‘Not like this, not out of the blue, just when you least expect it. No warning. If he’d been ill… Shit. Shit.’
Munro gave her a moment to collect her thoughts before continuing.
‘You and Harry,’ he said. ‘How did you meet? Would it have been at university, perhaps?’
‘What? Oh, yes, sorry. Yes.’
‘And you had a relationship?’
‘A relationship?’ said Baker. ‘What’s that go to do with anything? Why are you asking me about…?’
‘Just curious,’ said Munro, calmly. ‘No need to get upset. Sometimes folk remember things, things which might help. So, you had a relationship?’
‘No. Yes, yes, we did. If you can call it that, more of a… it didn’t last long, he enjoyed his books too much, not like me. But it was fun. While it lasted.’
‘Not like you?’ said Munro.
‘No. Harry was very studious, I was into the fun aspect of student life, Inspector. I’m what you might call, “a people person”.’
‘So, you didn’t graduate then?’ said West, cynically.
Baker sat back and eyed West with a look of contempt.
‘Au contraire, Sergeant…’
‘Detective Sergeant,’ said West.
‘I graduated with honours. First Class. Politics. Don’t suppose many police officers can say that, can they?’
Munro smiled at the smouldering catfight.
‘Politics?’ he said.
‘Yes, I was going to change the world, Inspector, then…’
‘Then?’
‘Life. Too much alcohol, too many Es, an STD and a nervous breakdown.’
West shuffled nervously on her feet as she recognised her traits.
‘Still, things can’t be that bad,’ she said. ‘I mean, look around you, it must have cost a fair bit to kit this place out.’
‘Bank of mum and dad. They refuse to see me, that’s what you get for throwing your life away, but they won’t let me starve.’
‘If we could get back to Harry, Miss Baker,’ said Munro. ‘Would I be right in thinking the last time you saw him was in Aldeburgh? At the festival?’
‘Aldeburgh?’ said Baker. ‘No, that was… oh, the festival? Christ, that’s going back a bit but, yes, yes, come to think of it, I suppose it was. That’s right, I remember now, it was quite funny really, he had one hell of a terrier with him.’
‘A terrier?’
‘His latest squeeze. Had him by the ankles. She was really quite frightening, went ballistic when she saw us together, ranted on at him for ages.’
‘Do you know why?’ said West.
‘No idea. I was off my head, so I didn’t care, really. She came across as quite, possessive.’
‘I see,’ said Munro. ‘And this possessive lass, the terrier, that would be Annabel Parkes, would it not?’
‘Annabel? Don’t be silly, what’s she got to do with it?’
‘Sorry,’ said Munro, surprised. ‘We must be at cross purposes here. You see, you say you remember Harry with a girl at the festival.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And so far as we know, the girl with Harry, was Annabel Parkes.’
West shot Munro a furtive glance as she rifled through her bag and produced the small, framed photograph from the Farnsworth-Browns.
‘Here,’ she said, passing it to Baker. ‘This is Harry and Annabel.’
Baker frowned as she stared at the photo and shook her head.
‘I don’t know where you got this from,’ she said. ‘But that’s not Annabel.’
‘What?’
‘It’s not Annabel, I should know, we hung out together, pubs mainly, or the student bar. She was studying medicine, I think, or biology, something to do with bodies, anyway. She was tall and lean, five-ten at least, skinny as a rake with jet black hair.’
‘So, you’ve no idea who this girl is?’ said Munro.
‘Sorry. Although…’
‘Go on.’
‘No, it’s silly,’ said Baker. ‘I just thought, she does look a bit like the girl he was with in Aldeburgh.’
‘Really? Are you sure about that?’
‘No. Couldn’t swear to it. It was long time ago and, like I said, I was plastered.’
‘Not to worry. And you’ve not seen Harry since?’
‘You’re kidding, aren’t you? Why would I want to see Harry? We had a fling. That was it.’
‘So, you’ve not bumped in to each other? Met for a coffee, maybe?’ said Munro.
‘Don’t be absurd, Inspector,’ said Baker, donning her cap and coat. ‘I’ve moved on, we both have. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to be late if I don’t get a scoot on.’
‘Well, well, well,’ said Munro, as he fastened his seat belt. ‘The gravy thickens.’
West sat staring into space as the rain peppered the roof of the car.
‘What do you mean?’ she said, quietly.
Munro sighed, deflated at her lack of perception.
‘Call Tommy,’ he said. ‘Give him Baker’s description and tell him he’s to go to Clock Court and wait. See if she shows up. Which she will.’
‘What?’ said West. ‘You’ve lost me, why would Baker be going to…’
‘Because she’s lying. She was still seeing Harry after he and Annabel were married, and I’ve a hunch she saw him recently, a few days ago, maybe.’
‘That’s ridiculous, how can you be so…’
‘Instinct, Charlie. Instinct.’
‘Instinct?’
‘And the way she reacted when you mentioned Harry’s passing. That’s not the way folk react to news of a death when they haven’t seen the person for a few years.’
‘Some people can’t handle grief,’ said West.
‘What was she wearing, Charlie?’ said Munro. ‘Just now, when she left?’
‘Er, cardigan. And a hat. Woolly hat.’
‘Ring any bells?’
West threw her head back and groaned in frustration.
‘Of course, the girl on the stairs. Christ, I’m… what now?’
‘Winnersh,’ said Munro. ‘Quick as we can. Lights and music, please Charlie, no time to lose.’
* * *
Woodward Close was the antithesis of Sammy Baker’s bleak, urban retreat. A quiet, tree-lined cul-de-sac, speckled with overbearing, mock-Tudor new-builds, immaculate front lawns and driveways crammed with top of the range saloons used for the exclusive purpose of ferrying fodder from the supermarket on Sunday afternoons.
‘Nice here,’ said West. ‘It’s so, quiet. So, green.’
‘It’s God’s waiting room,’ said Munro, grimacing. ‘Move here and you’ll die a premature death.’
The bell resounded with a tinny rendition of Big Ben building up to the hourly chime, which Munro impatiently interrupted with a couple of hefty raps on the brass knocker.
‘Bet you hate queuing, don’t you?’ said West, with a smirk.
‘I hate everything, Charlie.’
A prim lady, late sixties, wearing gardening gloves and clutching a pair of secateurs, opened the door with a brisk yank.
‘Dead-heading,’ she said, with all the assertiveness of a school-mistress. ‘Takes an age to come through from the garden. Police officers?’
‘What?’ said West. ‘I… yes, but how did you…’
‘Come, come, dear, don’t you watch television? You all look the bloody same. How can I help?’
Munro proffered his card.
‘D.I. Munro,’ he said, with an endearing wink, ‘and this here, is Detective Sergeant Charlotte West. I’m afraid we may have disturbed you quite unnecessarily, though. You see, we were looking for Annabel Parkes.’
‘You’ve found her. What of it?’
‘This appears to be an unholy coincidence,’ said Munro, apologetically. ‘We were looking for someone, how can I put this, a wee bit younger.’
‘You’ll be after my daughter, then. Bella. Same name, half the genes. You’d better come in, before t
he neighbours start twitching.’
The lounge, clearly reserved for the purposes of entertaining, was a dust-free environment, furnished with an eclectic mix of bric-a-brac, a floral print, three-piece suite and the heady scent of a lavender pot-pourri.
‘Do sit down,’ said Mrs. Parkes. ‘You’re making the place look untidy. Can I get you something? Tea, coffee, something a little stronger, perhaps. I know you chaps are fond of a tipple, isn’t that right? I’ve got some Cherry Brandy somewhere.’
‘Thank you, no, madam,’ said Munro, grinning widely, ‘we’ll not keep you long.’
‘Very well. Come on then, what’s all this about Annabel? What’s the silly mare been up to, now?’
‘Nothing,’ said West. ‘At least, nothing we know of. We’re trying to corroborate somebody else’s… we’re looking for someone.’
‘I see,’ said Mrs. Parkes. ‘How terribly dull.’
‘Before we go any further,’ said Munro. ‘I wonder if you’d mind taking a look at this picture for us.’
‘Do you recognise the girl?’ said West, passing her the framed photo.
‘Fraid not.’
‘So, that’s not your daughter?’
‘More’s the pity, looks a darn site healthier,’ said Mrs. Parkes.
‘How about the gentleman?’
‘Sorry. They do make a fine couple, though. What’s happened? Have they gone missing? Eloped, perhaps?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ said Munro. ‘Could I trouble you for a photo of your daughter? Just to look at, mind.’
‘There, on the sideboard,’ said Mrs. Parkes. ‘It’s the only one I keep out, she looked so, fresh, then.’
‘Then?’ said West. ‘Did she change?’
‘She became, jaded. Oh, she was still the tallest, scrawniest bag of bones ever to wander the streets of Winnersh, but her spark had gone, she looked so, gaunt. That hair didn’t help either, she looked as if she was off to a Halloween party.’
‘Any idea why?’ said West. ‘Was she stressed? Pressure of exams?’
Mrs. Parkes threw her head back and laughed.
‘Stress?’ she said. ‘Bella was too spaced out to get stressed, dear. Too much weed, nothing serious, but enough to distract her.’
‘I see,’ said Munro. ‘Tell me, would you happen to know if she was friends with a lassie by the name of Baker? Samantha Baker?’
‘Couldn’t tell you, Inspector. We didn’t speak then and she hardly keeps in touch now, bar the occasional email or a card on my birthday. What of it?’
‘Oh, a similar tale from one of her university friends, that’s all,’ said Munro. ‘Do you think we might have a word, with Annabel?’
‘You’ll have to shout, Inspector. She’s in Perth.’
Munro’s face broke into a wide-eyed smile.
‘Perth!’ he said, beaming. ‘My, my, I’ve many a memory of Perth, tis a braw place, that’s for sure.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, aye, the view from Ben Lawers across the loch, the sun glinting off the water, the gorge at Killiecrankie, come on, ye Jacobites!’
Mrs. Parkes, arms folded, regarded Munro with an air of bemusement.
‘Australia,’ she said. ‘Perth. Australia.’
‘Oh. When, er, when did she go?’
‘Four years ago, Inspector. Four years.’
‘And she’s not been back? At all? Ever?’ said Munro.
‘She prefers eating barbecued prawns in the company of convicts these days, Inspector. Can’t imagine why she’d want to come back, anyway, she doesn’t know anyone here, anymore. The only friends she ever made had eight legs and crawled around decaying wood stumps. Even then, she took great pleasure in slicing them any which way she could.’
‘I’m sorry?’ said West.
‘Entomologist, dear. That’s what she wanted to be, and that’s what she is now, only in Perth, where I imagine her specimens are a great deal larger than those she’d find here. Murdoch University, that’s where you’ll find her, should you fancy the trip.’
Munro, head bowed, ambled pensively down the garden path as the front door closed behind them. He paused by the car, looked at West and stared right through her as she fumbled with her phone.
‘Missed call,’ she said. ‘Sergeant Cole. Shall I call him back?’
Munro was miles away.
‘Who’s the girl in the photo, Charlie?’ he said, rhetorically. ‘Who the hell was Harry married to?’
* * *
‘Tommy,’ said Munro, as they stomped through the door.
‘Guv. Miss. How was Berkshire?’
‘Leafy,’ said Munro. ‘Like a morgue in autumn.’
‘I liked it,’ said West. ‘Might move there one day.’
‘Let me know. I’ll send you a wreath.’
Sergeant Cole smiled and filled the kettle.
‘That woman you asked me to look out for, Guv,’ he said. ‘Short, funny hat, cardigan, she showed up about an hour and a quarter after you called.’
Munro glanced at West and winked.
‘And then?’
‘Not much,’ said Cole. ‘Funny thing was, she looked like she knew where she was going, had quite a pace on, then stopped dead when she caught sight of uniform on the main door. Hovered for a bit, then turned turtle and scarpered.’
‘Thanks Tommy,’ said Munro, with a knowing smile. ‘Charlie, make a note, Samantha Baker. Tomorrow morning. Anything else?’
‘Couple of things. Lab report on your desk, Guv,’ he said. ‘Results on Farnsworth-Brown.’
Munro sat back, rubbed his eyes and opened the envelope.
‘Just as I thought,’ said Munro. ‘The wee man’s as dry as a bone, and he’s that well preserved, they cannae give a time of death.’
‘Says a lot for freezer bags,’ said West. ‘Speaking of food…’
‘Charlie,’ said Munro. ‘The name of that fella, the one who knew Harry? Mark…’
‘Marcos Delgado?’
‘Aye, that’s the chap. Give him a call, we need a chat, soon as.’
‘Okay,’ said West. ‘I’ll just grab us a bite to eat first, what would you…’
‘Call first, please, Charlie, won’t take long. And if there’s no answer, find an address, can’t be that many Delgados about the place.’
Sergeant Cole placed a mug of tea of Munro’s desk and hovered uncomfortably.
‘What is it, Tommy? You’ve your doorstep face on.’
‘You’re familiar with the phrase “it never rains”, aren’t you, Guv?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Well, it’s pissing down.’
‘Come again?’
‘We’ve got another,’ said Cole. ‘Body, that is.’
‘Are you joking me?’
‘Nope.’
‘Where?’ said Munro.
‘Herongate Road.’
‘Herongate? Dear, dear. Probably some poor, wee pensioner who cannae afford to heat the house or...’
‘Close,’ said Cole. ‘They found him in the attic.’
‘The attic? Now, why on earth would he be sleeping in the…’
‘In pieces. Like Farnsworth-Brown. Only, he wasn’t bagged up.’
‘Oh. I see.’
‘D.S. Ashford from Chingford’s down there, now.’
‘Right, I’m away,’ said Munro. ‘Charlie, have you an address for our Spanish friend?’
‘Yes, I think so, but...’
‘Get a number for young Annabel Parkes, too, while you’re at it. In Australia. Call her mother if you have to. I’ll not be long.’
‘But what about lunch?’
‘You should have had some fruit with your muesli.’
CHAPTER 11
“WHY DID SHE DO IT?”
Good question, but you’re asking the wrong person. You probably want me to say it was because she was unbalanced, unhinged, deranged, demented. Not the full shilling. But I won’t. Because she wasn’t. A bit of OCD and an inquiring mind,
yes, but you can’t hang her for that.
Look, it’s like those people who swim the channel, or climb Mont Blanc, or run 100 metres in a straight line. They’re not mad, are they? So, why do they do it? To get to France? To reach the summit? To break the tape? No. Of course not. They do it so they can attain a sense of achievement. A feeling of self-worth. I think it’s because they harbour some kind of insecurity. There’s something in their make up, something in their past, that compels them to prove to themselves, and the world, that they are the best. She had nothing prove. She was just an unqualified pathologist without a position who had to find her own bodies. She had a passion for it, she was good at it, and she liked to practice, whenever she could. And she must have practiced a lot, believe me. I can’t say for certain how many she’d done, I mean, I only know about the chap in the plastic bags and ‘chantheman’, of course, but she must have done a few, stands to reason, you don’t acquire skills like that overnight. It was like watching a master butcher at work, the way she jointed the body, every cut was clean, no ragged edges, no torn sinews, no broken bones. Her hand was steady, her approach, methodical, her concentration, unwavering. No breaks, no pauses, no fear, not even a drop of sweat. And she was fast. Deftly fast.
I think part of the attraction was the fact that she didn’t… I mean, she wasn’t like, the stereotyped image of a crackpot. She didn’t stare vacuously into space and she wasn’t simmering waist-deep in a cauldron of hate, bubbling with anger, a chip on each shoulder. There was no malice in what she did. There was no axe to grind. She didn’t despise her victims. Quite the contrary. She liked them. She befriended them to assess their suitability. She said their mental and emotional disposition would determine whether they’d be viable candidates for the op’ or if they were to be consigned to the ‘not suitable’ list. Maybe it had something to do with samsara, perhaps that was it, perhaps she figured the ones she chose had a better-than-evens chance of reaching enlightenment.
Okay, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, if she wasn’t completely barking, then she must have got some kind of perverse, twisted kick out of it. Maybe she was some kind of closet feminist who got turned on by carving up men. But no. She wasn’t. And no, she didn’t. I admit, the ‘idea’ of doing it, excited her and simply talking about it made her… frisky, but the actual act, the actual process of extinguishing a life and transforming the body into take-away-sized portions, well, that was clearly a brilliant, and almost scientific exercise in dismemberment.
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