Faithful unto Death

by Caroline Graham

“Put them aside, Tom. The doctor said—”

  “I’m beginning to wonder if excess weight is really harmful at all. I think it’s a canard put about by the manufacturers of slimming products and all those loathsome magazines.”

  “You know very well—”

  “The words ‘low fat’ should be stricken from the English language.” He tucked in. “I shall become more relaxed about this whole food thing. Let it all hang out.”

  “Sergeant Brierley won’t like that.”

  “Seems to work for Gerard Depardieu.”

  “Gerard Depardieu’s French.”

  Having run amiably through this not entirely unfamiliar routine, the Barnabys finished eating in a comfortable silence. They had coffee in the garden, sitting on a bench in the rose arbour. The twilight air was heavy with perfume. A Himalayan musk rose clambered above their heads.

  In the dusk the trees and shrubs were that strange steely colour, not quite blue, green or grey, which, if seen in the sky, would indicate a coming storm. Already their outlines were indistinct as they merged into dark clumps. The sky was thick with pale stars.

  The birds were quiet but, three or four houses away, someone was playing a piano. Satie, the third Gymnopédie. Stumbling through it, repeating a phrase over and over again. Rather than breaking, it emphasised the silence.

  Barnaby put his coffee cup on the grass and his arm round his wife. He kissed her cheek, her lips. Joyce relaxed against him, slipping her hand in his.

  In the house the telephone rang. Barnaby cursed.

  “Don’t answer it.”

  “Joycey . . .”

  “Sorry, sorry.”

  “It might not be the station.”

  “With that timing?”

  “At least we’ve eaten.” The words were called over Barnaby’s shoulder as he strode across the lawn.

  Joyce gathered up the cups and followed more slowly. When she came into the sitting room he was already putting on his jacket. Half a lifetime of moments like this did not make them any easier.

  “I suppose we should be grateful it isn’t Saturday week. We might have all been rollicking around singing ‘Happy—’ ”

  He turned aside but not before she had seen the expression on his face. Immediately Joyce’s whole demeanour changed.

  “It’s something terrible, isn’t it, Tom?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “They’ve found a woman’s body.”

  “Oh God. Do you think it’s—”

  “How the hell should I know who it is?” It was quicker that way. But lying made him even more irritable. He moved into the hall, scrabbling in his pocket for the car keys and shouted, “Don’t wait up.”

  Chapter Eight

  It was a member of the NCP staff who first spotted the woman. She was lying, almost completely concealed, behind a large Buick. He could see that she was unconscious and badly injured and immediately notified Heathrow police station to which each of the car parks had a direct line.

  The duty officer arrived, closely followed by a doctor from the Medical Centre of the terminal, who pronounced life extinct. They were followed by a police unit from the station proper and an ambulance. It having quickly been decided that the death could be suspicious, the body was covered, the coroner’s office contacted and the whole floor sealed off. At this point no one had any idea of the corpse’s identity.

  The numbers of every car on that level were checked on the Police National Computer and attempts were begun to trace the owners. Quite a few of them turned up unsolicited within the first couple of hours of the investigation and were not best pleased at finding themselves unable simply to climb into their vehicles and drive away.

  The Forensic Laboratory Liaison Sergeant came out and examined the body in queasily precise detail after which, some five hours after it had first been discovered, it was transported to the mortuary at Hillingdon Hospital. There its fingerprints were taken and all of its clothing bagged and sent to the nearest forensic department should analysis eventually prove necessary. Scenes of Crime then began an analytical assessment of the area.

  By nine o’clock the following evening the police at Heathrow believed they had possibly discovered the identity of the dead woman. The owner of every vehicle but one on the level where she was killed had been traced and interviewed either in person or by telephone. The exception was the possessor of a dark brown Mini. This was registered under the name of Brenda Brockley at an address within the jurisdiction of Causton police who were duly contacted. It was this notification which led to the call that had so rudely interrupted Tom Barnaby’s sweet dalliance with his wife.

  Heathrow police station is situated in a web of arterial roads about a mile from the airport proper and surrounded by an unlovely mass of hotels, petrol stations and factory buildings. In the office of Inspector Fennimore, DCI Barnaby and DS Troy were given the background to the discovery of the body. They in their turn gave what information they had on Brenda’s disappearance.

  The postmortem was due to be carried out at eleven the following morning by a Home Office pathologist. Until then the precise cause of death would not officially be known but the doctor who had first examined the body was of the opinion that a savage blow to the head was to blame.

  “There were other injuries,” explained Inspector Fennimore, “consistent with the girl being struck by a car. I think it’s likely this flung her to the wall against which she was found rather than her being put there after death.”

  “You mean we’re talking about a hit and run?”

  “It’s the most likely conclusion. Scenes of Crime photographs may help us there. Certainly there were tyre marks on her skirt. Why, have you any reason to suspect a deliberate killing?”

  “Perhaps.” Briefly Barnaby explained the situation at Fawcett Green. “Is it possible you could run a check for us on cars parked there on Monday the tenth of this month? From around eight p.m.?”

  “We can do that for you, yes. Are you looking for anything special?”

  Troy passed over the registration numbers belonging to Alan Hollingsworth and Gray Patterson. Inspector Fennimore made a careful note and returned the card.

  “Were you given any idea of the time of death when she was first examined?” asked Barnaby.

  “Dr. Hatton thought it had probably occurred around three days ago. Which would put it at some time Monday evening.”

  “It’s incredible she wasn’t found earlier,” said Barnaby. “Aren’t these places patrolled at all?”

  “Good heavens, yes. Every hour, according to the NCP staff. But they don’t have time to go all round and in between every single vehicle. Mainly they’re on the look-out for any cars that have been damaged or dodgy people. Anyone dealing, passing stuff—that sort of thing.”

  “Even so, sir,” interrupted Sergeant Troy. “A body—”

  “You’ll see when you get there how it could have happened. She was lying in the corner at the junction of two walls hidden by this big American car. Our Forensic guy thought she had probably been thrown clean over it.”

  “Christ,” said Barnaby.

  “And though the place is designated short-term, people leave their vehicles for varying periods. The Buick has been there for nine days. The driver went on a weekend trip to Basle and ran it on a bit.”

  As Inspector Fennimore now seemed to have come to the end of his information, Barnaby nodded to Troy who produced an envelope and handed it across the desk. The inspector drew out three photographs.

  “I’d like all of those circulated around the Terminal One complex.” explained Barnaby. “Shops, cafés, check-in desks, bureaux de changes. And include the National Car Park staff, if you would.”

  “No problem.” He studied the pictures. “That certainly looks like the dead girl. Is this the man you believe to have been murdered?”

  “That’s right. The other woman is his wife, a probable kidnap victim.”

  “Su
rely she won’t have been seen here then,” said the inspector.

  “I’d still like it included.”

  “Fine by me. There’ll have been some plane spotters on the top level during daylight hours. Several of them are regulars. We’ll show them the pictures as well.”

  “Thank you. I really appreciate this.” The Chief Inspector spoke with sincerity. Generous and wholehearted cooperation between varying police authorities could never be taken for granted.

  “I’ll arrange for a copy of Scenes of Crime findings and the postmortem report to be sent to you direct.”

  “And the dead girl’s prints to be sent to our Forensics, if you would.”

  As Barnaby rose to leave, Fennimore rang the airport and arranged for him to be met and escorted to the place where the body had been found.

  The tape barriers had been dismantled. The Buick coupé, its examination complete, rested in all its glittering two-tone emerald and apple-green glory. Chrome fins, fenders and twin exhaust, their shining surfaces somewhat subdued beneath the residue of SOCO’s powdering, writhed and twisted around and about.

  Sergeant Troy, vastly impressed, immediately saw himself in the car—hood back, naturally—coasting along, à la American Graffiti. Lightly caressing the ivory-padded steering wheel with his right hand, his left arm negligently draped along the back of the passenger seat. By his side an exquisite girl with a tumble of blonde hair, glossy scarlet lips and wearing shorts a man could tuck into his glove compartment and still have room for the halter top. Music blasting out of the car radio. “Earth angel, Earth angel . . . Puleeze be mine . . .”

  “You in a bloody trance again?”

  “No, sir. Of course not.” Troy was furious at being shown up in front of the policeman who had accompanied them. He stepped closer to the car, studied it intently and nodded several times. He pictured cool things, hoping this would bring his colour down.

  “Where exactly was she found?”

  “Just here, Chief Inspector.” The constable moved down the side of the car and Barnaby followed.

  He could see now what Fennimore meant. The Buick was last in line almost parallel to the exit and flush against the wall. A body lying behind it could easily have remained unnoticed for several days.

  There were smears of blood on the concrete about two feet above ground level, presumably from the injuries to her head. Whether she had received these after being run over or not until hitting the wall, later analysis would no doubt determine.

  Crucial also was where the vehicle that struck her had been parked. It must have been going at a fair old lick. Travelling from the far side of the bay it would have been possible for someone in a hurry to pick up the necessary speed. The nearer one came to the point at which the body was found, the harder this would become. Really close and you were talking about a deliberate revving up and stamping on the accelerator.

  Barnaby sighed. He went and stood in the centre of the white exit line and stared up the empty ramp and tried to picture Brenda Brockley in the last moments of her life. Had she been running after someone? Or running away? Plainly she had been knocked down by a moving vehicle but was it this impact that had thrown her over the gaudy Buick? Perhaps she had been crammed into that ugly grey stone corner by the driver, anxious to gain time to put some distance between himself and the result of, at the best, dangerous driving.

  Two cars were now approaching at a sedate 5 m.p.h. Barnaby stepped to one side and watched them pass, thinking what an old cynic it would be who made any connection between their tortoise-like progression and the presence of a uniformed copper.

  The next step was Hillingdon Hospital to which Sergeant Troy drove with no great eagerness. After a cup of tea and a longish wait in the security office, both officers were directed to the mortuary.

  Though the experience was nothing new to either of them, they reacted in very different ways. Barnaby, though never completely detached, had over the years come to accept what now lay all about them with a certain amount of saddened resignation.

  Troy who, until he was around twenty-five, had been convinced he was immortal, was still not a hundred per cent sure that he would be going the way of all flesh. He knew it was true but he couldn’t believe it. A bit like hearing Terminal Cheesecake had made the Top Ten. In any case, the way things were shaping up right now, what with science and all, some magical potion or process of suspended animation was bound to be discovered long before his turn came round. Perhaps he could be frozen. Rich people in the States were. One man had just had his head done—lowered into a cylinder accompanied by clouds of dry ice. Troy had seen it on the telly. He pondered now on what bit he might have preserved should the chance arise, on what portion of his anatomy had given the most happiness to himself and the world about him.

  “Up this end, Sergeant.”

  “Right, guv.”

  The attendant had already folded back the unstained, white sheet. Barnaby stood looking down at a youngish woman of scarcely describable ugliness. Her head was lying at an unnatural angle along the twisted line of her shoulder. A great beak of a nose, no chin to speak of, a tiny puckered drawstring mouth. Although her eyes were closed they still bulged, fish-like, beneath swollen blue lids. Her brown hair, stiff with dust and grit, was short and plainly cut.

  Barnaby had a sudden vivid recollection of his own daughter who was so insistently lovely there was no getting away from her. No one pretended life was fair but unfairness on this scale must indicate a quite savage whimsy on the part of the Fates. To what despair must such a profile have reduced this poor girl?

  Having called Sergeant Troy over and now sensing his approach, Barnaby felt a need to shield Brenda Brockley from any comments. He flung the sheet over her face as he had once, long ago, pulled down the skirt on a corpse lying in a muddy ditch.

  “Sorry, Audrey. I thought, as you’d already met and talked to them . . .”

  “That’s all right, sir.”

  It was not the first time Sergeant Brierley had travelled alongside a male colleague on his way to break the news dreaded above all other. Not the first and, she had no doubt, not the last.

  She sometimes thought her approach up the path or arrival on the doorstep might alone be enough to telegraph the reason for their visit. So many people realised now, from watching various police programmes, that a female officer invariably accompanied the bearer of ill tidings. A pastoral presence; that was the idea. Someone to make the tea. To listen while the bereaved wept and shouted, rambled with repetitive and confused anguish or brought out photographs of the newly dead. Sometimes they would just sit silently, grief breaking them apart, like a hammer shattering a stone.

  Chief Inspector Barnaby rang The Larches’ bell. Two thirty in the morning but there was still a light on downstairs. Like Audrey, this was the part of the job he hated most. And it was not only psychologically uncomfortable, it could be dangerous. As in ancient Greece, the messenger’s report could sometimes bring about quick and savage retribution. Barnaby knew of an officer detailed to inform someone that his pregnant wife had been killed by a drunken driver. In a fit of agonised rage, the man had snatched up the first weapon that came to hand—a set of fire irons—and struck out with them. The sergeant had almost lost an eye.

  As soon as Barnaby rang the bell, the dog had its paws up on the windowsill. She wasn’t barking this time. Just staring silently out. There was a full moon, a great circle of glowing alabaster. The close was flooded with cold, silver light.

  Reg opened the door. He looked at them both. Stared into their faces, one at a time, with great intensity. His pallor, already very pronounced, deepened to a ghastly whitish-grey. He stood aside so they could enter.

  Iris, wearing a quilted nylon housecoat over her nightdress, was seated bolt upright on the settee facing a blank television screen. She got up quickly when Barnaby entered. Unable to read his expression as her husband had done, her drawn face plumped up with anticipation.

  “Is there any news?�
��

  “I’m afraid it’s bad news, Mrs. Brockley. The body of a woman was found earlier this evening at Heathrow Airport—”

  “No!”

  “I’m very sorry but we believe it to be that of your daughter.”

  A long pause. Then, with one swift movement, Iris doubled over and started to howl. Bloodcurding sounds interspersed with little snorts and grunts of agony. Audrey crossed over and tried to comfort her but was pushed away.

  Reg remained standing, staring desperately around. He seemed to be seeking a third person. Someone perhaps with new information rendering that which had suddenly brought death into his house null and void.

  Barnaby repeated himself. “I’m so sorry.”

  “What . . . how did . . . ?”

  “She was hit by a car.”

  “Are you sure?” The words were blurred, spoken through flabby lips. “I mean that it’s Brenda?”

  “Obviously the body has not been officially identified—”

  “Well then!” shouted Reg, a parody of a sergeant major on parade with his ramrod stance and bristly moustache and unfocused, staring eyes. “You can’t know for sure. They don’t know, Iris. Not for sure.”

  “Don’t know?”

  This was terrible. Barnaby saw the beginnings of hope in Iris’s tortured face. He spoke quickly before it could gain any sort of focus.

  “It is the person in the photograph you left at the station, Mr. Brockley. There’s no doubt about that.”

  At this, Iris began to scream silently, opening and closing her mouth with great energy and drawing her lips back in a savage snarl.

  Barnaby said, “I think you should ring your GP, Mr. Brockley. Is it Jennings?”

  “You can’t do that. He might tell someone.”

  “Your wife needs a sedative.” The Chief Inspector could hardly believe he had heard aright. “I imagine you could do with some help as well.”

  When Reg did not reply, Barnaby picked up a tapestry address book by the phone and opened it under J. Then under D with more success. While he dialled, Sergeant Brierley asked if she could make the Brockleys some tea. Iris, even in extremis, was then compelled to do the correct social thing. Somehow she got herself into the kitchen but then just stood gazing blindly around, unable to remember where the teapot was, let alone the tea.