CHAPTER 15
THAT NIGHT THERE WAS another victim. Not at the hands of the man responsible for Sally Palmer and Lyn Metcalf. At least, not directly. No, this was a casualty of the suspicion and hostility that had started to grip the village.
James Nolan lived in a tiny cottage in a cul-de-sac behind the garage. One of my patients, he worked in a shop in a neighbouring village, a quiet man whose reserve hid both a gentle nature and a deep unhappiness. He was in his fifties, single and four stones overweight. He was also homosexual. The latter was something of which he was deeply ashamed. In a backwater like Manham, where such traits were regarded as unnatural, there had been little scope for sexual adventure. Consequently, as a young man he’d found such satisfaction as he could in the public parks and lavatories of nearby towns. On one occasion the man he’d approached had been an undercover police officer. The shame of the encounter lasted far longer than the suspended sentence he received. Inevitably, word of it leaked back into the village. Already marked for ridicule, now he was seen as something far more sinister. While the exact nature of his transgression was never discussed, and probably not even known, the rumour of it was enough to brand him. In the way that small communities have of ascribing roles to its members, he became the village untouchable, the pervert whom children were warned not to go near. And Nolan lived up to his image by retreating further into his isolation. He moved through the village like a ghost, speaking to few people, asking only not to be noticed. For the most part Manham was happy to comply, not so much tolerating as ignoring him.
Until now.
In a way, it was almost a relief to him when it happened. Ever since Sally Palmer’s body had been found, he’d lived in fear, knowing that rationality didn’t play any part in selecting scapegoats. At night when he returned from work he would hurry into his cottage and shutter himself inside, hoping that invisibility would continue to protect him. That Saturday night, though, it failed.
It was after eleven when the banging started on his door. He had turned off the TV, was preparing to go to bed. His curtains were closed, and for a while he sat in his chair, praying that whoever it was would go away. But they didn’t. There were several of them, drunk and laughing at first as they mockingly called his name. Then the shouts grew angrier, the blows to the door more violent. It danced and shook under the assault, and Nolan looked at the telephone, almost giving in and calling the police. But a lifetime of not drawing attention to himself prevented it. Instead, when the callers changed tactics, threatening to break the door down unless he opened it, he did what he’d always done.
He did as he was told.
He’d kept the chain on, trusting to the steel links to protect him. Like everything else, they failed. The door and frame splintered under the renewed assault, knocking Nolan back into the hall as the men surged into his home.
Later, he claimed he hadn’t recognized any of them, saying he didn’t get a look at their faces. Whether he did or not, I find it hard to believe he didn’t know who his attackers were. At the very least they must have been people he’d seen before, perhaps even young men whose parents or grandparents he had grown up with. They beat and kicked him, and then set about wrecking the house. When they’d smashed everything they could, they set about him again, this time not stopping until he was unconscious. It’s possible that some semblance of reason made them stop before they killed him. Then again, his injuries were such they could easily have left him for dead.
It was some time after they had gone when my phone rang. I fumbled for it, still half-asleep, and failed to recognize the whispered voice that told me someone had been hurt. While I was still trying to rouse myself the caller told me which house to go to and then rang off. I stared dumbly at the receiver for a moment or two before I collected myself enough to phone for an ambulance. There was always a chance it was a false alarm, but this hadn’t sounded like a prank. And it would take an ambulance long enough to get out here as it was.
On the way to Nolan’s I stopped off at the police trailer in the village square. It was manned twenty-four hours a day, and I didn’t relish the thought of going to the house by myself. It was a mistake. My call to emergency hadn’t been passed on to them, and I wasted valuable time on explanations. By the time one of them agreed to come with me I wished I’d gone alone.
The cul-de-sac where Nolan lived was in darkness. It was easy to see which house was his, because the front door was wide open. I looked at the neighbouring houses as we approached. There was no sign of life, but I had the feeling that we were being watched all the same.
We found Nolan in the wreckage of his home where his attackers had left him. There was little I could do but put him in the recovery position, and then wait for the ambulance. He drifted in and out of consciousness, so I kept talking to him until the paramedics arrived. At one point when he seemed quite lucid, I asked him what had happened. But he only shut his eyes again, blocking out the question.
As he was carried out on a stretcher to the ambulance, one of the police officers who’d arrived with it asked why the caller had phoned me rather than the emergency services. I said I didn’t know, but that wasn’t really true. I looked at the flashing blue lights reflecting from the windows of the surrounding houses. Despite the disturbance, no-one was visible in them, and no-one had come out to see what was happening. But I knew people were looking. Just as they had looked on, or looked the other way, as first Nolan’s door, and then the man himself, was assaulted. Someone’s conscience might have been pricked, but not enough to try to stop the attack, or to involve outsiders. This was village business. Calling me, an almost-outsider myself, had been a compromise. There would be no witnesses to this, I was certain, just as no-one would ever admit to making the anonymous call. Even that, it emerged, had been made from the village’s only public phone box, making the caller impossible to trace. As the ambulance drove away I looked at the blank windows and closed doors and felt like shouting at them. But what I would have shouted, or what good that would have done, I didn’t know.
Instead, I went home and tried to sleep for what was left of the night.
Next morning I woke feeling grainy and ill at ease. I fetched a newspaper, then took it outside with a black coffee. The big weekend story was a train crash, compared to which the discovery of a second body in Manham merited only a few paragraphs on the inside pages. The fact it was unconnected with the more recent murder meant it was worth mentioning only as a curio, for its coincidence value.
I’d spent the previous afternoon and part of the evening working on the young man’s remains, and while we’d have to wait for tests on the adipocere in the soil samples to get an accurate time-since-death estimate, I didn’t expect any surprises. The good news, if it could be called that, was that it shouldn’t be too hard putting a name to the victim. His teeth were intact, complete with fillings, so with luck a match with dental records would provide an ID. I’d also found an old fracture on his left tibia. The shin bone was long healed, but it was another feature that would help establish his identity.
Other than that, all I’d been able to do was confirm what I’d told Mackenzie earlier. The grave’s occupant was a young white male in his late teens or early twenties whose skull had been crushed by something blunt and heavy. Probably a large hammer or mallet, given the round, radial shape of the holes punched through the bone. The position and amount of damage suggested he’d been struck repeatedly from behind. It was impossible to say for certain after all this time if that had actually killed him, but my guess would be that it had. An injury like that would have been almost instantly fatal, and while there was no way of knowing now what else might have been done to him beforehand, his bones at least bore no other sign of violence.
There was no reason to think this death had anything to do with the current events in Manham. Our killer was targeting women, not men, and although we wouldn’t know for sure until the remains had been identified, it was doubtful this victim was local. The vi
llage wasn’t big enough to hide a disappearance for all this time. More to the point, the murder bore no similarity to Sally Palmer’s. She had been left in the open, not buried, and while the bones of her face had been shattered, either from rage or to conceal her identity, the young man’s remained untouched. The likeliest scenario was that both he and his killer were from somewhere else, and that the body had simply been brought out into the wilds to be disposed of.
Even so, I’d spent more time than I could probably justify checking that its cervical vertebrae were unmarked. Perhaps it was just the fact that, until a week ago, the only thing outstanding about Manham was its isolation. Now there were two murders, one recent, one not, and a young woman was missing. It was hard not to feel a sense of unravelling. If the village was only now starting to give up its secrets, there was no telling what else might be unearthed before this was done.
It wasn’t a comforting thought.
I flipped through the rest of the newspaper, but without much interest. I tossed it onto the table and finished the last of my coffee. Time for a shower, and then I’d have to head over to Henry’s for Sunday lunch.
The thought of seeing Jenny afterwards made me feel both nervous and excited. And a little guilty, because I hadn’t had a chance to tell Henry about it. He wouldn’t mind us borrowing the dinghy, but I knew he’d be expecting me to stay for the rest of the afternoon, and I felt bad that I’d have to cut and run. Perhaps I should have rescheduled one or the other. But I didn’t like letting him down, and I’d no idea how long it would be before I’d be able to take the dinghy out again. I didn’t want to wait.
Why not? a cynical voice chimed in my head. Are you really so keen to see Jenny again? But that wasn’t something I chose to think about. So I got up to take a shower, leaving the question hanging unanswered.
A nagging tension headache had developed by the time I reached Henry’s. But it wasn’t so bad that I didn’t appreciate the smell of roast beef as I walked into the house. As usual I didn’t knock, just called out as I went in.
‘Through here,’ Henry’s voice came back from the kitchen.
I went through. The kitchen was hot even though the door was open, giving a view on to the secluded back lawn. Henry was whipping batter in a dish for Yorkshire puddings, an empty wineglass close to hand. Not ideal fare for a hot afternoon, perhaps, but Henry was a traditionalist when it came to Sunday lunch.
‘Nearly ready,’ he said, spooning the batter into a baking tray. The hot fat hissed and sizzled. ‘Soon as these are done we can eat.’
‘Can I do anything?’
‘Pour us both some wine. I’ve already started some plonk, or there’s a bottle of decent stuff I’ve opened to breathe. Should be OK now. Unless you’d rather have a beer?’
‘Wine’s fine.’
He was already wheeling himself over to the oven. He opened the door, recoiling a little from the blast of heat, then slid in the baking tray. He didn’t cook often, usually quite happy to let Janice take care of his meals, but when he did I was always impressed by how adroit he was. I wondered how well I’d have coped in his position. Still, it wasn’t as if he’d had much choice. And Henry wasn’t the sort to simply give up.
‘There,’ he said, slamming shut the oven door. ‘Another twenty minutes and we’re away. Good God, man, haven’t you poured that wine yet?’
‘Coming up.’ I was looking in a drawer. ‘Have you got any aspirin or anything? I’m starting with a headache.’
‘If there’s nothing in there you’ll have to get something from the drugs cabinet.’
The drawer yielded an empty packet of paracetamol but nothing else. I went down the hallway to Henry’s study, which doubled as his surgery since I’d taken over his old room. We kept the drugs stored there, as well as much of Henry’s other paraphernalia. He was a hoarder and had kept all manner of ancient powders, bottles and medical instruments he’d inherited from the previous doctor. Keeping them probably broke any number of health regulations, but Henry had scant regard for red tape and bureaucracy.
His collection gathered dust in an elegant Victorian glass-fronted bookcase, a marked contrast to the unlovely steel drug cabinet and small fridge where we kept our vaccines. The pair of them looked totally out of place among the fine wood and leather furniture, despite Henry’s unsuccessful attempt to camouflage them with framed photographs. There was one of the two of us in the dinghy, taken the year before, but most were of him and his wife Diana. In pride of place on top of the cabinet was a picture taken at their wedding. They made an attractive couple as they smiled at the camera, young and happily oblivious to the fate that awaited them.
I looked at the pair of walking sticks gathering dust in the corner by the desk. When I’d first arrived he’d still tried to use them. I would hear him grunting as he struggled to take a few steps. ‘I’ll prove those buggers wrong,’ he’d said, on more than one occasion. But he never had, and gradually he’d given up trying.
I turned from the reminder of human frailty and unlocked the cabinet. I rummaged through the boxes until I found some paracetamol, then locked the cabinet and went back to the kitchen.
‘About time,’ he grumbled as I returned. ‘Hurry up with that bloody wine. Thirsty work, this.’ He fanned himself, moving towards the open door. ‘Let’s go and cool down a bit.’
‘Are we eating outside?’
‘Don’t be barbaric. Do I look Australian? And bring the bottle with you. The Bordeaux, not the cheap stuff.’
I washed the paracetamol down with water, then did as I was told. The garden was well kept without being fussy. Henry had been a keen gardener, and it was yet another source of frustration for him that he was no longer able to look after it himself. We went over to the old wrought-iron table and chairs that sat under the hanging shade of a laburnum. Beyond the willow-weave fence, the sparkling lake gave the illusion of relief from the heat. I poured us both a glass of wine.
‘Cheers,’ I said, raising mine.
‘Good health.’ He swirled the ruby liquid around before sniffing it critically. Finally, he took a drink. ‘Hmm. Not bad.’
‘Local supermarket?’
‘Peasant,’ he scoffed. He took another drink, savouring it before setting it down. ‘So, come on. Out with it. How did dinner go the other night?’
‘It was a barbecue, actually. Outdoors. You’d have loved it.’
‘Eating al fresco is acceptable on a Friday night. Sunday lunch requires proper appreciation. And you haven’t answered the question.’
‘It was fine, thanks.’
He cocked an eyebrow. ‘Fine? That it?’
‘What else can I say? I enjoyed myself.’
‘Do I detect a little coyness here?’ He grinned at me. ‘I can see I’m going to have to prise this out of you. Tell you what, let’s take the dinghy out this afternoon and you can tell me all about it. Not much breeze, but we can row off some of the lunch.’
I could feel my embarrassment burning my face.
‘Of course, if you don’t want to it’s quite all right,’ Henry said, his smile fading.
‘It’s not that. It’s just…Well, I told Jenny I’d take her out in it.’
‘Oh.’ He couldn’t hide his surprise.
‘I’m sorry, I should have said something sooner.’
But Henry had recovered his poise, concealing his disappointment behind a grin. ‘No need to apologize! Good for you!’
‘I can always—’
He waved away the offer before I could finish it. ‘Sunny afternoon like this, you’re much better off going out with a pretty girl than an old fogey like me.’
‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’
‘We’ll do it some other time. I’m delighted you’ve met someone you seem fond of.’
‘It’s no big deal, really.’
‘Oh, come on, David, it’s high time you started enjoying yourself! You don’t need to justify it.’
‘I’m not, I’m just…’ I trailed off
, lost for words.
Henry was entirely serious now. ‘Let me guess; you’re feeling guilty.’
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
‘It’s been, what? Three years now?’
‘Nearly four.’
‘It’s almost five for me. And you know what? It’s long enough. You can’t bring the dead back, so you might as well carry on with the business of living as best you can. When Diana died…Well, I don’t have to tell you.’ He gave a half-laugh. ‘Couldn’t understand why I’d survived and she hadn’t. In fact, for a long time after the accident…’
He broke off, staring out over the lake. But whatever he had been about to say, he changed his mind.
‘Anyway, that’s another story.’ He reached for his wine. ‘Changing the subject, I gather there was a bit of excitement last night.’
There wasn’t much about the village that Henry didn’t hear. ‘You could say that. Some of James Nolan’s neighbours paid him a visit.’
‘How is he?’
‘Not good.’ I’d phoned the hospital earlier. ‘They gave him quite a beating. He’ll be in hospital for a week or two yet.’
‘And I imagine no-one saw anything?’
‘Apparently not.’
His thick eyebrows knitted in disgust. ‘Animals, that’s all they are. Bloody animals. Still, I can’t say I’m surprised. And from what I’ve heard you’ve fallen foul of Manham’s rumour mill yourself, haven’t you?’
I should have known he’d have heard the talk about me by now. ‘At least I’ve not been beaten up so far.’
‘I wouldn’t shout about it just yet. I warned you what it could get like. Just because you’re Manham’s doctor doesn’t mean you’ll get any favours.’
I could see he was sliding into one of his black moods. ‘Come on, Henry…’
‘Trust me, I know this place better than you. Push comes to shove, the people here will turn on you the same as they did Nolan. Doesn’t matter what you’ve done for them in the past. Gratitude? Not in this bloody place!’ He took a gulp of wine, forgetting to savour it in his anger. ‘Sometimes I wonder why we bother.’
The Chemistry of Death Page 15
