by Alex Walters
'I'm free to go now?'
'You're free to go now, Mr Callaghan. We can give you a lift to your father's house, if that's where you're heading.'
'I hadn't really thought about it. I suppose so. Thank you.'
Winterman nodded, his eyes fixed on William. 'No place like home, eh?'
William nodded, his expression suggesting his mind was elsewhere. 'No place at all,' he said finally.
Chapter 25
Winterman hesitated then pressed the doorbell. Somewhere deep inside the house he heard the faint chime but there was no sign of life in the blank windows.
He was beginning to curse himself for embarking on a fool's errand. The sky was darkening again, threatening more snow. The ever-present east wind was blowing harder across the fens, and even in his heavy overcoat, hat and scarf he was starting to feel bloody cold.
He had detected no movement from inside, but the door opened unexpectedly, a face peering through the narrow gap.
'Bloody cold!' Winterman said, breezily, then immediately regretted the words.
If it was Mrs Griffiths answering the door, she would almost certainly not approve of bad language. Even if it was the daughter, she might be shocked.
Half expecting the door to be slammed in his face, he leaned forward. 'It's me. DI Winterman.'
The door opened a few more inches. It was the daughter, Mary. She regarded him for a moment, expressionless. Then she smiled. 'Bloody cold,' she agreed, with an amiable vehemence that surprised him. 'Bloody, bloody cold.'
'Sorry to disturb you…' He hesitated, suddenly unsure whether he should address her as Mrs or Miss.
'Mary.'
'Mary,' he repeated. After all, she was a member of his own team, he told himself.
She nodded as if in approval that he had succeeded in repeating her name correctly. 'Would you like to come in…?' She hesitated to indicate she was waiting for him to give his own name. When he didn't immediately respond, she added: 'Or should I call you sir?'
'No, of course–' He was already on the back foot. Perhaps she had been well trained by Mrs Sheringham. 'Ivan,' he said finally.
Her smile widened, but avoided turning into a laugh.
'I know,' he said. 'My parents were big admirers of the Bolsheviks. I was born at the wrong time.'
'Weren't we all.' The smile hadn't wavered. 'You'd better come in, Ivan.'
He followed her into the gloomy hallway, then through into the kitchen. 'Come in here. It's the warmest room. Though that's not saying much.'
The kitchen was as neat as he remembered from their visit the previous day. Some newly washed crockery was stacked tidily by the sink. 'How's your mother?'
'Bearing up. She's in the back room with the children. Likes to keep busy. I hope you didn't mind me not coming in today. What with the snow and everything.'
'I don't think anyone really expected you. Even without the snow.'
'That's good of you. Would you like a cup of tea?'
'I'd love one. If only to warm my fingers on.'
She gestured for him to sit down at the kitchen table and busied herself with the kettle. 'What can we do for you?'
It was a good question. Winterman had given Marsh some guff about pastoral care – Mary being a colleague. 'I'd better just check how she and her mother are, after yesterday.' He wasn't sure Marsh had bought it. He wasn't sure Mary was going to buy it either.
'I just wanted to see how you were,' he said, speaking perhaps slightly more honestly than he'd intended.
'Me?'
'And your mother,' he added. 'After yesterday. It must have been a shock.'
'For Mother, yes. I didn't see much.'
'No, I suppose not.' He was already running out of things to say. Infanticide wasn't conducive to intimate small talk.
She carried the teapot over to the table and took some cups from the cupboard above the sink. 'I'm afraid we're out of milk. And sugar, for that matter. I think we do still have some tea though.'
'I don't take sugar. I should let you have my ration.'
She laughed gently, pouring the tea. 'I'll take you up on that. We never have enough.'
'The least I can do.'
'In return for what?' She frowned, though her eyes were still playful.
'Just for a colleague.'
'Well, thank you.' She nodded towards the back door. 'When do you think they'll be coming to deal with it? The body, I mean.'
'I'd hoped later today. Depends on the weather. Whether they can get out from HQ.'
'And whether they can be bothered. I know HQ.'
'In fairness, it won't be their top priority anymore. We have another body. A little more recent.' He briefly recounted the finding of Fisher's body.
'Reverend Fisher? Old Joe? Goodness.'
'Not necessarily the most appropriate word, from what I understand.'
'Perhaps not. He wasn't much liked round here.'
'Enough for someone to kill him?'
'I wouldn't have said so. But then who dislikes someone enough to kill them?'
'Plenty of people, in my experience. But it's not easy to understand.'
'But you think he was murdered?'
'We've not had the doc look at him yet. But it seems an unlikely accident or suicide.'
'You don't seriously suspect William Callaghan?'
'You know him?' This wasn't quite the conversation Winterman had had in mind, but he supposed it would do.
'A bit. I mean, a place like this, you know everyone a bit. I've seen him around. Enough to say hello to.'
'You don't think he's a killer?'
'I can't imagine many people as killers. But not really. Not William.' She paused. 'I probably shouldn't say this in the circumstances, but I do think he's a bit – well, nervy is probably the word.'
'Nervy?'
'I don't quite know how to put it. I don't want you to misunderstand. It's just that, from what I've heard, he's someone who gets very wound up about things. I think it's why he drinks. That's the only time he seems relaxed.'
'What kind of things?'
'Most of this is second hand. But things to do with his father, mainly. They don't get on. They've been known to have blazing rows in the street.'
'I understand there was some bad blood between the father and Fisher.'
'On Fisher's side, mainly, from what I've heard. William's father was one of those responsible for getting Fisher relieved of his clerical duties – but that was understandable enough. Then of course there was the wife. You'll have heard about all that.'
'How she left the reverend to take up duties as the father's housekeeper.'
She laughed. 'Something like that. The old man had a few housekeepers over the years.'
'Must have kept a tidy house,' Winterman agreed, straight-faced.
'Spotless,' she smiled. 'How's the tea?'
He regarded the pale brown liquid in his cup. 'Bracing. I think that's the word.'
'Like Skegness. But warmer, I hope.'
'Definitely warmer. I could take you there. Skegness, I mean. In the summer.' The words had slipped out before he could stop them, buoyed on the back of their banter. But he knew from experience it was best to trust his instincts. The alternative was to wait too long, miss the moment.
Her mouth was slightly open. The look in her eyes, he was relieved to note, remained playful. Perhaps he hadn't misjudged. 'That's very kind of you, Ivan.' She placed a faint emphasis on his name. 'But I hardly know you yet.' The tone was gently mocking.
He nodded, giving full consideration to this point. 'But then we're still a long way from summer.'
'You're not backwards in coming forward, I'll say that.'
'Life's too short.' This time he did immediately regret the words, recalling her widowhood.
But she showed no reaction. 'As you say, we're a long way from summer. Let's see, shall we? Plenty of time to get to know one another.'
He felt more relaxed, with the sense that some first hurdle had been clea
red. He heard the distant toot of a car horn outside and glanced at his watch. 'I'll need to go. Marsh is picking me up.'
'Paul.' It took him a moment to realise this must be Marsh's first name. It hadn't occurred to Winterman to ask.
'Paul.' He repeated the word with the air of one learning a foreign language by rote. It also hadn't occurred to him, he realised, to wonder whether there might be any other man in Mary's life. Paul Marsh, for example. But he didn't think so. Another area in which he'd learnt to trust his instincts.
She followed him through into the hallway. There was no natural light other than the pale illumination from a stained-glass fanlight over the front door. It was a narrow space, gloomy with dark heavily patterned wallpaper.
'Do you want to see Mother before you go?'
Winterman remembered his ostensible for visiting and hoped his faint blush was invisible in the dim light. 'I don't want to disturb her if she's with the children.'
There was an unreadable twinkle in Mary's eye as she turned to open the front door. 'I'll tell her you were asking after her.'
Marsh was outside, leaning casually against the gate. He gazed at Mary and then beyond her to Winterman with undisguised curiosity.
Winterman eased his way past Mary, out into the icy air. The sky was heavier than ever, definitely threatening more snow.
'Doesn't look promising,' he said to Marsh. 'Let's hope we can get back okay.' He glanced back at Mary. 'Don't feel you need to come in tomorrow.'
'I might not be able to if there's more snow. I'll do my best.'
'What's happening at Fisher's?' Winterman asked Marsh.
'HQ team are there now. I've asked them to make sure they come here next. You know, to deal with–'
'We know.' Winterman turned to Mary. 'I don't imagine we'll need to disturb you or your mother again on that. We've got your statements.'
'I'll tell Mother. And I hope I'll see you tomorrow – Inspector.'
The momentary pause before the last word told him she was teasing. He had wondered whether she might use his forename despite Marsh's presence. It was probably only a sense of mischief rather than propriety that had prevented her. He hoped so anyway.
He turned back to find Marsh still gazing at him, his curiosity clearly undiminished.
'Nice girl,' Winterman said tonelessly.
'Very nice,' Marsh agreed. 'Everyone says so.'
'Any word of Pyke yet? We need to get the gen on Fisher's body.' A consummate gear change, he thought ironically. Masterful double declutching.
'Funny you should say that.' Marsh jerked his thumb towards the black Wolseley parked by the front gate. Pyke was in the back seat, his homburg pulled forward over his eyes. He looked as if he might well be asleep.
Winterman raised an eyebrow. 'Where'd you find him?'
'He turned up at Brain's on his motorbike. Looking for a telephone so he could call into the office.'
'So where's he been all night? Not,' Winterman added, 'that it's any of our business.'
'Staying with a friend apparently. Got stranded out here. Couldn't risk his bike in the snow. Found someone to give him shelter.'
'Lucky man then.'
'Or plenty of friends.' Marsh was already trudging back through the snow towards the car. 'I thought we should take him up to Fisher's. Let him have a gander at the body in situ so they can get it back to the mortuary.'
Winterman followed him to the car. As Winterman climbed into the back seat, Pyke tipped back his head, peering from under the brim of his hat. 'We must stop meeting like this.'
'People will talk.' Winterman eased himself back into the firm leather seat as Marsh executed a neat U-turn.
'People already are talking,' Pyke pointed out. 'We seem to be collecting dead bodies. Now you've killed the vicar?'
'Ex-vicar. And not personally, you understand.' Winterman was watching the empty snow-bound fields. Marsh's driving was as cautious as ever. 'But yes, it looks like murder.'
'Seems an extraordinary coincidence. Three murdered bodies in the space of a couple of weeks.'
'Though only one of them new, of course.'
'That just makes it odder.'
'Or more of a coincidence.'
Marsh pulled up in front of Fisher's cottage, remaining seated as Pyke and Winterman climbed out. Hoxton was leaning against the front wall, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He nodded an acknowledgement at their arrival and gestured over his shoulder. 'Experts in there.' He imbued the first word with an impressive disdain. 'Didn't want me under their feet.'
'How are they doing?' Winterman asked.
'Nearly finished, I reckon. Just waiting on the good doctor here with his bag of tricks.'
'At your command.' Pyke stepped past Hoxton into the gloom of Fisher's hallway.
'So what's the story?' Winterman asked.
'Nothing new.' Hoxton proffered his cigarette packet. 'Definitely murder, unless the doc surprises all of us. He didn't fall on the knife by accident.'
'And it would be an impressive way to commit suicide.' Winterman cupped his hand to light his cigarette.
'More impressive than you think.' Hoxton blew a steady stream of smoke into the grey air. 'They're waiting on the doc's view, but there's a bit of a mystery about the stabbing.'
'What sort of mystery?'
'When and why, for a start. They reckon he was already dead when the knife entered his chest. That's why there wasn't much blood. They say the poor bugger was probably suffocated.'
'Suffocated? So why stick a knife in him?'
'Beats me, guv. They were waiting on the doc to be sure, but that's the way they've pieced it together. Looks like the poor bugger had gone out into the garden for some reason when someone waylaid him, grabbed him from behind and thrust something across his mouth. Held it there till he stopped breathing.'
'Suggests some strength.'
'Fisher was hardly Charles Atlas. Don't reckon it would have taken that much.'
'So why stab him?'
'As I say, beats me. To make sure he was dead?'
'It might explain why young Callaghan didn't see the knife last night though. If it wasn't there when he first went out.' Winterman paused, thinking. 'Brain reckoned Callaghan touched the knife when he turned the body over, so his fingerprints will be on it. But maybe they were on it already. If the knife was put there when Callaghan was asleep on the sofa, maybe the killer had already pressed it into his hand. Perhaps the killer was attempting to frame Callaghan for the murder.'
Hoxton snorted. 'You been reading too much Agatha Christie, guv? Though, of course, if Callaghan is the killer, he knew his prints would be on the knife so he made sure that Brain saw him touch it.'
'Rather than just wiping the handle, you mean?'
'You started it, guv. But if we're playing Sherlock Holmes, perhaps he was too drunk to think about it the night before, but was quick-witted enough to cover himself in the morning.' Hoxton tossed his cigarette butt out into the heaped snow. Winterman automatically offered him one of his own, which Hoxton took with a nod of thanks. 'But it's a bit far fetched.'
'What about footprints around the body? Any clues there? This snow must be good for something.'
'There are some. But through all the layers of snow it's difficult to be sure what might belong to Fisher and what might belong to Callaghan. Or anyone else. They've taken dozens of photographs, but I can't honestly see them telling us much.' He stepped back, with the air of one who had just received a telepathic signal, as Fisher's front door opened and Pyke's head peered out.
'Hope you chaps aren't getting overheated out here. I'm just about done.'
'Anything to report?' Winterman said.
'Oh, plenty. I'll have it on your desk tomorrow.'
'I'll try to contain my anticipation. Anything interesting, I meant?'
'A very different question, dear boy.' Pyke moved out to join them on the doorstep, unceremoniously holding his hand out for one of Winterman's cigarettes. 'Certai
nly a bit fresher out here. And I don't just mean the sobering scent of decay. Fisher's housekeeping left something to be desired.'
'Cause of death?' Winterman asked.
'Your chaps guessed right. It turns out that, against all the odds, it wasn't actually that bloody great knife sticking out of his chest that killed him. He was already dead by then. Some sort of chemical was used on him. Chloroform at a guess, but we can confirm that back at the shop.'
'Somebody who knew what they were doing?'
'Probably. Certainly wasn't just opportunist.'
'And he was stabbed after death. So why would someone do that?'
'I just deal with the what, when and how,' Pyke said. 'I'll leave you to deal with the why. Not to mention the who.' He squinted up at the lowering sky. 'I've told them to get their magic boxes over to that little kiddie's body. Before the snow comes down again. Someone'll need to go with them.'
Winterman glanced at Hoxton. 'I'll go. They can always give me a lift back afterwards, and you and Marsh can be getting home.'
'Won't argue, guv,' Hoxton said. 'I'll be glad to get out of this bloody cold. Looks like more snow though. Don't get caught.'
'I'll survive.'
'I don't doubt it.' Hoxton glanced from Winterman to Pyke, his expression blank. 'It always helps if you've got friends to call on though, eh, doc?' His face broke into an unexpected smile. 'Give you a lift back to your bike?'
Chapter 26
He stepped out into the rain, staring up at the black sky.
He had never seen rainfall like it. Incessant, pounding, the air thick with water, visibility down to a few feet. Walking out into it was like throwing yourself into the ocean. Within seconds, despite the raincoat he had hurriedly thrown on, he was soaked to the skin, freezing cold, the icy water trickling down his neck, into his shoes. He could feel the chill eating into his body. The temperature had risen a degree or two as the rain fell, but this was still a winter storm, precipitation on the verge of turning into sleet.
It had to be nearly dawn but he could see nothing. The wind had picked up again and was buffeting the house behind him, rattling the loose sash windows, whipping through the overgrown garden, roaring down the passageway by the back door.