. At once, he regretted it. He was being unreasonable. Amongst policemen an apparently inappropriate levity was often a safety mechanism against the sordid reality of much of their work. He was too tense. The sooner the next few minutes were over, the better. ‘Where is Vintage?’

  ‘Down at the house, sir, with the victim’s wife.’

  ‘Right. Doc Mallard’s still here, I gather?’

  ‘Should be nearly finished by now.’

  ‘Good.’ He couldn’t put it off any longer. Thanet took a deep breath and stepped inside, glass crunching beneath his feet. His brain photographed the scene, fixing it indelibly in his memory: an oblong room with high wall-benches swept virtually bare; and broken glass, everywhere, in chunks, shards and splinters, mostly colourless but with here and there a glint of green.

  And blood.

  Blood spattered on the floor, blood glistening on pieces of glass, blood smeared on the wall beneath the window, blood saturating the shirt-front of the man who lay in a half-seated position slumped against that wall, head at an awkward angle. Above him yawned a huge, jagged hole in the window. Despite the fresh air streaming in there was a slightly acrid underlying smell of fermenting grapes. The atmosphere seemed still to reverberate with echoes of the violent scene which had played itself out in this white, clinical room so short a time ago.

  Behind him, Lineham whistled softly. ‘Someone lost his temper here, all right.’

  Lineham was right. Only a furious, ungovernable rage could have created this kind of wholesale destruction.

  Mallard, crouched near the body, looked up. ‘Bit of a mess, eh, Luke?’

  Thanet nodded, bracing himself for a closer look, and picked his way through the glass to stand beside the little police surgeon. And yes, there it was, that familiar twist in his gut, that painful pang of – what? Pity? Regret? Anger? Fear? Dread? A complex mixture, perhaps, of all of them. No one in the prime of life, as this man had been, should expect to die like this, in the familiar, apparent safety of his day-to-day working environment. Randish couldn’t have been more than thirty-five, and looked tall, well-built and healthy. He had been good-looking, too; handsome, even, with thick dark curly hair and regular, well-formed features. Very attractive to women, probably, Thanet thought, and remembered Louise’s suspicions. True or false? And, even if true, what were the circumstances which lay behind it all? Thanet knew that in the next days and weeks he would sooner or later find out; that Randish, until now no more to him than a stranger’s name in a casual conversation, would come alive in a unique and extraordinary way. For, unlike the living, the dead have no means of safeguarding their secrets.

  ‘What d’you think happened?’ he asked Mallard, in no real expectation of an answer. Mallard invariably refused to be drawn on matters non-medical.

  The little doctor peered up at Thanet over his half-moon spectacles, their gold rims glinting in the harsh bright light, and put out his hand. ‘Give me a heave, will you? I couldn’t kneel because of the glass and I think I’ve seized up.’

  Thanet obliged.

  ‘Thanks.’ Mallard peered down at the body. ‘You’ll have to work that out for yourself. Not my province. But I can most certainly pronounce him dead and as you can see for yourself there’s little doubt as to cause. The jugular vein was severed and there’s so much blood about it’s almost certain that the carotid artery was, too. I’ll stick my neck out and say he bled to death. It would have been very quick, a matter of minutes. We won’t be able to confirm until the PM, of course, but I’d say it was most unlikely to be anything else.’

  ‘Look as though someone used him as an Aunt Sally,’ said Lineham, ‘chucked everything he could lay his hands on at him. Randish backs towards the window, probably holding up hi
s arms to protect his face, then he treads on something – a bottle, perhaps – which makes him lose his balance. He falls backwards, twisting sideways, and goes through the window, slicing through that artery in the process. Then he gradually collapses, the weight of his body dragging him down into a sitting position.’

  ‘Quite feasible,’ said Mallard.

  ‘How long ago?’ said Thanet.

  Mallard puffed out his lips, expelled air softly and shook his head. ‘You don’t give up, do you, Luke? You know as well as I do that it’s impossible to be accurate.’

  Thanet grinned. They went through this charade every time. ‘Oh come on, Doc, just give us some idea.’

  Mallard considered, head on one side, and then said reluctantly, ‘Some time in the last three hours? And earlier in that period, rather than later.’

  Thanet glanced at his watch. Ten-thirty. Between 7.30 and 9.30. then, probably. ‘Thanks. You’ve finished here, now?’

  Mallard snapped his bag shut. ‘I have. It’s off to my nice warm bed for me.’

  ‘Don’t rub it in. I’ll walk you to your car.’

  ‘Don’t bother.’

  ‘It’ll be good to get some fresh air.’

  Outside, Thanet gratefully inhaled the clean, moist air, anxious to rid his nostrils of the smell of death, the taint of murder. As they emerged from the passageway he saw that the ambulance had arrived at last and some more cars were pulling in.

  ‘Draco won’t be here, I suppose,’ said Mallard. ‘Didn’t Angharad have another test this week?’

  ‘Yes. On Wednesday. They went up today for the result.’

  In the early years of Superintendent Draco’s reign in Sturrenden he had galvanised the place into becoming the most efficient Division in the South-East. He was ubiquitous and his men never knew when he would suddenly materialise, breathing down their necks. But a couple of years ago his beautiful and much-loved wife Angharad had had leukaemia diagnosed and overnight Draco had become a changed man. Gone were the light of enthusiasm in his eyes, the hectoring tone in his voice, the infuriating bounce from his step. Although his men had all complained bitterly at the way the Super had harried and chivvied them, they had grown to admire, respect and even to like him, and there was not one of them who would not have suffered the worst of harassments to see Draco back on his original form. There were signs that Angharad’s condition was improving, but she was still trailing up to London regularly for bone-marrow tests and Draco’s staff always knew when another test was coming up: for days beforehand he would become increasingly abstracted and morose. He always accompanied his wife both for the test and for the results two days later and for the last six months or so had got into the habit of taking her away to a hotel for a day or two afterwards.

  Mallard sighed. ‘Living through all that is not an experience I’d wish on my worst enemy.’

  Thanet glanced at the little doctor, aware that Mallard was remembering his own bitter years. The Thanets and the Mallards were good friends, Thanet having known the older man since childhood. He and Joan were very fond of Helen, Mallard’s second wife, and grateful to her for rescuing the little doctor from the years of depression which had followed the lingering death of his first wife from cancer. Thanet was saved from a reply – for what could usefully be said? – by the approach of the two ambulancemen, carrying a stretcher. He knew them both by sight.

  ‘Sorry we took so long, Inspector. Been a spate of accidents this evening.’

  Thanet shook his head. ‘There’s no hurry with this one. Anyway, it’s all clear now. Just check that the SOCOs have finished and you can take him away.’

  Hard on their heels came more of his men. He sent them to find Lineham. ‘I’ll be with you in a few moments.’

  At the car Mallard turned. ‘How’s Bridget these days? Helen was saying the other day we hadn’t seen her for ages. I know she misses their cookery sessions.’

  Helen Mallard, a well-known cookery writer, had encouraged Bridget in her choice of career and at one time the two of them regularly used to spend afternoons together concocting new dishes for Helen’s latest project.

  ‘She’s down for a long weekend, as a matter of fact. I picked her up at the station earlier this evening.’

  Something in Thanet’s tone must have alerted Mallard to his concern.

  ‘Nothing wrong, is there?’

  ‘We don’t know for certain, yet. But she seems pretty down in the mouth.’

  ‘Alexander?’

  ‘More than likely, I should think.’

  ‘Who’d be young again?’ said Mallard, unlocking his car. He patted the old Rover affectionately. ‘There’s a lot to be said for growing old together. So much more comfortable.’

  Thanet laughed. ‘So far as I can recall, at the age of twenty it wasn’t comfort I was looking for!’ He watched Mallard drive off and then set purposefully off back to the laboratory. Action was now called for: get the men organised; then interview the chap who had discovered the body, Vintage.

  He was eager to get on with it.

  TWO

  The yew hedge was tall, dense, thick, planted no doubt as an evergreen screen to preserve the Randishes’ privacy in winter and summer alike. Living over the shop, so to speak, must have certain disadvantages, thought Thanet as he followed Lineham through the tall arched wrought-iron gate which fitted snugly into a clipped opening in the hedge.

  Though this house would compensate for most.

  It was Tudor, black and white, the marriage of beams and plasterwork a delight to the eye. The curtains were drawn in the room to the left of the front door but lights still blazed from most of the windows, illuminating the neat front cottage garden. This was past its best now but still sported clumps of flowers here and there, their colours indistinguishable in the dim light. The path of ancient paving stones was bordered by a dwarf lavender hedge which in summer must release its sweet scent as visitors brushed by.

  Thanet waited for the inevitable remark from Lineham. Anything larger than the sergeant’s own modest dwelling invariably provoked a comment.

  Lineham did not disappoint him.

  ‘Not exactly on the breadline, are they?’ said the sergeant as they approached the massive front door with its shallow medieval arch. ‘Where’s the doorbell?’

  ‘Is this it?’ Thanet grasped the curlicue on the end of a piece of stout wire dangling to the right of the door, and tugged. In the distance a bell tinkled.

  ‘Sounds like it,’ said Lineham. ‘This place really is the genuine article, isn’t it? Be interesting to see what it’s like inside.’

  ‘We’re not house-hunting, Mike.’ But Thanet’s tone was mild. He, too, would be interested to see the interior. People’s houses were very revealing, he found.

  Footsteps approached, unseen hands fumbled with a latch, and the door opened. The man was broad-shouldered, with a thatch of thick, white hair.

  ‘Detective Inspector Thanet and Detective Sergeant Lineham, Sturrenden CID,’ said Thanet.

  ‘Owen Landers.’ The man stood back. ‘Come in.’ He closed the door behind them. ‘Randish is – was – my son-in-law.’

  They were in a narrow hall, the patina on its panelled walls a mute testimony to centuries of polishing. The floor was of flagstones, partly concealed by the rich subdued colours of a red and blue Persian rug.

  Thanet offered his condolences and then said, ‘We understand that it was a Mr Vintage who found the body and we were told he was here.’

  Landers would be in his late fifties, Thanet thought, and a farmer, at a guess. That ruddy, weatherbeaten complexion could only be the result of years of exposure to the caprices of the British climate, and his clothes were what Thanet thought of as top quality country gear – cord trousers, cable-stitch sweater and brogues.

  ‘Yes.’ Landers gestured to a half-open door. ‘Come in.’

  A wave of heat greeted them as they stepped inside. It was the kind of room often seen in the pages of glossy magazines: beamed, lo
w-ceilinged, with casement windows on three sides and a huge inglenook fireplace. There were more Persian rugs on the floor of polished brick, linen curtains and upholstery in glowing colours and several pieces of fine antique furniture, all displayed to advantage by the light of strategically placed table lamps. The three people in it looked up apprehensively – a middle-aged woman, a woman in her thirties and a slightly younger man.

  ‘My wife, my daughter and Vintage,’ said Landers. He introduced Thanet and Lineham and then added, ‘They want a word with you, Oliver.’

  Vintage was standing in front of the fireplace, his back to the wood-burning stove. ‘Yes, of course.’ He was young, twenty-seven or twenty-eight at a guess, and whipcord thin with a shock of straight black hair which flopped across a high, bony forehead. He looked, Thanet thought, like a man on the verge of collapse. His shoulders drooped, his hands hung limply by his sides, his eyes were dull in their deep-hollowed eye-sockets, his skin tallow-white. His clothes were as creased and stained as if he had worked and slept in them for weeks. Indifference, overuse or simple neglect? Thanet wondered. In any case, it was clear that, the murder aside, Vintage was a man who had been under stress for some considerable time.

  And a man under stress can snap.

  ‘You can use the dining room,’ said Landers.

  After the first apprehensive glance Mrs Randish had ignored them. Hunched on the edge of her chair, hands outstretched to the stove, she seemed oblivious of their presence, sunk in private misery. Her tear-stained face and swollen eyes told their own story. The older woman’s attention was focused on her daughter. Perched on the arm of the chair beside her she watched her steadily with a fierce, protective gaze.

  Thanet was glad to get out of the room. Dressed in his outdoor clothes he felt he couldn’t have stood the heat in there much longer. He was relieved to find the dining room cooler, but he and Lineham still took off their raincoats before sitting down at the round oak gate-legged table.

  Vintage remained standing.