Blood of the Innocents

by Collett, Chris

  Somehow Mariner dragged himself under the shower. Every time he moved his head, pain jangled round it like the vibrations in a bell. Forcing down coffee and painkillers, he put on his sunglasses against the agonising glare of sunlight and got a taxi to Granville Lane, where he saw that his own car had miraculously materialised in the station car park. The movement of the journey in had made him feel queasy again, but somehow he managed to stagger upstairs, roll down the blinds in his office and make it to his desk, where Mark Russell came to brief him on the latest discovery.

  ‘She was found a little way downstream from where Yasmin was found.’ Russell was saying, but Mariner was momentarily distracted by Millie walking into the bull pen. She smiled a brief ‘good morning’ to them both through the glass partition, but her face gave nothing away.

  ‘Sir?’ Russell said.

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘She was found by Ben: a liver and white springer spaniel who’s apparently a keen swimmer. His owner, a Mr Lovell, took him to the park this morning as usual, and Ben had what I s’pose you’d call a “swamp day”. Mr Lovell had to go looking for him, and that was when he saw the woman’s body, caught on an old bit of fencing that runs alongside the stream. Yesterday, that part of the park would have been completely under water but the flooding has subsided overnight.’

  ‘And what do we know about her?’ Mariner forced himself to concentrate.

  ‘Not much yet. She’s an older woman: late forties or fifties. The pathologist at the scene said she’s been in the water a lot longer than Yasmin: could be weeks or even months. She’s got similar kinds of bruising, though.’

  ‘So she could have been released at the same time, when the mechanism disintegrated.’

  ‘It’s likely. They think there won’t be much in the way of forensics, thanks to decomposition, but we’ve got a pair of earrings that may help in identification, and there was a large splinter of wood caught in her cardigan.’

  ‘From the bridge?’ Mariner thought of the railings.

  ‘SOCO are down there now.’

  ‘Do we know how she died?’

  ‘Her skull has been smashed, but Croghan seemed to think that may have happened when she felt into the water.’

  Mariner fought down a wave of nausea. ‘Any ID?’

  ‘Not yet. Tony Knox is going through the missing persons.’

  ‘OK, let me know when you find anything.’

  The best solution to avoid throwing up, Mariner found, was to remain as inactive as possible. There were things to do but, for once, he’d let the answers come to him. He got Russell to bring him some water, then began sifting through the messages that had accumulated on his desk. He didn’t trust himself to return any of the three calls from Anna and consigned the yellow message slips to the bin. The next was from a Sahira Masud. Mariner couldn’t place the name, not even in connection with Yasmin Akram, so began sifting through the thousands of names on file in his head, in an attempt to attach meaning to this one. In the end he had to pick up the telephone to find out.

  ‘I live next door but one to your mother,’ Mrs Masud reminded him, patiently. ‘I’m afraid she’s had a slight stroke.’

  The words had more of an impact than Mariner could ever have imagined, temporarily displacing his own fragility. As the contact between himself and his mother had dwindled over a number of years, Mariner had always thought that he would be quite detached from any such news. He’d been wrong. Now he felt bad that he hadn’t returned her calls. Was that what she’d been ringing about, to tell him she wasn’t feeling well? ‘Will she be all right?’ he asked, with far more anxiety in his voice than he would have expected.

  ‘She’s fine.’ Mrs Masud was instantly reassuring. ‘But they’ve taken her into Warwick Hospital to keep an eye on her overnight. You might want to—’

  ‘Yes. Thanks for letting me know.’ Any decisions about visiting her he would make himself, after weighing up whether it was likely to make her worse or better.

  ‘She’s on ward eight.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Mariner looked up to see Millie standing in the doorway, swinging his car keys. She came and laid them on his desk, all the time studying his face, which Mariner guessed was probably an interesting shade of grey.

  ‘Everything OK, sir?’ she asked.

  Mariner nodded and instantly regretted it. ‘Look, about last night,’ he said. ‘I was pretty pissed.’

  She returned a wan smile. ‘You and me both, sir. To be honest I can’t remember much about it. Probably best forgotten.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right.’ Mariner was weak with relief.

  ‘In my job I move around a lot,’ she went on. ‘I try to bag an Inspector at every OCU I’m assigned to. You did enough.’ Mariner gaped at her. ‘Joke,’ she said, deadpan, before walking away.

  Tony Knox was next in line. The bacon sandwich in his fist nearly had Mariner reaching for the bin, but he was oblivious to Mariner’s state. Then again, he didn’t look all that hot himself. His shirt was creased and slightly grimy and he didn’t appear to have had time for a shave today.

  ‘We’ve got a possible match on the body, boss. Barbara Kincaid. IC 1 female, aged forty-four, reported missing back in March from an address on Banbury Road.’

  ‘That’s what? About half a mile from the reservoir?’

  ‘The other side of the station. According to the husband’s statement at the time, she’d been suffering mental health problems: depression. She left the house sometime late one night and didn’t come back. The description of what she was wearing on the day she disappeared matches clothing on the body, and we’ve asked him to come in and identify some jewellery she was wearing.’

  ‘Russell said something about a splinter of wood?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s a possible match with the wooden railings of the reservoir bridge.’

  ‘So she went in at the same place Yasmin did.’

  ‘It looks like it.’

  ‘She could have been the one who leaned on them and broke them. It wouldn’t have taken much. They were pretty well rotten through. What do you think?’

  ‘Either that or she threw herself in, got tangled up in the drainage mechanism. It’s a bit desperate though.’

  ‘Desperate feelings lead you to do desperate things. Let me know when identity’s confirmed.’

  The final straw was Fiske, who hovered in the doorway, distinctly reticent, and Mariner was soon to find out why. ‘The Skeet family have made a complaint,’ he said.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About the way the disappearance of their son was handled, that it wasn’t given enough of a priority. How far do you think they’d take it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Is Colleen Skeet the vindictive type?’

  If it hadn’t required the effort of standing up, Mariner would have been tempted to walk over and punch his smarmy face. ‘Colleen Skeet isn’t any “type”, sir. As I seem to remember it was thinking of her family as a “type” that got us into trouble. Right now, she’s a woman grieving for her son. I couldn’t begin to understand what’s going on in her head.’

  ‘I thought you said you knew her.’

  ‘I know Colleen, sir. I know very little about those who might have any influence over her, especially at a time like this.’

  ‘Will you talk to her?’

  ‘I’m not sure that that’s a very good idea.’

  ‘I do hope that as a fellow officer I will be able to count on your support, Inspector.’

  Not a request, just a statement. That was a hard one. Mariner felt not a shred of fellowship for the man.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Fiske had given Mariner the nudge he needed though, and by mid-afternoon, having exhausted all the paperwork he could reasonably do at this time, and starting to feel halfway human again, he ran out of options. He hadn’t had the guts to face Colleen directly since Ricky’s death. Now was as good a time as any, and from there, he could go over to see
his mother. Moving very carefully, Mariner picked up his jacket and keys and walked out to his car.

  He went to pass through an exit door at the same moment as someone else, being escorted from the building by Mark Russell.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ To avoid a collision the other man stepped back, exactly mirroring Mariner’s action.

  ‘After you.’ Mariner found himself looking into a vaguely familiar face, but there was no reciprocal recognition and he dismissed it. It happened all the time in this job, as a consequence of meeting so many people. Then, crossing the car park, it came to him. He went back to reception.

  ‘That man who just left. What was he doing here with Russell?’ he asked Ella.

  ‘I think he’s the guy who came in to identify his wife’s jewellery. The second body that was found. Poor bloke.’

  ‘Can I use the phone?’ Mariner called up to Russell. ‘The body found today, I thought her name was Kincaid.’

  ‘Ms,’ said Russell. ‘She kept her maiden name when she got married.’ He told Mariner her married name.

  Poor bloke indeed, thought Mariner.

  He found Colleen sitting smoking on her front step in the yellow late afternoon sunshine, a grotesque pastiche of contentment. ‘You’ve got a bloody nerve,’ was all she said as he walked up the path.

  ‘I’m sorry, Colleen: really sorry.’ Was there ever a way of instilling those words with adequate feeling? Mariner doubted it.

  ‘I bet you are,’ she said. ‘Sorry that you’re all in the shit.’

  She was wrong about that, but there was no point in arguing. ‘Are you really going through with it?’

  ‘Yes she fucking is,’ snarled a voice from behind her. It belonged to a giant of a man with thick muscles and apparently no neck. Steve, Mariner guessed. ‘So why don’t you piss off out of here and stop harassing her?’

  Yeah, why didn’t he? ‘I’m sorry, Colleen,’ Mariner said again. ‘Ricky was a great kid.’ And he turned and walked back to his car.

  ‘Tom?’ she called after him, her voice smaller than before. He looked back. ‘I know it wasn’t your fault.’

  Mariner nodded briefly and walked on.

  Back in the car, Mariner thought again about the connection he’d learned about from Russell. The reservoir, Yasmin Akram, Barbara Kincaid and, through her husband, the link between them all: Shaun Pryce, with his predilection for middle-aged housewives. Mariner wondered if there was any way Barbara Kincaid could have known Shaun Pryce too. He must know her husband. He’d have to drive along Banbury Road on his way out to Leamington to visit his mother. That was fortuitous.

  There was a considerably delayed response when he rang the doorbell of the three-floor terrace, but eventually the door opened on Brian Goodway. His shoulders were hunched, and even on this warm afternoon he wore a thick cardigan over his open-collared shirt, his body temperature thrown off balance by delayed shock. He was apologetic. ‘I was upstairs. The kids are at home but they never answer the door, even though it’s usually for them. Teenagers, eh?’ He shook his head despairingly but his heart wasn’t in it, he hadn’t got the energy.

  Mariner felt another flush of sympathy for the man. ‘Mr Goodway, I know this is a difficult time for you, but I understand you identified your wife’s jewellery this afternoon. ’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘As you know, I’m investigating Yasmin Akram’s death. This may be important. I wonder if you could spare a few minutes.’

  ‘Um, yes, of course.’ He seemed disorientated and vague and Mariner almost changed his mind. But he was here now and followed Goodway past bikes propped in the hallway into an untidy lounge with a high ceiling and a wide bay with sash windows. Like the Akrams’ sitting room, it felt cool and unlived in, probably because most of the space was taken up by a polished walnut baby grand piano.

  ‘Barbara’s,’ Brian Goodway said, although Mariner hadn’t asked. ‘She used to teach piano part-time. The number of pupils had dwindled over the years but she liked to do it. It was something for herself.’ Already used to speaking about his wife in the past tense, but then she’d been missing from his life for months.

  ‘Is that why she kept her maiden name?’

  ‘It was like a stage name. Barbara was a performer: music, amateur theatre, that kind of thing.’

  For the first time, Mariner saw the black and white portrait photograph. The subject was stunningly glamorous. ‘Is that her?’

  ‘Yes, taken a few years ago now.’ Not the woman Mariner would have identified as the natural partner for Goodway.

  ‘The teaching was supplementary,’ he was saying. ‘At the time we married she had quite a reputation locally, so understandably didn’t want to lose that. Inevitably though, once the children came along, the family became more of a priority and she had to put her other ambitions on hold.’

  ‘That can’t have been easy.’

  ‘No. I know she found it frustrating at times. She was very artistic. But she continued to provide accompaniment for a local drama group from time to time. Please sit down, Inspector. Can I get you anything? A cup of tea?’

  ‘That would be good, thank you.’ It was the last thing Mariner wanted, but it would give Brian Goodway something else to focus on while they talked. He sat down on a lumpy sofa, draped with an Indian print throw. Somewhere in the house, a low bass throbbed a steady beat. Looking around it was clear that this room wasn’t a priority for decoration, being papered with ivory-coloured anaglypta that had gone out of fashion ten years ago. There was a vertical strip from the light switch to the ceiling that had been torn away, and fresh pink plasterwork inserted. It was precisely what Mariner had been hoping for.

  Goodway returned with two mugs, handing one awkwardly to Mariner, before perching on the piano stool opposite.

  ‘They said they found her downstream from the reservoir, ’ he said, talking into his tea mug. ‘Near to where Yasmin was found.’

  ‘So I gather,’ said Mariner.

  ‘Oh God.’ Dropping his gaze, Goodway fumbled in his pockets, coming out with a handkerchief, which he used to noisily blow his nose and conceal the fact that he was weeping. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, Mr Goodway. I realise how hard this must be for you. But I won’t keep you any longer than necessary.’ Mariner turned his attention to his tea, to give Goodway time to compose himself. The dark green mug had seen better days and Mariner could barely pick out what was left of the design: the row of cartoonish trees that had succumbed to the regular abrasion of a dishwasher. He took a scalding mouthful.

  Goodway sighed. ‘It wasn’t a huge surprise when Barbara went missing, you know,’ he said. ‘She’d been depressed on and off for years, and since Christmas it had got much worse. We’ve got the children, of course, and for the last five years we’ve been looking after my mother, too. Sometimes it got on top of her. It was exhausting. Barbara said more than once that she could fully sympathise with these women who just walked away from it all and never came back. But I never thought she’d really—’

  ‘Did your wife often walk near the reservoir?’

  Goodway shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t even know there was a reservoir there until the body of that boy was found there and I saw it on the news.’

  Just like the rest of us then, thought Mariner.

  ‘Barbara went out walking a lot, particularly in the evenings. She needed to, to get a break from everything. But I didn’t really know where she went. There are parks around, and I suppose I just thought that she walked around the streets.’

  ‘Did your wife ever talk about meeting anyone?’

  ‘No,’ said Goodway instantly, then he seemed to reconsider. ‘It did cross my mind once or twice. Barbara had been an attractive woman, but I’m sure—’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Mariner. ‘I’m just exploring the possibilities. ’

  Goodway frowned into his mug. ‘The thing I don’t understand is that the reservoir is miles from here.’

/>   ‘There’s a quicker way down to it from behind the station,’ said Mariner. ‘Your wife must have known about it.’

  ‘She lived in this area all her life,’ said Goodway, as if that explained it. He looked up at Mariner hopefully. ‘I keep wondering if perhaps it could have been an accident,’ he said. ‘The children . . . it would be so much easier . . .’

  Mariner thought of the broken railings but he didn’t want to give the man false hope. ‘There will have to be an inquest of course. But it’s possible, Mr Goodway. The coroner will consider all the evidence.’

  ‘Barbara was taking anti-depressants at the time. She wasn’t always thinking clearly.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Mariner. ‘Thanks for your time, Mr Goodway.’ He got up to go, pausing by the strip of fresh plasterwork. ‘You’ve had some electrical work done.’

  ‘Actually, it was months ago. I’m not very practical around the house and rewiring was long overdue. I haven’t quite got round to decorating again.’

  ‘Looks like quite a job. Did you do it yourself?’

  ‘Heavens no. I’m hopeless, I’m afraid. We had a proper electrician come in to do it.’

  ‘Was it by any chance Shaun Pryce?’

  For a moment Goodway looked startled. ‘Yes, it was. How—?’

  ‘He modelled for students at your school.’

  Then Goodway remembered. ‘Ah, of course, you’ve seen the art work on the walls.’ He hesitated. ‘It was Barbara who discovered him, you know, at one of her drama productions. I got home from school one day and here he was. We got talking and he said that really he was an actor. I thought he was so striking that I asked him to come and model for the girls at school.’

  ‘Did Shaun Pryce model for Yasmin’s class?’ Mariner asked.

  ‘Not her class, but I think he sat for the art club on one occasion.’

  ‘Your head said he was quite friendly with the girls.’

  ‘Yes. In fact it became a bit of a problem. He was a bit too friendly.’