Wake the Dead

by Dorothy Simpson

  Joan was enthusiastic. ‘D’you think Caroline Plowright is the type to employ someone like Michele?’

  ‘Quite possible, I should think. She’s had her own problems and she might well be sympathetic. And it’s not as though Michele is a thief or a con-artist.’

  ‘I’ll mention it to Michele, then, and if she’s interested, go and have a word with your Caroline, see if she’d be prepared to consider taking her on. Thanks, darling, that’s a brilliant idea.’ Joan yawned and stretched. ‘Well, I think I’m about ready to go up, are you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Thanet knocked out his pipe on the stout ashtray kept for that purpose, and stood up. ‘Ben isn’t in yet, though. Where is he?’

  Joan glanced at the clock. ‘He’s been to the cinema with Chris and Mike, and then they were going to have a pizza. He should be back any minute now.’

  As if on cue the front door banged and a moment later Ben came in.

  ‘Hi!’

  ‘Good time?’ said Thanet.

  ‘Great.’ Ben grinned. ‘I still can’t believe it. No more exams! And the summer holidays ahead!’

  Thanet smiled. It was good to see Ben looking so carefree. ‘Enjoy it!’ he said. ‘We’re just going up. You coming?’

  ‘No, there’s something I want to watch on the box.’

  Thanet refrained from saying, ‘At this hour?’ At the moment parental restraint was definitely not the order of the day. ‘Don’t forget to unplug the set.’ An oft-repeated maxim in the Thanet household ever since some friends of theirs had had a serious fire through omitting to do just that.

  Ben grinned. ‘Yes, Daddy,’ he said in a little-boy voice.

  In bed, Joan said, ‘Odd, isn’t it, how misconceptions and distorted memories can influence personality and behaviour for years, when they have no basis in reality.’

  ‘Darling, give it a rest, will you? Switch off. We go to bed to sleep, remember?’

  ‘Amongst other things,’ said Joan teasingly, rolling over and putting her arms around him.

  Thanet wasn’t going to argue about that.

  Next morning Lineham was late and still hadn’t arrived by 8.45, the time of the morning meeting. This was so unusual that Thanet couldn’t help feeling concerned. But there was no message, so presumably the sergeant wasn’t ill.

  The meeting was not a success from Thanet’s point of view. A lack-lustre Draco listened in silence to Thanet’s report, asked a few pertinent questions and then said, ‘So you haven’t got a single lead at the moment?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Has forensic come up with anything yet?’

  Thanet shook his head. ‘The trouble is that three of our suspects, Fairleigh, his aunt and his wife, were all in and out of that room regularly, so we’re unlikely to come up with anything useful as far as they’re concerned. And the same applies to Mrs Raven, who admits to being in the room even though she claims that the old lady was dead by then. Of course, if there were any evidence to prove that Mrs Tanner had been in there, that would be a different matter.’

  Draco frowned. ‘Better try and hurry forensic up, then, hadn’t you. Sure you’re not barking up the wrong tree altogether, Thanet?’

  ‘What do you mean, sir?’

  ‘Concentrating on the family. Oh, I know, I know,’ and Draco held up his hand as Thanet opened his mouth to protest, ‘it usually does turn out to be one of the nearest and dearest in a case like this. But we mustn’t ignore the fact that there were a couple of thousand other people around at the time, and by your own admission it would have been relatively easy for any one of them to sneak in unseen. What have you been doing about them?’

  ‘As soon as the list of names and addresses was typed up I put a couple of men on to it, and they’ve been working their way through it systematically. I’ve been keeping an eye on the reports they’ve been putting in each day, but there’s been nothing of interest so I haven’t bothered to mention it.’

  Draco scowled. ‘Sounds to me as though you’re going around in circles. We really do want to get this one cleared up, or before we know where we are we’ll have Fairleigh complaining of police harassment. Get on with it, Thanet, get on with it.’

  All very well, thought Thanet gloomily as he climbed the stairs back up to his office. But what was there to get on with at the moment?

  Lineham still hadn’t turned up. Where was he?

  Thanet put his head into the main CID room. ‘Any message from Mike?’

  Apparently not. Thanet returned to his office and sat down, still smarting from Draco’s rebuke. He rang the forensic science laboratory and was told that they were doing their best. They weren’t miracle men and his wasn’t the only case they had to deal with. Thanet put the phone down and felt for his pipe. As Lineham wasn’t here he would console himself with a smoke, put off the unwelcome moment which was, reluctant as he was to admit it, upon him.

  When a case ground to a standstill, as this one apparently had, there was only one thing for it, to settle down and go conscientiously through every scrap of information which had come in and make absolutely certain that every lead had been followed up. He had learned from past experience that this could be an invaluable exercise. When you were deeply immersed in a case it often became impossible to see the wood for the trees and during a report-reading session sometimes an unexpected overall picture emerged, obscured until then by the day-to-day trickle of information. Connections hitherto missed could be spotted, new angles become evident.

  His pipe was burning steadily now and with a sigh he took out the first file and opened it.

  He was coming to the end of the report on the interview with Caroline Plowright when feet pounded up the stairs and Lineham came in with a rush.

  ‘Sorry, sir. I thought I’d never get here! I had to take Richard to school and go in to see his teacher, explain to her what the psychologist had said. Louise was going to do it, but her car wouldn’t start. I didn’t think it would take so long, or I’d have rung in.’ Lineham coughed and glanced reproachfully at Thanet’s pipe.

  Thanet laid it down in the ashtray. ‘I know, I know. Open the window wide and leave the door ajar for a few minutes, the smoke’ll soon clear.’

  Lineham flung the window open and watched the coils of smoke drift out. He grinned. ‘Let’s hope they don’t call out the fire brigade.’

  ‘You sound a little more cheerful this morning, Mike. Tell me what Louise had to say about Richard.’

  Lineham perched on the corner of Thanet’s desk. ‘Well, dyslexia is apparently a sort of umbrella term covering problems with visual and auditory memory, and the sequencing of sounds, letters, numbers and so on. They gave Louise a lot of tips on how to cope with the everyday aspect of it. It all sounds pretty intimidating, I must say. Apparently dyslexics find it very difficult to be organised so we have to try to make it easier for Richard by, for instance, marking every single item he takes to school. All his shoes have to be marked with an R and an L, so that he knows which foot they go on. And we have to check every morning that he has everything he needs to take with him and every evening that he’s brought it all home again, whether there are any letters from the school in his pockets or lunchbox. When we ask him to do things we’ve got to be specific. It’s no good saying, “Tidy your room”, we have to say, “Pick up all the books and put them on the shelves, pick up your toys and put them in the cupboard” – that sort of thing.’

  ‘What about learning difficulties?’

  ‘Hard to generalise, apparently. They vary from one dyslexic to another. Some cope pretty well. We just have to wait and see. But it should be easier for Richard now that the school knows he’s not just being lazy or bloody-minded.’

  Lineham stood up and began to wander restlessly around, picking things up and putting them down without really seeing them. ‘There’s no point in denying we’re worried, especially about his future. And it’s going to involve a pretty big adjustment all round. It’s funny, there you are, going along as normal an
d then something happens which shakes you rigid. And the extraordinary thing is, the situation existed all the time. It hasn’t changed, but your perception of it has, and you feel, well …’ Lineham paused, groping for words. ‘It’s as if there’s been a minor earthquake in your life. You look around and everything’s the same but different.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not explaining this very well. It’s a hell of a shock.’ He glanced at Thanet. ‘What’s the matter, sir?’

  Thanet shook his head. ‘Sorry, Mike. I am listening, and I do understand what you’re trying to say, but I’ve just got to think for a minute …’ He put his elbows on the desk and closed his eyes, lowering his head and clasping his hands over the top of it to contain his excitement. Without warning, tumblers were clicking over in his brain. He had experienced this sensation before, a surge of exhilaration and a sense of dawning enlightenment which was virtually indescribable. He waited, scarcely daring to breathe, for the turmoil in his mind to ease and then suddenly, with a kind of sweet inevitability, that elusive last piece of the jigsaw fell into place and he had it, the whole picture, clear and true. Was it possible? His mind raced, testing, checking, and yes, he was certain now. He raised his head. Lineham was staring at him. ‘Mike, you’re brilliant!’

  ‘I am?’

  Galvanised, Thanet jumped up, unable to contain his excitement. ‘Yes! What you just said!’

  ‘What did I just say?’

  ‘Listen!’ Thanet began to explain, watching the dawning understanding on Lineham’s face, the beginnings of enthusiasm and finally an excitement which matched Thanet’s own. Almost. ‘There’re an awful lot of assumptions there, sir.’

  ‘Maybe. But you must admit, it fits. Everything fits. Doesn’t it?’

  ‘Well, yes …’

  ‘I’m right, I know it, you’ll see. Meanwhile, there are things to do.’ Thanet shoved away the stack of files with an impatient hand and grabbed a piece of paper. ‘I’ll make a list.’

  EIGHTEEN

  Thanet’s mood had changed. On the two-hour drive back to Sturrenden he had had plenty of time to think and his initial exhilaration, boosted further by the interview just conducted, had dwindled to a mere spark as they approached the next stage in the inquiry.

  During the course of a murder investigation he was always obsessed by one question: who had committed the crime? Every thought, every effort was directed to this end, and it was as if, beyond this point, the future did not exist. It was only when he had found the answer that he began to think ahead and ask himself, what now? What effect would the arrest have upon the other people involved in the case and, worse, had the murder even perhaps been understandable? Not forgivable, no. In Thanet’s book murder could never be justified. Often, of course, there was no problem. If the crime had been particularly brutal, if mindless violence or sadistic enjoyment had been involved, his feelings of triumph were unalloyed and he would find nothing but fulfilment and satisfaction in bringing the criminal to justice. But he did sometimes find, as in this case, that dangerous compassion for the murderer could creep in and he could even ask himself, if I had found myself in that position, would I have behaved as he or she did? He knew that he should not, could not allow such thoughts to influence his behaviour, but there was no point in denying that they didn’t help him to be as single-minded as he ought to be.

  No, he was not looking forward to the coming confrontation; confrontation and, with any luck, arrest.

  For there was no doubt about it, luck would be needed. As Lineham had pointed out, they had no shred of evidence that would stand up in court. If they failed to extract a confession then that would be that. Even feeling as he did, he refused to allow himself to consider the possibility that this might happen.

  So as the now-familiar gates of Thaxden Hall loomed ahead his stomach clenched. He wanted to get this over with. What if the suspect were out? He glanced at his watch. The various inquiries they had had to make during the day had taken longer than he hoped, but perhaps this would now work to his advantage. At 6.30 in the evening most people were at home.

  Lineham, too, looked tense, his hands gripping the steering wheel more tightly than usual. They entered the drive and gravel crunched beneath their wheels.

  As they stepped out of the car silence enfolded them and Thanet became aware that it was a perfect summer evening. All day he had been so wrapped up in their various activities that he hadn’t even noticed the weather, but now, despite his preoccupation, the peace and beauty of the old house and grounds claimed his attention. The mellow rose-red brick glowed in the early evening sunlight and as they approached the front door Thanet noticed for the first time that the borders along the front of the house were planted exclusively with white and silver plants. The mingled scents of white roses, white phlox, night-scented stocks and nicotiana drifted to meet them.

  Lineham seized his arm as they waited for the door to open. He pointed at the sky. ‘Look!’

  They moved out beyond the shelter of the portico for a better view. High above the trees over to their left a huge bird was circling. Thanet had never seen anything like it before.

  ‘What d’you think it is, sir?’

  ‘No idea.’ He turned as Sam opened the door, beckoned and pointed. ‘What’s that?’

  She moved out to join them. ‘That’s Carvic.’

  ‘Carvic?’

  ‘He’s a heron. There’s a big pond over in the trees, he often comes there to fish.’

  ‘Strange name.’

  She laughed. ‘It’s a private joke.’ She was more formally dressed tonight, a Laura Ashley frock by the look of it, thought Thanet, knowledgeable about such things by now after years of a teenage daughter.

  The heron swooped down, disappearing into the trees, and Thanet turned reluctantly away. ‘We’ve come to see Mrs Fairleigh.’

  She glanced at him sharply. Something in his tone had made her uneasy. She frowned and led the way into the house. ‘She may be changing for dinner. Would you wait here, please, while I go and see?’

  Thanet wondered whether Grace Fairleigh changed for dinner every evening, even when she dined alone. But Fairleigh had said that Sam always ate with the family. Perhaps that was why she was wearing a dress.

  ‘Just a moment, Sam, before you go. One small point … Could you tell me if there have been any letters for old Mrs Fairleigh either today or yesterday?’

  She shook her head firmly. ‘No.’

  ‘You’re sure? Only when I last spoke to you about the letters you said you never bothered to look at who they were for, once you’d checked that there were none for you.’

  ‘I know, but yesterday and today I did, perhaps because you’d been asking questions about them. There were definitely none for Hugo’s mother.’

  Thanet nodded his satisfaction. Just as he expected.

  He and Lineham were silent while they waited, both preoccupied with thoughts of the coming interview. Thanet had already decided to play it by ear, but now he ran over in his mind the various points that he must bring up.

  Sam appeared on the landing and leaned over the balustrade. ‘You can come up.’

  She led them to a door at the far end of the right-hand corridor and opened it. They went in and she closed it behind them. In the silence Thanet could hear her soft footfalls receding along the landing.

  It was a small sitting room with windows on two sides on the front corner of the house – small by the standards of Thaxden Hall, that is, but still larger than Thanet’s sitting room at home. Evening sunshine poured in through the tall sash window facing him, momentarily dazzling him. He blinked a couple of times to clear his vision.

  Grace Fairleigh was standing by one of the windows on the left. ‘Did you see it?’ she said. ‘The heron?’

  ‘Yes. I’d never seen one before.’

  ‘I watch out for him every evening. He doesn’t always come.’ She turned away from the window. ‘What can I do for you, Inspector, Sergeant? Sit down, won’t you.’

  It
was an attractive room, graceful, feminine, with a green and cream colour scheme which seemed to merge with the tranquil rural views through the windows. On a wing chair near one of these lay a tapestry frame with a half-worked design stretched on it. On the floor nearby was an open workbag with a jumble of wools spilling out. There were books on the shelves in the fireplace alcoves, a television set and a compact disc player. This, evidently, was the room Grace Fairleigh used in preference to the formal drawing room downstairs and interestingly enough it reminded Thanet to some extent of the sitting room of Pamela Raven’s flat in London. Perhaps, underneath, the two women were not so different after all. He looked at Grace more closely, noting that as ever she was immaculately groomed, hair in a smooth chignon, make-up perfectly applied. She was wearing a short-sleeved sheath dress in pale blue linen, its elegant simplicity proclaiming its cost more clearly than any label. She looked as beautiful, unattainable and unreal as the models who float down the catwalk of the international fashion shows. And there, of course, lay the difference between the two women. Thanet thought now, as he had thought the first time he met Pamela Raven, that he could understand why Fairleigh had turned from his wife to his mistress. Who would not prefer a living, breathing woman to an empty shell, however beautiful?

  She was watching him expectantly and he sighed inwardly. Better get on with it. ‘Mrs Fairleigh, there is no point in pretending that this interview is going to be pleasant.’

  Her perfectly plucked eyebrows arched slightly.

  ‘We know, you see, what happened on Saturday afternoon.’

  ‘Really?’ She sounded no more moved or interested than if they had been discussing the weather.

  ‘We have just returned from a visit to your former nanny, Rita Symes. She’s Rita Kenny now, and lives in Suffolk. But of course you know that, don’t you?’

  Her composure did not falter and she made no response, but for the first time a hint of some emotion showed in her eyes. What was it? Not fear, nor apprehension. But comprehension, yes, and a touch of resignation, perhaps?