by Anna Legat
Gillian’s first instinct would be that it was another case of mercy killing – a family member putting their loved out of their misery, but that tape doesn’t make any sense. ‘Why tape her mouth?’
‘Beats me.’ Webber tells her.
‘How exactly did she die?’ Gillian asks Dr Almond. He is new and they aren’t yet on a first name basis; in fact, she doesn’t even know his first name. He only started collaborating with Sexton’s CID this summer. The most distinctive if not distinguishing feature about him is his huge walrus moustache and equally enormous sideburns, which had given Gillian an almighty fright when she first encountered Almond. He looks like a reincarnation of Kaiser Wilhelm.
He takes off his face mask, but this time she is prepared for the voluminous facial hair that springs from under it. ‘It looks like she’s been smothered, but I can’t be definite until after the full post-mortem examination.’
Gillian doesn’t care for the full post-mortem. ‘So the packing tape did the job, you reckon?’
‘No. The tape over her mouth alone would not have done the job, as you’ve put it so daintily. It’s only decorative as far as I can tell, and it was probably added later.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Even if her mouth was covered with the tape, she’d still be able to breathe through her nose. The tape doesn’t restrict nasal passages. My view is she was smothered in the more traditional way – a pillow over the face. But, like I said, I’d need to carry out -’
‘A pillow? You think this pillow may have been used,’ Gillian points to the pillow under the woman’s head, ‘to kill her and then replaced neatly in bed?’
‘Maybe. As I said -’
‘What time?’
‘As I said -’
‘Approximately, what time?’
‘Between four-thirty and five, maybe earlier. It’s very warm in here so the cooling of the body would’ve occurred at a slower rate.’
‘OK.’ That’s the best Gillian can do to thank him. She turns to DS Webber., ‘We need CCTV recordings between four and six.’
‘I’ve already asked. Two CCTV cameras: one at the front, one at the back door. The duty manager is getting the tapes ready for us. She’s also mentioned that Mrs Hornby had only one visitor today – her daughter.’
‘What time?’
‘She didn’t say. We can check entries in the Visitors book. It’s kept at reception.’
‘Let’s do that.’
Wearing the usual protective overalls, latex gloves and paper shoes, they leave the room and head to the reception office. They traverse a long corridor with doors on both sides leading to individual residents’ rooms. One such door opens right in front of them and a small, skinny woman peers out, probably intrigued by the voices and commotion in her neighbour’s room. She takes one look at Gillian and Mark Webber, clutches her chest and emits the most harrowing shrill shriek known to man. She staggers backwards and is caught by Webber before collapsing to the floor.
‘Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!’ she is slapping him about as he tries to escort her back to her room and explain that she has nothing to fear – they are police officers.
A carer is running towards them, shouting, ‘It’s all right, Mrs Fallon! Calm down! It’s only the police.’ The carer takes over from Webber, who is by now well traumatised, and leads the old lady back to her room. Turning towards Webber, she says angrily, ‘You scared the living daylights out of her with all that alien getup! Lucky she didn’t have a heart attack. She’s got a weak heart, don’t you, Mrs Fallon?’
Mrs Fallon whimpers.
Gillian smirks as Webber takes himself out of his overalls.
The carer fixes Gillian with an equally scolding glare, ‘You too, if you don’t mind! ‘ and shuts the door.
Suitably chastised, they find their way to the reception on tiptoe. The duty manager, one Mrs Robson, is there, ready with the CCTV tape. She is a chubby woman in her midfifties, dressed professionally in too small a suit jacket and high heels that make her little feet in contrast with her swollen ankles look like Miss Piggy’s trotters.
Gillian introduces herself to Mrs Robson, who is already acquainted with DS Webber. She checks Gillian’s warrant card carefully as if she has reason to doubt Gillian’s word and her rank. She says, ‘This is terribly upsetting for all the staff, and the residents will be beside themselves with grief when they find out in the morning. Mrs Hornby was well loved by all. Of course, this whole... business... has nothing to do with any of us.’
‘Can we take a look at your Visitors book?’
‘Poor Mrs Hornby has been nothing but a breath of fresh air since she joined us two years ago. She used to be a teacher at our local primary school. She taught me and then my daughter, bless her... And even when she retired, until her mind started going, she’d been working for all sorts of charities – mainly children’s charities... She loved children, our Mrs Hornby. Everyone here knows... I mean knew her as a wonderful person. Kind. Loving.’
‘Yes, great. We’re not looking for a character reference,’ Gillian reminds her. ‘Could we have that Visitors book, please?’
Mrs Robson wipes her nose and points her to the book, ‘Yes, of course. Feel free to have a look. We keep very detailed records: arrival and departure times, signed personally by every visitor.’
Webber reads the entries. ‘Right, Cherie Hornby, that’s the daughter?’
‘Yes, Cherie – Mrs Hornby’s only child. She visits... visited... every day, regular like a clock. Doted on her mother, especially after Mrs Hornby’s condition deteriorated. In the last six months,’ Mrs Robson sighs, ‘it has been painful watching her go downhill so quickly... Poor Cherie! I saw her leave in tears many times. But what can you do? Nothing! There’s no cure...’
‘She arrived at four twelve and left at four twenty... That was a very short visit, wouldn’t you say? Is that normal?’
‘No, of course it isn’t normal!’ Mrs Robson appears highly irritated by the question. ‘Cherie would stay for an hour, or more – normally. But today, it was particularly tough for her. She left in tears. Very upset. I remember clearly because I asked if there was anything I could do and she said no, unless I could make her poor mother remember who she was. She said Mrs Hornby was very agitated and asked her why she was going through her belongings. She accused her of stealing from her. Cherie was beside herself...’
Gillian and Mark exchange a brief, knowing glance, and he thanks Mrs Robson for her assistance. Armed with the CCTV tape and the Visitors book, they head for Mark’s car.
‘Has Cherie Hornby been informed?’ Gillian asks.
‘Yes, Family Liaison have gone to see her.’
‘We’ll leave it until tomorrow,’ Gillian decides to be tactful and considerate of the woman’s loss. But not for long. ‘Tomorrow morning we’ll have to bring her in.’
‘Yeah,’ Webber agrees. ‘If you look at the way the victim was tucked away in bed -’
‘Lovingly, is the word. It looks like the daughter, definitely.’
‘But I can’t figure out the tape. What’s with the tape over her mouth?’
‘Maybe she just didn’t know how to go about it – about smothering her effectively. Maybe it wasn’t as quick as she thought it’d be. Maybe she feared the woman was still alive and she wanted to finish the job. It could’ve been a final touch. Clumsy, unnecessary, but how was she to know? It isn’t every day that people euthanize their parents – she just didn’t know how to do it.’
‘A bit gory for a loving daughter, though. As much as I can understand mercy killing, especially with the distress of watching your loved one turn into this raving stranger accusing you of stealing... You want to end their suffering. Make it quick. But that tape...’ Webber grimaces.
‘Yes, it’s odd. It was applied post-mortem. Plus, it implies premeditation – someone has brought that tape into the victim’s room. Why? What were they hoping to achieve with that? What are we dealing with?�
�
They are sitting in the car. Webber starts the engine. ‘So what’s it going to be – are we visiting the daughter or should I drop you home?’
‘An inexperienced, emotional killer – a spur of the moment killing, perhaps assisted suicide – or a well-thought-through murder?’ Gillian is thinking aloud. Inventorising contradictory raw data. ‘What if the mother had a lucid moment and asked her daughter for help? Maybe the mother had the tape at the ready... Did they find the packing tape at the scene?’
‘No.’
‘Yes.’
Mark Webber looks at her., ‘Yes to what?’
‘To dropping me home. We’ll have more detail tomorrow from the forensics and the pathologist. The daughter can wait. She isn’t going anywhere.’
They drive in silence. Gillian doesn’t like this case. She doesn’t like assisted suicide cases altogether. Who is she to tread over people’s family lives and their pain of watching their loved ones suffer the indignity or agony of terminal illness? She prefers to sweep those cases under the carpet whenever she can, whenever inconclusive evidence permits. But this case is different. It’s that damned packing tape.
It is nearly midnight when Webber drops her at her doorstep and speeds off home to his ailing family. Gillian knows things have taken a turn for the worse with Kate. Webber doesn’t say much about it, but he did say the other day that his mother had come to stay with them to look after the girls when he is at work. So that says it all. Gillian doesn’t want to pry. He will talk to her when he’s ready; if he’s ever ready. She tiptoes inside her dark house. Tara and Charlie must be already in bed, asleep or doing things people sometimes do in the dark, things she doesn’t want to contemplate. At least she doesn’t have to face Charlie Outhwaite and fend off his attempts at family bonding. She feels a bit guilty about dragging him away from his pint, though. She should make it up to him. Maybe take him for a drink to reciprocate for his efforts.
She kicks off her shoes and tells Corky to be quiet when he starts yelping in delight at seeing her. At least someone does. She pats the dog on the head. ‘Good boy, Corky. Do you miss your master? Do you miss Sean?’
The dog’s ears twitch at the sound of his owner’s name. It’ll be a while before he sees him again. Sean has been sentenced to life imprisonment. He will have to serve a minimum term of sixteen years, which isn’t surprising considering that the use of explosives was involved. A long time for a man, an even longer one for his dog.
Gillian has been contemplating visiting Sean in prison. Now that his sentence has been passed there is nothing in the rule book to stop her. She just can’t find the time. Work is one thing, but with the wedding now – will she ever be able to do what she wants? Right now she wants a cup of tea, but can’t be bothered. She is too knackered to put the kettle on. She drags herself upstairs. Before going into her bedroom and collapsing in bed, she has this strong need to see her daughter, make sure she is all right. She listens by Tara’s door for any sound of activity. There is none. She pushes the door open. It wasn’t properly on the latch so it gives way without any resistance. The feeble light from the landing streams into the room. Tara is sleeping with her mouth open, her head resting on Charlie’s chest. His arm is wrapped around her and his face is slightly obscured by her hair splashed across it. They are two matching pieces of the puzzle, joined together. They look happy. Made for each other. Gillian may have to accept it. She smiles, shuts the door carefully so as to not wake them, and shuffles to her room. She must remember to take Charlie for that drink.
VIII
The house is on a hill overlooking the olive grove. Haji has just walked through without being seen by anyone except an old donkey who gave him an impassive glance and went back to grazing. The olive trees are swelling with fruit: big, juicy olives, tasting like heaven. Anything would taste like heaven when you haven’t had a scrap to eat in days. But the olives have hardly touched the sides. Haji needs a decent meal, and some rest. He feels giddy and disoriented; his feet are raw. The smugglers had made everybody take their shoes off, which was all the same on the boat, but climbing rocky cliffs barefoot and walking along dirt roads has proved very trying. Haji has bleeding cuts to show for it. With the dirt getting into the cuts, he fears he may end up with an infection that will put him out of action for days. He must find a place to wash his feet and get some sleep before he continues on his journey. The farmhouse looks promising. It is isolated. From what he can gather, there are only two inhabitants: an old man and his wife.
He has watched the house for a couple of hours: the comings and goings. The woman came out once to feed chickens. The man sat on a bench under the window for hours, smoking and dozing off from time to time. When his wife popped out, he talked to her animatedly. It seemed like he was lambasting her for something, but she wasn’t having it, giving back as much as she took, if not more. They both spoke fast and loud, waving their arms and wagging their fingers. It amused Haji to watch them. Then the woman went back inside and the man chuckled to himself before collapsing into a contented silence on the bench.
A postman came and went, delivering no post. He propped his bicycle against the wall and sat next to the farmer. They had a cigarette and stared at the horizon for a while. The farmer’s wife popped out again, and they all started talking over each other, loud and agitated, arms flying, like they were having an argument. By then, Haji had realised this was how the Italians spoke: fast and furiously. But it wasn’t a row.
When the postman is well out of sight, Haji musters the courage to approach the farmer. He seems like a decent man. His ruddy face is moulded with wrinkles, olive-brown, earthy. He cocks his head when he sees Haji, gets up from his bench and makes a few steps forward towards him.
Haji waves his arm and smiles – he comes in peace. He tries not to hobble too much so that he looks fit and strong, so that the farmer is happy to give him work. ‘Hello,’ Haji says in English, hoping the farmer gets the gist, ‘I’m looking for work. Any work? I can work hard.’
The farmer frowns, eyeing Haji’s face, crumpled clothes, and bare feet with suspicion. He is clearly taken aback by Haji’s request and by the foreign language he is hearing, but he understands. He says, ‘No, no! No work! You go!’ He is waving Haji away.
‘I can pick olives,’ Haji suggests, pointing towards the olive grove. He is nodding encouragement to the farmer, and smiling. Smiling is good. There is never too much smiling.
‘No work! No work!’ the farmer repeats, backing into his house. There is fear in his eyes. Haji has seen and smelled fear so often in his life that no one could ever hide it from him. The farmer won’t be persuaded to give Haji work and shelter – he is scared of him. He is now talking in Italian, gesturing to him angrily and frowning. Haji doesn’t have to know Italian to understand the message – the man wants him gone.
‘OK, I go! OK, no problem!’ Haji assures the man and turns his back to him. He starts walking, this time limping away slowly to show the man that he is weak, that he poses no threat. He can feel the man’s eyes boring into his back. Then he hears the door slam, and he knows the man has gone inside. Haji turns and runs back to the house, bleeding feet notwithstanding. He has no time to spare. Even as he approaches the house, he can see inside it through an open window. The farmer is on the phone. His wife is next to him, cupping her hands with anxiety, bending her fingers. Haji knows they’re calling the police.
He kicks the door in and strides up to the couple. He takes the man out first, cutting his throat in one swift move as he takes hold of his chin and lifts it to expose his jugular vein. The knife slices the skin with ease. The woman shrills. It is the same noise that other woman made on the boat when her husband was shot dead by the smuggler. The same noise all women make in the face of death. It’s a harrowing sound. It stabs Haji in the gut. The farmer’s body becomes heavy in Haji’s embrace. The moment a person dies, their body weighs a ton. Haji drops it. It hits the floor with a thud. The woman’s cry dies on her lips with
that thud. She glances at Haji and runs.
It’s no good for her to run. She won’t make it without her husband. An old woman without her man, she is doomed. In a way, Haji will be putting her out of her misery. But even if he weren’t feeling sorry for her, he would still have to kill her. He can’t afford to let her go free. The first thing she would do would be to call the authorities and alert them to Haji’s presence. He is an illegal alien.
He follows her into the darker, cooler interior of her stone farmhouse and catches up with her in a windowless corner. She has nowhere to run so she slumps to her knees and cries, and pleads with him. She wants to live even though her husband is dead and she won’t make it without him. The instinct of survival is a blinding force. Haji puts his finger to his lips and tells her to shush, her whinnying getting on his nerves. She nods keenly and tries her best to be quiet, now reduced to only just a whimper. He leans over her, steadies her head by holding it by the hair, and cuts across her throat. And she becomes as heavy as her husband. Haji leaves her convoluted body on the floor in a puddle of her still pulsating and still bright red blood.
Now that the farmer and his wife are reunited, Haji takes over their house. He has until tomorrow noon when the postman is likely to come along as he did today, and find them both dead. Stepping gingerly over the dead farmer’s body, Haji raids the kitchen and has a feast of bread, cheese and Parma ham. He stays away from marinated olives. He drinks cold milk from the fridge. When he is full, he scours the house for a medical box. There is bound to be one on a farm. And there is: bandages, an antiseptic spray, a box of aspirin tablets, plasters. Good. He can tend to his wounded feet, but he will do it after he has a wash.
He has a long, warm bath. The heat opens up the cuts on his feet and they bleed into the bathwater, rendering it pink. Haji washes himself thoroughly. He borrows the farmer’s razor to shave after cutting his beard and hair. His reflection in the mirror looks unfamiliar: scarred and sallow. If it wasn’t for his heavily hooded eyes, he wouldn’t recognise the man staring at him from the mirror. His feet are still bleeding as he negotiates the stairs back to the kitchen, leaving bloody footprints on the stone steps. He slumps in a chair, sprays the antiseptic on the soles of his feet, and bandages them, including his ankles. He finds that doing that helps with his left ankle, the one that suffered badly in that blast on the Syrian-Iraqi border five months ago.
