‘And then?’
‘And then I walked home. It was a fine night, very clear, very still. Perfect for night flying, I remember thinking. I saw some navigation lights moving very high. Something big and fast. I envied the pilot a little. But I felt very much at peace. I thought it was all over, of course.’
‘But it wasn’t?’
‘Oh no. You don’t get experiences like I’d been through out of your system overnight. Ever since Alison’s death, I’d been noticing girls. Kids, I mean. Standing at bus stops on wet mornings, going to work in some steamy office with loud-mouthed men. So young, so forlorn. You know what I mean. It really broke my heart to see them. We don’t let them be kids long enough. We force them to grow up, and there’s nothing there when they get there, and they have to change and turn into … well, that’s how I felt. I’d started the disco nights at the Club. We had them in Surrey and I remembered how the kids used to enjoy them, just being kids if you follow me. There was no harm in it, despite what the fuddy-duddies like Middlefield said. And they brought in a bit of cash. We needed all the cash we could get if we were to make something decent out of this place. Oh I’ve got plans, Inspector, such plans … I had plans …
‘Anyway, there was this youngster at the discos. I’d seen her a couple of times, I didn’t know her name but she was so full of life and fun. Then suddenly she was there one Friday night, flashing an engagement ring. Her boy-friend was a soldier, serving in Belfast. They were to be married on his next leave. I thought of married life in the services. I thought of me and Mary. I thought of Alison. And I felt sick.’
‘This was June McCarthy?’ interposed Pascoe.
‘Yes. I found out later. She wasn’t there the next night. She had to go to work.’
‘You knew this?’ said Pascoe. ‘You planned what happened?’
‘Oh no,’ said Greenall, shocked. ‘No plan. It was fate. I hadn’t been able to get her out of my mind, but I knew nothing about her. On the Sunday morning I went out for my usual run. Just after five. It’s the best time of the day in summer. I felt so strong, I went further than usual. I usually stick to the airport and to the river, but on a Sunday the streets are so quiet, it’s pleasant just to run along the pavement for a change. I ended up in Pump Street. To tell the truth I was a bit lost. And as I jogged past the allotments, I saw a girl there, kneeling down. She looked familiar. I went up to her. She gave quite a start when I spoke. What she was doing, I found out, was “borrowing” some sprigs of mint for the roast lamb she’d be cooking for her dad later in the day. She got quite chatty when she realized who I was, told me how busy they were at the canning plant in the fruit season, shifts every night, but she didn’t mind as she was saving hard to get married. I’d recognized her by then, of course. The soldier’s fiancée. She looked about thirteen, kneeling there with the mint. I couldn’t bear the thought of it. Being spoilt so young. So I put her to rest.’
‘You killed her? You strangled her?’
Greenall didn’t reply. It was not an uneasy or guilty silence, rather a contemplative one, as though he were carefully examining the proposition.
‘Yes,’ he said just as Pascoe opened his mouth to prod again. ‘Killed her. Strangled her. Saved her.’
‘From what?’
‘Disappointment. Disillusionment. Dismay. I felt nothing but love and pity. The girl in the bank was the same. I saw her that afternoon. She’d often served me since I took this job on. Only this time, I saw the ring. She saw me looking at it and smiled. You know, proudly. A child. I felt sick but I said “Congratulations”. She said, “Thank you, Mr Greenall,” and I left. But I knew I’d see her again.’
‘You planned it, you mean?’ asked Pascoe once more.
‘Oh no. Nothing like that, though I had the feeling there was a plan. But it wasn’t mine. No, about half-six the evening rush was over. It’s always the same in summer when it’s fine. Out of work, down to the Club, can’t wait to get into the air. Well, who’s to blame them? I went for a stroll, out through the boundary fence, across the waste ground till I reached the path along the river. It was a lovely evening but I didn’t see a soul. It’s a bit out of the way and eventually it brings you back to the main road just on the edge of the Industrial Estate. And if you follow that you get into Millhill.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Pascoe impatiently.
‘There she was,’ said Greenall. ‘It had to be planned. She was standing where the buses that come through the estate turn. There was no one else there. I said hello. She was annoyed, I could see. She told me she’d been having her hair done after work quite near the bank, had come out, just missed her bus, knew there wouldn’t be another for twenty-five minutes, so thought that she’d be better off taking the ten-minute walk here and catching the estate bus. But it had just pulled off as she arrived. There wouldn’t be another of those for at least half an hour. There was all kinds of shopping she had to do in the town centre. I gathered that on Thursdays a lot of the big shops stay open till eight o’clock, but it was now quarter to seven. So I offered her a lift. I explained it meant walking back to the Aero Club, but we could still get there and be in the town centre before the next bus arrived. She said OK and off we set.
‘She chattered away. She was having a proper wedding, she said. That was one of the places she wanted to go this evening. She’d made up her mind about her wedding gown and she was going to put the money down. There were other things to get, too. She didn’t want a long engagement, she said. There would be too much aggro at home from her father. He didn’t understand.
‘I understood,’ said Greenall. ‘Suddenly she stopped and looked up and said. “Are those your gliders? Aren’t they beautiful? Like huge birds. It must be lovely to fly, but I don’t think my Tommy would fancy it. It’s all cars with him.” That was when I took her throat. She fell backwards, hardly resisting, just staring at me in surprise. I thought she must have died very quickly, but when I let her go, suddenly she jerked and twisted, more a convulsion than anything. We were right at the edge of the river bank, and next thing she was over and in. At the very same moment I heard voices. Children. I knew we were close to the encampment and guessed it would be the gypsy kids. I hated to leave her, but there was nothing else to do. She was deep under the water. I turned and went on my way.’
‘You must have expected an outcry immediately,’ said Pascoe.
‘I suppose so. I never really thought about it,’ said Greenall. ‘I just got back to the Club, went on as normal. And when I read in the Evening Post the next day about the girl being found in the canal, I was puzzled but somehow not surprised. And I was worried in case people wouldn’t understand. So I phoned the paper again.’
‘I meant to ask, why did you phone the first time?’
‘Just to explain in a way,’ said Greenall. ‘Just so that it would be understood that these killings weren’t meaningless. It seemed important.’
‘And Hamlet?’
‘It seemed apt. It just came to mind.’
‘Why not just go to see the reporters, talk to them, tell your story?’ wondered Pascoe ingenuously.
‘But that would have meant giving myself up!’ exclaimed Greenall. ‘I wasn’t ready for that.’
‘No,’ said Pascoe. ‘You were quite determined not to be caught. As Pauline Stanhope could testify. If she were alive.’
‘Yes,’ said Greenall. ‘Yes. Her. And the man, Wildgoose; it happened so quickly … both of them … a pilot’s trained to make quick decisions you see … but afterwards time isn’t so quick … not when you think …’
Now his narration once more lost its complacent, reasonable rhythm. Now once more the hesitation and uncertainties became apparent. Pottle had been right. It was here he felt the guilt, here where he had killed to protect himself rather than, as his delusion asserted, to protect the girls. His justification was the immediacy of the need. He had seen the transcript of the seance tape, read in the paper that the medium was Madame Rashid at the Charter Park
Fair, driven there instantly with no plan, gone into the tent, asked Pauline if she were Madame Rashid, punched her in the belly and killed her. Now self-preservation had at last made him cunning. Seeing the BACK SOON sign, he had put it on the chair and pushed it through the flap before removing and putting on the gypsy skirt, shawl and headscarf.
‘You also laid the girl out like the others. And made a phone-call,’ observed Pascoe.
‘Yes, I thought it might confuse things … and I felt I should say something … I wasn’t happy … and then it turned out she wasn’t the woman at all … Christ. I felt ill.’
‘But you didn’t try to do anything about the real Madame Rashid after that, did you?’ queried Pascoe.
Greenall shook his head almost indignantly.
‘I couldn’t … not plan it … not cold-bloodedly …’
Dalziel’s going to love this, thought Pascoe.
Greenall recovered some of his composure to talk about Andrea Valentine whom he had overheard boasting to her friends at the disco that as soon as Wildgoose got rid of his wife, he was going to marry her.
‘Did you follow them back to Danby Row?’ asked Pascoe.
‘No. I cleared up here and then went later. I had no plan, you understand. Just to look.’
‘How did you know where to go?’
‘I rang for their taxi,’ said Greenall. ‘Wildgoose gave me the address.’
That simple. No wonder he felt that he was merely an instrument of some benevolent and protective force. His path must have seemed to be smoothed out before him all the way.
He had driven by the house, round the block, spotted the back lane, found the rear entrance to number 73 and stepped inside just in time to meet Wildgoose coming out. The man had grabbed him. Brokenly, Greenall disclaimed any wish to hurt him.
‘But he saw my face … it was dark but not that dark … I could see he recognized me … so I had to … again …’
Distressed though he was by this unlooked-for killing, it did not deter him from his main purpose. He went up to the house. There was still a light on in the kitchen. He tapped at the back door. ‘Who’s there?’ asked the girl but was so sure that it must be Wildgoose returning for some reason that a muttered ‘It’s me,’ had her turning the key.
‘And then you killed her,’ said Pascoe. ‘But why? I mean she couldn’t be going to get married, could she? Not when you’d just killed the man she was going to marry!’
Greenall hid his face in his hands.
‘Don’t you think I haven’t thought of that?’ he said. ‘Even as she died, I thought of it. But I had to kill the man, you see. He knew me. I had to kill him.’
He spoke pleadingly as if seeking approval, or absolution. Pascoe was very willing to give him whatever he sought as long as he got his signature at the bottom of every page of the statement he was scribbling.
‘Yes, I see that,’ he said. ‘I quite see that.’
‘Do you? Do you really?’ asked Greenall.
‘I do,’ assured Pascoe. ‘I really do. Then you took the body to your car?’
The maniac’s luck had held. No one had interrupted him. The idea of burying Wildgoose in the rose field of the Garden Centre had seemed like a triumph of logical thinking. He had driven past it from time to time since his wife’s death and observed that it was no longer open. It was ideal.
‘I didn’t want him found. I thought he might get blamed, you see. It was going wrong. There was too much killing, too much unnecessary killing. I thought if you were looking for Wildgoose I might get a bit of peace and quiet to do some thinking in.’
Pascoe regarded the small, slight man who returned his gaze trustingly and hopefully.
‘I think we might arrange that, sir,’ he said gently. ‘What I would like you to do now is …’
There was a perfunctory tap at the door and it burst open to reveal Sergeant Wield.
‘Mr Pascoe,’ he began.
‘Later,’ said Pascoe trying to combine the casual and the imperious in his tone.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but …’
‘I said later, Sergeant!’ snapped Pascoe, abandoning his attempt at the casual.
But Wield stood his ground. ‘We tried to ring, sir, but there was no answer,’ he said. ‘It’s your wife.’
‘What about her?’ said Pascoe, standing up now and facing the sergeant. Wield’s features, he noticed with a tightening of the heart, were softened to a recognizable anxiety.
‘She’s had to go to hospital, sir. They rang not long after you’d left. Like I say, we tried to telephone here …’
‘What’s happened to her?’ demanded Pascoe.
‘I don’t know, sir. But I knew how worried you’d been, so I thought I’d better …’
Pascoe glance from the sergeant to Greenall who was looking musingly out of the window, as though none of this had impinged upon him. Perhaps it hadn’t. Perhaps Perhaps … but this was no time to be perhapsing around here. Not with Ellie … oh Christ!
‘Excuse me, Mr Greenall,’ he said and pushed Wield through the door, closing it behind them.
‘Listen,’ he said, putting the notebook into the sergeant’s hand’s. ‘It’s him. It’s all there. Get him to read it. Get him to sign it. Every last bloody page. That first. That most certainly first. No pressing. No taking him down town. Do you follow me?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Wield. ‘And then?’
‘Get his name on that and then you can put him in irons for all I care,’ snapped Pascoe. ‘Do it. I’m off.’
‘I hope Mrs Pascoe’s OK,’ called Wield after him but he doubted if the inspector heard.
Slowly he turned and quietly opened the door.
‘Hello, Mr Greenall,’ he said.
Chapter 26
‘And is that the verdict of you all?’
‘It is,’ said the foreman of the jury.
The Judge nodded and turned towards the figure in the dock.
‘Austin Frederick Greenall,’ he began.
Outside the sun still looked down from clear skies but it was no longer the burning orange of midsummer but the pale lemon of autumn. There were dry brown leaves from the municipal plane trees patterning the steps of the court building as Pascoe emerged. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and stared moodily at the medieval guildhall across the way.
Wield came out behind him.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said.
‘Not your fault, sergeant,’ said Pascoe. ‘Even if he’d signed that statement, it would probably have been tossed out as inadmissible.’
‘All the same …’
‘Lawyers, I’ve shit ’em!’ proclaimed Dalziel’s voice. Pascoe looked round. The fat man looked as if he’d just emerged from a battle. In a way he probably had.
‘I had a word with that fellow prosecuting. Told him I’d seen better cases presented at the left luggage.’
‘What did he say, sir?’
‘Threatened to report me. I said if he made complaints like he cross-examined, I’d likely get promoted.’
‘It was all circumstantial, sir,’ defended Pascoe. ‘When you got down to it, there was precious little hard evidence.’
‘There was enough, rightly put over,’ said Dalziel. ‘And I’d have cracked the bugger wide open if we’d got another postponement.’
Pascoe and Wield exchanged glances.
Four months had passed. Dalziel had used every delaying tactic in the book. There had been remands before the committal proceedings. Here there had been reporting restrictions imposed, not (as the general public believed) to conceal horrors which should not be allowed to fall twice on human ears but (as Wield cynically asserted) to conceal from the general public the flimsiness of the case. Fortunately (or not), examining justices are swayed as much by police certainties as police evidence, particularly where crimes like the Choker’s are involved, and Greenall had been committed for trial, which should have commenced within eight weeks according to law. Two postponements had been achiev
ed, but even justice gets impatient and on the threat of a writ of habeas corpus from the defence counsel, the trial had gone ahead.
There had been only one charge – the wilful murder of Mary Greenall also known as Mary Dinwoodie. This was where the prosecutors felt at their strongest. They could prove motive and opportunity. They could point to Greenall’s record of breakdown, they could make great play of his odd behaviour in not coming forward after the death. They could do many things except prove that he was outside the Cheshire Cheese on the night in question.
Defence challenged the admissibility of medical records, pointed out that Greenall had been performing a reponsible and demanding job in civilian life for more than three years without exciting any adverse comment, and tried to explain his silence after his wife’s murder by getting their client to admit freely that he was dismayed and numbed by the news and in any case had no reason to believe the police wouldn’t rapidly track down his connection with the dead woman. ‘In the event, he overestimated their speed and efficiency, but that is a fault we must lay at the door of the investigating officers, not of my client,’ said counsel for the defence blandly.
Desperately the prosecution had tried to bring the linguistic evidence forward. Gladmann had put on his best suit (‘the one stained with Beluga caviare,’ said Pascoe) but his hopes of fame were dashed.
The first telephone call had not been made till after the death of June McCarthy, argued defence. The first recorded telephone calls had not been made till after the death of Pauline Stanhope. To prove that any of those four voices was the same as the earlier voice would be difficult. But that was beside the case anyway. Their client was not accused of any of the subsequent killings. Indeed, although the subsequent killings had some prima facie connection in that they all involved young women, the murder of Mary Greenall or Dinwoodie must be taken as distinct and separate, unless the police had concrete proof of a connection.
The disposition of the body, suggested prosecution.
Very slight, replied defence, and explicable in terms of straightforward imitation. The Cheshire Cheese killing had been widely reported, after all.
A Killing Kindness Page 25
