He’d considered her. ‘All right,’ he’d agreed, after a moment, acknowledging there were some things she was better equipped to deal with than he was. Dave Crouch was the first to admit he didn’t have a bedside manner, or anything approaching one. If anyone had anything unpleasant to say to him, he preferred them to give it him straight, wham, no pussyfooting around, but over the years he’d been reluctantly forced to admit that not everyone felt the same about the way bad news was imparted. And on top of that, this was a case that was turning out to be one of Crouch’s worst nightmares, touching on his one soft spot. Case-hardened and prejudiced as he was in more ways than he was ever likely to admit, and however tough the carapace he’d grown around any sensitivities he might have had, here was the one thing likely to penetrate it. His fuse was notoriously short in any event, but anything involving harm to children, and he was liable to explode without warning. In his opinion, such perverts were lower than a snake’s belly. These sort of investigations rarely, however, came his way, he couldn’t think why. It was just as well, though — he knew, and thought no one else knew, that he couldn’t have held himself responsible for the consequences if he’d had the chance to lay his hands on the perpetrator of such crimes. Deep down inside him, never openly stated because it was definitely not a politically correct point of view, was the belief that vigilante groups had a lot going for them. He kept these opinions to himself, however, especially from Kate, who knew that his first wife had left him, taking their child with her; that every time there was a case involving a child, it brought back the pain and loss of his own child. She met his eye now and he gave her the nod to start.
It would be easy to try and reassure with platitudes, that children don’t think, they lose track of time, he’s sure to turn up, and so on, but Kate wasn’t going to say that unless she had to. Privately she agreed with Crouch that such a contingency was unlikely in the extreme. She merely said that they had initiated a thorough search in the grounds. There’d be time later to voice the other fears that must be in everyone’s mind — snatching by some sexual deviant, or taken as a hostage by some nutter who wanted a favour in exchange. Or even kidnapping for ransom money … Membery was the local Big House, the Calverts were known to be not exactly on the breadline, though rich was relative: certainly, whatever family money there still was didn’t appear to be spent on the house, its past splendours were by now definitely shabby. But you might view things differently if you were desperate for what they might still regard as petty cash — if you were homeless and hungry, on the dole or, even more likely, with an expensive habit that needed feeding.
‘You won’t find him,’ Chip was saying, ‘we’ve already looked.’
Not professionally, Kate thought, and held her breath, hoping Crouch would have the sense not to voice the grumbles he’d made to her on their way here: Bloody amateurs, trampling down the evidence, any hopes of finding anything to do with Bibi Morgan’s murder now gone for a burton. Why the hell couldn’t they have waited until we got here? But Crouch was being unusually silent, leaving her to get on with it.
‘I expect you’ve been told that later on we shall need you to come and identify Ms Morgan’s body — when we’ve finished here, that is. I’m sorry, it’s a rotten thing to have to do, but I’m afraid it’s necessary.’ He accepted this with a nod, without raising his head. His feet planted squarely on the ground, leaning forward slightly, hands on knees, he was apparently absorbed in tracing, with the toe of a well-polished loafer, the complicated geometrical pattern on the oriental rug, its predominant burnt oranges and peacock blues still bright and glowing, ancient and threadbare though it was. ‘What I have to say now may come as rather a shock, Mr Calvert,’ she ploughed on. ‘We’ve already conducted a post-mortem, it was pushed forward to accommodate the pathologist, who had to catch a flight abroad. I’m afraid he came to a rather disturbing conclusion.’
‘Are you saying it wasn’t an accident?’ he asked quickly, glancing up. There was an odd, strained note in his voice. ‘You mean that she …?’ He resumed his study of the rug again. ‘Well, I didn’t imagine it would be straightforward.’
Kate didn’t look at Crouch, but she could feel his interest sharpening. He was stroking his chin with his big, hairy hand, and she distinctly heard the faint rasp of bristles. She addressed the bereaved man gently. ‘No, Ms Morgan didn’t take her own life. But it was no accident, either. I’m sorry, Mr Calvert.’
The silence became acute. Chip met her gaze fully at last, but straight away she saw that even this news wasn’t as much of a shock as one might have expected it would be. She didn’t pursue the line that opened up, just filed his reaction away for future reference. ‘That leaves only one other possibility, then, doesn’t it?’ His voice was harsh. ‘How?’
‘She was stabbed before being thrown into the stream. The current apparently took her down to the waterfall pool.’
‘It’s always been strong. We used to try rafting there, when we were boys, but we always came to grief long before we ever got as far as the bridge, too many rocks and sharp flints on the stream bed … Stabbed? Oh, God.’
That, at least, had surprised him. It wasn’t, Crouch thought, watching him carefully, what he’d expected to hear. ‘Mr Calvert, if you’ve any reason to think of someone with a motive to have killed her, please say so.’
‘For God’s sake, it could have been anyone! The grounds here cover thirty acres, all told, including the gardens and woodland, and not everywhere’s barbed-wire fenced, you know, anyone can get in via the woods. Anyway, does there have to be a motive these days? Someone they’ve let out from the loony-bin, no doubt -’
Crouch interrupted. ‘Random killings are much rarer than you’d think. Most murders occur within the circle of people known to the victim.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘Simply that we shall have to question everyone. The family, the people she worked with. All those she might have been in contact with over the last few days, someone she might have met recently — she worked at the country club, didn’t she?’
‘Yes, she did. But she’d only been going in for an occasional few hours lately, because of her ankle and the standing about it involved. They’d asked her if she’d help them out, very busy time of year for them, but she wasn’t there yesterday. Anyway, as far as I’m aware, she hadn’t met anyone new recently.’
‘New people must come and go all the time, place like the country club.’
‘Not all that many, actually. Too far off the beaten track for that. Most of them are regulars, people she’s known ever since she went to work there.’
‘We’ll see what they have to say, all the same.’
He shrugged, looking almost bored with the idea. ‘You’d be wasting your time.’
Crouch said, watching him closely, ‘Tell us about you and your wife, Mr Calvert. Did you and she have any problems?’
‘My partner. We weren’t married. And what the hell do you mean, problems?’
‘Sorry, I meant were you and Ms Morgan getting on well lately?’
‘Why don’t you just call her Bibi?’ Chip said wearily. Jonathan wasn’t alone in disliking the euphemism. ‘Of course we didn’t have any bloody problems! Bibi wasn’t the sort to have problems with. Not with anyone. Ask them, anyone will tell you that.’
Somebody that perfect had problems to begin with, thought Crouch. He said, ‘I believe she came to live with you here about two years ago.’
‘So?’
‘And before that?’
Pause. ‘She lived in a village near York.’
‘Near York? Tell me how you met.’
‘What the bloody hell does that matter?’ He stared at Crouch, then shrugged. ‘We met when I went up there for a few days’ racing. Accommodation’s always hard to find during the season, but I’d been told of this hotel — fair way out of York, nearly half-way back to Leeds to tell the truth, but worth the drive. Country pub that’s been tarted up and got itself a
good reputation for food. Quiet, but it was OK. It was Bibi’s mother’s place. Bibi helped run it.’
‘So you met her there and brought her back here to live with you?’
‘Not then. That was years ago — when we first met. It was only when I went back several years later that we -’ He broke off and his gaze wandered to a point somewhere above their heads and remained fixed while he presumably fought for control. Only somehow it didn’t seem like that. That some inner struggle might indeed be going on was indicated by the concentrated swivelling of his desk chair, ever so slowly in perfect forty-five degree arcs, back and forth, back and forth, but Crouch was beginning to doubt it — it seemed to him the man’s mind had detached itself from the proceedings and was off on some other tack. He felt like giving him a prod, waking him to the realization of just how bloody serious the situation was. Clearly, Chip Calvert wasn’t a deep thinker, or a quick one, but what the hell? His wife — OK, his partner, then — had just been offed! Surely, that ought to have roused him to some protestations of anger, disbelief, any of the usual emotions shown by the nearest and dearest of those who’d been untimely killed. But — nothing. You might almost have said he had expected it.
Chip was indeed wandering. He was far away, in a strange country, the country of the mind, one he didn’t inhabit any longer than he had to. But the lump of misery which had been inside him ever since they’d first missed Jasie, when he didn’t arrive for breakfast as usual, prattling happily away, ready to tuck into his bowl of Coco Pops, was now expanding like a balloon and threatening to choke him. He was mortally afraid he might be going to blub, in front of this gorilla of a detective. Up to now, he’d had no trouble in accepting with his mind that Bibi was dead, perhaps because he’d always subconsciously been aware that this was likely to happen — but it was only now he felt the reality of it, like an actual, physical pain, somewhere in the region of his breastbone. He felt his blood beating. Perhaps he was going to have a stroke, like his grandfather, Jack Rathbone. ‘She was so beautiful,’ he said, out of nowhere.
Above his head, the glances of the two detectives met — a crack at last — but Chip didn’t notice.
He was seeing Bibi as he’d first seen her. Dazzlingly fair. Sweet and so — yes, you had to believe it, so innocent, standing behind the hotel desk, a modern angel in a navy suit and white blouse, her name tag, Bianca, on her lapel. Truly an angel. And just as unattainable.
And then another picture superimposed itself — the burnt-out house, the child screaming at the window, the fire brigade. He scraped his chair back and pushed it aside so violently that it went spinning several feet on the polished boards. He strode to the cupboard in the corner and lifted out a bottle of Glenmorangie. He held it up, but both police officers shook their heads. ‘Don’t mind if I do, then?’ he muttered, pouring a generous portion into a heavy glass whisky tumbler. Sun not over the yardarm by a long chalk, but what the hell?
He went back to the desk and took a deep swig of the spirit, then swung round to the desk and put the glass down carefully. Suddenly, his back to them, he put his head in his hands.
Crouch allowed the man time to pull himself together then said, ‘Would you mind coming to sit over here, sir?’
‘What?’ Chip swung round to face them again, his face ravaged.
‘Over here.’ Crouch moved to sit on the window seat and indicated Chip take the armchair he’d vacated. It was lower than the window seat, which would give him an advantage over the other man. ‘I can’t talk to you when you’re on the go like a blasted yo-yo,’ he said, forgetting his morning’s resolve to be polite. Despite the open window, the room was hot and he was tired. It wasn’t yet much after ten and he’d been up since dawn, he’d already worked five hours, one of them in compulsory attendance at the PM Logie had called for six, and his never very elastic patience was being stretched to its limits. And it was going to be a long day, with most of it still to go.
Chip, to his surprise, obeyed without demur, his show of emotion apparently having spent itself. If Crouch had hoped to shake him out of his lethargy with his brusqueness, he hadn’t succeeded. He sank back into the armchair and his shoulders sagged. He fingered the scar on his cheek.
‘Right, then, what is it you haven’t been telling us?’ Crouch asked suddenly. Chip’s head jerked up.
Watch it, Dave! Kate apostrophized silently. She could read the warning signs, the temper flecks in his eyes. (And you watch it, Kate, too. Not your problem, how he conducts his interviews. Oh, but it is, answered a silent voice inside, how could it be other?) And then, as if she’d spoken aloud, Crouch almost visibly took control of his rising anger, his mouth relaxed. He said quietly, ‘If we don’t have all the facts, we shan’t have much chance of finding out who killed her.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, I know who killed her!’
Crouch stared at him levelly for some time. ‘Perhaps, then, you’d be so good as to share that knowledge with us.’
The heavy-handed sarcasm went unnoticed. ‘It has to be that bloody stalker! The one sending her the threatening letters … as I said, some nutter from the loony-bin.’
‘Well,’ said Crouch carefully, ‘and how long has this been going on?’
Chapter Seven
Fran lets herself in through a side door when she arrives at Membery, just in time to see Chip disappearing into his study with the same two detectives who were directing operations last night. They’d said they would very likely want to see her again, and she’s steeled herself for another interrogation. She’s ready for it, but she hasn’t prepared herself for the shock that’s waiting for her when she at last finds Alyssa, sitting in Bibi’s kitchen with a barely touched plate of toast on the table in front of her.
‘But Jasie wouldn’t ever have gone off, on his own, just like that!’ she repeats for the umpteenth time, later, after she’s prised Alyssa away from Rene Brooker’s lamentations, though even as she says it she isn’t sure whether that’s reassurance or not, imagining the alternatives. It’s a large, well-shaped hand she’s holding, brown and tough as old shoe leather, the nails filed short, with rough cuticles due to gardening that no amount of hand-cream can soften. What a capable hand, but how cold it is! As if realizing this, Alyssa withdraws it gently before standing up and beginning to pace about again. She seems incapable of sitting still. Somehow, they’ve found themselves in the hall, which is stuffy, but even so the coolest place in the house to be, apart from the old library, on a day fast becoming hotter than yesterday. Even though the garden’s closed, Jane Arrow is over in the office, coping with the activities that go on behind the scenes. Life must go on, her every action says. The police have politely indicated they would prefer the family not to be further involved in the search for Jasie, but they should make themselves available to answer questions. Jonathan has vented his frustration at this by taking refuge in his inexorable, sustaining practice routine, and Jilly has disappeared to deal with the missing suitcase, then with schedules and bookings, a chore which can’t be put off, no matter what. Inspector Crouch and his sergeant are still closeted with Chip.
‘Shouldn’t you be at work, Fran?’ Alyssa looks at her as though it’s only just struck her that this, despite everything, is an ordinary workday for everyone else.
‘Don’t worry about that. I rang and told them I wouldn’t be in.’
Fran had felt warmed by the immediate support she received from O.S.O.T., the reassurances that all would be taken care of until she felt she could come back into work. She’d told them she would have to look after Jasie, at least temporarily — she couldn’t leave that to the two old women, willing as they both were, nor, she felt, to Chip, who was fine with Jasie in a blokeish sort of way, but no good with the routines involved in looking after a child, much less the emotional issues that would have to be faced. ‘You stay until you’re sure everything’s OK,’ Connor had reassured her. ‘We’ll cope.’
‘A day or two,’ she’d promised. Until things here resumed
something like normality — though how that could ever be again, she simply couldn’t imagine at that moment. ‘Probably only until Monday. I’ll have a word with Kath now, if you’ll put me through.’
Kath is nominally her assistant, intelligent, middle-aged and unflappable — nominally, because she is the one who really runs the office. ‘Sure you must stay and see to the little boy,’ she said immediately. ‘What’s an account with Colgate compared with that?’
Fran had never imagined then, only an hour ago, that Jasie wouldn’t be here, at Membery, to be looked after. She once more reassures Alyssa, as she begins worrying again, that he’ll be found soon, has to be, there must be some simple explanation.
Yet even as she utters the comforting platitudes, she knows with dull certainty that there’ll be no such thing, that Jasie isn’t just playing truant, misbehaving, or anything so simple. He’s never been a specially disobedient child, usually doing what his mother told him, perhaps sensing, as children do, how she worried about him, and hadn’t yet rebelled against this over-protectiveness — apart from refusing to let her hold his hand on the way to school.
He attends the village school. Chip had wanted him put through the system, to be processed in the same way he and his brothers had been, he thought his name should have been put down for Marlborough, but Bibi had held out against it. She preferred to have him under her eye, and the village school has a good reputation. It’s small, but it has a ratio of three teachers, plus the headmistress, to about fifty pupils. She used to insist on Jasie being walked or driven there each morning, and met in the afternoon. She couldn’t always do this herself because of the shifts she worked at the country club, but someone else has always been there as a stand-in, mostly but not always Humphrey, who looks on Jasie as an honorary grandchild. ‘It’s only half a mile,’ Chip would say, clamorously backed up by Jasie, ‘he can go himself. Don’t namby-pamby the boy.’
Killing a Unicorn Page 9
