by Alex Walters
'Still sleeping it off, I imagine. I'll go and rouse him.'
'Be gentle with him. Probably still needs his beauty sleep. Not like you and me.'
'Beautiful enough, us.'
'Too right. Okay, I'll get phoning. See if I can round up some reinforcements.'
'Good luck with that,' Hoxton said sceptically. 'I'll see if I can round you up a nice cup of tea while you're waiting.'
Chapter 37
Whatever his qualities, Brain ran a tight enough ship.
Winterman was standing in the middle of the business end of the police house. He had sat in there before, during the interview with William Callaghan, but hadn't really noticed the room. He looked around, taking in all the detail.
It was a small room, designed to accommodate all kinds of police business. And it was clear that Brain took that business seriously. The walls were lined with Government information posters, some of them dating back to the war but still relevant. Food is a weapon – don't waste it. We can do it.
There was a small table and three chairs. On the table was a tray with various forms stacked in neat rows. There were two olive-green metal filing cabinets and an imposing mahogany desk which didn't look like police issue. Above the desk, an Ordnance Survey map was pinned to the wall.
Winterman peered closer. A large-scale map of the local area with Framley just off-centre. Neatly labelled pins marked various local landmarks – the nearest fire station, two hospitals, various police stations. Three more pins, each adorned with a small black label, identified the sites where the bodies – Fisher's and the first two children's – had been found. Yes, Brain took the police business seriously.
Winterman picked up the phone and dialled the operator, asking to be put through to headquarters.
When the phone was finally answered at the switchboard, he asked for Superintendent Spooner.
'DI Winterman.' Spooner's voice boomed down the line. 'How are they treating you out there in the back of beyond?'
Spooner was a bluff figure, well liked if not particularly well respected by the majority of those who worked for him. Winterman's contact with him had been limited to date – Spooner had arrived after Winterman's departure to London – but he suspected that the rank and file might have got it wrong. Beyond the superficial bonhomie, he hadn't warmed to Spooner, but he'd already developed a wary respect for the senior officer's savvy and his survival instincts.
'They're treating me very well, sir,' he responded cautiously.
'Keeping you busy, are they, Winterman?'
'I'm certainly being kept busy, sir.'
'From what I hear, you've stumbled across a hotbed of crime. What is it so far? Three bodies?' Spooner could easily have been discussing the previous Saturday's football scores.
'Four, sir, actually.'
There was a momentary pause at the other end of the line. Winterman congratulated himself for having caught Spooner momentarily off guard.
'Does that mean another one?' The joviality had diminished, to be replaced by an obvious wariness. Winterman could imagine Spooner calculating the implications of this news.
'Another child. Just like the first two. We found it this morning, so we don't have any medical or forensic information yet, but it looks the same. The same age. Roughly the same period since death. Possibly even the same cause of death.'
There was another pause as Spooner absorbed what he was being told. 'Good God, man. What are they up to out there?'
'That's what I'm trying to find out, sir.' Winterman only just prevented himself from adding 'with respect.' 'But we need more resources.'
'So does everyone, Winterman. We're stretched as thin as a tart's negligee as it is.'
The metaphor was typical of Spooner. Trying that bit too hard. 'I appreciate that, sir. But this must be a priority. If we don't get some results, the local populace will start to panic.'
'Kiddie killer on the loose, you mean?'
'Something like that. It's only a matter of time till the press get hold of it. I'm sure they'd be here already if it wasn't for the snow.'
There was a pause at the other end of the line as Spooner weighed up the situation. 'Correct me if I'm wrong, Inspector,' he said finally, 'but these bodies have been dead for some time?'
'Apart from Fisher's.'
'So there's no reason to assume any killer is actually out there.'
'We don't know that there isn't. More to the point, neither do the local people. Someone killed these children. And someone's making sure we find the bodies.'
'And you've no idea why? Why the bodies are being revealed?'
'As yet we know very little. You'll appreciate that the investigation isn't easy in the current conditions.'
'Nothing's easy in the current conditions, Inspector. That's precisely why we're so short of resources.'
And touché, thought Winterman, cursing himself for allowing Spooner the opening. 'Yes, sir.'
'I do appreciate the situation. I'll see what I can do.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'Good luck, Inspector.'
I'll see what I can do, Winterman thought. The mantra of unhelpful bureaucrats throughout the war. I'll see what I can do. Three-fifths of bugger all. He placed the telephone handset back on its bracket, realising that Hoxton was standing at the door watching him.
'No luck then,' Hoxton said.
'He'll see what he can do.' He stopped as he registered the expression on Hoxton's face. 'What is it?'
'Something funny. Funny peculiar. Marshy.'
'What about him?'
'Not there.' Hoxton stood in the doorway, his hands thrust into his pockets, looking as if he were challenging Winterman to contradict him.
'What do you mean not there?'
'What I say. He's not there.'
Winterman frowned. 'He must have got up early. Gone out for a breather or a smoke.'
'Marshy don't smoke. I don't think he's slept in that bed either.'
'What?'
'Bed sheets have been tossed about. Made it looks as if someone's slept in 'em. But I'm not daft.'
'You mean Marsh has been out all night?'
'Looks that way. I'm pretty sure no one slept in that bed last night.'
'But he made it look as if he had?'
'Tried to.'
'Why would he do that?'
'No idea. Maybe got a ladyfriend hereabouts. But it's bloody odd. Not like the lad.'
'He's a big boy,' Winterman pointed out. 'He can look after himself.'
'Even so, I don't much like the thought of him being out all night in this weather.'
'Unless he's been with a ladyfriend, as you put it.'
Hoxton stared at him for a moment, his blank face revealing nothing. 'Who knows? But I've a bad feeling about it.'
Chapter 38
Brain made his way across the churchyard, stepping cautiously through the heavy snow. It was full daylight, but the sky was still grey and lowering, threatening yet more snow.
He didn't think of himself as a cowardly man, on the whole. When duty called, he'd never been worried about squaring up to the drunks tumbling out of the pub on a Saturday night or the gypsies who needed moving on from someone's farmland. He'd even tackled a housebreaker once – a panicked young man who had threatened Brain with a non-existent knife.
But this case was beginning to unnerve him. He had found himself hesitating at the entrance to the churchyard, wondering what might be waiting among the ranks of snow-covered graves. He had glanced nervously at the looming church, conscious of the shadows in its angled walls and buttresses, shadows that might conceal… well, who knew what?
And there before him was the tomb Winterman had described. A long-gone local dignitary who had merited something slightly more ornate than the plain stones that adorned the majority of the graves.
Brain steeled himself for the sight of the child's body, unsure what to expect. He had not seen the first two infant bodies, and Fisher's prone corpse had carried little emo
tional impact. But the remains of a small child…
Though he felt mildly guilty to acknowledge it, the body proved an anticlimax. Even from a few feet away, it was simply a mound of snow, unrecognisable as something that had once been human.
Brain returned to stand by the gate. He shuffled backwards and forwards awkwardly, unsure what he was supposed to do. He was realising he had drawn the shortest of short straws. His only responsibility – albeit a critical one – was to keep people away. But at that time of day and in this weather, there was no one around anyway. It was, as everyone kept saying, bloody cold.
He stood for a moment contemplating the options. Just because this was a routine job, that didn't mean he shouldn't take it seriously. Attention to detail, that was what distinguished the best officers, especially those like Brain who had ambitions to progress into the CID. Unfortunate as this case might be, it was a once in a lifetime opportunity to make an impression on those who could help progress his career.
So he had to get this right, or at least avoid making a fool of himself. That meant, first of all, keeping away any unwelcome visitors which ought to be easy enough. Second, though Winterman had said nothing about it, it meant protecting the crime scene. Brain's knowledge of forensics was limited to the little he had picked up in basic training and the sensationalised details he gleaned from the crime novels he devoured so enthusiastically. But he knew the scene should not be disturbed.
In an effort to keep warm, he tramped along the stone path from the gate to the door of the church itself. He kept one eye fixed on the gate in case anyone should enter. The other eye he kept, much less assiduously, on the body itself, his mind speculating on the reasons why it had ended up in such a bleak spot.
It was on his fourth or fifth traverse of the path that he spotted something. He had walked a yard or two further than before, closer to the church, and, as he turned to walk back, he glanced towards the body and his eye was caught by something in the shadows.
Beside the gravestone, just a few feet from the body itself, was a darker patch, a stain showing faintly through the covering of freshly fallen snow.
Brain hesitated. He should fetch the inspector. But that would mean abandoning his post and he wouldn't be thanked if this turned out to be nothing.
He delayed a moment longer and then stepped out across the pristine snow towards the grave. He was right. There was something there. A darker patch, half-hidden beneath the overnight snow.
Blood.
He had no idea where the thought had come from, but he knew instantly that he was correct. He took another step forward and reached out with a finger to touch the soiled snow.
Chapter 39
Pyke opened his eyes, already conscious that something was wrong. It was as if some lingering shred of a bad dream had lodged in his brain before waking. A nightmare in which he'd done something unforgiveable, committed some unspeakable crime. Incurred some unshakeable guilt.
Guilt.
He rolled over in the soft warm bed. Not his own bed. Not even Howard's guest bed.
Bloody hell. He was so bloody stupid. So bloody, bloody stupid.
He could smell Howard's distinctive cologne, another of those affectations that Howard maintained in the face of rationing and austerity. He could smell – this was the truth of it – Howard himself.
How much had he drunk last night?
Not that much. A few Scotches. A couple of Howard's patent cocktails.
He should have had more bloody sense. He had known what Howard wanted, he had known – he had always known – that Howard cared nothing for any consequences.
Pyke knew that, in his heart, he wanted the same. He had always wanted it. That was why he had become involved with Howard in the first place. But his head knew it was insane. He was gambling everything – his career, his livelihood, his friends. It was different for Howard. Howard was an actor, for God's sake. In that world, it was almost compulsory.
He sat up and pulled on a dressing gown that, presumably, Howard had left for him. It was like coming home. This bedroom. The scent of Howard. The simultaneous sense of comfort and despair.
The bedroom was as immaculate as ever, Howard somehow managing to convey the sense that he had simply passed through, making a few tasteful adjustments, but leaving no corporeal traces.
Pyke glanced at his watch. Already nine thirty. He had been due at work an hour ago, though he had negotiated a flexible enough routine with the university over the years. They paid him peanuts, and allowed him to come and go more or less as he pleased. He eked out his income with the police work. At some point, that neat arrangement was going to come unstuck. Another risk.
He moved towards the bedroom door, mentally rehearsing the impending conversation with Howard. Then he stopped as it occurred to him that it would be politic to get dressed before he went downstairs.
So where had Howard put his bloody clothes? He couldn't imagine that, the night before, he had done anything other than dump them on the chair beside the bed. So Howard had presumably tidied them that morning, part of his familiar drive to ensure that nothing in the house appeared to have been touched by a human hand.
Pyke pulled open the doors of Howard's rococo wardrobe and peered inside. Howard's own handmade suits, expertly pressed shirts, a neat rack of typically gaudy ties. And a pair of boots.
Pyke leaned forward and peered at the boots. They were Howard's, sure enough – a pair that Pyke had bought as a present at a point when he could scarcely afford it. Howard had worn them two or three times before growing bored with them.
But he had worn them again, very recently. The boots were dark around the soles, still wet from a walk in the snow.
Pyke picked up one of the boots and stared at it thoughtfully. It was sodden, the sole and heel thick with mud, the uppers stained from the moisture. Howard had been out recently – certainly since the previous night.
Howard had never been one for moonlit walks. Or any other form of walks, come to that. If Howard had braved the overnight snow and mud, something odd was going on.
Pyke replaced the boot and closed the wardrobe door. Stepping quietly across the carpet, he opened the bedroom door. From somewhere below, he could hear the burbling of the wireless – a piece of light classical music typical of Howard's taste. Pyke paused for a moment, listening, before crossing to the bathroom.
The bathroom was another of Howard's affectations. He had eschewed the functionality that still characterised most people's sanitary arrangements. The overall design, Pyke supposed, was intended to suggest Chinese inspiration – swirling patterns of dark greens and golds. Pyke found it vaguely disorientating, like stepping unexpectedly into the depths of a jungle.
The bathroom was as immaculate as the rest of the cottage. But it was where Howard kept the large wicker basket into which he disposed of his dirty – or, more accurately, briefly worn – clothing, pending its twice-weekly washing.
Pyke bolted the bathroom door behind him. The wicker basket stood, as always, between the bath and the airing cupboard. He raised the lid.
On top were the clothes that, as far as Pyke could recall, Howard had been wearing the previous evening. Pyke could not quite remember – in truth, did not want to remember – what had happened to those clothes at the end of the alcohol-fuelled night. But, however and whenever the clothes had been removed, they had subsequently been put back on again. Another unprecedented action on Howard's part. Because the clothes, like the boots in the bedroom, had apparently been worn for an excursion into the snow. The expensive-looking trousers were damp and muddy. Even Howard's white silk shirt was speckled with dirt.
So Howard had been somewhere during the night. And Howard would not have left the house, in the small hours, in the snow, without some significant purpose. Some significant purpose likely to benefit Howard.
What the bloody hell had he been up to?
Pyke replaced the lid of the laundry basket, unlocked the door, and stepped silently back out on to
the landing.
It was all another risk. That was the thing with Howard. There was always something else. Always another bloody risk.
Chapter 40
'Yes, it is urgent,' Winterman said. 'When are you expecting him?' He paused, listening. 'But he does work for you? I mean, he's still employed by the university?' Another pause, then Winterman gave a wry smile. 'Quite right. And, no, we don't know where he is either. Just tell him it's urgent, as soon as you speak to him. Tell him it's Framley again. He'll understand.'
Hoxton was sipping on his tea, staring out of the window at the snowdrifts outside. He turned as Winterman replaced the receiver. 'No luck with Pyke then?'
'Not been into the office yet. They assume he's stuck in the snow. '
'And the lass pointed out that he works as much for us as he does for them. Put you in your place.'
'Young people,' Winterman agreed. 'No respect. Anyway, he only freelances for us.'
'We probably pay him more than the university. And we both let him come and go as he pleases.'
'No point in trying to tame an academic. They always find their way back out into the wild.'
'Just as well,' Hoxton said, 'given how difficult it is to house-train the buggers.'
'No word on Marsh?'
'Not a dicky.'
'What do you reckon? Do we go and look for him?'
'Where would we look? We can't go scouring the streets. We'll just have to wait.' It wasn't clear what potential outcome Hoxton had in mind.
Winterman's response was pre-empted by the shrill ringing of the telephone. He snatched up the receiver, expecting news of Pyke. 'Police. Can I help you?' There was a lengthy pause, as Winterman took in what was being said. 'Where are you now? Okay, hang on, we'll be there in a few minutes. You're sure now?' Another pause. 'I believe you. We'll see you there.' He replaced the receiver.
'Don't tell me,' Hoxton said. 'Brain.'
'He's a smart lad. Reckons he's found something.'