by Alex Walters
Hoxton glanced briefly at the dangling bunch of keys, then touched one with his finger tip. 'That one.'
Winterman inserted the key into the lower deadlock. Again, it turned smoothly. He twisted the handle and pushed open the door. Inside, the telephone gave a final jangling ring and fell silent. 'Inevitable.'
Hoxton shrugged. 'The operator will have transferred it across to HQ. That's the usual arrangement. They'll take a message for Brain or try to deal with it if it's an emergency.'
'I'm not sure that's very reassuring. The way things are going round here, there could be all kinds of chaos breaking loose. I'd rather know about it directly than get told by HQ.'
As Winterman stepped into Brain's office, the phone rang again. He quickened his pace and snatched up the receiver. 'Police.'
'Where the bloody hell have you been? I thought that was supposed to be a police station?'
Winterman looked quizzically at the receiver. 'Pyke?'
There was a pause at the other end of the line. 'Is that Winterman?'
'Spot on. And "where the bloody hell are you?" is a very pertinent question. We've been looking for you all morning.'
'You've found me,' Pyke said. There was another momentary pause. 'Why were you looking for me?'
There was something about Pyke's tone. Winterman didn't know the man well. Their paths had crossed professionally on numerous occasions over the years, and they had developed a mutual respect for each other's abilities. Their usual mode of interaction was a joshing, very male banter, underpinned by a typical English unease with anything that might be interpreted as emotion. But Pyke did not sound in the mood for banter. He sounded like someone who was having great difficulty keeping his emotions in check.
'Is everything all right?'
Winterman heard an intake of breath, and for a second he thought Pyke might terminate the call. Then Pyke said, 'No, it isn't. It isn't at all, actually. Actually, it's pretty damned bad–' His voice cracked suddenly. He had obviously lowered or dropped the receiver, because Winterman could hear his voice as if from a distance. 'Oh, Christ.'
'What is it, man? Where are you?'
There was a clatter. Finally, Pyke spoke again, clearer this time. 'Sorry, Winterman. I'm in a bit of a state. It's a friend of mine.' He stopped again, struggling to retain control of his voice. 'Look, Winterman, he's dead. He's been murdered.'
Winterman looked up at Hoxton, who had been watching the exchange with undisguised curiosity. 'Murdered?'
'Yes, murdered. I can be pretty sure of that. It is my field, you know.' There was a touch of the familiar Pyke in the words, but the effort was half-hearted. 'He's been stabbed.'
'I'm sorry,' Winterman said sincerely, wondering what sort of friend this was. 'Where are you?'
Pyke gave brief directions to Howard's cottage. 'I don't know how easy it'll be to get here. The roads still look pretty treacherous, but the cottage is only just off the main road.'
'We'll be there as quickly as we can,' Winterman said. 'You'll be okay till we arrive?'
'I'll be as okay as I am now,' Pyke said. 'But no, I'll be fine. It's a shock, that's all.'
'Hold tight till we get there.'
'I'm not going to disturb the bloody evidence, if that's what you mean,' Pyke said, again showing a trace of his usual personality. 'I'm not a bloody amateur.' The line went dead, although Winterman assumed, with some relief, that Pyke had put the phone down in irritation rather than despair.
'Murder?' Hoxton said. 'You mean, another murder?'
Winterman replaced the silent receiver, only now beginning to take in what Pyke had been saying. 'Apparently.'
Hoxton was staring at him. 'What the bloody hell is happening to this place? It's a bloody little village. Now it's going to hell in a handcart.'
Chapter 44
Winterman spent the next fifteen minutes on the phone to HQ, finally succeeding in dragging DS Spooner out of some supposedly critical meeting.
'This better be bloody good, Winterman,' Spooner boomed down the phone. 'You've just dragged me out of a meeting with the chief.' He spoke the last word with undisguised relish.
'I'm sorry about that.' Winterman's tone was studiedly neutral. 'But I think you'll find it's justified. We've another murder on our hands.'
Winterman could almost hear the turning cogs of Spooner's brain. 'Another kiddie?'
'Apparently not. We've just had the call. It's outside the village. But it sounds like the real thing.'
'Christ, what's going on in that place? You're a bad bloody influence, Winterman.'
'I'm doing my best, sir,' Winterman said ambiguously.
He had been wondering whether to advise Spooner about Marsh's unexplained absence, but as soon as he heard Spooner's voice he decided to keep that piece of information to himself. It was a risk. If something really had happened to Marsh, any delay might be fatal. But Winterman couldn't imagine that Spooner would give their case more credence if he heard some half-baked story about a junior officer going missing.
'So you're back again asking for reinforcements, no doubt.'
'We're really up against it here. There are only three of us – four with the local chap. We've got at least two crime scenes which we need to keep secure till we can get forensics done. That's before we actually start any investigations–'
'Yes, yes. You're sure this latest murder's kosher? I mean, it really is murder?'
'We're on our way there now. But we've good reasons for assuming that it's genuine.' Winterman was hoping Spooner wouldn't enquire too deeply into these reasons. He didn't want to bring Pyke's name into this until he had an idea what was going on.
'Think it's linked to – whathisname's – the vicar's murder then?' Finesse had never been one of Spooner's strong points.
'Fisher, sir. We don't know as yet.'
'Seems a bloody coincidence if not. Godforsaken spot like that. These must be the first killings in living memory.'
'The first unlawful killings,' Winterman amended gently. 'I imagine you're right. Which, as you say, would make it an extraordinary coincidence. Then we have the children's bodies too–'
'Good of you to remind me, Winterman. I was overlooking the dead kiddies. Quite a party you've got on your hands.'
'That's why we need backup, sir.'
'Okay, Winterman. I understand what you're saying.' Spooner was clearly calculating the risk to his own reputation if, as seemed increasingly likely, whatever was happening in Framley should turn into a major incident. 'I'll give this priority. We'll get a team out there as quickly as we can. It might take us some time to deploy people in these conditions though.'
'I understand that, sir. But the sooner you can get some resources here, the better.'
'Don't worry, lad. I understand the urgency.' Spooner's voice had taken on an avuncular tone which was already making Winterman feel uneasy. 'I'll take personal charge of this one now.'
'That's excellent, sir.' Winterman was struggling to keep any note of irony out of his voice. 'I knew we could count on you.'
'Oh, aye, lad,' Spooner responded jovially. 'You can always count on me.'
Chapter 45
The house felt eerily silent once Mary's mother and the children had departed. Mary had washed and dressed, pulling on a second shapeless sweater against the cold of the day. She had hoped to make herself some toast, but they were already out of bread. Most of the available ration went to the children. Instead she refreshed the tea in the pot with boiling water, and drank a cup standing by the kitchen window, gazing out at the garden. Her mother had been standing in the same position earlier. Probably she had been thinking about that poor child's body, found in the dyke outside the back gate.
What was happening? In the middle of this frozen winter, the country on its knees, it was as if the earth was literally giving up its dead. Mary shivered suddenly, feeling exposed. It was as if all her own secrets – all the thoughts and memories she had buried over the years – were being dragged to the surfa
ce, exposed to the unforgiving light.
She glanced at the old clock that her mother kept, dutifully wound, on the kitchen dresser. It was already nearly nine. She should be moving, get herself down to the police station.
She pulled on her coat, carefully checking that all the lights in the house were turned off. She had heard talk on the wireless of severe power shortages, the impact of the war and the economy made worse by the current difficulties in transporting coal around the country. There were already power cuts in the day to conserve energy. The message was the familiar one. Eke out what you had. Make the best of things.
Outside, it was even colder than she had imagined. The temperature had dropped again after the previous night's snow. She and her mother had made an attempt to clear the snow from the front path, but the ground remained treacherous. Mary made her way cautiously to the gate and out into the road.
It was probably only half a mile from the house to the centre of the village, but it felt much further on the icy ground, her feet constantly threatening to slip from under her. She was aware she hardly cut an elegant figure, bundled in layers of thick sweaters, a pair of worsted slacks and a heavy khaki trenchcoat she had inherited from her late husband. All that and a pair of scuffed walking boots, another legacy of her early marriage, when they had taken regular Sunday walks into the wilderness of the Fens.
That seemed a lifetime away, as did the elegant dresses and suits she had worn during their courting days. She still had a couple of reasonably smart suits she wore to work, but increasingly she found herself dressing for warmth and practicality. That was all there was. Keeping going.
She was growing accustomed to the quiet of the snow-bound world. There were no signs of life, no birds singing. Even her own footsteps were deadened by the cushioning of the snow. As she reached the turn in the lane she could see the churchyard gate.
'Mary?'
The unexpected voice almost made her heart stop, and her first thought was simply to run. Instead, she forced herself to stop.
'Mary. It's only me.'
'Bryan.' He had been concealed from her, hunched behind one of the stone gateposts, smoking a cigarette, seeking shelter from the bitter wind. 'You must be frozen.'
'A bit.' He pulled his heavy-duty police overcoat around him. 'I thought I'd be warm enough in this, but I can't stand still for long.'
'Are you…?' She gestured towards the far end of the churchyard, the gravestone that was, thankfully, lost in the shadows of the overhanging yew trees.
'Sentry duty. I'm supposed to keep people away.'
'It's still there then.' She didn't even know whether the body was male or female.
'For the moment. The inspector's trying to get some help from HQ.'
'That won't be easy. Everyone's stretched at the moment.'
'Yes,' Brain said. 'Though with finding the blood–' He stopped, clearly realising that he had said too much.
'What blood?'
He stood helplessly for a second, glancing over his shoulder as though hoping that some assistance would appear. 'I shouldn't really have said anything, Mary. I–'
She looked past him to where the shadows crowded the tombstone. 'Bryan, I found the body last night. You've got to tell me. This is all unreal enough without being driven mad worrying about what I don't know.'
Brain looked as if he might be about to burst into tears. 'You won't tell the inspector, will you? He told me not to say anything to anyone.'
'I don't imagine he meant me, Bryan. After all, I work for the police, don't I? I'm not just a member of the public.'
A look of relief crossed his face. 'You're right. I wasn't thinking about that. You're not just a member of the public.' He paused. 'But you won't tell the inspector?'
'No, Bryan, not if you don't want me to. So what's this about blood?'
Brain turned and pointed. 'Just the other side of the grave where you found the… well, you know. When I first got here this morning, I spotted something. There was a dark patch on the ground, under the snow. So I went to fetch the inspector.'
'You mean it was blood? But the body – I mean, the child–'
Brain looked momentarily nonplussed at having his explanation usurped. 'Yes, that's right. We haven't had the body checked by forensics yet, but it's obvious it's been dead for years. The blood was fresh.'
'So whose blood was it?'
'We don't know. But the inspector thought that something heavy had fallen on the ground there and had been dragged away.' Brain paused, clearly savouring the drama of the moment. 'A body.'
She stared at him. 'A body? Are you sure? I mean, is he sure?'
'I don't think he can be sure, yet. Not till we've had the forensics. But the inspector knows what he's talking about.'
'I'm sure he does,' Mary agreed. 'But whose body? It doesn't make sense.'
'None of it makes sense. But there's one other thing. I don't know if it means anything.'
'What?'
'Paul,' Brain said. 'I mean, DC Marsh.'
She turned back towards him, a tingle of unease running down her spine. 'What about Paul?'
'He's gone missing. I'm sure it's nothing. George thought he might have, you know, a lady friend…' Brain stumbled to a halt.
'What do you mean, he's gone missing?' As she spoke, Mary realised something was clicking into place in her mind, some unacknowledged thoughts sliding together like well-oiled cogs. 'How can he be missing? He went back with you last night.'
'Yes, I know. He was fine. We'd all had a bit too much to drink. When we got back we had a nightcap – I'd still got some Scotch that someone gave me. I let him have my room and gave George the spare. I slept in the cell. I knew I'd be up early anyway. We just thought he'd overslept this morning. Then when George went to get him he wasn't there. The bed was disturbed so it looked as if it had been slept in. George thought it had been thrown about to make it look as if it had been used, but really–'
'You're saying he hadn't slept in it at all?'
'I don't know. But that's what George seems to think.'
'You mean he left the house last night? After you'd all gone to bed?'
Brain once again looked as if he might burst into tears. 'I don't know. It's just what George said. But they don't know where he is.'
Without responding, Mary pushed past Brain and strode into the churchyard, walking down the path towards the tombstone. The white drifts of snow now fully concealed the grotesque shape laid out on its surface. Behind her, she heard Brain calling her name, shouting that she shouldn't disturb the evidence.
She ignored him and moved to the rear of the stone, her eyes scouring the ground till she spotted the darker patch Brain had described. When she found it, she dropped to her knees, touching the earth with her fingers as Winterman had done.
She raised her hand and stared at the sticky residue on her fingertips. Despite the cold, it was beginning to discolour, but there was no mistaking what it was.
She looked up at Brain, her face twisted with anxiety. 'Idiot!' she called. 'Bloody, bloody idiot!'
It took Brain a moment to realise her words were not directed at him.
Chapter 46
'Whose idea was this?' Hoxton dragged himself upright, his trouser knees and turn-ups soaking from the snow, and watched as Winterman carefully fastened the chains in place. Winterman's clothes seemed as pristine as ever, though his hands were oily. Hoxton crouched down again and turned the handle on the jack, lowering the tyre back to the road.
'Yours, I think,' Winterman said. 'Bloody good one too, if you ask me.'
'That's just what I was thinking. Suddenly seems a much better idea now we've finished it.'
Hoxton had spotted the snow-chains lying, slightly rusted, in the rear porch as they were locking up to leave. 'Why the hell would he have snow-chains? He doesn't even have a car.'
'Police issue,' Winterman had responded with confidence. 'One of those little gifts from HQ to make the policeman's lot a little happier.'
/> 'But he doesn't even have a car,' Hoxton had persisted.
'Since when did that count for anything with HQ? If he'd had a car, they'd have sent him a bicycle pump. But we do have a car, so we might as well appropriate them. They might give us half a chance of getting out to this place of Pyke's.'
Twenty minutes later, they were on the road. Following Pyke's instructions, they headed west from the village, the tall spire of the church disappearing behind them.
'Can't be much further,' Winterman said. 'Keep your speed down. I don't have your faith in those rusty chains.'
'So who is this? The deceased. Some mate of Pyke's?'
'Your sensitivity does you proud. I don't know. Pyke didn't say much. Must have been a shock.'
'Especially if he was the one doing the murdering.'
Winterman turned to look at Hoxton. The older man was hunched over the steering wheel, his attention apparently fixed firmly on the road. 'Let's keep an open mind, shall we? At least till we've seen what's what.'
'Never opener.'
'Reckon this must be the turning.' Winterman gestured towards a narrower lane leading off to the right. 'There.'
The cottage was only a few hundred yards from the main road, tucked under the shade of a large oak tree. It was an elegant looking place. The building itself looked old – possibly a couple of centuries at least – but it had been renovated in the recent past. Pyke's motorbike, still with its shredded tyres, was parked by the front door.
Hoxton pulled to a halt outside the front door. It opened immediately, and Pyke stood framed inside. His pale shirt looked far too thin for the icy weather, but he seemed untroubled by the cold.
'Thank Christ you're here. I've been going crazy in there.'
Winterman glanced momentarily at Hoxton. 'Don't worry, man. We're here now. Let's see what's happened.'
He followed Pyke into the cottage, noticing that, despite the open front door, the temperature inside was warmer than anywhere else he had been recently. The elegance of the interior matched the external appearance of the cottage. Someone had spent money on the place. The paintings and ornaments that lined the walls and shelves were, to Winterman's untutored eye, equally costly.