Death Out of Season

by Meg Elizabeth Atkins

  ‘Mrs Bryant. She called you truffle hounds.’

  She gave a yell of laughter. Collier, grinning but undiverted, said, ‘But why didn’t she tell us, though? About recognising Benjamin Wright’s initials.’

  ‘Precisely because she had recognised them. If she’s not exactly friendly with, she’s been known to and by the Lynchets for quite a while. She couldn’t see any harm in Benjamin — what there was of him.’

  ‘Yes, I picked up those hints,’ Collier said. ‘Pretty retiring sort of man.’

  ‘To the point of invisibility. But still, she felt embarrassed, awkward — it was her duty to tell us, but the most innocent people become reticent when their duty conflicts with their social obligations.’

  ‘Don’t we know,’ Annette murmured. I have been here before … ’

  ‘ … but when or how I cannot tell … ’ And as he completed the line, something clicked in Hunter’s mind.

  ‘What?’ Collier said, losing track. ‘What?’

  Annette said, ‘You know, that poem of Rossetti’s. “Sudden Light”. About déjà vu. Oh, you didn’t do Eng. Lit., did you?’ She had to get her own back for the whom. ‘What was your degree? Picture framing?’

  ‘You know perfectly well … ’ James began, then faltered, looking at Hunter, who was gazing into some revelatory distance.

  That was it. The scene of crime. Old Park House. Jaynie’s body had been removed. The sense that had nudged him, and was gone: this had happened before …

  He said, ‘It was getting on for five years ago. 1985. Autumn. A young prostitute, very young, she’d not been on the game five minutes. Her body was found at Old Park House. She’d been strangled.’

  Two faces stared at him in silent accusation: Why haven't you remembered before?

  ‘Because,’ Hunter said resentfully, ‘when it happened, I was away at Bramshill on a three-week management course. Three bloody weeks away from the job. They brought in DI Maclean to cover — you never knew him, he retired not long after.’

  Annette leaned forward, impatient. ‘And we got him? The guy who strangled her? One of her punters?’

  Hunter was shaking his head, brooding. ‘I’m trying to remember. The whole thing was over and done with by the time I got back.’

  ‘So it was wrapped up. We got him.’ Collier said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you just said — ’

  ‘No, Annette. I said it was over and done with, not that we got him. Just let me think a minute.’

  They waited. Hunter took a reflective pull of his pint. Annette was at bursting point when he finally spoke.

  ‘Cold case.’

  Detected suspect dead. Collier sat back, deflated. ‘Did he top himself?’

  ‘No, an accident of some sort. What happened, it was a few days before we got on to him. This girl was new around there, bit of a part-timer, there wasn’t much sympathy for her so when we asked around the toms for information we weren’t exactly flattened in the rush — the usual thing, no one knew anything … ’ He paused.

  ‘No one wanted to know anything,’ Annette supplied.

  ‘Right. We had to keep up the pressure, they were the only ones who could give us some kind of lead. Eventually someone came up with the make of his car and enough of a reg to trace it. But by the time we got to him, he’d been killed. Hit and run, now I come to think of it.’

  They sat with their own thoughts for a while, until Annette said, briskly, ‘That’s it, then. Five years ago. A part-time working girl. A respectable, divorced woman. Same MO, same location. But that’s all, there’s nothing to connect them, is there? Who was the guy, anyway? Someone local?’

  ‘If I heard his name, I’ve forgotten it. Local? No.’ He sat looking at nothing for a while, pursuing a hide-and-seek recollection. ‘No. That I do remember. But I’m pretty sure I know where he came from. Clerehaven.’

  There was a short, intensely thoughtful silence. Annette said, as if waiting for contradiction, ‘Coincidence.’

  ‘We can’t be sure,’ Collier said. ‘Isn’t it worth following up, guv? We could do it.’

  ‘It’s problematical,’ Hunter said, for all the good it would do. Collier had taken Annette’s participation for granted; she had made no objection. Hunter recognised the muted signs of anticipation. Give them an idea and they were like bolting rhubarb with it.

  ‘We’re not exactly thronged with leads,’ Annette pointed out, unnecessarily.

  ‘Still, I don’t want it to take you away from the job.’

  Collier looked reproachful. ‘You know better than that, guv.’

  Of course he did. ‘All right, I’ll leave it to you, if you think it’s worth a shot. But don’t make a meal of it because, quite honestly, I can’t see it taking us anywhere.’

  ‘That’s because we haven’t looked yet.’

  There’s the old file,’ Hunter mused.

  Collier said eagerly, ‘I could — ’

  ‘I said the old file, James. It isn’t something on that implement so dear to your heart. It’s up in the attic somewhere, God knows where. It’s paper and folders and elastic bands and paper clips. You don’t log on, you blow the dust off. All right?’

  A waiter passed briskly, nodded to Hunter, who nodded back. Annette noticed the exchange, her mind switching momentarily to that intriguing ‘occupied’.

  ‘It shouldn’t take much finding,’ Collier said. ‘And if it does, we can always ask George Withers, he’s everyone’s folk memory.’

  ‘That’s what community policemen are for,’ Annette added.

  The waiter paused at the group by the bar, murmured something. Two solid gentlemen detached themselves, made their way towards the dining-room, their measured tread, their gravity testifying to a lifestyle of bespoke tailoring and vintage port. They halted. ‘Ah, Sheldon, we are too previous … ’

  ‘Not at all, we’re finished now,’ Hunter said with a wickedly bland goodnight to Annette and Collier. He didn’t look back, aware that they had collapsed against each other, speechless with suppressed laughter.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The policy of the Chatfield police to hold files for five years and then destroy them went by the board with the move to the brand new subdivisional headquarters and ran into further confusion when records were weeded awaiting transference to HOLMES. Collier accordingly found himself in a room disproportionately small for the volume of paper crammed into it. Patiently, he tracked the file by its divisional crime number and carried it off to Annette. They worked through it together in absorbed silence interrupted only by an occasional comment. When they had finished they looked at each other.

  ‘Well,’ Annette said, challengingly, although it was not clear whether she was challenging Collier, circumstance, or her own earlier judgement. ‘Coincidence?’

  ‘Coincidence,’ he echoed positively. Then, ‘Oh, God, I don’t know.’

  ‘Neither do I. Let’s go and see Hunter.’

  They sat in Hunter’s office, the file before them. It was not large; he knew they had tooth-combed their way through it and if they had been able to dismiss even the most niggling doubt, they would not have brought it to him.

  The victim’s life was tragically brief, tragically familiar. Tracy Lyons, only child of a single woman (father unknown) who had died in a house fire when Tracy was eight, had been in and out of care all her young life, absconding from children’s homes, drifting into prostitution from the age of fourteen onwards. She emerged from the dark heart of this social deprivation to something like survival: a few years of abuse, drugs, poverty, sexual savagery. Then she had died, at just turned sixteen.

  Her body had been found by children playing at Old Park House the day after her death, 12th August 1985. Like Jaynie Turner, she had been strangled with her own scarf but there were two significant differences between the deaths. One was the incontrovertible evidence that Tracy Lyons had been murdered in Old Park House where she was found; the other was the problematic signs of sexu
al activity: Tracy Lyons’ skirt was pulled up to her waist, either she had worn no underwear or it had been removed, there were semen traces, but no evidence of penetration.

  Amongst the women euphemistically known as ‘working girls’, her youth might have provoked jealousy, her aggressive nature did nothing to enlist sympathy: she was a newcomer and the generally expressed hindsight, ‘she was nothing but trouble,’ turned out to be adequately demonstrated. Without exception the other prostitutes turned their backs on her fate, but unrelenting questioning produced a few stray leads: type and make and colour of car, possible numbers or letters of the registration plate. Eventually, these details were collated to a sufficient degree to enable the police to trace the owner.

  He was Alfred Lynchet of Ferns, River Way, Clerehaven.

  Hunter said, ‘Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs.’

  ‘I’ve heard more than I want to know about the elevated, exclusive Lynchets,’ Annette said, ‘and here’s one of them consorting with a teenage prostitute.’

  ‘It happens.’ Collier was philosophical. ‘That type can fancy a bit of rough as a change. Mind you, murdering her’s a bit out of the general run of things.’

  Because she threatened him? Because he was unbalanced? Speculation at that stage was pointless. There could be any number of reasons why an ostensibly respectable man became drawn ever more inexorably by his need, his lust, his inadequacy, to degradation and violence. But this wasn’t just a man terrified of losing his reputation amongst his community, Annette pointed out reflectively; there was another dimension. He had originated a television series that, at the time, had started on its landslide success; his name might not be a household word, but it was linked with one rapidly becoming one. The Toddies. Whatever anyone thought about them, everyone had heard of them and would, inevitably, hear of him — had matters taken their course.

  Hunter reflected on the supercilious woman, alone in the big house, living on her late brother’s success as crumbs from a rich table. Had she had any idea how close he had come to being charged with murder? Could that cold manner be a form of resistance to the dread of the past coming back to strip her of all she had now? He could not be sure, but instinct told him there was something complicated going on beneath the surface. The disappearing Benjamin, for one. Was there a connection to be made with the present crime?

  He picked up the report from the Clerehaven police. ‘So, what about this hit and run accident?’

  Collier said, ‘It happened at the far end of High Town, I know the place. It’s a quiet area, a few old houses with large gardens, high walls or hedges. There’s some residential, mostly posh homes for the elderly, a few businesses and shops, then the railway station.’

  Hunter said, ‘There was only one response to the appeal for witnesses.’

  ‘Yes. It’s very quiet there that time of evening, dusk, everyone at home. This woman … ’ Collier consulted the file, ‘Victoria Slatter, had had a day out in Clerehaven and was walking to the station to catch the last train back to Chatfield. She didn’t come forward until she read about the accident in the paper, and the appeal for witnesses, because she didn’t know at the time there’d been an accident. What she had seen was a big blue van with numbers H 7 Y tearing out of the side road where it happened.’

  ‘Did she, now?’ Hunter murmured.

  ‘She wasn’t even sure of the order of the letters, it was just those three registered with her. Of course, Clerehaven ran a check through the local computer — anyone using a blue van. Nothing. Then a brief house-to-house — anyone using a blue van. Nothing. This all happened before the connection was made with … ’

  Collier’s voice ran down. Annette was watching Hunter, who was sitting very still, studying the witness statement and almost audibly pursuing his own thoughts.

  Annette craned to read; Hunter obligingly swivelled the paper. Mrs Victoria Slatter, 24 Kitchener Terrace, Browncoats, Chatfield.

  He said. ‘That’s Queenie Walley.’

  Annette read the name, helplessly, three times. ‘Er — it says Victoria. Oh, yes, I see, Queen Vic. But, Slatter?’

  Hunter, thinking, said, ‘Only for a week.’ They waited, knowing perfectly well they had not misheard, trying to work it out. Eventually, Annette admitted in a small voice, ‘Give up.’

  ‘An old tom, even then, she’d seen better days, by God. The older she got, the harder she got. Quarried, was Queenie. Granite, wouldn’t give you the shit off a shovel. And here — ’ he looked down at the paper — ‘in a fit of public spirit, she volunteers … ’ Words failed him, a circumstance so unusual Annette and Collier maintained an awed silence. At last, unable to help himself, Collier breathed, ‘Go on, guv … ’

  ‘She was in and out of the old nick often enough, drunk and disorderly, behaviour likely to cause a breach of the peace, the usual sort of thing. Before your time — but as far as I know she’s never showed up here. The thing is, she got married, about five years ago — to one of her punters. It caused quite a bit of hilarity, most of it crude beyond belief. She was getting on for retiring age. Some men like the motherly type, you know, feel safe, or perhaps it’s something to do with early potty training — ’

  ‘Guv … ’ Annette said.

  ‘Yes. He was a decrepit old guy, and loaded. He must have been pretty gaga to go through with it, but not so far gone his family could get control of his affairs. They made a hell of a fuss, but he cleared off and did it and within two weeks he was dead. Heart attack.’

  ‘Was it?’ Annette asked.

  ‘Yes, all perfectly above board. And Queenie wouldn’t have done herself any favours seeing him off — he hadn’t changed his will in her favour. His family were in line — as they always had been — to get the lot. Queenie hadn’t thought of that — or perhaps he’d told her he’d see she was taken care of but never had time to get round to it.’

  ‘Did she take legal action?’ Collier queried, although there really was no point asking: women like Queenie Walley had not the faintest idea how to go about taking legal action. She would assert, loudly and frequently throughout her life, I’ll have the lor on you. But she knew, as all women of her kind knew, the law was not for them.

  ‘Did she get anything?’ Annette asked.

  A grace and favour payment. To shut her up, stop her making a scandal. She threatened to turn up at the funeral and demand her rights. She was more than capable of it, that’s why they traded with her. It would have been like a charging rhino loose among the headstones. Doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  ‘But, guv, what kind of credibility would we give to a witness like that?’

  ‘Nowt, lad, here in Chatfield at the dangerous edge, where we know Queenie Walley. But Clerehaven. They take people at face value there, it’s a conditioned reflex. What reason would they have to doubt her? A respectable widow, a concerned citizen doing her civic duty. And her address, Browncoats, it’s not much but it’s not the pits. There was no reason for them to take her for anything but an impartial, honest witness. I did hear that she bought her house with the proceeds of her — nuptial settlement. The thing was, she just hadn’t been married long enough for it to register that she wasn’t still Queenie Walley, everyone went on calling her that.’

  ‘So she didn’t misrepresent herself when she volunteered her evidence.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Why would she, though? Volunteer?’ Annette murmured.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  Collier said, ‘It wasn’t as if it was her own patch, where people knew her, might have known she’d seen something, maybe got a score to settle, or wanted to make trouble. But where she was a stranger … ’ He consulted the file. ‘No, she didn’t know anyone, just on a day out — ’

  ‘If you’re thinking there’s a connection — ’ Hunter began.

  ‘She certainly wasn’t on social terms with the Lynchets,’ Annette finished.

  ‘No,’ James persisted. ‘But we know Alfred pick
ed up this young — Tracy.’

  ‘Do we?’ Hunter said

  ‘All right. It’s odds on. His car was known round the red light area — ’

  Hunter said, ‘Nobody identified him. The descriptions we did manage to get could have been anyone.’

  ‘Yes,’ Collier said reluctantly.

  Hunter relented: ‘But go on.’

  ‘Could she have known Queenie?’

  ‘Everyone knew Queenie. Yes, I’d say they’re sure to have been known to one another.’

  ‘Well, could Alfred have known Queenie? Could he have been one of her punters?’ ‘There’s a hell of a difference,’ Annette pointed out, ‘between a teenager and an old boiling fowl. And don’t either of you tell me all cats are grey in the dark.’

  Collier said, ‘Come off it, Annette, we’re not talking aesthetic considerations here. It’s necessity, you know, for all these pathetic limp Willies — whoever’s available.’

  ‘I suppose so … ’

  Hunter said, ‘Look, until we get something else and it at least starts to look like hanging together, we can’t run with it. There’s no urgency in this. When I’ve got a minute, I’ll go round and see the old boot. All right?’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Collier and Annette asked around the nick, jogging memories of the team who had worked on the Tracy Lyons murder at Old Park House. All they could discover was that there had been nothing about it to make it remarkable, or to strike a chord (other than location) with Jaynie Turner’s murder. In the general opinion, ‘There was nothing to remember — and bugger all that could be done. It was too late. By the time we got to the feller he was dead and buried. Well, cremated to be exact. And we don’t take ash to court. Bit of a waste of resources.’

  ‘Queenie it is, then,’ Annette said.

  *

  Collier said, ‘Browncoats. Where Queenie used to live. I was there today.’

  ‘Somehow I thought you might be,’ Hunter said. ‘Used to?’

  ‘Yes. There’s a For Sale sign outside her bungalow. I knocked, and hung about a bit till the next-door neighbour came out — thought I was a prospective buyer, perhaps. It seems Queenie’s in a hospice and — if you want to see her, guv, you’d better not leave it too long.’