by Alex Walters
He followed Pyke into the kitchen. More expensively understated décor, though the temperature was a few degrees lower.
The reason for that became evident immediately. The rear door into the garden was ajar. As Pyke pulled it open, the chill air swept into the room. Pyke gestured outside, but his own eyes were fixed elsewhere.
There was no mistaking the parallel with Fisher's corpse. This body too lay prone in the middle of what, beneath the snow, was presumably the cottage's rear lawn. The murder weapon appeared to be a knife or dagger, the blade of which was protruding an inch or two from the victim's back. A pool of blood had seeped out into the snow from under the torso.
'I'm sorry,' Winterman said. 'He was a friend?'
Pyke hesitated, as though questioning the terminology. 'Yes. A friend.'
'Who is he?'
'Was,' Pyke corrected gently. 'Howard Merriman. That was his real name.'
'Real name?'
'His stage name was Howard Martin. He was an actor.'
The name rang a vague bell, though Winterman couldn't immediately place it. Possibly he had heard it on the wireless or in some stage production.
'This was his house?' Winterman made no effort to soften the tense this time.
'Lived here since before the war. It was a wreck when he bought it. Spent a fortune on the place.' Pyke sounded like someone making small talk at a party.
Winterman eased the back door further open, conscious of the need not to disturb any fingerprints, and peered into the garden. There were footprints in the snow around the body, but it was unclear whether these belonged to one individual or more. There was at least one line of scuffed footprints heading towards the side of the house.
He contemplated taking a closer look, but decided to wait until Spooner's reinforcements arrived so they could ensure the crime scene was properly examined.
Winterman turned back to Pyke. 'Spooner's promised to send us some backup, urgently, so we can get things sorted properly. I also asked Spooner to organise us a pathologist.'
'Well, you couldn't let me anywhere near him, could you?'
Winterman held the other man's gaze. 'Obviously not, Pyke. Even if you wanted to be involved. Which I don't seriously imagine you do.'
'Part of me does. Part of me wants to do my bit to nail the bastard who did this. But I can see that's exactly why I shouldn't be involved.'
'Not just that,' Winterman said gently.
'No, not just that. But also because I'm a bloody suspect. That right, Winterman?'
'I don't think anything. Not yet. But you know I can't discount the possibility.'
'Don't soft-soap me, Winterman. I'm top of the bloody list. If only because I'm here, while the bastard who really did it is out there somewhere in the snow. Bastard shredded my bloody tyres, or I might have caught him for you. But you'll say I did that as well, I suppose.'
'It's not about what I think. We have to treat you as a prime suspect until there's good evidence to the contrary.'
'Christ, it's a bloody mess. There's no way out of this. Not the killing. Whatever you might think, I didn't do that. But the whole bloody thing.' Pyke turned and strode out of the kitchen.
Winterman gestured to Hoxton to follow. 'Keep an eye on him.'
Hoxton followed Pyke out of the room. Winterman stood gazing round the kitchen. The quality and style of the fittings matched the rest of the house, elegant and minimal, soothing pastel colours. Just the place to eat your boiled egg. Merriman had been a man of taste and discernment. And, it appeared, money.
Did actors earn enough to live in this style? Some did, obviously. But Winterman assumed it was largely confined to those who had made it big in Hollywood. As far as he knew, Merriman had been no Leslie Howard or David Niven.
Could you make this kind of living in British film or even on the British stage? Winterman had no idea. This was a nice house – many steps up from everyday life in Austerity Britain – but it was hardly a palace in Beverly Hills or a villa in Monte Carlo.
Winterman made his way out of the kitchen. From down the hallway, he could hear Hoxton speaking and some sort of responding grunt from Pyke. Winterman climbed the stairs. He wanted to get a decent look around before Spooner and his team arrived.
There wasn't much to see. Two bedrooms, one with a king-sized luxurious bed and a view over the empty fenland. The other, smaller with a double bed – presumably a guest room. Winterman noted that only the king-sized bed appeared to have been slept in.
He moved quickly around the guest room, opening the doors of the wardrobe and the bedside cupboards, pulling out the drawers of the dressing table. Most were empty, or contained odd items of no evident significance. There was an old cufflink box, a tightly rolled scarf – presumably discarded as no longer fashionable – a disappointingly empty notebook. The wardrobe contained a couple of suits – good quality, Winterman thought. He quickly searched through the pockets, unsure what he might be looking for, but again finding nothing.
He moved into the main bedroom. Here, the cupboard and drawers were fuller, though again none of the contents appeared significant. The only conclusion Winterman could initially draw was that Merriman owned an awful lot of clothes – most of them stylish, if more ostentatious than anything Winterman might have considered wearable, and all of them well made.
Having worked systematically through two cupboards and the dressing table, Winterman pulled open the doors of the wardrobe. Almost immediately, he pulled back the doors to their fullest extent.
In the centre of the wardrobe was a pair of boots – brown, heavy, well polished. Walking boots designed, unlike the other clothing Winterman had so far examined, for practicality rather than style. The boots were damp and covered in fresh mud. They had been worn recently, probably overnight or that morning.
Winterman rummaged through the remaining clothing, feeling into the suit pockets, but there was nothing else of interest. He moved his attention to the shelves that lined the left-hand side of the wardrobe interior, most of which were stacked with neatly folded sweaters and shirts. He flicked through each one, and then reached into the back of the shelf and felt carefully around.
On the second shelf, his hand closed on a roughly wrapped paper package. He drew it out carefully and peeled back the top layer of brown paper. Inside was a substance which Winterman recognised as marijuana. Perhaps not surprising. Artistic types. He shrugged and slipped the package back into the shelf, replacing it as closely as he could to its original position. Let Spooner's men find that, if they could. Winterman had no desire to get Pyke into any more difficulties than he needed to.
But the boots were a different, more intriguing matter. He had little doubt they were Merriman's rather than Pyke's, although he could more easily imagine Pyke wearing boots of that kind. But the boots were small – too small for Pyke's hulking feet.
If Merriman had worn the boots the previous evening, perhaps before locking up for the night, the mud would have dried out, given the warmth of the cottage. Which suggested that Merriman had been outside either that morning or sometime during the night.
Winterman made his way into the bathroom. Just inside the door, there was a basket, presumably intended for soiled laundry. Winterman lifted the lid and peered inside. The basket was empty except for a shirt and a pair of trousers. He lifted out the trousers, holding them very carefully between his forefinger and thumb, and examined them. As he had expected, the bottoms of the trouser legs were damp and lined with mud.
He dropped the trousers back in the basket and, after a cursory examination of the cupboards below and above the washbasin, he walked slowly down the stairs. He could hear the voices of Hoxton and Pyke from the sitting room. Winterman glanced at his watch. One thing was certain. Once Spooner arrived, the show would be his. From everything that Winterman had seen, Spooner was not a man to be unduly troubled by the niceties of procedure, let alone considerations of guilt or innocence. What Spooner wanted was the case neatly tied up – a result
obtained with minimum effort. If Pyke was innocent – and Winterman had to acknowledge that this was still a substantial if – Spooner's arrival would not be good news.
There was no way of knowing how long it would take for Spooner to marshal the necessary resources. Once he had done so, it would take him another forty-five minutes or so to get there, perhaps a little longer, given the snow. Worst case, Winterman had around an hour or so.
He stepped hurriedly down the hallway and pushed open the door of the living room. Pyke looked up in surprise, though Hoxton seemed as unfazed as ever.
'Okay, Pyke,' Winterman said. 'We need to talk.'
Chapter 47
'Mary?' Brain stood frozen, as though he thought Mary might have lost her senses.
She was crouching, her slacks wet from the snow, her fingertips stained red. She looked up at him, and for a moment it really did look as if reason might have deserted her. Then her gaze cleared and she pushed herself to her feet.
'I need to find Ivan.'
Brain looked at her blankly for a moment. 'The inspector?'
'Yes,' she said impatiently. 'The inspector. Is he at the station?' She was already walking past him, trudging through the snow towards the main road.
'I think so. Look, Mary, what is it? Is there anything I can do?'
'I'm probably just being stupid, Bryan. Making a mountain out of a molehill. It's just an idea I've had. But I want to discuss it with the inspector.'
Brain scuttled along beside her. 'If there's anything I can do–'
'I know. And it's sweet of you. I know you'd do anything you could to help. But it's a bit complicated. I think it's best if I discuss it with DI Winterman first.' She smiled. 'Anyway, you don't want to see me making an idiot of myself.'
Brain nodded, clearly doing his best to appear professional. 'I understand. You do what you think's best. Do you want me to walk you back to the station?'
'Of course I'll be okay, Bryan.' She had been about to add that this was Framley, for goodness' sake, what could possibly happen to her? Then she recalled everything that had happened lately. Suddenly she wanted more than anything for Brain to accompany her. 'It's only a five minute walk,' she added, steeling herself.
In the event, it was closer to fifteen, as she trudged ponderously through the dense snow, and it felt more like an eternity. The quiet unnerved her. She glanced repeatedly back over her shoulder, fancying she saw some movement in the shadows of the churchyard wall, the hedgerows, the blank windows of the apparently deserted cottages. The village seemed empty, as if its inhabitants had fled with the falling snow or locked themselves away for the duration.
Just once, as she approached the silent pub, she heard a noise, something betokening life. From somewhere on the other side of the village, beyond the tight-knit cluster of houses, she heard the sudden muffled roar of a car engine. She half-expected the car to appear around the corner, but instead the sound, already deadened by the snow, faded and the silence returned. She was left feeling even more alone.
The police station stood on the next corner, its blue sign hanging out over the road. It was a relatively new building – probably just pre-war – and its squat functionality seemed out of place among the old cottages that comprised the heart of the village.
She pressed the bell and heard an answering ring from somewhere in the depths of building, but there was no response. She pressed again and peered in through one of the windows. The interior was unlit, and there was no sign of anyone inside.
She straightened and looked around. Deep tyre marks led from the kerbside outside the station building. Was that what she had heard? The sound of Winterman and Hoxton driving away?
Perhaps that was why she had been left feeling so alone.
Chapter 48
'I don't even know your name,' Winterman said.
'Everyone calls me Pyke.' Pyke was sitting at the far end of an unexpectedly garish red chaise longue. Hoxton was in an armchair, looking as if he were trying physically to dissociate himself from the room's furnishings. Winterman could see why. The rest of the house had been relatively tasteful, dim lights and pastel shades. But Merriman had allowed his imagination to run riot in this room, which was adorned with crimson drapes, a crystal chandelier and a set of abstract paintings which were probably best ignored. It was presumably some sort of private den, perhaps the place where Merriman retreated when alone or – Winterman found himself mentally adding – in intimate company. The room would have made a more appropriate murder scene than the frozen garden.
Winterman lowered himself cautiously down on to the opposite end of the chaise longue. 'How long have we worked together, Pyke?'
'I wouldn't say we did work together, strictly speaking. I'm not a policeman.'
'Fair enough,' Winterman went on patiently. 'So how long have we – what would you say? – worked alongside one another?'
'I don't know. Ten years, off and on, I suppose. More off than on during the war.'
'And I don't even know your Christian name.'
'Everyone calls me Pyke.'
'Even your family?'
'Not much family left. Are we going anywhere with this?'
'Just building rapport. It's what they recommend before you start interviewing someone.'
'I thought they recommended leather gloves and a bright light. So this is an interview then?'
Winterman eased himself back against the chaise longue. 'Let me put it this way. About half an hour or so ago, I spoke to Superintendent Spooner to seek some additional resources. You know Spooner?'
'I've come across him. I can't say we – what was your phrase? – built any rapport.'
'I imagine not. Anyway, Spooner agreed to provide the resources, but only on the basis that he would oversee the case personally. He's on his way as we speak. Or, at least, as soon as he can be bothered to brave the snow.'
'All the time in the world then, I imagine.'
'You could be right. On the other hand, it could be that Spooner's remarkable instinct for self-preservation has already kicked in. I think he'll see this as a case with potential to career out of his control.'
'With the emphasis on career.' Pyke finally gave a faint smile. 'You think he'll want to take over.'
'Not formally, I imagine. That would be too close to taking accountability. But I imagine he'll want to supervise. If it goes well, he can take the credit. If it goes badly, I'm still here to carry the can.'
'The policeman's lot,' Pyke said. 'So what does this have to do with me?'
'Everything. Spooner hasn't risen through the ranks by not getting results. But he may not be choosy how he gets them.'
'Meaning.'
'Meaning he's not that bothered by concepts such as truth or justice. What he wants is an easy result he can stand up in court.'
'Which would put me firmly in the frame. Frame being the operative word,' Pyke added, with a touch of bitterness.
'So you say.' Winterman rose and pushed the living room door closed. There was no one else in the house, but he still felt a need for caution. He sat back down on the chaise longue, closer to Pyke. 'Look, I don't know what's going on. For all I know, you might have had every reason to kill Merriman–' Pyke opened his mouth to interject, but Winterman raised his hand. 'The difference between me and Spooner is that I'm not just interested in getting a result. I'm interested in the truth. It strikes me that, whoever was responsible for Merriman's death, you're in a bloody awkward spot.'
'You might say that.'
'Perhaps you'll be able to persuade Spooner to listen to what you have to say – though I wouldn't put any money on it. But even by speaking openly, you're likely to incriminate yourself – in other ways.'
'Very delicately expressed.'
'So my proposition is this,' Winterman said. 'That you tell me everything. The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the bloody truth, so help you God. I'll treat it all as off the record. When Spooner gets here, I'll tell him I've held off interviewing you until he a
rrived.'
'And what about your little friend there?' Pyke gestured towards Hoxton, who had been watching the exchange in silence.
'DC Hoxton has a choice. He can stay here and be part of this breach in protocol. Or he can go and sit in the other room and leave us to it. He could, if he wanted, report my actions to DS Spooner on his arrival. That would be the sensible thing to do, especially if you persist in patronising him.'
'I've been patronised by experts,' Hoxton said. 'Don't think this one's going to worry me. And I wouldn't miss this for the world.'
'There's your answer,' Winterman said to Pyke. 'So what's yours?'
'How do I know I can trust you?'
'You can't, unless you judge me on what you've seen over the last ten years. Frankly, it doesn't seem to me you've got many options.'
Pyke gazed at him in silence for a moment. 'Don't take up a career in sales. But okay. As you say, what have I got to lose? Where do you want me to start?'
'You and Merriman,' Winterman said. 'I think we've made our assumptions, but let's make sure we've got it straight.'
'"Straight" not being exactly the mot juste,' Pyke said. 'As I imagine you'd worked out, your being a detective.'
'How did you meet?'
'Home Guard, would you believe?'
'You weren't called up?'
'I was classed as a scientist. Reserved occupation, like you coppers. I'd like to say I felt guilty about it, but I just felt relieved. I've no problem in dealing with death, but I'd prefer it wasn't my own.'
'So what role did a forensic pathologist play in the war?' Winterman had no difficulty keeping a note of irony out of his voice, given his own ambivalent position.
'You'd be surprised. There were a couple of fairly hush-hush projects I was involved in. If you're an expert on the cause and effects of death, they assume you know how to help prevent people being killed. Or make it easier to kill them.'