by Nicola Upson
It was a long time before she could even stand. When she had finally run out of tears, she forced herself to go upstairs to change, feeling Anthony always at her shoulder. She thought back to the countless long nights when she had lain awake in their bed, picturing him with another woman, and realised how strange it was that she had ever believed him to be absent. He was everywhere, filling the house with his tastes and his opinions and his routines – the half-drunk cup of tea from breakfast, the gloves he had changed his mind about wearing, the book on the bedside table that he would never finish. She had always struggled to find him in their marriage; now, she couldn’t get away, and perhaps that was her punishment; perhaps that was what people meant when they talked about grief.
Vivienne stood on the stairs by the door to her husband’s study, unable to go any further. Already, the room seemed to be gathering dust. She would pay for what she had done, she knew that now: Anthony’s death was an end for her, not a beginning. She had told herself that she cared little about being caught; a trial, if it came to that, would only expose her husband’s hypocrisy and leave her exonerated – but that was a fantasy, and the rope was as good as round her neck. The fear, when it came, was like nothing she had ever known, and there was no escaping it. She sat on the stairs in the deepening darkness, listening to the rain and waiting for someone to come.
9
Penrose watched as the man was led away to the police car, saddened by how quickly two lives could be destroyed. It was the first serious incident of the Coronation, a fight in the crowds at Piccadilly which had left one man critically ill and another arrested for his assault. The ambulance men had done their best, but no one believed that the victim would survive the night, and there was every chance that the charge would be manslaughter – or worse – by the morning. Penrose thought about the two men, strangers when they left their homes this morning, now inextricably linked by a moment of madness, and couldn’t decide which of them he felt more sympathy for. Eighteen or nineteen was no age to lose your life, but a single punch in a drunken brawl didn’t make you a criminal, either, and he wished for the thousandth time that the law he was asked to uphold had room for a few more shades of grey.
A temporary ambulance station stood opposite the London Pavilion, and the crew’s cheerful, efficient treatment of various minor injuries had provided a different sort of entertainment during the long periods of waiting. The faces of the men and women on duty wore a graver expression now, though, and Penrose left them to it, fighting his way back through the crowd to one of the wireless vans that Scotland Yard had positioned at key points throughout the city. Piccadilly Circus had proved a popular vantage point, offering the lucky few a chance to watch the procession move up one street and down another, and most of the revellers were mercifully oblivious to the tragedy that had taken place a few yards away. The pomp and spectacle was over, and the streets belonged to the people again: Eros was under siege and seemed ill-equipped to cope with the offensive, and in the rare spaces that allowed it, pretty young girls grabbed perfectly complicit policemen and fox-trotted gaily in the rain; children leapfrogged down pavements, overexcited at the prospect of another late night; and outside cinemas, long queues were already forming to see the first newsreels of the ceremony. Young men with an eye for a good time were turning the merriment to their own advantage, trying their luck with any girl who took their fancy, and Penrose smiled as he passed, wondering how many marriages would owe their existence – for better or for worse – to the high spirits of coronation night.
The smile faded as he saw his sergeant coming to meet him with a face like thunder. ‘The incidents are coming in thick and fast now, sir,’ he shouted above the crowd. ‘Which do you want first – the tragedy or the bloody nightmare?’
‘I don’t really want either, Bill, but I’ll take them as they come.’
‘All right. A little girl’s had an accident at a house over in Carlton Gardens. Fell sixty feet down a lift shaft – God knows how.’
‘Did she survive?’
Fallowfield shook his head. ‘No, poor little devil. They rushed her to Westminster Hospital, but she died soon afterwards. Charmian Hamilton-Russell, her name is – daughter of Viscount Boyne.’
‘How old was she?’
‘Four.’ Penrose closed his eyes. ‘Her parents were at the Abbey when it happened, waiting on the Princess Royal. I don’t know why that makes it worse, but it does.’
‘Have you sent someone to see them?’
‘Yes, sir – WPC Wyles. She’ll be good with them, and she’ll find out how it happened without making a fuss.’
‘Well, that’s not going to stay out of the papers, so what have you got that’s even more newsworthy?’
‘It’s Anthony Beresford, sir.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s been shot. His chauffeur went to collect him from the observation point at Constitution Hill and found his body inside the cubicle.’
‘Jesus, Bill – when was this?’
‘He was found over an hour ago.’ Fallowfield held up his hand, anticipating Penrose’s fury at not having been told sooner. ‘The chauffeur telephoned the BBC first, sir. It seems that he who pays the piper gets the condolence call.’
‘And have they any idea what happened?’
‘Absolutely none, or so they say. We’re trying to get a car through for you as quickly as possible.’
Penrose looked doubtfully at the mass of people in every direction. ‘It’ll be quicker to walk, even in this,’ he said. ‘What about Spilsbury? Have you managed to get hold of him?’
‘He’s on his way, sir, but he’s coming from Maida Vale so it could take a while.’
‘All right. Let’s go.’ They set off down Piccadilly, trying to keep sight of each other in the good-natured chaos. ‘I don’t understand how someone could just go in and shoot him,’ Penrose said during one of the rare moments that found them side by side. ‘Was he on his own? Don’t they have any form of security?’
‘Whatever they have, it’s obviously not very effective. There was another incident at Green Park – harmless enough this time, but someone got into the cubicle and started to broadcast to the world. It was a few minutes before an engineer back at base noticed the voice wasn’t one of theirs and cut him off. And in these crowds . . .’
They were separated again, but Penrose didn’t need to hear the rest of Fallowfield’s sentence to know that he was right. It would be nigh on impossible to keep track of anyone’s comings and goings on a day like today, and the continual movement of people meant that they could never be sure of tracking down all potential witnesses. Whoever did this had chosen the moment well. He thought back to his conversation with Josephine the week before, and caught up with Fallowfield again. ‘Beresford had a very colourful private life, I believe – and it doesn’t seem to have been that private. Do you know if his wife’s been told yet?’
‘Not to my knowledge. I can’t say for certain, but I rather got the impression that everyone at the BBC is very keen to keep this quiet, at least until after the King’s speech.’
‘I bet they are. I imagine Reith’s gone up in the air and stayed there.’ He frowned, frustrated by how slow their progress was. It seemed incredible that London could accommodate more people, but trains were still running from the provinces and thousands were forcing their way to the Mall for the evening balcony appearances. A quarter of an inch of rain must have fallen in the last couple of hours, and it was impossible to avoid the puddles in the road; already, his shoes and the turn-ups of his trousers were soaked through, conspiring with the noise and the purpose of their mission to make the journey as unpleasant as it could possibly be. After what felt like an age, they arrived at Constitution Hill and Penrose looked at the broadcast cubicle in front of him – a small, temporary affair, built for purpose rather than aesthetic appeal and not unlike their own portable wireless points.
A police constable had been stationed at the bottom of the steps to
the door, and two men stood slightly apart from him, talking quietly among themselves. Penrose didn’t recognise the shorter of the two, but his uniform marked him out as the chauffeur who had discovered Beresford’s body; the other – so impeccably dressed that even the rain seemed reluctant to touch him – was Bill Murray, the BBC’s Director of Public Relations. His presence here was no surprise: the BBC was itself news these days, and the press was notoriously anti-Corporation and anti-Reith; Murray was in charge of a valuable but delicate reputation, and Penrose knew him to be a highly influential figure, likeable and known for his tact and discretion – although he would have challenged anyone to know what he really thought about anything. They had met several times, most recently in connection with a young woman who had died at a medical specialist’s house while receiving treatment. The woman was a BBC secretary, her husband a senior BBC official, but somehow that had never reached the newspapers, even when her death became the focus of a trial for manslaughter. Thanks to Murray’s skilful handling of events, the husband had been described simply as a ‘wireless expert’ and the BBC was kept out of it altogether; to this day, Penrose didn’t know how he had managed to pull it off, but even Bill Murray would have his work cut out with this case. Once it was made public, Anthony Beresford’s death and the speculation around it would fill the papers for weeks.
Murray greeted him with a wary respect. ‘Good to see you again, Chief Inspector. I’m sure you understand that this needs to be handled correctly, and with as much discretion as possible. The reputation of the BBC is at stake here, and that must be our priority.’
Nothing like getting down to business, Penrose thought. Murray’s lack of any obvious grief for his colleague interested him, and he wondered how popular Beresford had been with his peers. He smiled, and shook the hand that was offered. ‘I’m sure you understand that my priority is to find out who did this, and why, as quickly as possible. I hope I can rely on your co-operation in that? Yours, and the Corporation’s?’ As if they were separable, he added under his breath. Murray nodded, but offered nothing further in response and Penrose turned to the other man, whose emotions were more readily on show – shock, certainly, and a sadness which was only just kept in check. ‘I’m sorry, sir – I don’t know your name,’ Penrose said when it became clear that Murray wasn’t going to introduce them.
‘Whiting. Billy Whiting.’
‘And you found Mr Beresford’s body?’
‘That’s right.’
‘When was that?’
‘Quarter past five.’
‘You can be that precise?’
‘Yes.’ He nodded towards the broadcast unit. ‘The wireless is still on in there. The cricket news was just finishing and I remember thinking . . .’ He tailed off, apparently embarrassed, and Penrose encouraged him to continue. ‘It’s stupid, really, the things that go through your mind at a time like that, but I remember thinking it was a shame that Mr Beresford would miss the end of the test match. He loved his cricket.’
‘Could you describe exactly what you were doing here this afternoon and what you found when you went inside? Please be as specific as you can – even the smallest details are helpful.’
‘I came to collect him as planned,’ Whiting said. ‘He was due to go back to BH for a debrief on the day, then he was going to stay on for the King’s broadcast and the coronation news at ten. I was a bit early, but no harm in that on a day like this. I knocked on the door and called his name, but there was no answer and I thought he must have his headphones on while he listened to the wireless, so I just went in. That’s when I saw him, and I knew right away that there was nothing I could do for him. You know, don’t you, when you’ve seen dead bodies before?’ Penrose nodded, understanding immediately what he meant. Billy Whiting was of an age to have fought, and, like many men at all levels of the BBC, had probably joined the Corporation after serving in the army or navy. ‘I didn’t touch anything except the telephone on the desk, and I used that to call Mr Murray.’
‘Not the police?’
‘I assured Billy that I’d take care of speaking to the police,’ Murray said quickly. ‘He was upset, naturally.’
‘Naturally,’ Penrose said sweetly, and turned back to the chauffeur, effectively excluding Murray from the conversation. ‘What did you do then, Mr Whiting?’
‘I stayed with Mr Beresford until the constable here arrived, then he asked me to wait outside with him. I’ve been here ever since.’
‘Did you notice anyone else near the unit? Either someone you recognised from the BBC, or a stranger hanging round?’
‘No, not especially. There were loads of people around, but no one close by and no one who seemed interested in the unit.’
‘What about Mrs Beresford? Has she been here with her husband today?’
‘She was here for the procession, I think, but he told her not to wait for him afterwards.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I drove them to work this morning, and they were discussing it in the back of the car. Mrs Beresford was planning on going home after the procession, and I assume she did because I haven’t seen her since I got here. Mr Beresford wanted to get on with his work. He always does, and she’s used to it by now.’
Penrose was surprised by Whiting’s familiarity with the Beresfords’ routine. ‘Do you know them well?’ he asked.
‘I wouldn’t say I know them, but I’ve driven both of them for years now, and people tend to talk in the back of a car.’
‘And how did they get on?’
Out of the corner of his eye, Penrose saw Murray glance sharply across at him, but Whiting answered the question without any hint of suspicion. ‘Like most married couples, I suppose.’
He was about to ask the chauffeur what he meant by that when Murray interrupted him. ‘Someone from the Corporation should go and see Mrs Beresford,’ he said. ‘She’ll need our support at a difficult time. You’ve no objection to that, I assume?’
Resisting the temptation to respond in similar textbook style, Penrose said: ‘Actually, I do, sir. I’ll be going to see Mrs Beresford myself immediately after I’ve finished here, and I’d be grateful if no one else tried to contact her before then.’
‘But they are both employees . . .’
‘I understand that, Mr Murray, but they are also at the heart of a murder enquiry and I’m afraid that takes precedence over any other concern.’ It was strange, he thought; he always insisted on keeping an open mind in every case, at least until he had viewed the body, but not for an instant here had he considered suicide as a possibility. Unprofessional as it was of him, something about Anthony Beresford made Penrose assume that he valued his own life far too greatly to take it, and Murray didn’t seem inclined to argue.
Leaving the two men together, he went to find Fallowfield, who was attempting to clear a path for the arrival of the pathologist and police photographers. ‘Bring Spilsbury in as soon as he gets here,’ he said. ‘And keep an eye on Murray. I don’t trust him to play by the rules on this one.’ The sergeant nodded and Penrose took his gloves out of his pocket, ready to examine the room where Beresford had died.
Inside, the broadcast cubicle was small and claustrophobic, although it was hard to say if death had made it so. Conscious that his shoes were wet and dirty from the walk, and reluctant to contaminate the scene until it had been properly examined and photographed, Penrose stood quietly at the door and took everything in from there. A bank of dials, panels and wires ran along one side of the room – a miniature, less sophisticated version of the control room that he had seen in Westminster Abbey this morning. There was an empty chair next to the controls, presumably where the engineer had sat, and a pair of headphones discarded on the seat. As Whiting had said, the wireless was still on, and the unfamiliar, disembodied voice struck Penrose as an unwelcome intrusion into the stillness. It was obviously Children’s Hour, and he recognised the story as Hans Andersen’s ‘The Happy Family’; the irony seemed disrespectful,
and he reached over to turn the volume down.
Anthony Beresford was still sitting in the chair that he had broadcast from, his body slumped awkwardly to one side, a briefcase open at his feet. From where he stood, Penrose could see a small, circular hole in his forehead, a wound as neat and as efficient as the most professional of executions. A thin trickle of blood ran down his face and onto the collar of his white shirt, deceptively innocent in its restraint and hardly more serious than if he had cut himself shaving. The true extent of the damage – where the bullet had passed through Beresford’s skull and exited the other side – was hidden from Penrose’s view, but it revealed itself in the crimson pool which soaked the floorboards, thick and viscous and dark, and in the bloodstains on the wall behind his chair. His headphones were still round his neck, and Penrose wondered if that meant he had been shot soon after his broadcast was finished, before he had had the chance to get up and walk about – but it was pointless to speculate on exactly what had happened until he had Spilsbury’s careful analysis down in black and white. There was, he noticed, no weapon left at the scene, and again he would have to depend on experts to tell him what sort of gun had been used.
