by John Harvey
Lynn rubbed the palms of her hands along the slightly rough wool of her skirt. If the woman was right, then all they were doing here was wasting time. Trying to reassure her wasn’t working anyway: her mind was too firmly set on disaster.
“You’ve phoned round her friends?” the constable asked.
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“Even so. If you’re worried.”
“Besides, she doesn’t have friends. Not like that. Not that she goes out with. People to talk to at work, but that’s all.”
They had already had the story of a marriage gone wrong, blame liberally sprinkled, one thing they could be sure of, wherever Mary was she wouldn’t have gone gallivanting off to see him.
“And you’ve no idea where she was going this evening, Mrs Barnett?”
Again the set mouth, eyes narrow with disapproval. “None whatsoever.”
“Where she usually went on her evening out?”
“She didn’t tell me her business and I never asked.” With effort she shifted round in her chair, arms resting along the wings, fingers gripped. “Though I knew what she was up to, of course.”
Lynn looked at her expectantly.
“She was with a man.”
“Getting really worked up about it, wasn’t she?”
“Her daughter gone missing? Hardly surprising.”
“Her daughter having it off.”
“Is that what you think this is about?”
“Don’t you? If you’ve only got one chance a week.” Lynn blinked and gave a quick shake of the head: another bloke whose ideas about sex were based upon the letters pages in Penthouse and mutual masturbation sessions in the showers after games.
“What would your mum say, then? You and sex.”
“Not a lot.”
“How’s that then?”
“They don’t believe in sex in that part of Norfolk.”
The house was in a short road, cars parked close at either side. A light was on inside number 7, probably the stairs. All of the other houses in the street were dark.
“What d’you reckon?”
Lynn shrugged, tightened the wool scarf across her neck, and rang the bell. It sounded, off-key, inside the house. Through the letter-box there was nothing special: a plastic ball on the carpet, most of the air gone out of it, a piece of Lego.
“Want me to try the back?”
Lynn took from her coat pocket the key Mrs. Barnett had given them. “Why bother?”
“Look, you’re sure about this?”
The backs of her legs were sure; her arms, all the places where the chill touched her, tensing the nerves beneath the skin. The key fitted the lock almost too easily and the door swung open with the first pressure of her hand. Lynn stepped around it and looked-it had been held on the catch, but the lock had not been slipped down.
The light that had been left on was on the landing.
With her gloved hand she depressed the switch on the wall, close by a line of pegs bunched with coats.
“Hello!” The constable called. “Anybody home?”
Lynn opened the door to the first room on the left, turned on the light. Somebody had gone round in a hurry, tidying up. Papers and magazines, Ladybird books, scooped up and set down again in uneven piles; toys squashed up into a corner. Clear across the top of the television, the curve of dust left after a single sweep with the duster.
“Shall I check upstairs?”
“Yes.”
She did not want to go upstairs. Not first.
“Careful what you touch.”
The back room led into the kitchen. Mugs on the table, plates stacked on the draining board, a pan soaking in cold water in the sink, rimed with orange. She heard him coming down the stairs too fast and turned to face him.
“This Mary-houseproud, would you call her?”
“Not exactly. Why?”
“That bed up there’s a proper tip.”
“She’s not…?”
The constable shook his head.
“The bathroom?”
“Not anywhere.”
For several seconds, neither spoke nor moved.
“What d’you reckon?” the constable asked, anxious to be doing something.
“Hang on a minute.”
She walked back into the front room, remembering something she’d only half-noticed. On the floor in the corner alcove, close by the drawn curtains, a handbag. Lynn used finger and thumb to ease it open. Makeup bag, purse, a pair of black flat-heeled shoes, bent double and squashed down. She gave the bag a slight shake. A packet of contraceptives, Durex Elite. Thought about taking it to the table and emptying it out then thought against it.
“Reckon we should phone in?”
She nodded, setting the bag back down where she had found it. Going through the hall, past the crowded pegs, something stopped her. Underneath matching yellow plastic children’s coats, different sizes, hung two pairs of blue and yellow Wellington boots, threaded together at the top with string. Muddy at the bottom.
“Wait here a minute.”
“What’s up?”
“Just wait.”
Back in the kitchen, a step down from the rest of the house, Lynn remembered the cold and knew it had been more than the cold of anticipation. The door to the garden had not quite been pulled to. She touched it open and stepped outside. Stray ends of cloud moved gray across the moon. A bicycle without a rear wheel leaned against the wall. Her toe touched against something and she bent to pick it up. A high-heeled shoe, black, new.
A shape higher up the garden, stretching away.
“A torch! Get me…”
He had been standing closer than she’d realized and the sudden beam of light made her jump.
Oh, God! Oh, Christ! Oh, Christ! Oh, God!
Mary Sheppard was wearing nothing above her waist, a halfslip, coffee or beige, below. The other shoe stuck up from the ground, holding stubbornly to the toes of a foot that angled too sharply aside. One arm bent out sideways, the other reached in a curve above her head as though she had been trying to swim to safety. Dark lines like ribbons drawn through her hair.
“Get through to the station. Tell Jim Peel to come out here. I’ll ring my DI.”
“Sure you’re…?”
“Do it.”
Resnick was dreaming about a child playing with dolls: it was not a pleasant dream. The first sound of the telephone woke him with relief. Ten-past four. Dizzy jumped soundlessly down from somewhere above Resnick’s head, instantly hungry.
“Hello?”
“Sir, it’s DC Kellogg. Sorry to disturb you, but I think you’d better come out…”
As he listened, Resnick pushed his fingers into Dizzy’s short fur, the cat walking and turning so that the length of his body could be stroked without Resnick’s arm having to move.
“Fifteen minutes,” Resnick said, standing, setting down the phone. Dizzy’s high, crooked tail slipped around the door before him.
He arrived in twelve. One flap of his shirt hung down below a gray pullover and a sleeve of his jacket was bunched up beneath his herringbone overcoat. He wore a dark brown scarf but was bareheaded.
The ambulance had pulled in close to the line of parked cars and a police car sat in the center of the street, blue light flashing, blocking traffic. A few lights had been switched on in the adjacent houses.
Resnick nodded to the constable at the front door and went inside. Lynn Kellogg was standing in the living room, in the semi-darkness. That was not where he had to go. Jim Peel was talking with one of the ambulance men in the back room, a second man had the kettle on and was making tea. Out in the garden, Mary Sheppard’s body had been covered over with plastic, a couple of coats.
Resnick reached out a hand and Peel, who had followed him, gave him a torch. First one coat and then the other, top then bottom. He guessed at the temperature. Thirty-odd degrees? The ground was hard beneath his feet in ridges. Earlier that evening it had rained and this would have been mud.
A rough circle of it crowned the heel of the dead woman’s shoe.
The upstretched arm, the fingers that were like marble.
Resnick guessed that by now they would be quite stiff, solid.
He did not need to touch them and so he did not.
He turned and looked at the tall DC, who blinked at him before angling his head away. Resnick switched off the torch and passed it back. The police surgeon was taking off his gloves in the kitchen, watching the ambulance man pour boiling water over several tea bags.
“Why’s it always the middle of the night, Charlie?”
Resnick shrugged and Parkinson eased the gloves into the side pockets of his Barbour.
“Can we get some light fixed up out there?”
“On its way, sir,” said Jim Peel. “Being organized.”
The surgeon nodded and accepted a mug of tea. From an inside pocket he took a small leather-covered flask. “No point in catching my death,” he said, unscrewing the top and tipping a shot of brandy into the tea.
“Sir?”
Resnick spooned two sugars into the offered cup and carried it through to the front of the house. Lynn Kellogg had moved across the room to be close to the window, as if she had considered opening the curtains but decided against it.
“Here,” Resnick said quietly.
At first he thought she wasn’t going to turn around. When she did, he held out the cup and she took it automatically in both hands.
“How you feeling?”
She didn’t answer, watching the surface of the tea, lightly rocking towards the rim of the cup.
“Lynn?”
The cup fell through her fingers and before she could fall also, Resnick had hold of her, the side of her face squashed up against his chest. The fingers of one hand were pressing hard into the corner of Resnick’s mouth. In that light her hair looked no longer brown but black. Resnick thought about the woman lying under those coats in the cold of the garden; thought of Parkinson’s stethoscope, the gilt edges of his bifocals, the rolled gold of the propelling pencil with which he would make his notes.
The strange sound that vibrated through him was Lynn Kellogg’s breathing. The tip of her little finger was hooked over the edge of his lower lip.
DC Peel appeared for a moment in the doorway and went away again.
Only when the breathing had begun to steady, did Resnick say, “You okay?”
She leaned her head back and then to one side, eyes closed and then open. Suddenly embarrassed, she pulled her hand back from Resnick’s face.
“I’m sorry, sir, I…”
“Best sit down.”
“No, I…”
He led her to the nearest chair. Called for somebody to bring two more teas. Lot of sugar in one. When he pulled back the curtains it was still dark, the soft gray darkness that seeks to swallow you up. Back along the street, the police car still leaked blue light.
“Charlie,” Parkinson spoke from the hallway. “A word?”
The pathologist’s report would have to confirm it, but cause of death appeared to be numerous blows with a heavy instrument to the skull. There were also signs of bruising on the neck, around the windpipe and immediately below the jaw. Bruising to the tummy area and above the hips.
“How many?” Resnick asked.
“Sorry?”
“How many is numerous?”
Parkinson pursed his lips. “Ten or twelve, I’d say. It’s hard to be exact. I expect you’ll get a better idea later on.”
Resnick thanked him and turned back into the room where Lynn Kellogg was sipping her tea, staring at the bundle of toys in the corner of the room.
“You didn’t ask?” said Parkinson.
Resnick’s head swung back.
“Somewhere between midnight and one.”
Resnick nodded and went on into the room. The scene-of-crime team was just arriving outside; one or two neighbors were standing on the pavement in dressing gowns and slippers.
“There are two kids,” Lynn said.
Resnick had to bend low in order to hear her.
“Boy and a girl.”
“Where?”
“At her mother’s. The dead…at her mother’s. It was her that called in.”
“I see.”
“Worried that something had happened…” The voice choked and Resnick thought she was going to go again, but she caught herself and continued. “She was worried her daughter hadn’t come to fetch the children. I went out to see her. Promised I’d call round, check; she gave me a spare key.”
Resnick took the cup from her hand and set it down on the carpet. “Will they be all right with her, d’you think? The kids.”
Lynn wiped a hand across her face. “I don’t know. She’s…there’s something wrong with her, arthritis, I don’t know. I don’t think she could cope for long.”
Especially not, Resnick thought, after someone has told her about this.
“All right,” Resnick said, straightening. He rested a hand lightly on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “I’ll sort something out.”
Slowly, she turned her face towards his.
“Before, sir, I’m sorry. I…”
“Is that boyfriend of yours at home?”
“I expect so. I…”
“Give him a ring. He could come out and fetch you.”
Resnick was surprised to see Lynn Kellogg’s face break into a smile.
“What’s up?”
“I’d have to ride on the crossbar.”
Resnick smiled too. “I’ll get someone to give you a lift.”
“I’m all right, sir. Honest.”
“You’ll be better after a few hours’ sleep.”
“My report…”
“You made it to me. Write it up when you come in tomorrow.” Resnick corrected himself. “Today. The only thing I’ll need before you go, the mother’s address.”
Lynn Kellogg, careful to get up from the chair slowly, opened her notebook.
“Hello? Who is this?” Chris Phillips’s voice was thick with sleep.
Resnick told him that he wanted to speak with Rachel Chaplin.
“It’s half-past bloody five!”
“So it must be important.”
“Not so important it can’t wait.”
Resnick sensed he was about to be cut off, but he heard the receiver changing hands and then it was Rachel’s voice.
“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.”
