A Reconstructed Corpse

by Simon Brett

  More important than all these arguments was the fact that Marchmont’s suicide ruined the dramatic structure of the crime. The murderer’s slight lapse, in making his first two discoveries of body parts too similar, had been more than retrieved by his stunning inspiration of the torso in the chest.

  Surely the mastermind behind that must have planned some even more sensational coup de théatre for the discovery of the head – particularly given the fact that it wasn’t the head everyone was expecting.

  But now that dramatic sequence had been broken. Presumably in the next few days Greg Marchmont’s flat would be entered and the head in the pressure cooker found. And that discovery would be fed to the media in the usual journalistic way. Given the build-up, it would make a distinctly bathetic last act to the murderer’s play.

  For a moment, Charles toyed with the idea of the Public Enemies office receiving the suggestion that they take their cameras when the door to the flat was broken down. Bob Garston and Roger Parkes would have leapt at the idea, he was sure, and for Geoffrey Ramage, to direct the shot of the camera homing into the interior of the pressure cooker would have been the consummation of all his ambitions. To make the event even more exciting, they could do it as a live Outside Broadcast.

  But, appealing though the idea might be to the programme-makers, Charles knew that even in television there are limits, and he couldn’t see such a sequence being allowed by the IBA.

  It would be another sensational first, though, for Public Enemies – the entire ITV audience watching as the camera revealed that the severed head belonged not to Martin Earnshaw, but to Ted Faraday.

  That change was the real shock, and Charles’s battered mind had not yet worked out all the effects it had on his previous thinking about the case.

  One immediate question arose – was there one murder victim or were there two? Did all the scattered body parts belong to Ted Faraday, or was it a kind of ‘Mix’n’Match’ situation between the dead private investigator and the dead property developer?

  The arms had certainly been identified as belonging to Martin Earnshaw. Which was why Charles Paris was once again travelling down to Brighton.

  His first thought had been just to ring her up, but then he’d remembered that the police were recording all her calls, so decided on a face-to-face confrontation. The surveillance team might be recording everything that was said in the house as well, but that was a risk he’d have to take.

  Even though it was daytime, there was still no one about in the road where Chloe Earnshaw lived. Before he rang the bell, Charles looked across, but no unmarked van was parked opposite. If the police protection was continuing, it now had a more discreet profile.

  Chloe Earnshaw did not appear surprised by his arrival on her doorstep. Nor was she hostile. Indeed, she seemed pleased to see someone who had even the most tenuous connection with the world of television.

  ‘I haven’t had a single call from that Public Enemies lot for nearly a week,’ she complained as she led Charles through into the kitchen. ‘Tea? Coffee?’

  ‘Coffee, please.’ It might help his head a bit. ‘You saw last night’s programme, did you?’

  ‘Yes.’ She busied herself with the kettle.

  ‘Must have been quite a shock for you.’

  Chloe Earnshaw shrugged and turned to face him. She was swamped in a big black jumper that came down almost as far as her short black skirt. Tights and shoes were also black. ‘Quite honestly, I’ve had so many shocks since this thing started, I hardly feel them any more.’

  If she’d been saying that on camera, Charles reckoned, all over the country people would have been murmuring, ‘Plucky little thing.’ As before in Chloe’s presence, he could feel the sexuality coming off her like a strong perfume. He had to remind himself how very unerotic actual physical contact in the form of their kiss had been.

  ‘Still, if you did see the programme, you can understand why they didn’t need you for any more reconstruction or appeals. A rather more dramatic development in the story had broken, hadn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but they could have told me they weren’t going to need me. I spent most of the week by the phone, waiting for them to call.’

  Charles had heard those lines more times than he could recall, though usually from actresses who’d gone up to an interview for a television part and then not heard another word. He was struck by how very like a disgruntled actress Chloe Earnshaw behaved. Her husband’s fate had become secondary to her own affront at being ignored by Public Enemies.

  ‘They’ve obviously been very busy,’ Charles conciliated, then couldn’t help adding, ‘and good manners are not something for which television as an industry is particularly well known.’

  ‘Huh.’ The kettle had boiled. Chloe Earnshaw turned back to make the coffee, continuing bitterly, ‘I don’t know – they pick you up, get you all excited, and then drop you – just like that.’

  ‘Yes . . . When you say “get you all excited”, you mean excited about the prospect of solving your husband’s murder?’

  Charles felt the reproachful beam of those dark blue eyes. ‘Yes, of course I mean that.’

  ‘Hmm . . . And have all the other telephone calls stopped too?’

  ‘Which other telephone calls?’

  ‘The ones from the members of the public.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, those. There never were that many of those. I mean, the programme’s phone lines got plenty, but hardly any came through here.’

  ‘Except the one from the woman who’d seen Martin leaving the pub and going to the pier . . .’

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes, of course, there was that one, but that’s about it . . .’

  ‘I thought you were moved back in here so that you could answer the phone if anyone rang . . .?’

  ‘That may have been one of the reasons. Sugar in your coffee?’

  ‘No, just black. Thank you. Are the police still recording all your telephone calls?’

  Another petulant shrug. ‘I don’t know. They’re supposed to be. Mind you, they’re supposed to be keeping me under twenty-four-hour surveillance and I haven’t seen much sign of that recently either.’

  ‘Well, they wouldn’t want to make it obvious, would they?’

  ‘If you’re under surveillance by the British police, you know you’re under surveillance by them. Look, they let you walk in here this morning without any questions, didn’t they? You could have been a thug out to murder me for all anyone cares.’

  ‘Mm. But have you actually been told by the police that they’re stopping the surveillance?’

  ‘I’ve been told they’re “cutting it down”. Some stuff about resources being stretched and personnel being needed for other duties. It seems I’ve ceased to be a priority with the police as well as with Public Enemies.’ The disgruntled actress tone in her voice was stronger than ever.

  Charles thought about what she’d said. It could just be that the protection of Chloe Earnshaw had moved down the priorities, but, so long as the threat to her safety remained, that was unlikely. She had become such a nationally known figure, that if she came to any harm the police’d never live it down.

  A more attractive thesis was that Chloe Earnshaw’s protection had been scaled down because the risk to her was perceived to have diminished. Which could possibly suggest that the police knew that it wasn’t her husband who had been murdered.

  Time for Charles to move on to the reason for his visit. ‘Chloe, do you ever consider the possibility that Martin might still be alive?’

  It was a cue and Chloe Earnshaw took it like the professional she was. She went straight into television mode. The dark blue eyes misted over as the textbook answer came out. ‘Well, of course I sometimes wake up in the morning thinking for a split second that it’s all been a ghastly dream, but then reality comes thundering in. I kept thinking Martin was still alive for as long as I possibly could – even when every kind of logic told me how futile such hopes were. But once his arms were found, well . . . I c
ouldn’t pretend any more.’

  There were plenty of Equity actresses Charles knew who couldn’t have managed that little half-sob in the last few words.

  ‘You identified the arms, didn’t you?’

  Chloe Earnshaw gave a brave little nod.

  ‘Must’ve been ghastly for you.’

  ‘Not the greatest moment of my life, no.’

  ‘And . . . I hope you don’t mind my asking this, but what about the other body parts?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Did you have to go through the process of identifying them too?’

  Chloe Earnshaw shook her head. ‘I offered to, but it wasn’t thought necessary. Once they’d checked that the various bits matched, that they came from the same body . . .’ Her speech trickled away into quite convincing sobs. ‘I think, if the head ever gets found, I’ll have to.’

  The picture she was building up seemed increasingly odd to Charles, though it did tie in with Sam Noakes’s complaints about incomplete forensic examination. He wondered whether the scope of the police investigations into the case had been deliberately restricted.

  ‘Could you . . . I’m sorry, Chloe, I know it must be painful for you to go back over all this, but I do have a reason for asking . . . could you tell me a bit more about when you identified the arms . . .’

  She gulped, but gave a resolute little toss of her head. Charles may not have been a television audience of millions, but at least he was an audience. ‘Yes, all right. What do you want to know?’

  ‘I want to know how you actually did identify the arms as belonging to your husband.’

  ‘Well, obviously they were his.’

  ‘But how did you know? Was there any distinguishing mark you recognised? A mole? A scar?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. I just knew.’

  ‘So there was nothing that made you absolutely certain beyond any possible doubt that they belonged to him?’

  ‘Well . . . There was his watch.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘It’s a Rolex – well, it’s not, it’s a fake Rolex. One of Martin’s clients brought it back from Hong Kong for him.’

  ‘And that was still on the arm?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you actually spend long looking at the arms?’

  ‘No!’ She grimaced. ‘It’s not something you want to spend long doing.’

  ‘Of course not. So what exactly happened? Were the arms in a mortuary?’

  ‘No, it was kind of a – I don’t know, a forensic laboratory sort of place . . .’

  ‘Here in Brighton?’

  She nodded.

  ‘And what . . . You went into the room and they were lying there on a table?’

  ‘No, they were in a kind of drawer thing, and a woman police officer took me through to look at them.’

  ‘What did she say to you?’

  ‘She said, “There’s something we’d like you to look at, Chloe, and I’m afraid it may be bad news.” And I said, “What, you mean Martin?” and she said, “Yes, and I think I’d better tell you now – what you’re going to see is two severed arms.”’

  ‘What did you say to that?’

  ‘I said I felt sick. I did.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘And she said, “Don’t worry, you won’t have to look for long.” And then I said I was OK, and she took me through and opened the drawer . . . and I could see the Rolex through the polythene and –’

  ‘The arms were wrapped in polythene?’

  ‘Yes. And I said, “That’s him” and then I rushed out. I thought I was going to be sick.’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘No, not as it happened, but she took me to the ladies’ and I was crying and she . . .’

  Chloe rambled on, but Charles was too preoccupied with his thoughts to listen much. It certainly didn’t sound as if the identification of Martin Earnshaw’s arms had been the most scientifically elaborate since forensic pathology began. The policewoman had put the thought into Chloe Earnshaw’s mind of what she was about to see, and the confirmation of identity had been based on a momentary glimpse through polythene. It was only the fake Rolex that connected the limbs to Martin Earnshaw. And you can buy fake Rolexes all over the world.

  If the arms has actually belonged to Ted Faraday, then it was likely that the rest of the body, as well as the head in the pressure cooker, was also Ted Faraday’s.

  Charles once more became aware of what Chloe was saying. ‘. . . but I’m going to see that whoever’s done this awful crime is brought to justice. I don’t care about my own safety, Sam,” I said, “I just want –”’

  ‘Sam? Did you say “Sam”?’

  She nodded.

  ‘You mean Sam Noakes? Sam Noakes was the woman police officer who accompanied you when you identified the arms?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Chloe, puzzled by the urgency of his enquiry.

  ‘But –’

  He stopped. They looked at each other. Anxiety glinted in Chloe Earnshaw’s eyes. They had both just heard the front door opened with a key.

  Charles gave Chloe an interrogative look, and she nodded him permission – or something in fact more like an order – to go through into the hall.

  Charles Paris pushed the kitchen door gently open.

  A man with his anorak hood up stood in the hall. His back was to Charles as he closed the front door.

  The man shook the hood off as he turned round.

  It is hard to say which of them was the more surprised.

  Charles Paris found himself looking at Martin Earnshaw.

  Chapter Eighteen

  CHARLES HAD been in this situation before, but only in Shakespeare plays.

  He’d given his Sebastian in Twelfth Night at Norwich (‘Sebastian is admittedly a boring part, but he doesn’t need to be quite as boring as Charles Paris made him.’ – Eastern Evening News), and when confronted by his cross-dressing twin Viola (played by a right little raver, as his memory served) had heard the Duke say:

  One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons;

  A natural perspective, that is, and is not.

  Then again, in A Comedy of Errors at Exeter, he’d given his Antipholus of Syracuse (‘Charles Paris twitched through the play, as if worried he might have left the gas on at home.’ – Western Morning News) and, appearing on-stage for the first time with his unknown twin brother, Antipholus of Ephesus, had heard the duke (it’s a rule in Shakespeare that only dukes get speeches like this) say:

  One of these men is Genius to the other;

  And so of these: which is the natural man,

  And which the spirit? Who deciphers them?

  Facing Martin Earnshaw was different. For a start, Charles Paris didn’t reckon they looked anything like each other. Mind you, he hadn’t thought he looked much like the little raver playing Viola or the old queen playing Antipholus of Ephesus. And in the Earnshaws’ hall there was no handy duke ready with a little speech to convince everyone they looked alike – really.

  Charles was aware of Chloe moving to his shoulder.

  Martin Earnshaw caught sight of his wife and a spasm, almost like fear, ran through him. ‘Chloe,’ he announced nervously, ‘I had to come back and talk to you face to face.’

  There was a hissing sound from behind Charles, as Chloe Earnshaw, the nation’s favourite tragic widow, spat out the words, ‘You bastard! I told you never to dare come back here!’

  Suddenly she was past Charles and into the hall, hurling herself at her husband. Martin Earnshaw raised arms to shield his face as her nails ripped towards it. He backed away from her flying feet as they hacked into his shins.

  Charles was so surprised that it took a moment before he moved in to get Chloe off her husband. By then she had pulled a horn-handled walking-stick out of the hall-stand and was about to bring it down on Martin Earnshaw’s head.

  She was amazingly strong and, as Charles pinioned her arms, turned all her aggression on him. He felt the nai
ls gouge into the flesh beneath his eye and the teeth meet through his sports jacket and forearm. It took a full five minutes before he could subdue her.

  ‘It’s not something any man’s proud to admit,’ said Martin Earnshaw, ‘that his wife beats up on him.’

  ‘No,’ Charles Paris agreed, feeling the bruises on his face swelling.

  ‘A battered husband – I mean, it just sounds so pathetic.’

  Each had a pint of beer. They were sitting in the pub in Trafalgar Lane into which Charles had followed Greg Marchmont only a few weeks before. They were there because it was near the station and Martin had arranged to meet someone who was arriving on a train from London.

  ‘Has she been like that ever since you’ve known her?’

  ‘No, obviously not right at the start. I’d never have married her if I’d seen her in one of those moods. But really, from the moment we were married – even on the honeymoon – she started hitting me.’

  ‘And you never hit her back?’

  ‘No, I’m . . . I’ve never really been that kind of person. I was a bit naive, I suppose. My first marriage worked fine, but unfortunately my wife died. I met Chloe and, well . . . I was very flattered that someone as young and dishy as her was interested in me. She was the one who suggested getting married, actually. I’d never have dared ask her, but . . . well, I couldn’t believe my luck, and I just assumed that everything would be like it was with my first wife. I certainly wasn’t left with that illusion for long.’ He took a rueful sip of beer.

  ‘Didn’t you think about just leaving her, walking out?’

  ‘Oh, of course I did, but it wasn’t easy. It takes a long time to believe something like that’s actually happening to you. You think things’ll change, get better.’

  ‘But they didn’t?’

  A gloomy shake of the head. ‘No. I did make elaborate plans for escape when I first realised what the situation was. I thought of going abroad. I even took to carrying my passport around with me all the time. But somehow . . . being with Chloe sort of sapped my will. I couldn’t . . . I don’t know . . .’