by J P Lomas
The chocolate box village on the screen brought further tempting thoughts to mind. They’d seen a pretty little cottage in the South Hams whilst on one of their Sunday drives and their casual enquiry had led to a viewing, which had led to an offer which had been accepted. They could move in before Christmas. He could be putting his feet up for good by the end of the year.
A groan from his stomach made Spilsbury go to the bathroom before Miss Marple could reveal all. He knew when it was likely to be a bad one and this had the makings of a whole roll job - thankfully, Felicity was still asleep. This was another reason why he felt he should go, as he felt The Maggie Murders (as he was reluctantly beginning to think of the case) had all the makings of another Ripper enquiry. That one had dragged on for years until the Yorkshire police had finally struck lucky; if their killer intended to go on as long as Thatcher, then it could be forever until it got solved! Someone else could have the glory of getting a result; all it was giving him was stress. He sat down heavily on the pine toilet seat and began mentally composing his resignation letter, as he waited for his bowels to move.
****
Jane found Sergeant Baker’s funeral to be very different from that of George Kellow’s. As she sat at the back of the crematorium, Jane decided that her fragile relationship with the Church of England might need to be worked on. The last time she had been in a Church before Kellow’s funeral had been for her brother-in-law’s wedding in ’81. It had been around the same time as the Royal Wedding and she’d felt equally cynical about both ceremonies.
The fact that Tim’s elder brother had married his secretary might have accounted for her less than kindly feelings towards their domestic affair; Fiona was the type of woman she most certainly would have vetoed as secretarial material if Tim had ever decided to go back to work. On the few occasions they’d met before the wedding Fiona’s necklines had seemed to plunge ever lower, just as her hem lines became ever higher. She had always been spilling out of a series of very tight dresses, whilst making a very public show of her affections for Alastair. Given that she was also a good twenty years younger than Alastair, she had labelled Fiona as Alastair’s mid-life crisis.
The fact that Fiona and Alistair were still married certainly surprised her.
It had certainly been a contrast with their wedding. She’d been prepared for a quiet registry office affair in Plymouth, but Tim’s parents had become the reason that she’d found herself returning to the parish church where she’d been christened and baptised for almost the first time since leaving school. At least they’d managed to eschew the marquee, band and cast of thousands Alistair and Fiona had invited to their wedding, as their guest list had been limited to family and a few close friends. Fiona had apparently said the same, although her close friends seemed to consist of half the fox hunting fraternity of Gloucestershire.
In the end she’d been glad of the Church setting, not that it had inspired her to become a regular celebrant at St Giles’. She had though been willing to have their children Christened and had even made the occasional visit to their local church with them at Christmas time. Well what was Christmas without a carol service?
Looking around Exeter’s crematorium she found it bleak and uninspiring. There was a functionality about it which made her very glad she was a hatches, matches and despatches type of believer.
The only splashes of colour which relieved the dark and cavernous building were the dress uniforms of former comrades in arms who had come to pay their last respects. Most of the marines present seemed to have escaped the Falklands with less serious injuries than Baker, although at least one man was in a wheelchair and in talking with another veteran outside, her eyes were irresistibly drawn to the scars disfiguring one side of his face.
The elegy focused very much on his military service, although there was also a fair bit about the love and support his wife had given him in the years after the Falklands. She wondered how many of the people there would have known about the Bakers’ more unusual ways of conducting their sexual relationship after he was emasculated? Yet this was not something to bring up at a funeral, sex was something which brought forth and sustained life and therefore deemed an inappropriate association when considering death.
She wondered why the man hadn’t believed; hadn’t he even wanted a show of religion at the end of his life even if he had lived without God for most of it? She’d once heard that there were no atheists on the battlefield, but had his cruel injuries in the Falklands campaign destroyed his belief in a just and living God? She reflected on the irony that once again his body would be burnt. The wooden coffin draped in the Union Flag and with his beret and medals displayed proudly on top, would be consumed by the third and final fire to ravage his body.
Unless of course the Sergeant found himself in a hell created by a god who took Spilsbury’s Old Testament attitude about the sanctity of sexual relationships in marriage? And yet she felt any man who had died twice in this life should be given a chance of finding a lasting peace. Despite the lack of prayers in the service, she silently prayed for the dead man. As a woman who was not in the habit of regular communication with the Divine, she added prayers for her family and children too – even managing to include Alistair and Fiona in her all-encompassing hopes for the future.
Looking at Connie, who was being supported at the funeral by her father, Jane was amazed by how stunning she looked in her widow’s weeds; although the black dress she wore so elegantly rather gave the lie to the description ‘weeds’, she bet it had cost more than one of her mortgage payments. Given that Connie was the living centre of attention, it was no surprise that most of the men were looking at her, notwithstanding the circumstances her stunning figure and raven hair just cried out to be admired.
There had been at least a packed gallery for Connie to play to… Jane caught herself as she thought this; she was turning into her boss. Connie looked genuinely distraught and it seemed that it was only the presence of her rather haughty looking father which kept the grieving widow upright on her exquisite heels.
There had been very few people at Kellow’s funeral, though she had preferred the calm and timeless atmosphere of Littleham’s pretty, medieval church to this concrete and steel mausoleum. Then there had been only a handful of local journalists, but now the vultures from the Nationals had descended. The idea that these killings might be linked to Thatcher had given this story legs. Outside the crematorium TV news crews were in position to glean material for the nightly news and even some foreign journalists were in attendance.
Colonel Redfern stood with a not unattractive woman near the front, if that was Mrs Redfern then she would only be in need of one pair of knickers today, thought Jane. Taking a closer look at the Colonel’s companion, Jane decided that it was unlikely that the deceased had ever made a play for her as she was a million miles out of Connie’s league. Even if there was an outside case for someone like the Colonel once being jealous of the Sergeant, how on earth would it connect to Kellow’s murder? She fought down an inappropriate giggle as she wondered if Mrs Redfern had been getting an extra helping of sausage from the late butcher?
Chapter 19
As Spilsbury faced Nigel Byrne across the interview desk he took an instant dislike to the cab driver. There was something pathetic about a middle aged man who still dressed in a t-shirt displaying his taste in Heavy Metal and who wore running shoes on feet which looked incapable of supporting his chubby frame over even a sprint. Not that Spilsbury was one to judge a man for being fat, he knew his own girth had slowly inched towards the XL end of the spectrum over the course of his career, but at least he dressed his age.
Yet it was more the fawning sycophancy of the man which made his gut rise. There was a greasy quality about the man which oozed from every lying word he said and yet Spilsbury had been all but directed to take the man’s testimony as gospel.
An off the record interview with the Deputy Chief Constable had made it very clear to Spilsbury that his early re
tirement was not the ‘line drawn under it all’ solution to the charge of assault Andrew Sullivan had filed against him. He still couldn’t believe that the man had had the nerve to complain and that anyone had bothered to take him seriously. Yet Dent was now using it as leverage to get a conviction in the Baker case, something the aspirant Chief Constable was desperate to achieve. He had even handed Byrne to him as a means to this end. The equation offered being Spilsbury’s early retirement on his full pension in return for using the taxi driver’s evidence to secure Connie’s conviction for the murder of her husband. Otherwise Dent was going to ensure a full and frank investigation into Sullivan’s complaint, with a heavy hint that it would be upheld with grave consequences for Spilsbury’s planned life of leisure.
Fifteen years ago, Spilsbury would happily have told Dent where he could stick his deal, but now he had neither the heart, nor spirit to take on his superiors. If he had felt that Connie was innocent, he supposed he might have been prepared to make a stand, but his gut told him she was guilty, even if the evidence being presented him for this was about as Kosher as a pork pie.
Byrne had been picked up by uniform for a string of minor offences ranging from having a bald front tyre to a broken tail light; given Byrne’s previous offences he was most certainly going to lose his licence and his livelihood. The fact that they’d also discover enough cannabis resin to have him up for dealing meant he was more than likely to be losing his liberty as well. At which point he’d told the traffic boys that he had information about the Maggie Murders, just as Dent (who had an annoying capacity to try and micro-manage everything) had been carrying out one of his ‘touching base with the troops’ tours of the custody suite. Salmons, the custody sergeant, had immediately gone crawling to the DCC with the information.
He listened as Byrne told him a cock and bull story about picking up Connie Baker from a hotel on the seafront on the night of the murder and dropping her off at her home in Brixington. The only trouble was that the times tallied with when her husband had died… The man was either psychic, or very well briefed about the murder.
‘Do you know what perjury is?’
‘Would that be the number of people per jury?’ Byrne answered with a sickly smile.
Spilsbury couldn’t work out if the man was attempting a joke, or really was ignorant.
‘It’s lying in court, ‘growled Jane.
‘And you wouldn’t just be telling us what we want to hear in order for us to go easy on the charges you’re facing, now would you?’
‘No, course not!’ countered Byrne in far too quick a fashion.
For a moment Spilsbury feared the man was going to swear on his mother’s life that he was telling God’s own honest truth, but Byrne just slunk back on his chair.
‘And you’d be prepared to pick your passenger out from an identity parade?’
Jane gave her boss a look. Connie’s face had been all over the papers, picking her out from an i.d. parade would be easy as picking out Boy George from a male voice choir.
‘Not a problem, you place her in a line up and I’ll pick ‘er out. I’ve got an eye for faces.’
An eye for the main chance more like thought Spilsbury; still if the identity parade worked out it seemed it would get both him and Byrne off a couple of very nasty hooks and Hawkins would have to lump it. They couldn’t prove a link with the other murder, but he’d bet his pension that Connie was guilty of this one.
****
Watching highlights of Calum Baker’s funeral on the local news Catherine Sullivan felt unmoved by the report. In fact she felt the word ‘highlights’ was for once appropriate to describe a funeral. As she stroked the unused baby romper on her lap, she felt glad to see the close up of her rival’s grief stricken face.
She’d known it was true as soon as she’d seen the woman standing next to her husband. The strange scents on him had been something she’d been prepared to put down to her hormones going mad during her confinement; however his increasing late nights at the school needed explaining. A teacher herself, she still could not understand his Herculean hours and implausible claims of extra meetings.
The glamorous assistant who had joined the previous term had already raised her hackles, although she’d felt Connie had been too old and overly made-up to be a serious rival. Although it had never struck her as odd until now that her husband had preferred her with minimal make-up; she’d just seen it as proof of his decency. Like her mother, he had always praised her for not wearing cosmetics and for not dressing like a tart. Her mother certainly would never have employed Connie Baker and she was sure no school in Ireland would have done – she wondered why Sister Ruth had been so forgiving?
It was only on their honeymoon that she’d become apprised of the darker nature of Andrew’s desires. Getting pregnant had not only been her most longed for wish, it had also served as an excuse to avoid her husband in his more perverse moods. Some of the things he had done to her filled her with revulsion. The lesser evil of whiskey had been used to overcome some of what had happened. She certainly couldn’t go back over the water now; following her big sister over to England had been a mistake she would regret over and over again.
Now she could do little without a drink. The loss of little Aidan had destroyed her. At times she wondered if it was a punishment for doing those things Andrew had made her do, at others she wondered if she should have been more compliant, perhaps then he wouldn’t have indulged his needs with that woman? She knew that whore would do anything with a man.
At other times she just wanted Andrew back at any price. An empty house full of unused baby clothes was killing her. She may as well be as dead as that whore’s husband for all life had to offer her now.
****
G is for Guilt
I can’t understand the concept of guilt – now getting caught, that’s different. Guilt is what they tried to instil in me at school. A belief that if I sinned, God would be watching me and that I would feel bad about it until I confessed my sins.
Well that’s nonsense!
I began sinning at school to see if God would strike me down and do you know what? He didn’t. It only gave me pleasure. I came to realise all the religious stuff was just another way of trying to keep us under control; to do things their way.
Cigarettes, stealing, sex. There was no lightning strike and best of all no guilt.
Yes, I was afraid of being punished in this world, but I had no fear of being punished in a world I didn’t believe in.
I’ve become very careful at not getting caught. Being expelled from school might have been bearable, even desirable but spending the next thirty years in prison would be hell.
After the first time I was worried that I had left something behind that might have linked me to his death. I wanted to go back and check, though I knew that would be a fatal mistake. Every time the telephone rang or people came to the door, I assumed it would be a policeman come to make enquiries. I kept rehearsing my alibi in my head.
I wondered if I would have a chance to flee. I thought about Brazil – if it was good enough for Ronnie Biggs to defy the law from, then it would be good enough for me. The pictures I found of Rio looked attractive enough and it became quite a fond little fantasy of mine. I put a contingency fund together and even thought about getting a false passport made up; however I didn’t know any criminals and it would have looked most suspicious if I’d been caught exchanging envelopes full of money for dodgy paperwork in (presumably) some dank dive in London’s East End.
The days passed as normal though and the fear of being caught was replaced by the relief of having planned it so brilliantly that no-one would ever suspect me of his death. It made me bolder the second time and gave me the extra confidence I needed to kill again.
I still need that fear though and still have a contingency plan. Hubris has been the undoing of too many murderers. That’s why I occasionally take a detour past the prison, just to remind myself where I could end up if I get too carr
ied away. It’s a little note to self that planning is everything.
It’s funny to think that I‘m a murderer. It’s not one of the career choices they expected me to make at school. Doctor, barrister, or murderer doesn’t quite have the same ring to it as doctor, barrister or stockbroker, does it? That raises the question of when we become murderers, is it when we plan the death, or when we carry it out?
We were always taught that we sin in ‘thought and word and deed’, so surely most of us have toyed with the idea of killing someone and are therefore guilty of it in the eyes of those who still believe?
It’s such a small step to cross over that line. That first time it was just the difference between striking my lighter and not striking my lighter. I’m sure the law would have given me a good deal less than thirty years if they’d caught me with an unused lighter in my hand on that night, or if the old man had survived. I might even have been out by now with the aid of an expensive lawyer. I’m sure I could pretend to be crazy if the need arose, or preferably suffering from some psychological neurosis which would explain my behaviour. There must be some childhood trauma which explains my actions?
And yet how am I so different from the great and the good? Thatcher kills when she needs to achieve her aims, just as I do for mine. She’s killed far more people than me, quite openly and is applauded for it. She’s sunk the Belgrano; assisted Reagan’s bombing of Tripoli and upheld a shoot to kill policy in Northern Ireland. What’s one old queer and a cripple compared to that?
****
Spilsbury licked the last of the ninety-nine from his lips. Given the news he had received he knew he was going to have to reform his choice of diet, yet at 57 it was going to take the type of effort he wasn’t sure he was going to be capable of achieving. It had only been during rationing that he had ever achieved what some might refer to as a svelte figure, he’d ever since tended to what Felicity diplomatically called the cuddly.
