by P. D. James
He had nearly asked How is Clara?, but before the words were framed he knew that the question was as ridiculous as it was insensitive. And now she looked at him full in the face for the first time. Her eyes were full of pain. She was in a torment of anger and grief.
‘I couldn’t help Clara. I was useless to her. I took her in my arms but mine weren’t the arms she wanted. There was only one thing she wanted from me – to get you to take over the case. That’s why I’m here. She trusts you. She can talk to you. And she knows you’re the best.’
Of course that was why she was here. She didn’t come for his comfort or out of need to see him and share her grief. She wanted something from him, and it was something he couldn’t give. He sat down opposite her and said gently, ‘Emma, that isn’t possible.’
She put her coffee mug on the hearth and he could see her hands were shaking. He wanted to reach out and take them but was afraid that she would withdraw. Anything would be better than that.
She said, ‘I thought that was what you’d say. I tried to explain to Clara that it might be outside the rules, but she doesn’t understand, not fully. I’m not sure I do. She knows that the victim here, the dead woman, is more important than Annie. That’s what your special squad is all about, isn’t it, solving crimes when people are important. But Annie is important to her. To her and to Annie rape is more awful than death. If you were investigating she’d know that the man who did this would be caught.’
He said, ‘Emma, the Squad isn’t primarily to do with the importance of the victim. To the police, murder is murder, unique, never put permanently on one side, the investigation never recorded as failure, only as at present unsolved. No murder victim is ever unimportant. No suspect, however powerful, can buy immunity from the enquiry. But there are cases which are best tackled by a small designated team, cases where it’s in the interest of justice to get a quick result.’
‘Clara doesn’t believe in justice, not now. She thinks you could take over if you wanted to, that if you asked you would get your own way, rules or no rules.’
It felt wrong to be sitting so far distanced. He longed to take her in his arms but that would be too easy a comfort – almost, he felt, an insult to her grief. And what if she drew away, if she made it obvious by a shudder of distaste that he wasn’t a comfort but a contribution to her anguish? What did he represent to her now? Death, rape, mutilation and decay? Hadn’t his job been ring-fenced with an invisible sign, Keep out? And this wasn’t a problem that could be solved with kisses and murmured reassurance, not for them. It couldn’t even be solved by rational discussion, but this was their only way. Hadn’t he prided himself, he thought bitterly, that they could always talk. But not now, not about everything.
He asked, ‘Who is the chief investigating officer? Have you spoken to him?’
‘He’s Detective Inspector A. L. Howard. I’ve got a card somewhere. He’s spoken to Clara, of course, and he saw Annie in hospital. He said a woman DS needed to ask some questions before Annie went under the anaesthetic, I suppose in case she died. She was too weak to say more than a few words but apparently they were important.’
He said, ‘Andy Howard is a good detective with a sound team. This isn’t a case which can be solved by anything but conscientious police work, much of it laborious plodding routine. But they’ll get there.’
‘Clara didn’t find him sympathetic, not really. I suppose it was because he wasn’t you. And the woman sergeant – Clara almost hit her. She asked whether Annie had recently had sex with a man before she was raped.’
‘Emma, that was a question she had to ask. It could mean that they may have DNA, and if they have, that’s a huge advantage. But I can’t take over another officer’s investigation – apart from the fact that I’m in the middle of one myself – and it wouldn’t help solve the rape even if I could. At this stage it could even hinder it. I’m sorry I can’t go back with you to try to explain to Clara.’
She said sadly, ‘Oh, I expect she’ll understand eventually. All she wants now is someone she can trust, not strangers. I suppose I did know what you’d say, and I should have been able to explain it to her myself. I’m sorry I came. It was a wrong decision.’
She had got to her feet and, rising, he came towards her. He said, ‘I can’t be sorry for any decision you make which brings you to me.’
And now she was in his arms and shaking with the force of her weeping. The face that was pressed against his was wet with tears. He held her without speaking until she relaxed, then said, ‘My darling, must you go back tonight? It’s a long drive. I can sleep perfectly well in this chair.’
As he had once before, he remembered, at St Anselm’s College after they had first met. She had been staying next door, but after the murder he had settled himself in an armchair in his sitting room so that she could feel safe in his bed while she tried to sleep. He wondered if she too was remembering.
She said, ‘I’ll drive carefully. We’re getting married in five months. I’m not going to risk killing myself before then.’
‘Whose is the Jaguar?’
‘Giles’s. He’s in London attending a conference for a week and he rang to make contact. He’s getting married and I expect he wanted to tell me about it. When he heard about Annie and that I was driving here he lent me his car. Clara needs hers to visit Annie and mine is in Cambridge.’
Dalgliesh was shaken by the sudden spurt of jealousy, as powerful as it was unwelcome. She had finished with Giles before they had met. He had proposed and been rejected. That was all he knew. He had never felt threatened by anything in her past, nor had she in his. So why this sudden primitive response to what after all had been a thoughtful and generous gesture? He didn’t want to think of Giles as either of these things, and the man now had his Chair at some northern university, safely out of the way. So why the hell couldn’t he stay there? He found himself thinking bitterly that Emma might point out that she was comfortable driving a Jag; after all, it wouldn’t be for the first time. She drove his.
Mastering himself, he said, ‘There’s some soup and some ham, so I’ll make us sandwiches. Stay by the fire and I’ll bring it in.’
And even now, in the depth of distress, weary and heavy eyed, she was beautiful. That the thought in its egotism, its stirring of sex, should come so quickly to mind appalled him. She had come to him for comfort, and the only comfort she craved he couldn’t give. And wasn’t this onrush of anger and frustration at his powerlessness only the atavistic male arrogance which said that the world is a dangerous and cruel place but now you have my love and I can shield you? Wasn’t his reticence about his job less a response to her own reluctance to be involved than a wish to shield her from the worst realities of a violent world? But even her world, academic and seeming so cloistered, had its brutalities. The hallowed peace of Trinity Great Court was an illusion. He thought, We are violently propelled into the world with blood and pain and few of us will die with the dignity for which we hope and for which some pray. Whether we choose to think of life as an impending happiness broken only by inevitable grief and disappointments, or as the proverbial vale of tears with brief interludes of joy, the pain will come, except to those few whose deadened sensibilities make them apparently impervious to either joy or sorrow.
They ate together almost in silence. The ham was tender and he heaped it generously on the bread. He drank the soup almost without tasting it, only vaguely knowing that it was good. She did manage to eat and within twenty minutes was ready to leave.
Helping her on with the jerkin, he said, ‘You will phone me when you get back to Putney? I won’t be a nuisance but I do need to know you got home safely. And I’ll have a word with DI Howard.’
She said, ‘I’ll ring.’
He kissed her on the cheek almost formally and went across to see her into the car, then stood watching until it disappeared down the lane.
Returning to the fireplace, he stood looking down at the flames. Ought he to have insisted on her stay
ing the night? But insist wasn’t a word that would ever be used between them. And stay where? There was his bedroom, but would she want to sleep there, distanced by the complicated emotions and unexpressed inhibitions which kept them apart when he was on a case? Would she wish to confront Kate and Benton tomorrow morning if not tonight? But he was worried about her safety. She was a good driver and would rest if she became tired, but the thought of her in a lay-by, even with the precaution of a locked car, gave him no comfort.
He stirred himself. There were things to do before he summoned Kate and Benton. Firstly, he must get in touch with Detective Inspector Andy Howard and get the latest report. Howard was an experienced and reasonable officer. He wouldn’t see the call either as an unwelcome distraction or, worse, as an attempt to influence. Then he must phone or write to Clara with a message for Annie. But to telephone was almost as inappropriate as to fax or e-mail. Some things had to be conveyed by a handwritten letter and by words which cost something in time and careful thought, indelible phrases which might have some hope of giving comfort. But there was only one thing Clara wanted from him and that he couldn’t give. To phone now, for her to hear the bad news from him, would be intolerable for them both. The letter had better wait until tomorrow and in the meantime Emma would be back with Clara.
It took some time to reach DI Andy Howard. Howard said, ‘Annie Townsend is doing well but it will be a long road, poor girl. I met Dr Lavenham at the hospital and she told me you had an interest in the case. I meant to get in touch earlier to have a word.’
Dalgliesh said, ‘Speaking to me had to have a low priority. It still has. I won’t keep you now, but I was anxious to have a more up-to-date report than Emma could give me.’
‘Well, there is good news, if anything about this can be good. We’ve got his DNA. With luck he’ll be on the database. I can’t believe that he hasn’t got form. It was a violent attack but the rape wasn’t completed. Probably too drunk. She fought back with extraordinary courage for so slight a woman. I’ll ring you as soon as I have anything to report. And, of course, we’re keeping closely in touch with Miss Beckwith. He’s most probably local. He certainly knew where to drag her. We’ve already started a house-to-house. The sooner the better, DNA or no DNA. Things going well with you, sir?’
‘Not particularly. No clear line at present.’ He didn’t mention the new death.
Howard said, ‘Well, it’s early days, sir.’
Dalgliesh agreed that it was early days, and after thanking Howard, rang off.
He carried the plates and mugs into the kitchen, washed and dried them, then rang Kate. ‘Have you had a meal?’
‘Yes, sir, we’ve just finished.’
‘Then come over now, please.’
13
By the time Kate and Benton arrived the three glasses were on the table, the wine uncorked, but for Dalgliesh it was a less successful, at times almost acrimonious meeting. He said nothing about the visit of Emma but he wondered whether his subordinates were aware of it. They must have heard the Jaguar passing Wisteria House and been curious about any car arriving at night on the road to the Manor, but neither of them spoke of it.
The discussion was probably unsatisfactory because, with Boyton’s death, they were in danger of theorising in advance of the facts. There was little new to be said about Miss Gradwyn’s murder. The post-mortem report had been received with Dr Glenister’s expected conclusion that the cause of death was throttling by a right-handed killer wearing smooth gloves. This last was hardly necessary information in view of the fragment in the WC in one of the empty suites. She confirmed her final assessment of the time of death. Miss Gradwyn had been killed between eleven o’clock and twelve thirty.
Kate had had a tactful word with the Reverend Matheson and his sister. Both had found strange her questions about the vicar’s one and only visit to Professor Westhall but confirmed that they had indeed visited Stone Cottage and that the priest had seen the patient. Benton had telephoned Dr Stenhouse who confirmed that Boyton had questioned him about the time of death, an impertinence to which he had given no response. The date on the death certificate had been correct, as had his diagnosis. He had shown no curiosity about why the questions were being put so long after the event, probably, Benton thought, because Candace Westhall had been in touch with him.
Members of the security team had been co-operative but not helpful. Their leader had pointed out that they were concentrating on strangers, particularly members of the press arriving at the Manor, not on individuals with a right to be there. Only one of the four men had been in the caravan outside the gates at the relevant time and he couldn’t remember seeing any member of the household leave the Manor. The other three members of the team had concentrated on patrolling the boundary separating the Manor grounds from the stones and the field in which they stood in case this offered a convenient access. Dalgliesh made no attempt to press them. They were, after all, responsible to Chandler-Powell who was paying them, not to him.
For most of the evening Dalgliesh let Kate and Benton take over the discussion.
Benton said, ‘Miss Westhall says she told no one about Boyton’s suspicions that they faked the date of her father’s death. It seems unlikely that she would. But Boyton himself may have confided in someone, either at the Manor or in London. And if so, that person might use the knowledge to kill him and then tell much the same story as Miss Westhall.’
Kate’s voice was dismissive. ‘I can’t see an outsider killing Boyton, Londoner or not. At least not in this way. Think of the practicalities. He’d have to arrange a rendezvous with his victim in Stone Cottage when he could be sure that the Westhalls weren’t there and the door would be open. And what reason could he give for enticing Boyton into a neighbour’s cottage? And why kill him here anyway? London would be simpler and safer. The same complications would apply to anyone at the Manor. Anyway, there’s no point in theorising until we get the autopsy report. On the face of it misadventure seems a more likely explanation than murder, particularly in view of the Bostocks’ evidence about Boyton’s fascination with the freezer, which gives some credence to Miss Westhall’s explanation – provided, of course, that they’re not lying.’
Benton broke in. ‘But you were there, ma’am. I’m sure they weren’t lying. I don’t think Kim in particular has the wit to make up a story like that and tell it so convincingly. I was absolutely convinced.’
‘So at the time was I, but we have to keep an open mind. And if this is murder, not misadventure, then it has to be tied up with Rhoda Gradwyn’s death. Two killers in the same house at the same time beggars belief.’
Benton said quietly, ‘But it has been known, ma’am.’
Kate said, ‘If we look at the facts and ignore motive for the present, the obvious suspects are Miss Westhall and Mrs Frensham. What were they really doing at the two cottages, opening cupboards and then the freezer? It’s as if they knew that Boyton was dead. And why did it take two of them to search?’
Dalgliesh said, ‘Whatever they were up to they weren’t moving the body. The evidence shows he died where he was found. I don’t find their actions quite as odd as you do, Kate. People do behave irrationally under stress, and both women have been under stress since Saturday. Perhaps subconsciously they were fearing a second death. On the other hand, one of them might have needed to ensure that the freezer was opened. That would be a more natural action if the search so far had been thorough.’
Benton said, ‘Murder or no murder, we won’t get much help from prints. They both opened the freezer. One of them may have been taking good care that she did. Would there have been prints anyway? Noctis will have worn gloves.’
Kate was getting impatient. ‘Not if he was tipping Boyton alive into the freezer. Wouldn’t you find that a bit odd if you’d been Boyton? And isn’t it premature to start using the word Noctis? We don’t know whether this was murder.’
The three of them were getting tired. The fire was beginning to die and Dalglies
h decided it was time to end the discussion. Looking back, he felt he was living through a day which would never end.
He said, ‘It’s time for a relatively early night. There’s a lot to do tomorrow. I’ll be here but I want you, Kate, with Benton, to interview Boyton’s partner. According to Boyton he was lodging at Maida Vale so his papers and belongings should be there. We’re not going to get anywhere until we know what sort of man he was and, if possible, why he was here. Have you been able to get an appointment yet?’
Kate said, ‘He can see us at eleven o’clock, sir. I didn’t say who was coming. He said the sooner the better.’
‘Right. Eleven o’clock in Maida Vale then. And we’ll talk before you leave.’
At last the door was locked behind them. He placed the guard in front of the dying fire, stood for a moment gazing into the last flickers, then wearily climbed the stairs to bed.
BOOK FOUR
19–21 December: London, Dorset
1
Jeremy Coxon’s house in Maida Vale was one of a row of pretty Edwardian villas with gardens leading down to the canal, a neat domestic toy house grown to adult size. The front garden, which even in its winter aridity showed signs of careful planting and the hope of spring, was bisected by a stone path leading to a glossily painted front door. It wasn’t at first sight a house which Benton associated with what he knew of Robin Boyton or expected of his friend. There was a certain feminine elegance about the façade and he recalled reading that it was in this part of London that Victorian and Edwardian gentlemen provided houses for their mistresses. Remembering Holman Hunt’s painting The Awakening Conscience, he brought to mind a cluttered sitting room, a young woman starting up, bright eyed, from the piano, her lounging lover, one hand on the keys, reaching out to her. In recent years he had surprised in himself a fondness for Victorian genre painting but that hectic and, for him, unconvincing depiction of remorse was not one of his favourites.