by Alex Walters
'Thought he was doing crowd control at the churchyard?'
'He is. That's where he found it.'
'Found what?' Hoxton was already pulling on his large boots.
'Blood,' Winterman said. 'A bloody big pool of bloody blood. Right next to that poor child's body.'
'But not the child's?'
'No, not the child's. Been dead far too long for that.'
'Who then?'
The same thought had clearly entered both their minds. 'How the hell should I know?' Winterman said. 'I don't even know if it really is blood. Maybe Brain's got it wrong this time. Let's go and find out, shall we?'
Outside, the morning chill hit them like a blow across the face. 'My Christ,' Hoxton exclaimed. 'You'd have thought if they could invent an atomic bomb, they could do something about this bloody weather.'
They trudged up the high street, making slow progress on the frozen snow. Ahead, the church tower was dark against the heavy grey of the sky. As they rounded the corner past the pub, they saw Brain standing, his body hunched against the cold, with another man by the churchyard gate.
'Who the hell's that?' Winterman said. 'The bloody publican?'
Hoxton squinted. 'Looks like it. You might have guessed he'd be first on the scene. Gossip mongering's part of the job.'
'Hope Brain's not told him any more than he needs to.'
'Young Brain will have told him everything, and won't even know he's said anything. I always reckoned the army should have employed Norman, for all his dicky heart. He'd have been a whiz at interrogating enemy personal. Ten minutes with him and they'd have spilled everything. No bloody thumbscrews. Just Norman's silvery tongue.'
'You know how to cheer a person up, Hoxton. Anyone ever tell you that?'
'Not so's I recall.' Hoxton looked up, replacing his familiar morose demeanour with an unexpected smile. 'Morning, young Bryan. Morning, old Norman. What brings you out here on a day like this?'
Norman gestured towards Brain. 'Young Bryan here brought me out. Needed my telephone.'
Brain looked appropriately embarrassed. 'Didn't think I should abandon my post any more than I could help. Pub's the nearest place with a telephone.'
'Very good, lad,' Winterman said. 'And very public spirited of you, sir,' he added to the publican. 'Thank you. We'd better not keep you out in this weather. '
'In other words, bugger off, Norman,' Hoxton said. 'Let us get on with it. I'm sure this lad's already told you all you need to know. And I'm sure it'll be halfway round the village before you get back inside.'
'I don't know what–'
'This is George Hoxton you're talking to, Norman. Not newborn Brain here. Get back to watering your beer.'
Norman opened his mouth once more, then turned and trudged back towards the pub.
'You know how to win friends,' Winterman commented.
'It's the only language he understands.'
Winterman turned to Brain. 'Okay, lad, what do you think you've found?'
'It's over there.' Brain pointed through the gate towards the tomb. 'Just the other side of the grave. I'm pretty sure it's blood.'
'Okay, let's go see.' Winterman led the way back down the path, sticking to the same route that Brain had already taken, conscious of the need to disturb as little as possible.
As they drew level with the grave, Brain gestured towards the ground in its shadow. 'There. That dark patch.'
Winterman motioned the other two to stay back and stepped forward, again walking as closely as he could in Brain's footsteps. Something was seeping through the top covering of snow. Winterman crouched down, as Brain had done, and reached out to touch the surface.
He pressed a finger into the snow and raised it back to his face. Something dark and sticky. He held his finger under his nose for a second, then pressed it delicately against his tongue. Slowly, he rose to his feet.
'You didn't really have any doubt, did you?' he said to Brain.
'Not really, sir. But I wanted you to check.'
'It's blood, all right. A whole lot of it. Must have been spilled before the last fall of snow in the night.'
'It was snowing when you and Mary found the body?' Hoxton asked.
'It had just started. Which means the blood was spilt after we were here.'
'Looks that way, doesn't it?'
'So who?' Winterman walked slowly around the grave, keeping well back from the half-concealed pool of blood. Now that he knew where to look, he could see that it covered a substantial area – a darker patch spreading out towards the adjoining grave. 'Something's been moved across there.'
Hoxton moved closer behind him. 'Aye. I see what you mean. The new snow's covered it, but the ground's been disturbed. Something heavy's been dragged over it.'
'It's been dragged to the gate. It stops there.'
'Go on then, Sherlock. How does that happen then?'
'Elementary, my dear Hoxton. They dumped the body in a car.'
'Body? Don't pull any punches, will you?'
'It's either that or a sack of bloody coal,' Winterman said. 'And coal doesn't usually bleed, even these days.' He peered down the street. 'If there was a car, in the middle of the night, in a place like this, someone might have seen it.'
'Assuming anyone was around.'
'Assuming anyone was around.' Winterman glanced at Brain. 'Not so easy, this police stuff, eh, Brain?'
'No, sir.'
'Thing is, Brain, I haven't a clue what's going on here. We need to get more resources from headquarters. We need to track down bloody Pyke to tell us whatever he can about that blood, and about that poor wee bugger's body.' Winterman shook his head. 'This is just chaos.'
'And we still don't know where Marshy is.' Hoxton looked back towards the grave.
'No,' Winterman said. 'We still don't know where Marsh is.'
Chapter 41
Pyke paused at the top of the stairs, wondering what to say to Howard. Howard was more than capable of denying anything, even in the face of the most concrete evidence. He would have some tall story about what had happened in the night.
From below, Pyke could hear the burbling of a light tenor on the wireless, the steady whistling of the kettle. It was cold, unusually cold for Howard's house. Even though he was dressed, the chill of the air struck him as he reached the foot of the stairs. There was something else, something that he couldn't put his finger on.
As he pushed open the kitchen door, another blast of cold air hit him. The wireless was still playing in the corner, a smooth-voiced newsreader talking about further falls of snow. The kettle sat on the gas-stove, a faint trail of steam leaking from its spout.
That was what had been wrong. Earlier, crossing the landing to the bathroom, he had heard the murmuring of the wireless and the steady low whistle of the kettle. The repeatedly boiling kettle was an intrinsic part of every morning as Howard made himself cup after cup of weak tea, and Pyke had barely registered the sound.
Now he realised it had not ceased in the time he had taken to return to the bedroom and dress. It was still boiling, the whistle diminishing as the water evaporated.
Pyke picked up an oven glove and lifted the kettle from the gas ring. It was even lighter than he had expected, virtually empty. He switched off the ring and replaced the kettle, turning to look at the kitchen door.
It was open. That had been the source of the cold air. His mouth dry, Pyke peered out into the icy morning.
His first sensation was one of déjà vu. The body looked the same, spread out face down on the blank snow-covered lawn, a smudge of red visible to the left of its torso.
There was no question it was Howard. The pale blond hair, the garish dressing gown.
Pyke's immediate sense of horror was already wrestling with his professional instincts. He felt eerily calm, emotions stifled by routine. The truth would hit later, but for the moment he had a job to do.
He had no doubt Howard was dead. He needed to check, of course, but it would be nothing more than a token
gesture. More to the point, Howard could not have been dead for long. How long would it take for a kettle to boil itself dry?
Pyke crouched as close as he could without disturbing the snow around the body. There was a mess of footprints, and a line of prints heading past the side of the house to the road outside.
Pyke lifted Howard's splayed arm. Although there was still some warmth to the body, there was no pulse. He rose and hurried across the garden and round the cottage to the main road.
There was no sign of anyone. But there were car tyre tracks in the snow on the far side of the road. It looked as if the car had arrived from the direction of Framley, then completed a U-turn before heading back in the same direction.
Pyke stopped, wondering whether he should try to follow. Then he saw the decision had already been made for him. His motorcycle still sat in the shade of the cottage where he had left it the previous evening. But the tyres had been shredded.
Somehow, the sight of his own disabled bike hit him more powerfully even than the sight of Howard's body. It was as if the bike was symbolic of something that had been lost. Not just Howard – that was devastating, but he had lost Howard already, even before his death. Something more. His own peace of mind. His own freedom. His own future.
He realised tears were running down his cheeks, uncontrollable. 'Oh, God, Howard. What are we going to do?'
Chapter 42
She rolled over in the bed, pulling the sheets and blankets around her, her body rebelling against the prospect of climbing out into the icy bleakness of the morning. These days, she felt a constant yearning for more rest, a resistance to the endless challenges the day would throw at her. The interminable penny pinching, the eking out of what few resources they had. The need to scrape together cash wherever she could find it.
The thought caught her in the stomach, like a clutch of fear. She didn't want to live like this, hand to mouth, doing things she despised.
Suddenly, perversely, she wanted to be up and active. She threw back the heavy weight of bedclothes, feeling the bedroom's chill even through her thick nightdress. It was only then she recalled the night before.
The walk back through the snow with the inspector – she still couldn't quite bring herself to think of him as Ivan, for all her apparent self-assurance in his presence. All the things he'd told her – his wife, his child. The sense that he had opened up, that something might have been starting between them.
Then the eerie gloom of the churchyard. That poor wee child's body.
She shuffled into her slippers, glancing at the alarm clock. Nearly quarter to eight, already. Her mother would have been up for an hour or more, building a fire in the parlour, making her staple porridge, waking the children. There had been no school so far that week as the snow had tightened its grip. Although for Mary's children the school was only a short walk, its catchment area – for pupils and teachers alike – was widespread, and no buses or trains had been running. But each morning, her mother had dutifully woken the two children, dressed them, and walked them to the school gates, just in case it should be open. The children hadn't complained. They had taken for granted that the school would be closed and had welcomed the time to play in the snow. It would be a shock for them when the snow eventually disappeared.
She stepped out on to the landing. The door of the spare bedroom was standing ajar, and she saw, with a pang of what she recognised as regret, that the room was deserted, the bed neatly made. There was no sign Winterman had even slept there.
Her mind was telling her to take care. There had been a moment, as they were saying goodnight, when she might have responded positively if Winterman had made a move. She had wanted him to – to do something or at least to say something. But that was just vanity. She wanted to be reassured she could still be attractive to a man like Winterman.
Another part of her was relieved that nothing had happened. She still didn't know quite what to make of Winterman. He was attractive, there was no doubt about that – what some people might call a 'catch'. He was good company. Not exactly charming – in Mary's mind, that implied a self-conscious, even slightly superficial, desire to engage with others. Winterman wasn't like that. He had said relatively little the previous evening, yet somehow had seemed the central presence. That was the word, she supposed. Presence. He had dominated the company without even trying. When he was silent, they all unconsciously sought his approval, waiting for him to laugh at their jokes, nod at their comments – which he did with alacrity all evening. When he spoke, they had hung on his words.
Presence. Mary had never encountered it before, not in that form. She had met plenty of men – local gentry, army officers, petty officials – who believed they possessed it but offered little beyond rank and pomposity. Winterman's effortless dominance was something else.
Whether it was an admirable quality was another question. There had to be a selfishness there. The situation with his poor wife and child – it was a tragedy, but it was a tragedy partly of his own making. And, for all his sociability, there was a reserve to Winterman she hadn't begun to fathom.
She descended the stairs, chiding herself for a lack of charity. Winterman's position was awful, even worse than her own. Her husband's death had been a dreadful shock, not least for the pointless manner of his dying. After his call-up, she had tormented herself with imaginings about what might happen, but had assumed that, if the worst happened, it would at least be in the field of battle. An accidental shooting in a training exercise had seemed the cruellest joke of all.
But it was over and done with. She couldn't forget it, but she could try to put it behind her. Winterman didn't even have that luxury. He was trapped in the past, unable to move on.
It was a little warmer downstairs. Her mother had lit a fire in the parlour and the coal-fired boiler heated the kitchen. Even so, Mary could see her breath as she walked through the hallway, and she could feel the draft of cold air from beneath the ill-fitting front door.
In the kitchen the two children were sitting at the table, eating bowls of porridge. Her mother was in front of the sink washing some crockery, staring blankly out of the window.
Mary smiled at the children. 'Morning, Mam. Think I overslept.'
Mrs Griffiths turned. 'Don't worry, love. You must have been up quite late.'
There was an edge to her voice. Not exactly disapproval. Anxiety perhaps. Mary had already decided to say nothing about the discovery in the churchyard. 'Not really. Must have been about eleven when we got back here.'
'The inspector was awake early. I heard him leaving before I was up this morning.'
'I don't know.' Mary wondered whether her mother was harbouring doubts – or perhaps even hopes – about what might have happened between her daughter and Winterman the previous night. 'There's a lot going on, Mam, what with these children and Fisher's death. I imagine he's working out of the local station till the road gets cleared.'
'I don't envy the poor man, having all this on his plate. New into the job as well. '
'I'm sure he knows what he's doing, Mam.'
'I'm sure he does. He struck me as a very capable young man.'
There was a definite undertone. Her mother's usual unsubtle attempts at matchmaking would soon be unleashed. Mary couldn't blame her mother. She'd spent most of her own life wanting to escape from this bleak back of beyond, and she didn't want her daughter to suffer the same fate. Mary had thought she'd made the break once, only to find herself back here.
She turned to the two children. 'You two off to school soon?'
'I think school's going to be closed again,' Graham said.
'You're probably right,' Mrs Griffiths said. 'But we need to check. The headmaster said they'd reopen as soon as they could get enough staff in.'
Mary glanced out of the window at the snow, the sky threatening yet more. 'I can't see that being today. But yes, you need to check. Can't have these two missing more school than they can help.'
Graham looked as if he was a
bout to dispute this view, but Mrs Griffiths was already bundling the children from the table. 'Come on. Coats and gloves on. Let's go.' She turned back to Mary. 'What about your work? You're due in today.' There was no reproach in her voice, just anxiety about the prospect of a lost day's pay.
'I can't see how I can get into town. But I'll go down to Bryan's. If they're working out of there, I'll see what I can do to help.'
'That's good. That's the most they can expect, isn't it?'
'I think it's more than they expect. They've got their minds on other things, to be honest, Mam.'
'I suppose you're right.' Mrs Griffiths moved out into the hallway, supervising the children as they donned their heavy duffle coats. 'Come on, you two. We haven't got all day.'
Mary watched as her mother skilfully shepherded the youngsters out of the house, and then stood by the front door, briefly braving the biting wind, as the three figures made their way down the icy road.
But that's just it, she thought, gazing after them. You do have all day. You have your whole lives, stretching out ahead of you. And you don't yet know quite how terrifying a prospect that turns out to be.
Chapter 43
'Believes in security then, young Brain?' Winterman was fumbling with Brain's large key ring, trying to remember which key fitted the upper of the two deadlocks in the police station door. Brain himself had been left in the churchyard with the unenviable task of keeping watch over what had become a full crime scene. From somewhere inside, Winterman could hear the shrill ringing of the station telephone.
'Better safe than sorry,' Hoxton said.
Winterman cursed under his breath as yet another key jammed in the lock. 'Do you think every key on here has a use, or does he just collect them for fun?'
Hoxton peered past Winterman's elbow and pointed. 'Try that one.'
Winterman gazed at the older man for a second, as though doubting his sanity. Then he placed the key in the upper lock. It turned smoothly. 'Did your mother never tell you that nobody likes a smart aleck? Now which?'