A young uniformed constable – they all looked young these days! – approached him.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but there’s been a serious incident here, and I’m going to have to ask you to move on,’ he said.
Beresford produced his warrant card.
‘Who’s in charge here?’ he asked.
‘Well, DCI Dixon’s just arrived, sir …’
‘That’s not what I asked,’ Beresford snapped. ‘Who’s secured the crime scene?’
‘That would be Inspector Flowers, sir.’
Beresford nodded. He remembered Flowers from the Danbury murder case. Monika had watched her back for her during that investigation, and it appeared – from the anonymous phone call to his flat – that Inspector Flowers was now returning the favour.
‘Where’s Inspector Flowers now?’ he asked.
‘She’s with DCI Dixon, sir.’
Beresford wondered if he’d ever been this dumb when he was a uniformed constable himself, and decided it was more than possible.
‘And where’s DCI Dixon?’ he asked. ‘And don’t tell me he’s with Inspector Flowers.’
‘They’re in the kitchen,’ the constable said, grinning as if Beresford had been making a joke to put him at his ease.
And maybe that’s what I was doing, Beresford thought. Maybe it’s a sign I’m finally maturing.
He stepped into the house, and walked down the hallway. The kitchen door was open, and he saw DCI Dixon and Inspector Flowers standing there.
Dixon’s mouth dropped open when he saw him.
‘What are you …?’ he began. And then, because he was the kind of man who had both the ability and the inclination to change horses midstream, his expression switched to one of general concern, and he continued, ‘This is a bad business, DI Beresford, and the press are going to crucify us unless we can find a way to keep it in hand.’
Looking over Dixon’s shoulder, Beresford could see the ‘bad business’ he was talking about. There were two hooks set into the ceiling, which, in the old days, would have been the anchors for the clothes drying rack. Now, a thin rope – probably a clothesline – had been looped over the hooks, and hanging from the ropes – their eyes glazed, their tongues hanging out, and their feet suspended only inches from the ground – were Mr and Mrs Green.
Beresford quickly surveyed the rest of the scene. The smell of faeces in the air was enough to tell him that Mr and Mrs Green had actually died as a result of hanging, rather than being strung up when they were already dead, and if further confirmation were needed, the two three-legged foot stools, lying on their sides, provided it.
‘I want you all out of here, now, chop chop!’ said a voice behind him, and turning, Beresford saw Dr Shastri – resplendent, as always, in a colourful sari – standing behind him.
DCI Dixon looked resentful, but he knew you do not contradict the police doctor, especially – he thought – if she comes from a minority background, and you could be accused of being prejudiced.
‘When can you give us an idea of how long they’ve been dead, doc?’ he asked, as they passed each other on the narrow corridor.
Shastri shot him a look of dislike, then glanced up at the two corpses. ‘As soon as I have inserted my little thermometer into their rectums,’ she said, ‘which will be when I have them back at my mortuary. But just by looking at them, I would say they have been dead for several hours.’
If that was right, then they could possibly have died while their daughter, Mary, was being cremated, Beresford thought – and he wondered if they’d planned it that way.
Out on the front step of the Greens’ house, Beresford offered Inspector Flowers a cigarette, and looked down the street at the red public phone box, which was almost certainly where the call to his flat had been made from.
‘Who found the bodies?’ he asked Flowers.
‘Their son, John,’ Flowers replied. ‘Apparently, he’d been out for most of the day …’
‘I know about that. He was at his sister’s cremation.’
‘Oh shit, yes, he must have been. And then he came home to this. Poor little bugger.’
‘Did he call us himself?’
‘No, the Greens don’t have a telephone.’ Flowers paused. ‘They don’t seem to have a television, either. What kind of family is it – in this day and age – that doesn’t have a television?’
‘A weird one,’ Beresford acknowledged. ‘So what did he do when he found the bodies?’
‘He went next door, and asked the neighbours to phone – I say “neighbours”, but I’m only using the word in the geographical sense – they told me that none of the Green family have ever really spoken to them in the five years they’ve been living there.’
‘Where’s John now?’ Beresford asked.
‘He was feeling very cold, so I put him in one of patrol cars with a blanket round him. But even then, he wouldn’t stop shivering, so I had him taken to Whitebridge General. I think they’re planning to keep him in overnight.’
‘Do you think it really was a suicide?’ Beresford said.
‘Do you mean, rather than a double murder which was staged to look like a suicide?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I think it really was suicide,’ Flowers said. ‘I think that, for reasons best known to themselves, they took two knotted pieces of clothes line and hanged themselves in their own kitchen. As far as timing goes, it’s possible that he waited until she was dead before hanging himself, or she waited until he was dead. But my gut tells me it wasn’t like that. My gut tells me they went together.’
‘That’s what my gut tells me, too,’ Beresford said.
Inspector Flowers shuddered. ‘Just imagine it,’ she said. ‘Just imagine hanging there – feeling the life being squeezed out of you – and watching your partner die at the same time. Why do you think they did it that way?’
‘Maybe each one wanted to make sure the other didn’t back out at the last minute,’ Beresford suggested. ‘Or maybe if they had to die, they wanted to die together.’
‘Makes you think, doesn’t it?’ Flowers said.
‘Yes, it does,’ Beresford agreed, ‘and honestly, I’d much rather it didn’t.’ He finished his cigarette, snipped the glowing end off with his thumb and forefinger nails, and put the filter in his pocket. He glanced at the phone box again, and pictured Flowers making the call, and one of her team telling her that she was wanted. ‘Thanks for your help,’ he said.
‘Help?’ Inspector Flowers repeated. ‘Help? I have no idea what you’re talking about, DI Beresford.’
When Austen Chalmers had announced to his friends that he needed a complete break from the office, and had decided to spend a week hiking and rough camping on the moors, they’d rolled their eyes in what they probably considered was a comical manner and asked him if he was quite sure he wanted to do that.
‘You’re not exactly an old man,’ they’d said, ‘but let’s face it, Austen, you’re no spring chicken either – and rough camping is a young man’s sport.’
‘I may be forty-two,’ he’d responded, somewhat offended, ‘but I’m as fit as I ever was.’
It wasn’t true – that thing about the fitness – he very soon realized. Or perhaps it was and it was the conditions, rather than he himself, which had changed. It was perfectly possible, he supposed, that the ground could have become much harder than it used to be when he was young, and that miles could have been recalibrated to make them twice as long as he remembered. While he wasn’t looking, weights could have been changed, too, so that a twenty-pound load was now much heavier than what had been a twenty-pound load back in the day. But it was much more likely, he reluctantly conceded, that his friends had been right, and hiking and rough camping were a young man’s game.
His pride made him stick it out for three days, but on the fourth, his blisters and his aches forced him to hobble to a very pleasant inn on the edge of the moors, where, on presentation of that basic and essential survival tool – the cre
dit card – he was warmly welcomed in.
A good soak in the bath did wonders for his body, and a meal which hadn’t come out of a can seemed to positively nourish his soul. He retired early, with half a bottle of whisky to keep him company, to watch television in his room until he fell asleep.
While he’d been out on the moors, there’d been a murder in one of the nearby towns, he learned from the local news. And not just a murder – a detective chief inspector had been seriously injured, as well.
A Honda 250cc motorcycle suddenly appeared on the screen, for no reason Chalmers could discern.
‘The police are looking for this motorbike, which the murderer may have been riding,’ said the voiceover. ‘If you have any knowledge of its whereabouts, please contact the Mid Lancs police as soon as possible.’
Chalmers’ mind travelled back to Monday morning, and to the lad – he could remember his face quite distinctly – rolling the bike into the lake at the bottom of the abandoned quarry. It had seemed crazy at the time, but suddenly it was making a lot of sense.
He picked up the bedside phone, and dialled the number that was still on the screen.
Beresford sat down next to Monika’s bed. He’d been told by the nurse on duty that there’d be no harm in holding her hand, as long as he held it lightly, so that was what he did.
Looking down at the hands, it occurred to him that in all their years of friendship …
Friendship! Why was he calling it friendship, when he knew it was much more than that?
In all the years they had loved each other, they’d never been as physically intimate as this, and now they were, one of them might not even be aware of it.
‘I miss you, Monika,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean as a friend – though God knows, I miss you there – I mean as a boss. We all miss you. Without you, we’re all drifting away from what we really are. Meadows is becoming the kinder face of policing – if you can believe that. Crane’s slipping into Meadows’s shoes, and has started to see finding a way round laid-down procedures as some kind of sport. And me? I used to think I could do your job, but I can’t. I was a pretty good inspector with you in charge, but now you’re not there, I feel more like a sergeant, and if it goes on for much longer, I’ll be thinking like a constable again.’
‘Don’t beat yourself up,’ said a voice from the doorway. ‘You’re doing the best you can in the circumstances.’
Beresford smiled gratefully at Meadows, but he was thinking that their working relationship had always been slightly prickly and confrontational, and the fact that she was changing now could only mean that she was as frightened as he was, and needed to cling to him for comfort.
‘Kate’s just been to see Louisa,’ Beresford said to Paniatowski, ‘and she’s fine, isn’t she, Kate?’
‘Yes,’ Meadows said, though her expression indicated quite the reverse. ‘Of course, she misses you and she wants you home again, but she’s holding up very well. She’s got a lot of balls – just like her mother.’
‘Loui’a,’ Monika said, in a hoarse, agonized voice. ‘Twin …’
‘They’re all fine,’ Beresford assured her. ‘The twins don’t even realize anything is wrong.’
‘Loui’a … twin …’ Monika said again.
‘You shouldn’t worry,’ Beresford assured her. ‘If it will make you happier, I’ll take the twins to the zoo tomorrow.’
‘Loui’a … twin …’ Monika screamed. ‘Loui’a … twin …’
The medical instruments which surrounded her were going crazy.
‘I’d better call a doctor,’ Meadows said.
And Beresford, fighting for breath, could say nothing.
‘She’s settled down again now,’ the doctor told Meadows and Beresford. ‘Hopefully, she’ll have a peaceful night.’
‘What does it mean that she suddenly started speaking like that?’ Beresford asked, anguished.
‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss Ms Paniatowski’s condition with someone who is not a relative,’ the doctor said.
‘Oh, I think that you could – if you really forced yourself to,’ Meadows said sweetly.
‘When I entered this profession, I swore the Hippocratic Oath, young lady,’ the doctor said severely.
‘Yes, but you must admit, there’s scope for interpretation, if you want there to be,’ Meadows said.
She was still sounding reasonable, Beresford thought – although God alone knew how long that would last.
‘The Hippocratic Oath is not open to interpretation of any kind,’ the doctor said.
‘Oh well, if you’re going to be so legalistic about things …’ Meadows said, and then left the rest of the sentence hanging.
‘What do you mean?’ the doctor asked, and he was already starting to sound uneasy.
‘I mean that I suppose I had better enforce the law without allowing any scope for interpretation.’
‘Quite right, too – the law is the law,’ the doctor said, though he was definitely sensing danger now.
‘Do you know how many times the average person breaks the law – in its most strictly enforceable sense – every day?’ Meadows asked. ‘Of course, we normally turn a blind eye to minor infractions, but if I’m ever to be as good a police woman as you are a doctor …’
‘Are you threatening me,’ the doctor asked, outraged.
‘No,’ Meadows said. ‘Threatening is based on “if you don’t do this, I’ll do that”, whereas what I am saying is, “if you do do this, I will prosecute you as the law demands”. So if you end up spending half your time in court, answering a series of petty charges, it’s really your fault, isn’t it?’
‘DS Meadows wouldn’t normally talk to you like this, and she’s only doing it now because she really does care about Monika,’ Beresford said, offering the doctor a face-saving lifebelt. ‘I care, too.’
‘Well, since you are both so obviously concerned, I don’t suppose there’s any harm in giving you my opinion,’ the doctor said, grabbing the lifebelt with both hands. ‘What happened earlier may have been a freak occurrence, which means nothing at all in the long term. On the other hand …’ he paused. ‘How can I best explain it to laymen like yourselves? It might help if you could picture Ms Paniatowski as being in a lake, trapped under a layer of ice. What you witnessed a few minutes ago may have been the first real indication that she is ready to break that ice and burst through to the surface again.’
‘May have been?’ Meadows said.
‘Yes.’
‘What else could it have been?’
The doctor sighed. ‘It could have been the last desperate tapping on the underside of the ice before she sinks forever,’ he said.
FIFTEEN
Wednesday
The first patrol cars had arrived just after dawn had broken, the lorries, with the hydraulic cranes on their flatbeds, turned up about half an hour later. And still, though another hour had passed, and the sun was climbing high in the sky, nothing seemed to have been done.
‘What’s the delay?’ DS Higgins asked the sergeant in charge of the frogman unit impatiently. ‘Why aren’t your lads already in the water?’
‘We have to do a risk assessment first,’ explained the sergeant, whose name was Jenkins.
‘A bloody sodding risk assessment!’ Higgins snorted with disgust. ‘What are we – policemen or pansies? Give me a wetsuit and a harness, and I’ll go down there myself.’
‘A, you’re not insured, and B, you’d get tangled up in the harness, and bloody drown in the first thirty seconds,’ Sergeant Jenkins said. ‘What’s your hurry, anyway, old lad? Your suspect’s not going anywhere, is he?’
It’s not my bloody suspect I’m worried about, Higgins thought – it’s Paniatowski’s team.
The problem was, he didn’t know what they were doing, and he couldn’t trust them not to screw things up for him, either accidentally or with malice aforethought. He needed to present Rhino Dixon with a clear-cut and dried solution to the case. What he didn’t need was
for Beresford to either share the credit or put forward some other solution.
‘We’re ready when you are, skipper,’ one of the frogmen called out to Jenkins.
‘Off you go, then,’ the sergeant said, ‘and for God’s sake be careful, because who knows what kind of shit there is down there.’
Their harnesses attached to the crane, the two frogmen walked backwards down the steep slope, their rubber feet flip-flopping as they went. Once they were immersed in the pit, they trod water while they released their harnesses, then did a backwards aquatic somersault, and disappeared from sight.
They emerged again about half a minute later.
‘It goes almost straight down for about twenty feet, does this bugger,’ one of them called out. ‘The motorbike’s at the bottom.’
‘Can you get it?’ Jenkins asked.
‘Should be able to, unless there’s some problem we’ve missed,’ the diver said.
The lorries had had their backs to the pit, but now one of them manoeuvred into a sideways on position, so that the arm of its hydraulic crane was as far over the water as possible.
Then, slowly and carefully, a heavy chain with a large hook on the end of it was lowered down into the water.
The divers counted the number of links being submerged, and when they judged there was enough of the chain under the water to serve their purposes, they called a halt.
Higgins watched the divers submerge themselves close to the hanging chain. He realized he was silently counting to himself.
‘One hundred, two hundred, three hundred …’
He had reached ‘three thousand’ when the divers emerged again, some distance from the chain.
‘Haul away,’ one of them called out.
The crane began to wind the chain around its capstan, and after less than a minute, the hook emerged with the red motorbike attached to it.
‘Good job, lads,’ Sergeant Jenkins called to his divers.
Now I’ve got you, you young bastard, DS Higgins thought.
Crane stood at the end of the platform on Whitebridge railway station, and watched George Oppenheimer climb ponderously down from the train.
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