Blood of the Innocents

by Collett, Chris

  Chapter Nineteen

  Mariner’s first stop was Granville Lane. ‘Tony Knox in today?’ Mariner asked the duty sergeant.

  ‘He was here earlier, but the miserable sod’s done us all a favour and gone home,’ was the terse reply.

  Up in CID, it didn’t take Mariner long to find what he was looking for, though: the information Knox had followed up on the indecent exposures. After plotting the incidents on a map, Knox had rightly identified the pattern as being access to railway stations, but when he looked closely, Mariner found another, more subtle pattern. Each of the attacks had also occurred close to a council park or open space: not on it, but close by. Andy Pritchard used his bike to get around, and what better way of covering bigger distances across the city with a bike than on the train?

  Mariner switched on his computer. While he was waiting for it to boot up, he sorted through the phone messages in his in-tray. One was an urgent phone message to contact the forensic service. Mariner called back. Most of the scientists were off for the weekend, but the technician on duty was expecting Mariner’s call.

  ‘The gaffer thought you might want to know that we’ve identified the type of wire that was used to strangle Yasmin Akram. It’s a kind of annealed wire, coated with a chemical rust inhibitor.’

  ‘Would it have a plastic coating?’

  ‘Wouldn’t need it.’

  ‘So not an electrical wire,’ said Mariner, disappointed.

  ‘Electrical wire isn’t normally exposed like that,’ the technician told him. ‘It’s a fairly soft wire, easily pliable but strong enough to withstand a powerful force.’ He sounded as if he was reading from notes.

  ‘Any idea what it would be used for?’

  ‘The clue to that may be in the other substance we found at the joint where the wire had been twisted. In the crook there was a tiny residue of claydium.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  ‘A type of nylon-reinforced clay. Specifically used for modelling. Add that to the wire and I’d say you were looking for someone who’s a modelling enthusiast.’

  Mariner thought about Pritchard. He could imagine him with his Airfix planes or battalions of model soldiers. Ringing off, he ran a check on Andy Pritchard, but no criminal record appeared and he had no details on the database. Mariner thought about the man. How would he fare with women? Probably not that well. He wasn’t particularly good looking, the skin problem had seen to that. Helen Greenwood had mentioned the flasher’s complexion. Sunburnt, she’d said. Or could it have been acne? The way he’d looked at Yasmin’s partly clothed body had seemed a little off-kilter too. And why had he taken so long to phone it in? What had he been doing in the forty minutes after he found Yasmin’s body?

  Suddenly, Mariner remembered Croghan’s remark about Yasmin’s missing underwear. Had it been removed at the time Yasmin was killed or afterwards? Because Pritchard had discovered the body long after Yasmin disappeared, and had no apparent connection with the disappearance, they hadn’t thought about checking his alibi. Yasmin’s body was discovered in an obscure area of the park. What had prompted Pritchard to even look there? And, most importantly, where had Andy Pritchard been on the afternoon of Tuesday July the third? Mariner wondered what Tony Knox was up to today. He couldn’t imagine that it was anything much. Drinking himself into a stupor, probably. The man needed saving from himself.

  Mariner rang the doorbell at Knox’s house several times and then hammered on the door a couple of times. There was no response. He peered in the window. The place was still a tip. Christ, Knox was hopeless on his own. He went round to the back of the house. The garden was empty and, despite the growing heat, the house still shut up. He peered in through the patio doors and a chill ran through him.

  Tony Knox was slumped lifelessly in an armchair. Mariner could see the bottle of spirits on the floor beside him and lying on the sofa within arm’s reach, another small, brown bottle. For several moments Mariner’s mind raced back over Knox’s behaviour during the past few weeks: the mood swings and the pent-up anger, with that unprecedented reluctance to talk about anything, until his recent shame-faced revelation. Putting it all together with the scene before him, it came to one unspeakable conclusion. He banged on the window again. Nothing. Being a policeman the house was like Fort Knox. How appropriate was that? The back door was the flimsiest and, in the end, Mariner smashed the glass to get in. He rushed in on Knox who hadn’t moved a muscle. This wasn’t good.

  ‘Tony!’ Mariner shook him, slapping his cheek with more force than he’d intended. Knox jolted back to life with a start.

  ‘What? What the fuck’s going on?’ He slurred.

  Mariner sat back on his heels, weak with relief. ‘Nothing, I thought—Nothing. It doesn’t matter.’ He’d explain the kitchen window later. His gaze skimmed the brown, stubby beer bottle on the sofa and after a split-second delay, Knox’s face cracked into a smile.

  ‘You thought I’d topped myself, didn’t you?’

  Mariner said nothing.

  ‘I didn’t know you cared, boss.’

  ‘Piss off,’ said Mariner.

  ‘Listen, if I take that way out it won’t be quietly in my own living room. It will be off the roof of the Hyatt with the TV cameras rolling. And you’ll be among the first to know. Anyway, where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to contact you.’

  ‘I was at Anna’s last night.’

  Knox raised an eyebrow. ‘You talked?’

  ‘We talked.’

  ‘About fucking time. Anyway, I think I’ve found something. ’

  ‘Me, too.’

  ‘Really?’ Knox looked disappointed, but he listened patiently while Mariner ran through what he’d got. ‘Pritchard sounds like he could be our flasher, but did he kill Yasmin?’ he said, when Mariner had finished.

  ‘He had every reason to be in the area. The park is just across the road from the reservoir. And he’s definitely a bit odd.’

  ‘It doesn’t make him a killer.’

  He was right. ‘OK, so what have you got?’

  ‘Come and have a look.’ Knox took him back up to the little office and on to the “old friends” website.

  ‘Is this to do with Theresa?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ He logged back on to the website to show Mariner the original message. Mariner was doubtful. ‘It’s not much.’

  ‘No. But then I started thinking: what would make a good teacher resign or get the sack?’

  ‘Stealing? Embezzling the school fund?’

  ‘Or having the wrong kind of relationship with the students.’

  ‘Goodway doesn’t fit the usual profile. He’s got three kids of his own. Happily married man.’

  ‘How happy, though? Barbara Kincaid was pretty scathing to Shaun Pryce about her love life, which might indicate that her husband has other preferences.’

  Mariner thought back to his visit to Brian Goodway’s home. ‘He made some comment about how young and glamorous Barbara had been when he met her. I thought then it seemed an odd way of putting it.’

  ‘Maybe “young” is the operative. And if he went off her as she got older, it might have left both of them looking elsewhere for gratification. He gets his from ogling the kids at school—’

  ‘—and along comes Shaun Pryce, for her.’

  ‘He could easily have been lying about his relationship with her. Which makes me wonder about what really happened to Barbara Kincaid?’

  ‘We’ve no reason to believe she was murdered,’ Mariner pointed out.

  ‘It was a sudden, unexplained death.’

  ‘The suicide verdict is unlikely to be challenged. She was taking powerful anti-depressant medication, and her GP at the time has confirmed that she was under a lot of strain.’

  ‘Great cover for Goodway if he’s found out that she’s having an affair and decided to off her.’

  ‘You’ve been watching too much crappy TV. Where would Yasmin come into all this?’

  ‘She could have seen Pr
yce with Barbara Kincaid and grassed on them to Goodway.’

  ‘But it must have all erupted months ago, so why leave it until now to do anything about Yasmin?’

  Knox couldn’t provide the answer, but luckily for him his phone trilled, temporarily letting him off the hook. He put it to his ear. ‘Great. Thanks for getting back to me. Blake,’ he hissed, over his hand, before embarking on a series of monosyllabic responses that left Mariner frustratingly in the dark about what they were discussing. Ending the call, Knox was smug and self-satisfied.

  ‘We’re on the right track all right,’ he said. ‘Goodway’s departure from St Martin’s was sudden and unexpected. No official explanation was given, but rumour had it that he’d invited a sixth former to model privately for him, very privately. One thing led to another, until the kid blew the whistle on him. It didn’t go down too well with the parents.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘Perhaps, with his wife safely out of the way, Goodway offered Yasmin the same opportunity.’

  ‘And she threatened to tell someone. We need to ask Brian Goodway a few more questions.’

  ‘Let’s hope he’s at home.’

  ‘He isn’t. He’s at the Bournville Festival. He may be up for a prize. He’s—Christ, the picture.’

  ‘What picture?’

  But Mariner shook his head. ‘Goodway will be occupied all afternoon. Let’s take advantage of that and pay a visit to his house. I just need to do something else first.’

  ‘What about Andy Pritchard?’ said Knox.

  ‘I agree with you. Pritchard is small fry. He’s up to something, but he can wait.’

  Knox waited in the car at Granville Lane while Mariner went in and picked up a Polaroid camera. After that, their first stop was the reservoir, Knox following like an obedient hound at the heels of its master. They walked round to the patch of crushed-down grass that Shaun Pryce frequented and Mariner looked out across the water. It was as he’d thought. Moving in an arc of 180 degrees, he began taking snaps.

  ‘SOCO have already got all this,’ said Knox. ‘Now might not be the right time to supplement your photo album.’

  ‘Call it a comparative study,’ was all that Mariner would say.

  From there they went to Brian Goodway’s house. The door was answered by a white-haired, elderly lady; Goodway’s mother, and as Mariner had hoped, it seemed she was alone in the house.

  ‘Do you think we could come in, Mrs Goodway?’ Mariner asked, walking past her before she had time to protest.

  ‘Is this about Barbara?’

  ‘There are just a couple of things we wanted to look at again. We won’t take up much of your time,’ he assured her.

  ‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ said Mariner. And keep her out of their hair for a few minutes. The house was three floors of outsized rooms. This might take a while. ‘We’re looking for the wire and the modelling clay and anything else that might help,’ he reminded Knox.

  Mrs Goodway was back sooner than he expected, brandishing the same mug he’d been given before: a well-worn version of those on Eric Dwyer’s stall.

  ‘Does your son belong to the conservation group?’ Mariner asked, wondering if she’d even know.

  ‘He used to, but I don’t think he’s been for a long time.’

  Climbing the stairs, Mariner brushed past pictures hanging on the wall. One in particular stood out. It was almost identical to the one he’d seen this morning in the festival exhibition. At a different time of year, with no leaves on the trees and more rain in the lake, it was an exact copy of the view in Goodway’s picture.

  ‘Tony.’

  Knox came and peered over his shoulder. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘This drawing is almost exactly the same as the pen-and-ink Brian Goodway has entered for the festival competition. ’

  ‘So? It’s a view.’

  Mariner took the Polaroid snaps out of his pocket and held one of them beside the sketch. ‘See any similarities?’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘Strip the trees of their leaves and they’re exactly the same. When I came to talk to Goodway after his wife’s body was found, he denied even knowing about the reservoir’s existence.’

  ‘Maybe he sketched it from a photograph.’

  ‘So who took the photograph? His wife, Shaun Pryce or him? I think Brian Goodway is very familiar with the reservoir. He was probably spying on his wife. Not that it proves anything, naturally.’

  Knox shrugged. ‘So we keep looking.’

  They went from room to room: opening drawers, scrutinising cupboards, searching under furniture, but found nothing.

  ‘Maybe he does all his art work at school,’ said Knox.

  ‘There must be something. He told me this afternoon that he paints in his spare time. Where does he do it?’ Goodway’s mother was hovering in the doorway.

  ‘Does your son have a studio or a workshop where he does his art work?’

  ‘Yes, it’s up in the roof. You have to open the hatch and pull down the ladder—’

  Mariner and Knox were already vaulting the stairs. ‘He doesn’t really like anyone going up there!’ she called after them uncertainly.

  ‘I’ll bet he doesn’t.’

  Though basic, the loft had indeed been converted into a fully equipped artist’s studio. Two skylights provided the required natural light. The down side was the lack of evidence that any sculpting went on here: there were only easels and drawing and painting materials; everything strictly two-dimensional. They were not going to find what was used to strangle Yasmin here.

  A pile of larger drawings were stacked on end in one corner. Absently, Mariner began to sort through them, unsure of what he was looking for. Until he found it. ‘Look at this.’

  Knox came and looked over his shoulder. ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Actually, Shaun Pryce,’ Mariner corrected him. ‘This looks like some pretty close-range spying.’ The pictures of Pryce were full-length pencil sketches, this time revealing his face, and beautifully drawn. He was also completely naked and in a considerable state of arousal. ‘So that’s why women throw themselves at him,’ remarked Knox.

  ‘And not just women,’ added Mariner, as the final piece fell into place. ‘We’ve been barking up the wrong tree altogether. ’

  A strident female voice rang out from below. ‘Who is it, Gran? What’s going on?’ Chloe Goodway was home for the weekend.

  ‘It’s the police,’ they heard Mrs Goodway say.

  ‘What are they doing here?’

  ‘I’d better go and explain,’ said Mariner, starting down the ladder.

  But Chloe wasn’t in the mood to wait for explanations. ‘You shouldn’t have let them in, Gran. They can’t just come barging—’

  ‘But they’re policemen, darling. I expect they’re going to help us find out what happened to Mummy.’

  ‘They know what happened to Mum,’ Mariner heard as he descended the last flight of stairs. ‘I’m going to call Dad.’

  ‘Miss Goodway, if you could just wait!’ Mariner took the last stairs two at a time, but he wasn’t fast enough.

  ‘Dad? It’s Chloe. The police are here. They’re up in your studio. What’s going on?’

  Too late, Mariner snatched the phone from her. ‘I really wish you hadn’t done that.’

  The girl was unrepentant. ‘What are you doing here? We haven’t seen a search warrant. You have no right—’ But Knox was hard on Mariner’s heels, and leaving the girl ranting behind them, they ran out to the car and jumped in. As Knox drove at breakneck speed, Mariner called for an area car to come and keep an eye on Goodway’s house, then called ahead to Watson to detain Goodway in the exhibition tent at the festival. They arrived, breathless, to find Watson waiting helplessly.

  ‘I missed him. He’d already gone. One of the stewards saw him leave about ten minutes ago.’

  ‘Let’s get out a description of him and his car.’

  The car
was easy. As it turned out, it was still sitting less than five hundred yards from where they stood, left where Brian Goodway had parked it that morning, in front of the row of shops. One of the shop assistants had a girl at the school and had seen Goodway come back to his car and retrieve something from the boot.

  ‘He knows we’d be able to trace the car,’ said Mariner. ‘But if he’s gone on public transport we don’t stand a chance.’ He looked across at the steady stream of traffic on the ring road. The festival grounds were at the centre of a network served by the railway station at the back of the factory works and a major bus route to the front and sides.

  Knox was more optimistic. ‘He won’t get far. It may take a while, but somebody, somewhere will recognise him.’ All they could do was wait, but waiting wasn’t Mariner’s forte.

  ‘We never found that wire,’ said Knox, suddenly. ‘Is it worth checking his classroom?’

  The school seemed a desolate place without the noisy bustle of hundreds of students. Today, even the caretaker’s family had abandoned their house on the site to go to the festival. Parking outside the locked reception area, they walked round to the side of the building and found the door to Brian Goodway’s classroom swinging open.

  ‘He must have his own key,’ said Knox, but any hope they might have felt was short-lived. The classroom and those around it were completely devoid of life. If he had been here, Goodway had long since gone. The classroom was as much a mess as it had been last time Mariner was here, the forms of half-finished sculptures dotted about.

  ‘He’s left us plenty of modelling clay and wire,’ said Knox, bagging up samples. ‘So why was he here?’

  ‘There’s Lily’s tan-coloured suit,’ said Mariner, seeing the pristine brown overalls hanging on the back of the door. ‘Or, at least, the next generation of clean replacements.’ It was then that the smell drifted in on the air: the faint, slightly acrid smell of burning. ‘Christ. That’s what he’s here for.’

  Following the smell, they ran round to the rear of the building where they found Goodway standing beside the giant pig bins, black smoke billowing from the nearest.