The Chemistry of Death dh-1

by Simon Beckett

  'You think that's really what he wants? To stir things up?' Jenny asked. She hadn't been to the meeting; said she didn't feel she'd lived in the village long enough to take part in it. But I think it was also the prospect of the crowd that had kept her away.

  'That's what it sounded like. I don't know why I'm surprised. Fire and brimstone makes more of an impression than turning the other cheek. And he's spent years standing in front of an empty church on Sunday morning. He's not going to miss his chance to say "I told you so" now.'

  'Sounds like he's not the only one who's worked up.'

  I hadn't realized how angry Scarsdale had made me. 'Sorry. I'm just worried somebody might do something stupid.'

  'There's nothing you can do about it anyway. You're not the village conscience.'

  She sounded distracted. It occurred to me that she'd been quiet all evening. I looked at the line of her profile, the faint pattern of freckles across her cheeks and nose; the fine blond down on her arms, whitened by the sun against her tanned skin. She was gazing off into the distance, lost in some internal dialogue.

  'Anything the matter?' I asked.

  'No. I was just thinking.'

  'What about?'

  'Oh… just stuff.' She smiled, but there was a tension about her. 'Look, do you mind if we go back?'

  I tried to hide my surprise. 'Not if you want to.'

  'Please.'

  We drove back in silence. There was a hollowness in the pit of my stomach. I cursed myself for making such a fuss about Scarsdale. No wonder she'd had enough. Well, now you've blown it. Congratulations.

  The light was fading when we reached Manham. I indicated to turn off onto her road.

  'No, not here,' she said. 'I… I thought you could show me where you live.'

  It took me a moment to understand.

  'OK.'

  The word didn't come out right. I felt breathless as I parked the car. I unlocked the door to the house and stood back to let her in. The delicate musk of her perfume made me light-headed as she passed.

  She went into the small lounge. I could feel her nervousness, matching my own.

  'Would you like a drink?'

  She shook her head. We stood awkwardly. Do something. But I couldn't. In the half-light I couldn't see her clearly. Only her eyes, bright in the darkness. We looked at each other, neither of us moving. When she spoke, her voice was unsteady.

  'Where's the bedroom?'

  Jenny was hesitant to begin with, tense and trembling. Gradually, she began to relax, and so did I. At first memory tried to impose its own template of shape, texture and scent. Then the present took over, sweeping away everything else. Afterwards, she lay curled against me, breath soft on my chest. I felt her hands go to my face, explore the tracks of wetness running down.

  'David?'

  'It's nothing, just…'

  'I know. It's all right.'

  And it was. I laughed, hugging her, then tilted up her chin. We kissed, long and slowly, and my tears dried unnoticed as we moved together again.

  Some time that same night, while we were in bed together, across the village Tina thought she heard a noise in the back garden. Like Jenny, she'd avoided the meeting in the village hall. She'd stayed in, a bottle of white wine and a block of chocolate for company. She'd intended to stay up until Jenny got home, eager to hear how the evening had been. But by the time she'd watched the DVD she'd hired she was yawning and ready for bed. It was as she turned off the TV that she heard something outside.

  Tina wasn't stupid. There was a killer at large who had already murdered two women. She didn't open the door. Instead, snatching up the telephone, she turned out the light and went to the window. With the telephone poised, ready to connect to the police, she peeped cautiously into the back garden.

  Nothing. The night was bright, the moon full and revealing. The garden, and the paddock beyond, was empty of menace. Even so, she watched for a while before she convinced herself it had been her imagination.

  It was only next morning that she saw what had been left outside. In the centre of the lawn was a dead fox. It might almost have been arranged there, so carefully was it positioned. If she had known about the swan wings, or the mallard, or any of the other dead creatures the killer had used to decorate and elaborate his creations, Tina would not have done what she did next.

  But she didn't know. Country girl that she was, she just scooped it up and deposited it into the dustbin. Judging from its wounds, it had probably crawled there after being savaged by a dog, she reasoned. Or perhaps been run over. She might still have mentioned it to Jenny, if only in passing. Who might then have told me about it. Except Jenny hadn't come home that night. Jenny was still at my house, and when Tina saw her again the topic of conversation was naturally about matters far removed from dead wildlife.

  So Tina told no-one about the fox. It was only days later, when its significance was all too obvious, that she even remembered it.

  And by then it was too late.

  18

  Two things happened over the next twenty-four hours. Of the two, it was the first that had most people talking. At any other time this was an event that would have been a source of scandalized gossip, subject to endless tellings and retellings before it became absorbed into Manham folklore, a chapter of village history to be chuckled and tutted over for decades. As it was, it was to have repercussions that were far more serious than any physical injuries it caused.

  In a confrontation that many thought was years overdue, Ben Anders and Carl Brenner had a fight.

  It was partly drink, and partly animosity, and partly the pressures of recent days. The two men had never made any pretence of liking each other, and the unnatural tensions in the village had the effect of rubbing raw far slighter grievances than theirs. It was almost closing time at the Lamb. Ben had just ordered a whisky to finish, after what he admitted was a pint or two more than normal. He'd had a hellish day at the nature reserve, having to give first aid to a birdwatcher who'd had a heart attack in the heat, as well as coping with the usual crises of the tourist season. When Carl Brenner came into the pub, 'cocky and full of himself', as Ben later put it, he'd turned his back, determined not to give a bad day a worse end by letting himself be goaded.

  It didn't quite work out that way.

  Brenner hadn't come in just for a drink. Fired up over Scarsdale's call to arms the night before, this was both a recruitment drive and an announcement of intent. With him was Dale Brenner, a swarthy cousin unlike him in looks, but a brother in habit and temperament. They were part of a larger group who, under Scarsdale's urging, had taken it upon themselves to patrol the village, day and night. 'Because the police are doing fuck all, so we've got to sort this bastard out ourselves,' was how Brenner put it, echoing the reverend's sentiment, if not his language.

  At first Ben remained silent as the Brenners tried to drum up more volunteers. But then Carl, emboldened by alcohol and his new-found mission, made the mistake of confronting him directly.

  'So what about you, Anders?'

  'What about me?'

  'You with us or not?'

  Ben slowly finished his whisky before answering. 'So you're going to sort this bastard out, are you?'

  'That's right. You got a problem with that?'

  'Only one. How do you know he isn't one of you?'

  Never blessed with the sharpest of minds, that had obviously never occurred to Brenner. 'In fact, how do we know it isn't you?' Ben demanded. 'Digging holes, setting traps. Sounds right up your street.'

  He admitted later that he was merely baiting the other man, didn't stop to think what a dangerous accusation it was. And it pushed Brenner further than he might otherwise have gone.

  'Fuck off, Anders! The police know I had nothing to do with it!'

  'This the same police you said a minute ago were doing fuck all? And you want me to join you? Jesus,' Ben sneered, letting his contempt show. 'Stick to poaching. It's all you're good for.'

  'At least I
've got an alibi! What about you?'

  Ben levelled a finger at him. 'Watch it, Brenner.'

  'Why? Have you or haven't you?'

  'I'm warning you…'

  Bolstered by the presence of his cousin, Brenner didn't back down as he usually did. 'So fucking what? I'm getting sick of you throwing your weight around. And you were quick enough to stick up for your doctor mate last week, weren't you? Where was he when Lyn went missing?'

  'So now you're saying we both did it?'

  'Prove you didn't!'

  'I don't have to prove anything to you, Brenner,' Ben said, his tenuous grip on his temper slipping. 'So why don't you and the rest of your vigilante heroes take your pathetic patrol and shove it up your arse?'

  They glared at each other. Brenner broke first. 'Come on,' he said to his cousin, and it almost ended there. But, unable to leave without an attempt to save face, he couldn't resist one final jibe, 'Fucking coward,' he spat as he turned to leave.

  That was the point when Ben's good intentions went out of the window. And so, very nearly, did Carl Brenner.

  The fight that followed was short-lived. There were enough men in the pub to jump in before it got too far out of hand, which was probably just as well for Ben. Brenner by himself posed no threat, but as big as he was Ben might have struggled to take on his cousin as well. By the time they were dragged apart a table and several chairs had been smashed, and it would be several weeks before Brenner could look at himself again in a shaving mirror – far less shave – without wincing. Ben himself didn't emerge unscathed, suffering various cuts and bruises and dislocating one of his knuckles. All of which, he claimed, were well worth it.

  But the truly serious damage wouldn't emerge for several more days.

  I wasn't there when the fight happened. I had cooked a meal for Jenny, who was staying the night, and Manham's problems had gone from my mind. In fact, I was probably one of the last people to hear about it, as first thing the following morning I went to continue the grim task waiting for me at the mortuary.

  Since Lyn Metcalf's body had been found, Henry had again been standing in for me while I went to the lab. I was doing my best to rush back in time for evening surgery, but the additional workload was taking its toll on him. He was looking tired, even though he'd reduced surgery hours to a bare minimum, running it almost on a skeleton basis when I wasn't there.

  I felt guilty, but at least it wouldn't be for much longer. Another half-day at the lab and I would have done as much as I could. I was still waiting for most of the test results, but so far Lyn Metcalf's remains had yielded a similar story to those of Sally Palmer. There had been no real surprises, except the question of why the first victim's face had been so badly battered while that of the second had been left untouched. Also, with the decomposition less advanced, some of Lyn Metcalf's fingernails had still remained on the body. They'd been broken and torn, and the forensic lab had found hemp fibres attached to some of them. Rope, in other words. Whatever else had been done to her, it seemed she'd been tied up.

  Other than the wound that had opened her throat and the horrific mutilation, Lyn's injuries had been mainly superficial cuts. Only the one to her throat had left its mark on the bone. Like the one I'd found on Sally Palmer, it had been caused by a large, sharp blade. Probably a hunting knife, and almost certainly the same one, although at this stage there was no way of proving that for certain. But it wasn't serrated. Which left me no wiser as to why the two women had been killed with one weapon, while another had been used on the dog.

  I was still worrying at it as I went into the waiting area after the last patient had left. The evening surgery had been quiet, with barely half the number of patients as normal. Either people were loath to worry about more trivial complaints in the face of the larger tragedy, or there was another, even less palatable reason why so many had decided to avoid their doctor. Or one of them, at least. Requests to see Henry were higher than they had been for years, more and more people apparently preferring to wait rather than see me.

  But I was too taken up by Jenny and my work at the lab to worry about it.

  Janice was tidying the waiting room when I went in, straightening the mismatched old chairs and restacking the dog-eared magazines.

  'Quiet night,' I said.

  She picked a child's puzzle off the floor and put it back in the wooden box with the other toys. 'Better than a room full of sniffles and hypochondriacs.'

  'Fair point.' I appreciated her tact. She knew as well as I did that my appointment list was shrinking. 'Where's Henry?'

  'Having a doze. I think surgery this morning took it out of him a bit. And don't look like that. It's not your fault.'

  Janice knew I was doing something for the police, if not exactly what. There was no way I could have kept it from her, and no real reason to. She might have liked to gossip, but she knew where to draw the line.

  'Is he OK?' I asked, concerned.

  'Just tired. Besides, it's not just the work.' She gave me a meaningful look. 'It would have been his anniversary this week.'

  I'd forgotten. There had been too much else going on for me to keep track of dates, but Henry always became subdued around this time of year. He never spoke about it, any more than I did when mine came round. But it was there, all the same.

  'It would have been their thirtieth,' Janice went on, keeping her voice down. 'Makes it even worse, I suppose. So in a way it's good that he's working more. Helps him keep his mind off it.' Her expression hardened. 'It's just a shame that-'

  'Janice,' I said, warningly.

  'Well, it is. She didn't deserve him. And he deserved better.'

  The words came out in a rush. She seemed close to tears.

  'Are you all right?' I asked.

  She nodded, smiling tremulously. 'Sorry. But I just hate seeing him get upset over…' She broke off. 'And all this other business. It just wears everybody down.'

  She started bustling over the magazines again. I went over and took them off her.

  'Tell you what, why don't you go home early for once?'

  'But I was going to vac up…'

  'I'm sure we can stand to be a health hazard for another day.'

  She laughed, more herself again. 'If you're sure…'

  'Certain. Do you want a lift?'

  'No! It's too nice an evening to be sitting in a car.'

  I didn't insist. She only lived a few hundred yards away, and most of that was on the main road. There was a point where being safety conscious became paranoia. Still, I watched through the window as she went down the drive.

  When she'd gone I went back to the magazines she'd left and made a token attempt to finish straightening them. A few old copies of the local parish newsletter had found their way into the pile, left by patients too idle to throw them away. I dropped them into the bin, but as I did something on one of their pages caught my eye.

  I retrieved it from the waste bin. Sally Palmer's face smiled brightly out at me. Below her photograph was a small piece about Manham's 'celebrity author', printed a few weeks before she'd been murdered. I hadn't seen it before, and it was unsettling to find it now, after her death. I started to read it and felt as if the air had been driven from my lungs. I sat down, read it again.

  Then I went to phone Mackenzie.

  He read the article in silence. He'd been at the mobile incident room when I'd phoned, and when I told him about the newsletter he'd come straight over. The back of his neck and hands were livid with sunburn as he read the story. When he'd finished he closed the paper without expression.

  'So, what do you think?' I asked.

  He rubbed at the peeling and reddened skin on his nose. 'It could be just coincidence.'

  He was being the policeman now, professionally uncommunicative. And he might be right. But I doubted it. I picked up the newsletter and looked at the story again. It was only short, little more than a filler on a quiet news day. The caption read 'Country life gives wing to local author's imagination'. The quo
te that had inspired it was at the end:

  Sally Palmer says living in Manham helps her to write her novels. 'I love being this close to nature. It helps my imagination take flight. It's the next best thing to having wings,' says the critically acclaimed writer.

  I put the newsletter down. 'You think it's a coincidence that someone stuck a pair of swan wings into her back a couple of weeks after she said this?'

  Mackenzie showed signs of exasperation. 'I said it could be. I'm not prepared to say one way or the other just off the back of a flimsy item in a newsletter.'

  'So how else do you explain the mutilation?'

  He looked uncomfortable, like a man forced to recite a party line he wasn't convinced by himself. 'The psychologists think it might be a suppressed desire for transformation. Giving her angel wings after he'd killed her. They say he could be some religious nut who's obsessed with a higher state.'

  'What do the psychologists say about the other dead animals? Or what he did to Lyn Metcalf?'

  'They're not sure about that yet. But even if you're right, that' – he gestured at the newsletter – 'doesn't explain it either.'

  I chose my words carefully. 'Actually, that was something else I wanted to talk to you about.'

  He regarded me cautiously. 'Go on.'

  'After I called you I looked through Lyn Metcalf's medical notes. And her husband's. Did you know they were trying to start a family? They were considering fertility treatments.'

  It only took him a second to get it. 'Baby rabbits. Jesus,' he breathed.

  'But how would the killer know about that?'

  Mackenzie looked at me, debating something. 'We found a pregnancy testing kit hidden in a drawer in the Metcalfs' bedroom,' he said, slowly. 'There was a receipt in the bag, from the day before she went missing.'