by Vicary, Tim
‘She must have stood on the chair, then kicked it away,’ he said hoarsely. ‘She’d be hanging with her feet off the ground.’
‘Or someone else kicked it away for her.’ Jane’s eyes, dark with horror against the pallor of her face, met his across the body. The same thought occurred to them both. Is this it? Could Peter Barton have been here as well?
Terry nodded. ‘That’s the first thing we have to establish. Whether it’s suicide at all.’
A car drew up on the gravel outside, and the doctor, a stout man in tweed suit and brogues, lumbered in, breathing heavily after the short walk from his car. For form’s sake he felt for a pulse, but the cold wrist told a tale beyond doubt. He peered at the face and the scarf round the neck and shook his head sadly.
‘Can you give us any idea of the time of death, doctor?’ Terry asked.
The doctor felt the legs and arms, lifting them slightly to estimate rigidity. Then, wiping a smear of faeces out of the way, he lifted the pelvis to insert a thermometer into the rectum. When it came out he pursed his lips thoughtfully and looked around. ‘Well, given that it’s pretty cold in here anyway and the poor dear’s quite bare, I would suggest somewhere between ten and twelve hours. Might be longer.’
‘So she was hanging here all night until the delivery man found her,’ Jane said thoughtfully. ‘Poor woman. What a dreadful way to go.’
‘It was that Tesco driver who found her, was it?’ the doctor asked, getting to his feet and stepping carefully round the puddle of urine. ‘I thought he looked a bit wobbly when I came in. I’ll check him over before I go.’
‘We’d better get a statement from him too, Jane, when he’s fit,’ Terry said. ‘You’ll arrange a PM, will you, doc?’
As Jane and the doctor went out, Terry called up a SOCO team on his mobile. Then he stood for a moment, alone in the hall, thinking. Just himself and the soiled, pathetic body at his feet. Who are you, lady, he asked her silently. What happened here last night? What would you tell me if you could speak?
He turned his head slightly and was startled by the sight of his own reflection in a mirror on a wall facing the staircase. He looked at himself - a tall, thin man in a crumpled double breasted suit, with a puzzled frown on his face. Behind his head to the left, he saw the frayed end of the scarf, swaying slightly where he must have brushed it as he stood up. A second shock came to him, a refinement of the horror of finding the body. She didn’t just hang there, he realised, she could see herself hanging in the mirror!
Jane came back into the hall, stepping carefully around the body. As she did so the cat came out of the kitchen and rubbed itself against Terry’s legs, miaowing hopefully.
‘I’ve spoken to the driver. He arrived here shortly after nine with a delivery of groceries, he said. The uniforms will take him in for a statement after the quack’s given him the okay.’
‘Good.’ Terry showed her the mirror. ‘What d’you make of this?’
Jane studied it, awestruck as the implications sank in. ‘She watched herself die?’
‘Yes. She must have done. Couldn’t avoid it unless she closed her eyes, and ...’
‘How long do you think it would take?’
‘What, hanging like that?’ Terry glanced at the body and shuddered. ‘Not an easy death, no way. No fall to break her neck. She was strangled, suffocated. Could have been three, four minutes even, before she lost consciousness.’
‘And all that time fighting for breath?’ Jane said slowly. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it? Even if you did it to yourself you might have second thoughts.’ The cat got under her feet and she shooed it into the kitchen.
Terry bent down, to examine the woman’s throat. ‘No claw marks, that I can see.’
‘What?’ Jane looked uncomprehending, appalled. Terry realised she’d misunderstood.
‘Not the cat. I’m talking about her own claws - fingernails. If she’d had second thoughts or just panicked as anyone would if they couldn’t breathe, then what would you do? You’d try to tear this thing away from your throat, and probably draw blood in the process. But there’s no sign of that here.’
‘Maybe she did want to die, then,’ Jane said.
‘Her body didn’t,’ Terry said. ‘She was scared shitless. Quite literally.’
‘But that’s just a physical reaction.’
‘Exactly. That’s my point, sergeant, don’t you see? Even if she wanted to kill herself she couldn’t control these basic bodily reactions brought on by the terror of dying. So how come her hands didn’t react in the same way and try to tear herself free?’
‘Perhaps she was drunk - or doped. I’d knock myself out, if I was going to do something like this.’
‘Maybe,’ said Terry doubtfully. ‘The post mortem will tell us that. And I suppose it’s also possible she lost consciousness straight away, and the shit and the piss came afterwards.’ He shook his head thoughtfully. ‘Unless someone helped her, of course.’
‘A single woman living alone,’ Jane said.
Their eyes met for a long, thoughtful moment. Is this really suicide, or another one in the series? Out here in the country, a single woman dead in her house. Hanged with a scarf. Terry bent to examine the woman’s wrists, then shook his head slowly. ‘No sign of anything here.’
‘No sign of what, sir?’
‘Restraint. Rope, tape, anything to tie her wrists so that she couldn’t reach her throat. That’s what you do, isn’t it, when you hang people - tie their wrists first. Otherwise they fight, try to escape. Maybe she really did want to die, after all.’
Jane, like Terry before, was staring at the mirror. ‘I don’t get it, sir. I can’t imagine it, somehow.’
‘What?’
‘Well, if I was going to kill myself ... I don’t think I’d do it like this, not after I’ve seen this body ...’ she shuddered. The smell in the hall was still strong. They were both struggling to keep down their nausea. ‘... but then maybe she didn’t know, not what it would be like, I mean. But even so, one question we haven’t asked, is why is she naked? Especially in front of a mirror. I mean, it doesn’t look as if she was a particularly beautiful woman and even if she was, well if you’re going to do that to yourself, why look? I mean why would anyone take all their clothes off first and do it in front of a mirror? It doesn’t make sense - especially if you think of people like us.’
‘People like us?’
‘Yes, all of us.’ She waved her arm towards the back door, where the uniformed constables and paramedics still hovered. Beyond them, a white SOCO van was parking on the gravel. ‘All of us, the doctor, the uniforms, the SOCOs - you must know someone is going to find you and all this investigation is going to take place. And most of the people will be men, they always are. So why take all your clothes off? Most women would be embarrassed. I would.’
Terry smiled. It sounded like typical female logic to him. ‘If you’re going to die, it hardly matters, does it? We come naked into this world, and go naked out of it.’
‘No sir, you don’t get it. It’s humiliating. Just because you want to kill yourself doesn’t mean you want to humiliate yourself too. Whereas a man ...’
‘A man wouldn’t mind humiliating himself, you mean?’ A vision came to him of himself, hanging naked in front of this mirror and how it would look. Light began to dawn. ‘No, a man wouldn’t do this either. Not a normal man.’
‘Not to himself, sir, no. But to a woman he would.’ Jane stared at him triumphantly. ‘Don’t you see? If he hated her enough to want to kill her, he might want to humiliate her as well. Especially like this. Probably get a kick out of it too.’
Terry nodded. ‘I see your point, sure. It’s hardly proof to put before a jury, though, is it?’ Two men in white overalls climbed out of the SOCO van outside the front door. ‘But there’s something not right about this. Maybe these lads can find what it is.’
He went to the front door, where the leader of the SOCO team stood observing the scene. ‘Suspi
cious death, Bill. Looks like suicide, but until we know better, I want you to treat it as a potential murder case.’ He stumbled as the cat rubbed between his legs, purring. ‘And someone ring the RSPCA, about this poor cat.’
31. Sarah and Emily
TRAVELLING SOUTH to Cambridge again, Sarah reflected on the past few weeks. As the train pressed her back into her seat she thought, my life is like this, I’m being carried to a new destination by forces stronger than me, that I can’t control. A memory entered her mind of a poem, by Shakespeare she thought, of the seven ages of man. Man, of course - nobody thought women mattered back then - but anyway the point was clear. There was an illustration, she remembered, of man starting out as a baby - a ‘mewling puking infant’ - at the foot of a bridge which arched across the page to the right. A few steps higher up the bridge was a schoolboy, and then a young adult, both looking stronger and more confident than the one before, and then the adult man stood on the arch of the bridge - Man at the height of his powers, master of the universe, monarch of all he surveyed. After that - she wasn’t quite sure what came next, it hadn’t seemed relevant at the time - but it was all downhill, she knew that. Presumably the man getting older and weaker and more frail, until he stumbled off the foot of the bridge on the far side, a geriatric old hunchback in slippers, dribbling like a baby, crippled with arthritis, waiting for death.
Great. Nice one, Sarah. Very cheering thought. She pulled a face at her reflection in the window, and thought that’s not going to happen to me, not ever, not for a hundred years. Not yet anyway. But she did feel her life going downhill at the moment, accelerating out of control, as if she’d slipped on a ski run and was sliding to the bottom on her bum. No, that’s another image of disaster, she told herself firmly; I’ve got to get control of this somehow. How about a roller coaster? Yes, that’s a better image of life. We rise to a peak of achievement, then relax, glide down for a while, but there are other peaks ahead, some small, some even higher than before. That’s it - I must use the momentum of change to climb the next peak.
She sipped her coffee and looked around. There were people reading, texting, typing on their laptops. All different lives, all separate dramas. Not many people actually talking to each other or travelling together. Well, I’m like that too, just now. Alone if I have to be. Strong all the same.
Still, I do have family. Simon’s been round twice in the last fortnight, bless him. More than in a whole month before that. He’s clearly concerned, though he doesn’t say too much. But then he never was a great one for talking. And Emily. Well, I’m going to see Emily now.
She’d been upset when Emily told her she was going on a skiing holiday in the New Year. It meant less time at home. But that’s what you hope your children will do at university, she told herself firmly - meet new friends, have new experiences. She’d see Emily at Christmas, after all; that was good news. Only for a few days, though - she was going to London at the end of term, and then Birmingham with Larry, coming home only on Christmas Eve. That was why Sarah was going to Cambridge now. She’d booked a long weekend so they’d have ample time together.
Arriving late Thursday evening, she booked in at the Garden Court Hotel. She ordered a salad from room service, phoned Emily to arrange a time to meet tomorrow, had a bath and went to bed. Next morning, at breakfast, her mobile rang. Glancing at it, she saw a number she didn’t recognise. ‘Hello?’
‘Hi.’ A man’s voice - Michael! She hadn’t programmed his number into her phone, she realised. ‘How’re you doing?’ he asked.
‘Oh, all right. Eating breakfast.’
He sounded cautious, and she wasn’t surprised. She’d been brusque and offhand when he’d cancelled their date on Wednesday, and had deliberately expunged him from her thoughts since then. Her voice now was cool, neutral. She picked a dried apricot and chewed it while waiting to hear what he’d say next.
‘I was just ringing to apologise again for standing you up like that. It was unavoidable, but unforgivable too.’
‘Yes, well, I was a bit surprised.’ If it’s unforgivable, don’t expect to be forgiven, Sarah thought. ‘Did you get your house problem sorted out?’
‘More or less. It took ages.’ He hesitated, and she picked another apricot, not caring if he heard her chewing. ‘Anyway, I wondered if we could meet some time next week. Make amends, if you’ll let me.’
‘Maybe. I’ll check my diary. I haven’t got it here at the moment.’
‘Oh.’ He sounded discouraged. ‘Where are you now?’
‘In Cambridge. At the Garden Court Hotel.’
‘Really? What are you doing there?’
‘Visiting my daughter. I’m going to see a play she’s in.’
‘But that’s fantastic! I’ll be in Cambridge tomorrow. I’m driving down to meet Sandra. On the same errand as you, really.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Her heart fluttered. She saw where this was leading, and wasn’t sure how she felt. On the one hand it would be nice to see him, on the other - not in front of Emily, surely! She had come to spend time with her daughter, not this man. She could feel him thinking it over as well.
‘Yes. I’ll be taking Sandra Christmas shopping, I expect. Maybe we could meet?’
‘I’m not sure. I don’t know what Emily’s plans are and ... how she’d feel.’
‘About me, you mean? I see the point. Still, maybe we could meet tomorrow evening, or Sunday. I could give you a lift back.’
‘I don’t know. Let’s see how things go.’
‘All right. I could come to your hotel, if you like. The Garden Court, you say?’
‘Yes. Look, give me a ring tomorrow, will you? I’ll decide then.’
She clicked off her phone and stared out of the window, thinking. She wasn’t sure whether to frown or smile - her face in the window looked weird, distorted like a reflection in a fairground mirror. Two days ago he’d stood her up; yet here he was keen and friendly once again. I ought to refuse him, she thought, and yet ... where’s the harm? It’s not as though I have so many friends I can afford to turn new ones away.
And last time I was here, Emily actually encouraged me to attract a new man. So how would she react if I introduced her to Michael? Sarah trembled at the thought. Highly unpredictable - that’s the only reliable prediction I can make.
She finished breakfast and crossed town to meet Emily in her college. Her daughter’s room was chaotic, but more homely than she remembered it before. Music throbbed from a CD player, there were posters on all the walls, and incense from joss sticks perfumed the air. Emily looked pink-cheeked and healthy, but a little distracted, Sarah thought. They embraced, and Emily stood back to look at her.
‘Same old smart mother,’ she laughed. ‘No one would take you for a don or a student.’ Emily was barefoot in jeans and teeshirt, her hair damp and tousled as if she’d just emerged from the shower. Sarah wore her new spiked suede boots, and a dark skirt and jacket under a long woollen coat.
‘Well, I’m not a student, obviously,’ she said. ‘I’m your mother, a visitor from the real world.’
‘Yes.’ Emily turned the music down and put a kettle on. ‘How’s that going, Mum?’ A careful, sympathetic look appeared on her face.
‘Am I surviving on my own, you mean? Yes, very well, I think, in the circumstances. I met your father this week.’
‘And? How was he?’
‘Different. He has a new leather jacket and haircut.’
‘Dad? In a leather jacket?’ Emily looked astonished. ‘Why?’
‘Trying to look younger, I suppose. Starting a new life.’ She felt sudden tears prick in her eyes, and peered out of the window to hide them. ‘Maybe he even feels younger.’
‘Oh Mum, I’m sorry.’ Emily put an arm round her mother in an awkward embrace. ‘That must have been awful.’
‘It wasn’t the best day in my life.’ She hugged Emily tightly for a second, then stood back and smiled. ‘How about that coffee?’
They sat either side of
the gas fire, Sarah in a battered armchair, Emily on a purple beanbag, and sipped their coffee. Sarah described her meeting with Bob, and how she had agreed to put the house on the market. ‘I don’t want to, darling,’ she said. ‘But it’s like you said before, I have no choice, really. And when you’re faced with something really nasty, it’s best to get it over as soon as possible.’
‘But you’re a lawyer, Mum - can’t you fight it?’
Sarah shook her head. ‘Not that sort of lawyer, unfortunately. Anyway, I don’t want to get into a legal fight with your father. We did love each other once, after all.’
‘Yes, but he left you, Mum.’
‘I know, and he’s not coming back. I’m beginning to accept that now, but it’s hard, of course. It’s just ... if I keep moving ahead, start a new life, that seems the way forward. So I want to sell the house now and get shot of it, since I have to do it anyway. If I look back I’ll be lost. Just collapse into a sentimental puddle on the floor.’
‘You, Mum? I don’t think so.’
Sarah smiled ruefully. ‘You think I’m tough, don’t you? Not tough - hard. You’ve always thought that.’
It was a little too close to the truth. Emily struggled for words. ‘You’re strong, Mum, that’s what I meant. Stronger than most other girls’ mums.’
‘Am I? Well, thank you for that. But I tell you, I don’t feel strong a lot of the time. If I thought I’d lose you, too, or Simon ...’ She stared into the fire. ‘There’s a limit to how strong anyone can be on their own.’ She looked up. ‘You are coming home for Christmas, aren’t you? I won’t have sold the house by then.’
‘Of course I am, Mum, I told you. But - there’s London first, and then Birmingham. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Not as long as you’re with me at Christmas.’ Sarah sipped her coffee. ‘What are you doing in London?’
Emily smiled. ‘You’ll see tomorrow night. It’s this band I’m in. Adrian’s got us some gigs in London. It’s scarey, but lots of fun too. I sing, you know, as well as play the flute.’
