by John Harvey
“Hello?”
“It’s Resnick,” he said.
There was a pause before she replied. “I presume this is more than a social call.”
He told her, evenly, about the murdered woman, the two young children, the invalid grandmother.
Rachel listened carefully, without interrupting, and then said, “We do have an emergency duty team, you know.”
“I didn’t think they’d do much more at this time than send out a message to the nearest office.”
“So?”
“I thought maybe someone should get out to the grandmother’s house before the kids wake up.”
“You mean she hasn’t been told yet?”
“That’s right.”
“And you want me to do it?”
“I’d like somebody else to be there when I do. Someone professional, who’ll know how to cope with her and can cope with the kids as well.”
“Why me?”
Resnick didn’t answer.
“Give me the address,” Rachel said. And then she said, “I’ll meet you outside in twenty minutes.”
“Right,” Resnick said. He could hear Chris Phillips’s voice raised in the background. “And thanks,” he added, but by then Rachel had put down the phone.
Fourteen
Superintendent Skelton was wearing a light gray suit with the finest of red stripes; the jacket was on a hanger behind his office door. Resnick was surprised that it had not been covered in polythene. The superintendent had allowed the top button of his waistcoat to be undone. His shirt was a pale blue with a white collar, the tie darker blue with a red stripe a shade darker than the one in the weave of his suit. Resnick felt relieved he could not see his superior’s socks.
“Take a seat, Charlie. You look knackered.”
Resnick had had the same clothes on since clambering out of his bed in the early hours of that morning. When Rachel Chaplin had pointed it out to him, he had tucked in the flap of his shirt. Graham Millington had lent him a spare tie. His underpants were beginning to itch and he remembered that he had climbed back into the pair he had taken off the night before. He hadn’t even fed the cats.
“Coffee?”
“Thanks.”
He tried not to watch as Skelton, not slowly but with care, measured out an amount of beans, tipped them into the electric grinder, from there into the fresh filter paper he had slipped into the top of the machine. Skelton measured water up to the proper calibration on the side of the jug and poured it into the rear. He pressed a switch on the base and a light glowed red.
“Be ready in a couple of minutes.”
Resnick nodded; he was nursing an irrational desire to jerk the electric lead from the wall socket and chuck the whole business through the window, kit and caboodle.
“How’s DC Kellogg?”
“Downstairs writing up her report.”
“Making it a bit of a habit, that team. Turning up dead bodies.”
Resnick looked at the superintendent, but made no reply. Coffee was dripping through at a steady rate.
Skelton shuffled paper across his desk. “You’ve read Parkinson’s report?”
“Sir.”
“Whoever did this, he wasn’t just trying to kill her. Whoever did this…” Skelton paused, as if trying—somehow—to picture the murderer in his mind…“was after something more. Those blows were sufficient to…” Skelton paused to glance again at the report…to “puncture the cerebral cortex over the left hemisphere, splinter the left ventricle and the anterior horn. Damage to the medulla oblongata had impaired the passage of the spinal cord along the central canal. All that’s without serious bruising to the rest of the body.”
“Someone with a lot of strength,” Resnick observed.
“Or anger.” Skelton rose and poured the coffee. Resnick was just in time to wave no to milk. “If this had been Shirley Peters, I wouldn’t have been surprised. Jealous man, violent, strong—we know how much damage he can do when his temper is roused. His own face is evidence enough of that.” Skelton tasted his coffee and gave a little nod of satisfaction. “Instead he uses a woman’s scarf.”
Did it matter, Resnick wondered, woman’s or man’s?
“It takes a deal of effort, sir,” Resnick said, “to throttle the life out of someone.”
“All the same, to cave in a person’s skull…”
“But the scarf, sir. Maybe it was important—to Macliesh, I mean.”
“Go on.”
“If what was getting at him was her attractiveness to other men, well, mightn’t he have chosen that on purpose?” Resnick shrugged, not too happy with the idea himself, now that he’d given it voice.
“Red, you mean? The color. Part of making her attractive to other men. Signaling that she was available.”
“Something like that.”
“Been brushing up on your psychology of crime, Charlie?”
Sarcastic bugger! thought Resnick. “No, sir,” he said. “I think I saw it once…in a film.”
“Didn’t think symbolism was much in your line.” An echo sounded in Resnick’s mind. He wondered how Divine and Naylor were getting on looking for Macliesh’s alibi down at the Victor Gym. And whether simply sitting with George Despard and sharing his brandy had been enough to earn him the information or if there had been any more to it.
“Think there’s any connection, Charlie? Couple of single women, thirties. Both…”—Skelton hesitated before finishing the sentence, his mouth suspended in a prim circle—“…sexually active. Apparently.”
“Not a crime, sir.”
“I’m not suggesting it is.” Skelton’s response was just a little too quick, forcing his voice up a register.
“No, sir.”
“What I am pointing to is a connection.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Shirley Peters was strangled, concurrent with or soon after engaging in sex…”
“Or immediately before.”
Skelton hurried on. “The scene-of-crime report on Mary Sheppard shows that intercourse had taken place at roughly the same time as her murder.” He looked steadily at Resnick. “On this occasion certainly prior to her death. Since it seems that one occurred upstairs in the bedroom, the murder in the garden.”
On the cabinet to the side of the double bed, a used condom had been found squashed up into a couple of tissues, presumably for throwing away later. Other tissues, used, were scattered across the carpet; another had been pushed under the edge of the pillow. There were traces of semen down the inside of Mary Sheppard’s thighs, not a great deal. Splashes perhaps. Before or after? There was also staining on the sheet which might, when analyzed, or might not match.
“Any luck getting Macliesh to agree to giving us a sample?”
Resnick shook his head. “The blood he gave us inadvertently: there was enough splashed round the police cell. His semen and his pubic hair, he’s being more prudent with. And I’m sure his solicitor’s advising him to keep it that way.”
“She doesn’t think it would disprove his involvement then?”
“No more than we do, I should imagine.”
“How’s that alibi holding up?”
“I’m having it checked out now, sir. It looks as though we’ve found one of the men Macliesh put up.”
“And this Mary Sheppard’s ex-husband? Not another man scorned, I suppose?”
Resnick shook his head. “It doesn’t sound like it.”
“Too much to hope for.”
“We contacted him in the Wirral.”
“Gone up in the world, eh?”
“Gone West, anyway. He’s driving down now. Patel’s waiting to take his statement.”
“He’s identifying the body when he arrives, is he?”
“No, sir. The mother did that.”
“Thought she couldn’t get about.”
“She can, but with difficulty. Social Services laid on special transport.”
“I would have thought she was best off leaving it to s
omebody else.”
“She insisted. Said it was her daughter and she wanted to do what was right. I think she would have crawled there on her hands and knees if need be, rather than let him do it for her. The husband. Ex.”
“No love lost then?”
“He left her all alone with his children when it suited him, he could leave well alone now. That was what she said, more or less. I think he’ll be lucky to get an invite to the funeral.”
Skelton sighed, lifted the cup to his mouth but he had already finished his coffee. Resnick was thinking about Mary Sheppard on her hands and knees in that small back garden, trying in vain to make her escape. Had she stumbled, trying to run? Had the first blow driven her to the ground? Other, later blows, had they flattened her into the drying mud despite all her efforts to get clear?
“No neighbors queuing up to testify on this one, Charlie?”
“Not so far, sir.”
“And no weapon?”
Resnick shook his head. “Not yet.”
“I’ve had three calls from the chief superintendent in the last couple of hours,” Skelton said. “You’ve briefed the DCI?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ve borrowed some uniforms for house-to-house, but it’s likely not going to be enough. Not unless someone turns something up quickly. This isn’t just a nasty little domestic, Charlie. The local paper’s already got sex crime all over its news-stands. They’ll be hoping for an extra few thousand on their circulation by the end of the day.”
Resnick stood up. “Maybe we’ll have a good lead by then, sir.”
Skelton stood also. “Be nice to think so.”
Resnick opened and closed the door to the superintendent’s office carefully, not wishing to disturb the coat. In the corridor his stomach groaned not once, but twice, three times; groaned and whined. Eating: something else he hadn’t got around to in the last eight hours.
Two detective constables and a sergeant were coaxing reports from typewriters which could never remember the rule about i before e—except when it was an exception. Divine and Naylor had not yet returned from Victor’s. Lynn Kellogg had been in, written her report, and been sent home again to lie down before she fell down. Millington had driven out to the Sheppard house, taking the scene-of-the-crime officer along with him: check and double-check. Patel…where was Patel?
Climbing the stairs to the first floor, he was followed by a whey-faced man with heavy-framed glasses and a decided stoop. The dark suit the visitor was wearing had probably cost more than Jack Skelton’s but wasn’t being worn with anything like the same flourish.
“This is Mr. Sheppard, sir.”
Resnick introduced himself, shook hands, offered commiserations. Sheppard’s hand was damp and cloying and Resnick was reminded of squeezing the water from spinach, cooked and rinsed.
“I’d like to talk to you after DC Patel has taken your statement,” said Resnick, stomach rumbling.
“That solicitor wants a word, sir,” the sergeant called over, hand covering the mouthpiece. “Olds.”
“She in the building?”
“Downstairs, sir.”
“Tell her to count to a hundred in tens and then come up.”
Resnick pulled his office door to and dialed the number of the local deli: everything from amaretti and asparagus spears to Patum Peperium Gentleman’s Relish and Japanese rice crackers. He ordered one tuna mayonnaise and salad on dark rye and a chicken breast and Jarlsberg cheese with French mustard and tomato on rye with caraway: a quarter of German potato salad and two large gherkins.
By the time he put down the phone, Suzanne Olds was standing outside his door, the smooth lines of her face marginally distorted by the glass. On a day when suits were clearly the thing, she had favoured a red wool skirt, calf-length, over highly polished black boots. Underneath an autumnal check jacket, a brooch the size of a 50p piece had been fastened at the collar of a cream silk blouse. She was armed with the same two bags as before, one slung over her shoulder, the other gripped in her opposite hand.
Resnick got up to open the door but, before he could get there, she had interpreted his move and was inside.
“Shall I close it?”
“If you like.”
She closed the door by leaning back against it, holding the pose for just long enough for Resnick to do what he was supposed to be doing and register how good she looked.
“Take a seat.”
What he wasn’t supposed to be doing was wondering why he had never found her attractive. He didn’t think it was because they were adversaries, not that at all. He wasn’t fazed by strong professional women. No, more a question of image—the one Suzanne Olds was forever presenting. Not because there was anything wrong with it, but because he could never, convincingly, find her inside it.
“I’m not interrupting,” she said, with a quick glance towards the telephone.
“Not for the moment.”
The eyes, that’s where it was; where she wasn’t. He had a sudden memory of Rachel Chaplin, the shine in that first held look across the foyer of the court, green, blue.
“My client…”
“Macliesh.”
“You’ll be releasing him.”
Resnick looked over his shoulder at the calendar on the wall. “Isn’t that question a little premature?”
“In the circumstances?”
“The circumstances are that we are progressing with our enquiries. The court was happy for your client to be held on remand.”
Suzanne Olds crossed her legs with a faint swish of nylon. “That was before, Inspector.”
“Before what, Ms Olds?”
“Before the second murder.”
Resnick was aware suddenly that it was raining outside; he could hear it blowing in flurries against the window-pane, a counterpoint against the muted ringing of telephones.
“What relevance are you claiming?”
“I should have thought that was so obvious as to be not worth stating.”
Resnick heard from his stomach and gave it a gentle pat or two. Hold on there, it’s coming. He wondered if the interview would be over before his sandwiches arrived or whether he was destined to another hard-earned meal before an audience.
“That sounds like courtroom debate, Ms. Olds.”
“And that sounds as if you’ve got either a serious digestive problem or an ulcer.”
“I’m gratified by your concern.”
“I’d be gratified if you would show some concern for my client.”
“Let your client show some concern for himself.”
“He’s made a full statement, answered all your questions. Despite being the victim of the most unpleasant provocation.”
“Oh, come on!”
“Come on, nothing. You know as well as I do…”
“I know Macliesh jumped on the first opportunity he could get.”
“You’re saying that your DC behaved in a thoughtful and responsible manner?”
“I’m not saying anything about the way my DC acted.”
“I’m not surprised.”
Resnick leaned back in his chair. Divine and Naylor had just come into the outer office. “Are you prepared to advise your client to co-operate with us and allow intimate samples…?”
“No.”
“When that would allow us to confirm or disprove…”
“Don’t waste your breath quoting the Police and Criminal Evidence Act at me, Inspector.”
“Then there doesn’t seem to be any alternative other than being patient and letting us get on with our investigation as best we can. By other and, unfortunately, more time-consuming methods.”
Suzanne Olds shook her head, opened her shoulder bag, and took out a packet of cigarettes. “Do you mind?” she asked automatically.
Resnick surprised himself by saying, “Yes.”
He didn’t want the smell of cigarette smoke interfering with his lunch.
Suzanne Olds bit lightly down into the flesh inside her lo
wer lip and dropped the pack from sight.
“Congratulations, Inspector.”
“What for?”
“Sidetracking me.”
“Is that what I’ve done?”
“I came here to talk about last night’s murder.”
“I don’t understand. Someone’s retained you…?”
She shook her head, vigorously this time. “Tony Macliesh is still my one and only client in this matter.”
“Then…”
“And he was arrested on the basis of emotional hearsay evidence, a quick and convenient culprit against whom you had and continue to have nothing that goes beyond the purely circumstantial. There is nothing which points to my client being at or near the scene of Shirley Peters’s death or which links him directly and specifically to what was a violent and sexual attack. An attack which has been followed by another, more brutish than the first, in which my client could have played no part since he is being held in police custody.”
Resnick was on his feet. “Ms Olds, there has never been any suggestion of linking Macliesh with Mary Sheppard’s murder.”
“Exactly. There is a sadistic killer out there, preying on defenseless women and instead of tracking him down you are clinging blindly to the wrong man.”
Resnick leaned forward until Suzanne Old’s perfume was inescapable. “I’ll try to put this as clearly as I can. What we have here are two quite separate murders, quite distinct. The means of death, the modes of killing are absolutely different, no connection. Neither is there any connection between the victims, other than the fact that, yes, they were female, and, yes, they were living alone—not living, that is, with a man.” He straightened up. “Two murders, two cases, two inquiries, two murderers, ultimately, two convictions. As you will know, we currently have someone under arrest for the first murder; and, as you have said yourself, there is no way in which that suspect could have been involved in the second.”
Resnick sat down. “I hope, for Macliesh’s sake, you’ve got something better for him than this by way of his defense.”
Suzanne Olds got up and walked out. This time no pose; she didn’t even think to close the door.
“Divine! Naylor!”
The uniformed constable who had nipped up with the brown paper bag from the deli got caught between them.
