Robin Ainger followed her into the kitchen, closed the door and leaned against it, sick and hollow-eyed.
She switched off the iron, but stood gripping it. ‘Is – is it Athol?’
‘I don’t know. How could I tell? All I could see was a skull and what looked like a heap of old clothes.’
‘What did Mr Quantrill say?’
‘He was alarmingly accurate. A comparatively recent death, he decided, and a young man’s. We agreed it couldn’t be anyone local –’
‘Did you point out that the body could have been dumped from the by-pass?’
‘Yes, yes. But he thinks that’s unlikely. He said that it might have been a natural death, and that even the experts may not be able to tell how death occurred. But in the meantime, he’s going to ferret round and find out whose body it is … Oh God, Gillian, it’ll all come out –’
He went to her and put his arms round her, but his grip was loose, almost lifeless. She rested her forehead against his shoulder for a minute and then looked up, close to tears: ‘Oh, if only –’
The kitchen door opened, and Henry Bowers shuffled in. ‘Is it time for me dinner yet?’ he asked hopefully.
‘No!’ She twisted from her husband’s slack arms. ‘For heaven’s sake, Dad, we’re trying to have a private conversation. Go away! Your dinner won’t be ready for half an hour.’
‘But it’s half-past twelve already. I’m hungry.’
‘Oh – for goodness’sake –’ She ran to the pantry and returned red-cheeked with tension, carrying a wire rack of newly-baked cherry buns which she thrust into his hands. The old man stared down at what he held, bemused.
‘Is this me dinner?’
‘Yes, if you can’t wait. They’re your favourites, aren’t they? You’re always asking me to make them.’
His tongue licked slowly across his dark lips as the warm smell of the golden-brown cakes, each one topped with half a glacé cherry, brought saliva into his mouth. ‘How many can I have?’
‘The lot, for all I care. You’re the only one I make them for. Go on, take them away.’
He looked at her, half gleeful, half puzzled. ‘I shall have to have a drink. I can’t eat’em without.’
‘I’ll bring you a drink. I’ll put the kettle on and make a pot of tea and bring it up to your room … if only you’ll go.’
Her father shook his head. ‘Rum sort o’ dinner,’ he reflected aloud. ‘Bloody rum sort o’dinner, if you ask me.’ But he went, almost with alacrity, as if he was afraid she might change her mind.
As the door closed she stumbled to her husband, blind with tears, and this time he held her as though he meant it. ‘Don’t, my love,’ he muttered against her hair. ‘Don’t cry – you’ve been so brave.’
She raised her face, plainer than usual because it was blotched with emotion. ‘Do you love me, Robin?’
His hands slackened. ‘You know I do.’
‘Then say it,’ she begged. ‘Say you love me.’
Robin Ainger drew a deep, shuddering breath, and expelled it in a sigh. ‘I love you, and I need you. We need each other, because the Chief Inspector will be coming back at lunchtime to talk about the body.’
Her hand flew up to her mouth as though she intended to bite off all her nails at once in an access of anxiety. ‘Why? Why is he coming straight here?’
‘Only because the body was found in the Close. He doesn’t suspect anything, he’s just making routine enquiries. But we must get our story straight.’ He shuddered again. ‘What are we going to say? What on earth are we going to say?’
She stood back, calmer now, having taken strength from his uncertainty.
‘We must say as little as possible. And to begin with, we must deny any knowledge of the body. After all, how do we know whose skeleton they’ve found? They probably won’t be able to identify it – Athol wasn’t English and he had no friends in Breckham. We’ll be all right if we keep our heads.’
‘Yes … that’s it.’ He reached out his hand and stroked her hair. ‘We’ll be all right as long as we stick together. We’ve proved that, haven’t we? We’ve been through hell together, but we’ve come out the other side and nothing’s going to break us up now. Is it?’
The Aingers stood clasped together for a few moments, Gillian’s anguished eyes looking in one direction, Robin’s handsome face staring bleakly in another. And then the door opened.
‘Is the kettle boiling yet? I want me cup o’tea.’
Chapter Four
The over-spiced smell of canned oxtail soup drifted down the hall as Gillian Ainger opened the front door to Chief Inspector Quantrill. She greeted him almost gaily: ‘Hallo again. Come in, you’re just in time to join us for lunch.’
Quantrill, exuding cold air, protested politely but was glad to take off his outdoor clothes and follow her into the kitchen. It was a large square room, more comfortable than efficient. Robin Ainger stood by the Aga, upright and handsome in dark grey suit and clerical collar, stirring the contents of a saucepan. ‘Just in time,’ he said, his voice as bright as his wife’s. ‘It’s only a scratch meal, because we both have meetings to go to, but you’re welcome to share it.’
‘Very kind of you.’ Quantrill rubbed some warmth into his hands and watched Gillian Ainger as she moved about the kitchen, putting wholemeal bread and cheese and fruit on the table. She had exchanged her old tweed skirt and sweater for a woollen dress, and had applied more lipstick. Her cheeks were warm, her eyes shining. But her brightness was obviously forced; her eyelids were swollen with crying.
She caught his glance, and smiled brilliantly. ‘Robin and I were saying, just before you arrived, that we feel almost as though we’re on holiday. This is the first time since Dad’s been living with us that we’ve had lunch without him. He loves his food, but he couldn’t wait for it today and he stuffed himself so full of cake half an hour ago that he’s asleep now.’
Her husband brought the soup to the table in pottery mugs.
‘He’ll be livid when he wakes up and finds that he’s missed a meal and we’re both out.’
‘It won’t hurt him to forage for himself for once – he’s not helpless yet, thank goodness, though he sometimes likes to give that impression. Let’s make the most of having a meal without him.’
‘I’m sorry to have interrupted this occasion, then,’ said Quantrill. ‘You must have little enough time to yourselves.’
The Aingers’eyes met for a second, and then they both dismissed his apology. ‘It’s not that we’re wanting to be on our own,’ Robin assured him, laughing. ‘Good heavens, we’ve been married for sixteen years. It’s just that poor old Henry’s conversation gets us down, doesn’t it, dear? Well, yes, that’s an understatement … as you say, let’s make the most of his absence. Now, Mr Quantrill, cheddar – or would you like to tackle some very ripe Camembert? This was a gift from one of my parishioners –’
For the next few minutes the conversation was social, with Ainger dominating it. He had a strong, musical voice, and was obviously accustomed to a captive audience. Quantrill guessed that he was working on the reassumption of some of the status he had lost when he stood sick and shivering in the snow, looking at the human remains.
Quantrill himself felt unusually cheerful. The sight of a corpse always made him sombre. The bodies he usually saw in the course of his work, however grotesque in their attitude of death, were recognizable as human beings: people whose lives had ended abruptly within the last few hours or days, people who had local families and friends to grieve over them. In those circumstances, cheerfulness was inappropriate.
A skeleton, though, was different. The remains that Inspector Colman’s men had carefully lifted from under the bush at the bottom of Parson’s Close had once been some mother’s son; probably some woman’s lover, some child’s father. No doubt someone, somewhere, was bereft. But it was all at a distance. For once, Quantrill would not have the harrowing job of breaking the bad news. For once this was nothing more than an
interesting case of unexplained death, and he could pursue his investigation without considering anyone’s feelings.
He made the point to Robin Ainger. ‘And you must be glad,’ he added, ‘that it isn’t one of your parishioners.’
Before Ainger could reply the doorbell rang. He went to answer it while his wife made coffee.
‘That was the local newspaper reporter,’ he said when he returned. His eyes were dull again.
‘What did you tell him?’ his wife demanded.
‘That Chief Inspector Quantrill was having lunch with us, and that no doubt he’d be making a statement in due course. There’s nothing else I could say – I didn’t want to name the boys who found the body, they’re badly upset.’
Quantrill looked up. ‘Have you talked to them?’
‘Yes, when I returned their toboggan. They both go to our Sunday school, off and on, and I wanted to make sure they were all right. I know that both their mothers go out to work, but they were with Justin’s grandmother so they’ll be well looked after. I wondered whether they often went to play in our meadow, and whether they might have seen anything that could give us any information about the identity of the body, but they said not.’
The Chief Inspector was not best pleased that the Rector had taken it upon himself to do a little amateur detective work; but as Parson’s Close was his land, it was perhaps natural that he should be particularly concerned about what had happened.
‘Well now, Mr Ainger: just a few questions, if you’ll bear with me. The meadow where the body was found belongs to you in your capacity as Rector, doesn’t it?’
‘It’s glebe land, part of my benefice as Rector of Breckham Market, yes.’ Robin Ainger pushed his chair back from the kitchen table, crossed one long leg over the other and gave his attention to his empty plate. ‘I can’t dispose of the meadow in any way, but I obtain income from it. As you probably know, it’s used as grazing land by the tenant of Church Farm.’
‘And do you ever go into the meadow yourselves?’
They spoke simultaneously: ‘No.’
‘Never. I did think, when we first came,’ added Gillian Ainger with a slightly self-conscious laugh, ‘that I might sometimes go for walks there in the summer. But the cattle put me off. Bullocks are so inquisitive and pushy.’
‘We rarely give a thought to the meadow,’ said her husband. ‘After all, it’s across the road and behind palings, completely out of our sight.’
‘So if anyone used it – children, or lovers, or blackberry pickers – you’d be unlikely to see them?’
‘Most unlikely. Particularly if they got into the meadow at the lower end, from the by-pass.’
‘Quite.’ The Chief Inspector rose to go. ‘Well, I’m obliged to you both for your help and hospitality.’
The telephone rang, and Mrs Ainger hurried to answer it. Her husband looked at his watch. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve kept you,’ Quantrill went on. ‘You both have meetings to go to, I believe.’
‘Yes, school governors’ for me, Mothers’ Union for my wife. We’re kept very busy.’
‘So I see.’ The phrase ‘pillars of the community’ came into Quantrill’s head; Robin and Gillian Ainger were certainly that, by all accounts. He moved into the hall and put on his overcoat.
‘Mr Quantrill!’ said Ainger abruptly.
The Chief Inspector turned. Gillian had emerged from the study and the couple stood stiffly side by side.
‘Yes, Mr Ainger?’
‘Can you tell me what’s happening? Have you discovered how the – the person died?’
‘Oh, it’s early days for that. But there was no obvious evidence on or near the body.’
‘And the identity?’
‘No idea. Inspector Colman agrees that it’s male, and that it has been there for a matter of months rather than years, but he hasn’t had time yet to make a detailed examination. With luck there’ll be some means of identification in the clothing.’ He paused at the door. ‘There was one interesting detail, though: a ring on the left hand, a big silver knuckle-duster, very unusual and noticeable. If we have to start asking round the town, that’ll probably help to jog someone’s memory.’
The Aingers neither spoke nor looked at one another but, unobserved by the Chief Inspector, their hands met behind their backs in an anguished clasp.
Quantrill smiled at Gillian, thanked them for their help, and wished them both good-day.
Chapter Five
‘DC Wigby! My office, if you please. When you’ve finished keeping fit.’
The snow had hampered Detective Constable Ian Wigby’s resolve to get his weight down after Christmas, but now it had begun to clear he started every morning with a brisk trot round the station yard. Chief Inspector Quantrill had caught sight and sound of him as Wigby forged in through the side door, and had decided that he was the best available man for the Parson’s Close investigation.
Wigby was thirty-two years old. He had been at Breckham Market for six years, and knew the town as well as anyone. He was noisy, cheerful and irreverent, but an experienced and competent detective with a magistrates’ commendation to his credit. His methods, however, were suspect. ‘You’ve got to know’em to catch’em,’ was his motto, ‘and you’ve got to mix with ’em to know ’em.’ DC Wigby spent much of his working time in pubs, mingling with local villains and their hangers-on and picking up information. Sometimes he solved the crimes he worked on and sometimes, unaccountably, he failed. Nothing had ever been proved against him, but his colleagues were of the opinion that he did remarkably well to maintain his smart bungalow, his pretty, well-dressed wife and his two immaculately turned-out small daughters on a detective constable’s pay. On the whole Quantrill liked him, but he did not entirely trust him.
DC Wigby barged into the Chief Inspector’s office. He was of medium height, and beefy with it. His hair and eyebrows were a bristly blond. He wore a heavy white sweater, and a pair of pale grey trousers with an aggressive red and green overcheck.
‘And what can I do for you, sir?’ he enquired breezily.
‘You can do something about the skeleton that was found yesterday.’
‘Aha – Boney the mystery man. It’s a bit much, I reckon, to have strange corpses littering the town. Gives the place a bad name.’
‘Quite. Forensic are still working on the cause of death, but I want you to find out if anything was known about him locally.’ Quantrill picked up the pathologist’s preliminary report. ‘Male, height six foot two, aged between twenty and twenty-four. Death occurred seven to eight months ago – say July or August last year. He was wearing denim trousers and jacket and canvas shoes. There was nothing on or in the clothing to identify him, but he wore this ring on his left hand.’
The Chief Inspector placed on his desk a plastic envelope containing a massive silver ring, as heavily convoluted as the boss on a medieval shield.
DC Wigby picked it up and whistled. ‘If I’d seen him going to a football match in this thing, I’d have done him for wearing an offensive weapon.’
‘Exactly – it’s noticeable, so if he was in the town last summer the chances are that someone may remember having seen him.’
Wigby looked doubtful, but he answered cheerfully. ‘Right. I’ll ask around, then.’
‘Do that. Of course, he may have no connection at all with Breckham. I’ve asked for a computer run-through on the missing persons register, so we should get a lead from that; if we don’t, we’ll put out a public appeal. But you may get to hear of something this morning. There’s a paragraph in the Daily Press, so it’s bound to be a talking point in the town.’
‘Thirsty work, talking,’ observed Wigby with happy anticipation.
‘Since you mention it,’ said Quantrill, ‘thanks: you can bring me a cup of coffee before you go.’
It was not often that Detective Constable Wigby received direct
encouragement from the Chief Inspector to tour the pubs, and he
meant to make the most of it.
But first, because they weren’t open before half-past ten, he drove along the main Yarchester road, on to the roundabout and along the by-pass.
On his left was the conscientious mix of housing estates and schools and community buildings and factories and warehouses that formed the new town, the planners’Utopia where over half the crimes in the entire police division were committed out of boredom and a sense of alienation. On his right, rising up towards the church, was the muddle of the old town. This was the back view of Breckham Market, exposed by the building of the by-pass. Immediately after the roundabout, but with no access except from the town centre, was the poorest quarter, a cluster of dingy red brick walls and slated roofs known officially as Sebastopol Street and generally as Duck End. Further along the by-pass lay the allotment gardens; past the hedged-in allotments was Parson’s Close.
Wigby stopped his car on the verge, behind a police van. He got out. It was still bitterly cold, and four uniformed policemen were engaged on the numbing task of scraping away snow from the grass at the lower end of the meadow, in the hope of bringing something significant to light. Wigby grinned to himself, turned up the dark fur collar of his sheepskin jacket and – having served in the Royal Marines before he joined the police force – assessed the area with a practised military eye.
On the far side of Parson’s Close was an electricity sub-station, separated from the meadow by a high wire security fence. Access to Parson’s Close could therefore be gained from three sides only: across the barbed wire from the by-pass at the lower end, from St Botolph Street at the top, or through the allotment hedge at the side. The allotments were still under snow, their makeshift huts giving them the look of an abandoned refugee camp, their footpaths invisible; but Wigby knew that the paths were there, and that one of them connected Parson’s Close with Duck End. The street and the meadow were no more than a hundred yards apart.
If the man’s body had been brought along the by-pass and dumped, that was not Wigby’s immediate concern. But if he had entered Parson’s Close alive last summer, either from St Botolph’s or from Duck End by way of the allotments, then, Wigby calculated, somebody local had probably seen him.
A Talent For Destruction Page 3