by Alex Walters
'I'm sure that's right, sir. It would be an odd thing to steal in any case, wouldn't you say, sir?'
'Quite so, Inspector. Which is one reason why I fail to understand the purpose of this conversation. As I said, I am in rather a hurry, so if we've finished…?'
'I think so, sir. I'm very grateful for your assistance.'
'I'm gratified you've found our conversation useful, Inspector.' Callaghan was turning away when Winterman spoke again.
'I don't want to detain you any further, sir. I wonder if you'd mind if I had a look around the exterior of your house? I can walk round by myself.'
There was another longer pause, as Callaghan turned back towards Winterman. 'Whatever for, Inspector?'
'Just to check your security, sir. We'd always much rather help prevent crimes if we can. If I have a look at your doors and windows, I can advise you how to reduce the risk of any further break-ins.'
'I'm very grateful for the offer, Inspector. But I'm afraid that's not possible.'
'Sir?'
'The gates to the rear of the house are locked. I don't have time to fetch the keys.'
'That's a shame, sir. Another time perhaps?'
'Another time certainly, Inspector. But now I must be going.'
Before Winterman could say more, Callaghan walked briskly down the path. Winterman lingered briefly by the house, noting that Callaghan glanced back as he made his way to his parked car. Winterman smiled in return, and walked slowly over to the Wolseley.
He was tempted to wait until Callaghan had gone so he could check the rear of the house. He had little doubt he would find some evidence of a break-in. The question was why Callaghan preferred to keep that evidence to himself.
That, at least, was one of the questions. There were plenty of others. Such as why Callaghan had seemed so uncomfortable in discussing the earlier burglary. Or why he was prepared to lie, not just about the recent break-in but also about what had been stolen by the previous intruder.
But the biggest question of all, Winterman thought, was quite who or what it was that had made Callaghan so transparently, nakedly afraid.
Chapter 81
'That should do it,' Winterman said. 'For tonight at least. But I think your mother should get a better lock fitted.' He leaned back to inspect his handiwork. He had rescrewed the bolt onto Mrs Griffiths' rear door, further down the frame from where the screws had been ripped from the wood. 'Probably Brain's chap can do that for you if he could get here tomorrow.'
Despite Brain's promises, the joiner had been tied up finishing a job at the other end of the county. Mary had arrived back in the late morning to find her mother pacing up and down the kitchen, wondering how to deal with the broken door. Mary in her turn had walked down to the station to call Winterman.
'Can you come over after work? Mam's in a real state. I feel partly responsible, given I was away last night.'
'No problem. Do you want me to stay over?'
'That would be a help. We won't be able to get the door properly secured until tomorrow. It would reassure Mam if you were around.' She had paused, a faint smile on her face. 'Spare room though, love. What with Mam and the kids and everything.'
'I assumed so. One day it'll be different.'
'I'm holding you to that.'
On his arrival, he had examined the back door. The main lock was old and hardly of the finest quality, but to Winterman's limited knowledge it looked to have been picked with some expertise. There had been nothing the intruder could do about the interior bolt, so his solution had been to prise open the door with a crowbar, ripping the bolt from its fixings in the process.
But, Winterman asked himself, what sort of vagrant carries a crowbar?
'Do you keep any tools outside? In the coalhouse or anywhere?'
Mary looked at him curiously. 'Not that I'm aware of. We've got a toolbox with a few bits and pieces inside.'
'What about garden implements?' It was possible that the door had been levered open with a spade, although the marks on the doorframe suggested otherwise.
'We've got a few things, but Mam keeps them in the cupboard over there.' Mary gestured towards a cupboard in the pantry leading off the kitchen. 'She thinks they'll go rusty outside.'
Winterman peered out into the garden. The earlier sunshine was long gone, and the rain looked set in for the evening. It was a fine rain, different in quality from the torrential downpour that had brought floods weeks before, but sufficient to invoke a note of unease in Winterman's mind.
'I wonder why he picked on us,' Mary said from behind him.
She had moved to stand next to him, and they both let the cool damp air drift across their faces. Definitely spring rain, he thought. 'Just your bad luck, I imagine. Could have chosen any house.'
'He might have got richer pickings elsewhere.'
'Can't be much of a life, whoever he is. We've ended up with too many in that position. Wasn't quite what we expected from the great landslide victory, was it?'
'You're almost making me feel sorry for him.'
'I do, really. You can't condone him stealing, but no one should have to steal to live.' He placed an arm around her waist. 'Your mam doesn't have to worry. He won't come back. He'll be off to steal from someone else now.'
'I know. And it's not as if we've anything worth stealing in the first place. But you can't blame Mam. She was all alone here with the kids last night. Must have been an unnerving thought, someone rooting around in here.'
Winterman nodded then, as if in response to her words, led them back into the kitchen, slamming and bolting the door behind them. For all his reassuring words, his unease had not diminished. Something was still out there, and the rain was still coming down.
Chapter 82
There was a little whisky left in the bottle from the night before the flooding, so Brain treated himself to a nightcap. It had taken him a while to come to terms with the events of the past weeks. He was a straightforward individual. Far from stupid, as Winterman and others had come to recognise, but lacking in guile. People often said there was no side to him. What you saw was, to all intents and purposes, what you got.
He had therefore been even more shocked than most to discover the truth about Hoxton. It was odd to think he had entertained Hoxton in this very house, sharing his hospitality and this same bottle of whisky with no inkling of Hoxton's true character.
Then there was DC Marsh. He had respected Marsh – he was the kind of policeman Brain aspired to be – even if he hadn't fully warmed to him. A tad too serious, a little too obsessive about his work. Brain had never learned the full story, but he understood it had been precisely that compulsive desire to uncover the truth that had resulted in Marsh's death.
Brain longed to be a detective. He had thought Winterman had begun to respect him, and he had hoped he might draw on Winterman's patronage to move out of this uniformed rut into the investigative role he craved. But nothing had happened. Once the Hoxton case was put to bed, Brain had found himself back in the village, tramping his circumscribed beat, dealing with down and outs who stole nothing more exciting than a loaf of bread.
He looked at the clock. Nearly eleven. Well past his usual bedtime. He had been listening to a play on the wireless, and then, half asleep in his chair, had become caught up in his own reverie. He dragged himself to his feet, contemplated the empty whisky bottle, and wondered about a cup of cocoa before bed.
It took him a moment to realise he had been roused from his semi-comatose state by the shrill ringing of the telephone. Rubbing his eyes, he stumbled, still not completely alert, into the police office. 'Yes? Police.'
'For God's sake, man, where've you been? Can you get out here?'
'What?' For a second Brain wondered whether he had somehow contrived to miss the opening of this dialogue. 'Who is this?'
'It's George Callaghan, man. I need you out here.'
'Professor Callaghan? What seems to be the trouble, sir?' He would never have recognised the old man. He ha
d rarely heard him sounding anything other than urbane and rather superior.
'Oh, for God's sake, man. There's someone outside prowling around.'
'Who's outside, sir? We've had a few break-ins lately, but we've no reason to think the perpetrator is in any way dangerous–'
'He's in the garden. I know he's tried to break in already. Just get over here, Constable. Get some backup if you can.'
There was silence, and Brain realised the line had gone dead. He pressed down the contacts on the telephone and listened. There was nothing wrong with his own line. It was Callaghan's connection that had been cut.
Brain straightened up, still staring at the phone. He had no option, he realised. He had to go out to Callaghan's house. Most likely, it was all a fuss about nothing. But Callaghan was not someone to panic without a reason. It was difficult to imagine the old man being unnerved by some vagrant in his garden.
Brain pulled on his boots and his overcoat. He had half-hoped that the rain might have stopped, but it was coming down harder than ever. He had intended to cycle over to Callaghan's but the rain and his own increasing nervousness prompted another idea. Callaghan had advised him to get some backup. He knew from Mary's visit earlier that Winterman was staying over at Mrs Griffiths' house that night.
Past eleven. Was it too late to disturb Winterman? Brain told himself that he had to take Callaghan's call seriously. He was sure – he was almost sure – Winterman would feel the same.
Chapter 83
Like Brain, Winterman had also stayed up longer than he had intended. Mrs Griffiths had retired early, and he had spent the evening with Mary, discussing possibilities for their joint future, reaching no firm conclusions. Winterman felt pinioned by the past, desperate for another future to begin but unable to see how he could make it happen.
He was due for another trip to London the coming weekend, the first since he had moved back out here. He would make his usual dutiful visit to Gwyneth, to the hospital where she was being cared for, where, as always, she would fail to recognise him or know he had been. Then he would catch a bus up to the North London cemetery where Sam was buried. It somehow seemed a fitting place – overgrown, filled with decaying Victorian Gothic, a small enclave of calm and birdsong in the middle of the bustling city. He would sit there for a while. Finally he would get another bus back to Liverpool Street, and begin the long journey home.
After Mary had gone upstairs, he had sat for another hour or so in the cramped sitting room, feeling in need of a drink but knowing there would be nothing in the house. He told himself he was thinking, mulling over the options, but he knew his mind was blank. There were no options.
He was about to retire to bed himself, resigned to the spartan anonymity of the small spare room, where he heard the gentle knocking at the front door. Baffled as to who might be calling at that time, he made his way into the hallway to open the front door.
'Sir.' It was Brain, as enthusiastic and indefatigable as ever. 'I didn't want to knock too loudly in case you'd gone to bed.'
It took Winterman a moment to process the statement. 'So why knock at all?'
'I think I might need your help, sir. But I didn't want to wake you if you'd already gone to bed.'
'No, quite right.' Winterman was still not fully taking this in. 'Help with what?'
Brain quickly explained about the call from Callaghan. He had half-expected that Winterman would dismiss the matter, but in fact Winterman seemed to take it more seriously than Brain himself.
'The call was cut off? Callaghan put the phone down?'
'He might have done. But it was very sudden. I hadn't realised he'd gone at first.'
Winterman was pulling on his boots. He peered past Brain through the open door. 'Rain's not stopped?'
'Harder than ever.'
Moments later, they were in the Wolseley heading up towards the north end of the village, past the cottage where the first child's body had been found, past Fisher's empty cottage. They turned left, the road running alongside the railway line for half a mile past a row of railway cottages, then into the more salubrious area of Victorian and Edwardian villas.
Callaghan's house, tucked behind its garden walls and neatly trimmed hedges, showed no sign of disturbance. Lights were burning in several downstairs rooms.
'I hope it wasn't some kind of joke.' Brain followed Winterman up the path to the front door. The rain was coming down even harder. They were both bent double against the wind-swept downpour.
'Does Callaghan strike you as the type to make jokes?' Winterman reached the front door and, in one movement, pressed hard on the bell and, with his other hand, slammed the knocker down against the door.
There was no reply. Winterman pressed his ear to the door's panelling in the hope of detecting some movement within. He looked back at Brain and shook his head before pounding the knocker even harder against the wood. He tried the door handle, but the door was, as he had assumed, firmly locked.
'We'll never get this open. Looks like oak. Let's try round the back.'
Brain nodded, impressed at Winterman's decisiveness. He did not appear to be worrying, as Brain himself would have done, about the possibility that they might shortly be faced by an irate Professor Callaghan disturbed from his slumbers.
Winterman opened the wooden gate that led to the back garden. He noted, without surprise, that despite Callaghan's earlier claims there was no lock on the gate.
As soon as they entered the garden, Winterman knew something was wrong. Light spilled out on the neatly trimmed lawn through a pair of French windows standing wide open to the rainy night. He moved till he was standing directly opposite the open doors, keeping well back from the cone of light in case of any danger from within.
He could see an ornately decorated reception room. Not the room in which Winterman and Hoxton had first interviewed Callaghan, but similar in its style and anonymity. At first, Winterman thought the room was empty. Then, stepping forward, he saw a figure spread-eagled on the floor.
He moved cautiously towards the open windows, alert for any movement from within. There was nothing except for the ceaseless beating of the rain. Winterman gestured for Brain to join him and stepped carefully over the threshold.
The windows had been open for a while, and the carpet and parquet floor inside were soaked from the rain. The room itself was immaculately tidy and showed little sign of recent human habitation.
Except for the body.
Callaghan was spread face down across the carpet in front of the sofa. A pool of blood was expanding from beneath his head, staining the edge of the carpet deep red. There was a bullet wound in Callaghan's temple, a further splashing of blood across the base of the sofa. Winterman had little doubt he was dead.
'Try not to touch anything,' he said to Brain. 'You stay here.'
Brain looked apprehensively behind him at the dark garden. 'You think whoever killed him might be still be here?'
'That rather depends on who killed him.' He pointed towards Callaghan's right hand. A revolver lay on the wooden floor, its position suggesting it had slipped from his fingers.
'You think he killed himself? But what about the intruder?'
Winterman shrugged and stepped cautiously across the room, taking care to disturb nothing. He gestured for Brain to stay where he was.
Winterman slipped on one of his pairs of fine cotton gloves, and, taking care not to obscure any fingerprints that might be on the door handle, he eased open the door into the hallway beyond. The light was on in the hall, and Winterman could see that the front door at the far end was firmly bolted. It took him only a moment to check the other ground floor rooms – the reception room where he had previously met Callaghan, another drawing room, a study, a cloakroom and a kitchen. There was no sign of anyone else.
The telephone was on a table by the front door. He lifted the receiver and confirmed it was still connected. He had assumed Callaghan's call to Brain had been terminated by the line being cut but it appeared not.
He dialled the operator and asked to be connected to Police HQ. It took him a few moments to explain the situation to the duty office.
'Get a team out here as quickly as you can. And make sure you inform DS Spooner,' he added, unsure even as he spoke quite why he felt it was so important for Spooner to be told straightaway. Not for the first time, his instincts were jumping ahead of his rational mind.
He replaced the receiver and ran up the stairs to check the bedrooms on the first floor. One was clearly Callaghan's own, another presumably used by the still-hospitalised William. Three more were apparently unused, alongside a bathroom and separate lavatory. All were empty.
It was only a cursory examination, and Winterman supposed that someone might conceivably still be concealed about the house. But he felt a strong conviction that, other than himself and Brain, there was no living soul there. If an intruder had indeed been in the house, he must have left through the window through which the two police officers had entered.
Winterman's unease was growing. He had a sense – which he realised had been there since Brain had first described the call from Callaghan – that they were being played. That this was some kind of endgame, even though he had no idea even what kind of match had been played.
'I've checked the house,' he told Brain. 'There's no one inside. And I've called HQ. They're sending support straightaway. You wait here till they get here.'
It took Brain a second to register the significance of what Winterman had said. 'You're not staying here, sir?' He glanced once again out at the garden, clearly contemplating the implications of staying in the house by himself.
'You'll be fine, Brain.' Winterman's mind was already elsewhere. 'The others will be here before you know it.'
'But where are you going, sir?'
'There's something I need to check.' Winterman was already moving towards the open window.
'Can't you wait till the others get here, sir?' There was a note of pleading in Brain's voice, though he was doing his best to conceal it.