24
9–18 November
Once the two police cars had left Heronsford Manor, Alan Waterman placed his siren on the roof of what was his own car – the cutbacks had dire effects on the force – and sped back to Cambridge. However fast he wanted to get to the pathologist’s laboratory, the rush hour traffic held him up.
At least, he thought, the officer who left earlier should have got there before the build-up of cars mostly full of children from private schools heading home from four o’clock onwards. That was the first evidence he wanted forensics to look at but the second that he had with him now was also vital.
There was no DNA on the wrench as the perp had been careful enough to pick it up with something. The pathologist re-inspected and found fibres from the yellow silk handkerchief taken from Bob’s drawer on the monkey wrench. Recent research had proved that thinner gloves, mostly latex ones, would still leave a fingerprint through the glove. When the forensic pathologist was asked to re-examine the fishing gloves, he turned the gloves inside out and found fingerprints had transferred through the latex. Alan Waterman sighed with relief and gratitude to modern forensic science for the continued breakthroughs they made when it came to catching criminals.
Late on Friday evening, the front doorbell at Heronsford Manor rang again. The housekeeper was off duty now, so it was answered by Bob.
“Good Lord above, what are you lot doing here at this hour?” A thunderous expression on his face, he said, “What d’you want now? It’s bloody late and–”
They stepped into the hall. Waterman said, “Robert McKenzie, you are under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Anne Berkeley. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you…” The last bit of the short speech was drowned by Bob.
“How bloody dare you? D’you know who I am? This is a fucking travesty! Stella! Stella! Where the hell is the woman? You’ve already had my witness statement, you bloody idiots. Jay Armstrong did it. I saw the man coming back across the field, for God’s sake! Why would I kill an old woman? You’re bloody mad. I’ve given you your man, already.” He bellowed again, “Stella! Stella! Come here at once!”
She came running through the hall. “Whatever is happening?”
“They’re arresting me for Annie’s murder. It’s just bloody ridiculous! Tell them I was here with you that morning.”
Stella was trembling. “He was here with me.”
“Call my solicitor, immediately!” Whatever he said, however much he protested, they cuffed him and took him back to Parkside.
In the police station interview room, they sat Bob down to wait for his solicitor to arrive. Inspector Waterman saw a new side to the man who had now calmed down, had apologised for yelling and was being what the detective would describe as a cross between smarmy and something else that he could not quite name. When McKenzie’s bemused solicitor arrived, they commenced the interview.
They placed six items in clear plastic bags marked “evidence” on the desk. One was a bright yellow silk handkerchief. They asked Bob if it was his.
“I have one very like it.”
“I suggest this is your handkerchief, Mr McKenzie, as it has your DNA on it.”
“Okay, then it’s mine. So?”
Waterman pointed to the tweed jacket with the red satin lining. “And is this your jacket, Mr McKenzie?”
“Probably. Certainly like one I have.”
Waterman pushed forward Jay’s fishing gloves. “Ever seen these before?”
“Not to my knowledge. They look like fishing gloves. Not mine.”
He pointed to the monkey wrench. “And this object?”
“What are you trying to get at? I’ve never seen that before. Don’t even know what it is. I generally pay workmen who use that sort of thing to do things for me.”
“And these?” He moved the fifth item in front of Bob. It was a pair of latex gloves.
Bob shook his head in amazement. “What the hell is this?”
“Answer the question please, Mr McKenzie.”
“Never seen them before.”
“And, finally, this?” It was a box of “Handy Latex Disposable Gloves”.
Bob threw his hands in the air, glanced at his solicitor and shrugged his shoulders. “I honestly don’t know what you are talking about. I’ve never seen that box before.”
Waterman pointed at the fishing gloves.
“With regard to this pair of, as you rightly call them, fishing gloves, they bear traces of Anne Berkeley’s blood.” He moved the wrench in front of Bob. “As does this wrench that was used to kill her.”
Bob sighed. “Look, I was very upset to learn of Annie B.’s murder and as I told you before, on Monday morning I saw Jay Armstrong walking back across the field from the wood where she was found. He was carrying something that could very well have been that thing.” He gestured toward the wrench. “You’ve got your man. Why are you doing this to me?”
“Because, Mr McKenzie, that handkerchief left some fibres on the wrench. We know you were wearing it in your jacket front pocket on Sunday. And those gloves come from this packet here that was found in the laundry room of your house.”
“How would I know a thing like that? The housekeeper deals with cleaning and that sort of thing. I told you I’ve never seen that box or those gloves before.”
“Then can you explain how your DNA got on them and how they bear traces of red satin fibres that exactly match the lining of your jacket pocket? And how come your fingerprints, along with traces of latex, have been found inside the fishing gloves?”
Bob went quiet. He shrugged and looked at DCI Waterman, who now was able to describe the attitude he had glimpsed earlier. Smug was the word; smug.
The solicitor whispered to his client.
DCI Waterman continued, “I put it to you that you did murder Anne Berkeley with that wrench, wearing those fishing gloves over that pair of latex gloves. I put it to you that you took the wrench and the fishing gloves from the Armstrong family cloakroom when they were entertaining you for lunch. I believe that in order to prevent your fingerprints or DNA being transferred, you used your handkerchief to pick these items up and that you wrapped the weapon in the handkerchief and hid the gloves in your jacket pocket. I suggest you did this in order to implicate Jay Armstrong in the murder.”
“Ridiculous! You are complete idiots!”
The solicitor leant sideways to murmur in his ear again.
Then Bob added, “No comment.” He said this with an arrogant smile or, more accurately, a smirk.
The total, sheer arrogance of the man. Waterman had already decided to keep the real bombshell for the trial.
At this time, Eliza received a three-page letter written in fountain pen on blue Basildon Bond writing paper. It had a London postmark and it arrived on a Saturday. It was just after the police had delivered Jay home with many apologies for the wrongful arrest.
Her mother had been mistaken in assuming Bob would make her death look like an accident but had been right about how he would come up with some way to try to protect himself from being caught. That he had planned to incriminate Jay in his diabolical scheme had again demonstrated what a conscience-free monster he was.
Having Jay home was such a relief. The man she adored had returned from being AWOL and was hers once again. His experience in prison had altered him. For the better. He had developed a new attitude towards what he had always thought of as success. He realised now that success was about making the best of life and what you have. Not about getting more.
He felt stronger and now able to cope with whatever life threw at him. Unburdening himself of the terrible secret that had dogged him all those years had been a cleansing experience.
He’d had time in custody to think about his role in the death of his appalling stepfather and had exonerated his boy self from blame. After all, as Eliza had said, he had just let the air out of
a car tyre.
Trying to discover whether her mother had known how seriously ill she actually was, Eliza visited Dr Gordon. He explained that she most certainly knew.
“A battle-axe to the very end,” she said.
“And a very fine and particularly brave battle-axe she was.”
“What I still can’t quite believe is that if the cancer was so far advanced, how she could still have been walking and why wasn’t she bed-bound?”
“It is possible for a person with stage four pancreatic cancer to walk unaided. This cancer can lead to a person losing muscle strength and overall fitness. A few individuals maintain physical fitness even while having cancer. Your mother was one of them. A great advertisement for keeping active as she did. I imagine she was in a lot of pain but did her best to disguise it. She really was remarkable.” He hung his head and when he looked up again, Eliza saw his eyes were glazed.
“She was,” said Eliza. She leant forward and reached for his hand. He gave it to her. “We’ve known one another since I was born. My mother was terribly fond of you and as a family we are so grateful for everything you have done for us, often way beyond the call of duty. Thank you from us all.”
“I can honestly say it really was my pleasure. I shall miss your mum very much.”
25
Mid-November to mid-December
Searching for correspondence from the hospital, Eliza lowered the hinged fall front of her mum’s old oak antique bureau. At the back of the desk was an arrangement of cubbyholes for stationery and document drawers with tiny brass knobs. It was usually stacked high with letters and documents, but Annie had evidently had a clear out.
Eliza found nothing of any help and she was about to close the front when she noticed a lower right-hand drawer slightly open. She suddenly remembered its secret. As a little girl, one day she had arrived in the sitting room to find her mother sitting at the desk when the drawer had been removed from its casing. At the bottom a hidden slide compartment was open.
Quickly closing it, her mother had quietly said, “This is Mummy’s secret drawer. Our special secret, okay? And we won’t tell anyone about it, will we? And it’s just for Mummy, no-one else, not even Eliza, so Eliza won’t ever look in it, will she? Promise?” Vehemently, shaking her head from side to side, Eliza had promised and then Rose had appeared, taken her hand and whisked her off to do something or other.
For all those years, Eliza had stuck to her promise. In what now felt like a betrayal, she removed the drawer and opened the compartment below, where on top of letters and appointments from Addenbrookes Hospital, she found an old brown envelope inside a blue one marked “Eliza” in ink.
Having read through the statement that would be used in court, the severe ache of distress that had enveloped Eliza then would not leave her. Now it almost overwhelmed her. Her mother had done all this without allowing her only close relative to accompany and lend her support. As her mother had known it would, this made Eliza feel so indignant. Ever since discovering the truth, the question had been whirling around her brain. Why hadn’t she trusted her daughter to share this burden?
Breathing hard, she sat down on the old Chippendale-style chair in front of the desk. The indefinable feeling that raced round her now might have been anger, but somewhere inside she knew it was really the bizarre sense that however shocking her mother’s death had been, it had saved them from a great deal worse. But that was her mum all over, independent and determined.
Eliza hunched over in the chair and rocked her body as she howled tears that were a blend of grief and guilt. If she had done something sooner, paid more attention to her mother’s state of health, been more watchful, more hands-on… But then she realised that the other terrible events in Heronsford had absorbed her time and that her mum’s own stubbornness had delayed taking herself to the doctor.
Her mother had known this would happen. She had cleared the rest of her desk. The only things she had kept were the hospital correspondence and appointments and the letter for her daughter from a deep understanding that humans are even more curious than monkeys. At least, she thought, her mother would have relished some enjoyment from leaving the drawer pulled forward as a clue.
She opened the brown envelope. Addressed to Anne Berkeley at Manor Farm, the postmark read London SW1 27 Oct, 1987 5.30pm. It had evidently once been opened with a paper knife and looked as though it had contained an invoice. Eliza pulled it out to find it was in fact a handwritten note on the torn-out page of a notebook. There was no address at the top.
Written a little over thirty years ago the sad little note was a simple reminder. Her mother had been young once and privy to dreams and sexual desires like everyone else. Eliza sat for a while longer on the chair with its faded green velvet seat in front of the old bureau, the letter on her lap. She wondered who Michael had been. From the way his letter was worded, he sounded sophisticated and Eliza guessed the most likely person would have been someone in the same profession as her mum. Perhaps, he had also been a barrister or even a judge.
But why had she decided to let Eliza in on this secret from the grave? Eliza guessed the sharp old girl had somehow figured out about the short-lived affair Eliza had with Hamish. This had lasted a few months when things had been so difficult with Jay and tragedies were occurring like volcanic eruptions. Each had always admired and liked the other and they had felt some closeness that became a means of consolation for their unhappiness. They had both soon made themselves draw a line under it with some relief and were now glad they had done so.
Eliza realised that her mum had left this very personal memento of a time in her life that had been difficult in the spirit of understanding that things had not been easy for Eliza. In a sense, it gave her the okay for having contemplated another life with another man. But that had not been the true point, Eliza was sure. Her mum was simply demonstrating her own frailty in these matters and letting her daughter know that she didn’t need to feel her mother had been so hard to live up to. That canny old bird, thought Eliza, there had been little that had escaped her notice or her thinking.
A couple of weeks later, Eliza received a phone call from Stella. She asked whether they could meet up somewhere quiet where they could talk. A suspicion niggling at her that Stella would try to convince her that Bob was not guilty, Eliza was unsure whether she was doing the right thing when she agreed to do so. So that no prying Heronsford eyes or ears could see or hear, they agreed to meet in Cambridge two days later.
At 11.30am in the Café Noir on Bridge Street near the River Cam, Eliza sat waiting. Sitting at a table beside the window, she had no interest in the sluggish, dirty river drifting past or the few desultory ducks hanging about near the edge in hope of some titbits. Today was too cold for anyone to think of feeding them.
She wondered why she had bothered to come too. Since her mother’s killing, she had felt disconnected from life and the events that continued around her. She was what people call ‘managing’, but the friends who told her how well she was doing could not see beneath the surface she presented. Inside she was struggling, misery threatening to consume her. Colour gone from her life, she felt tired and empty all the time, as though she were a hologram of herself simply going through the motions of being who she was.
Recognising that she was close to a proper breakdown, the previous week she had taken herself to see Dr Gordon who had prescribed a course of antidepressants that he assured her would start to kick in soon. She was still waiting for something happen that could make her feel better. Things with Jay had improved a lot, the company was back in business but still she felt divorced from it all.
Avoiding Eliza’s eye as much as she could, Stella arrived and approached her table. Giving her a brief peck on the cheek, she took off her coat, draped it over the back of her chair and sat down opposite Eliza. She had decided beforehand that she would start straightaway with what she wanted to say. She knew Eliza would have no wish for small talk or niceties and she was spot on.
She ordered a coffee but didn’t wait for its arrival before she first told how wonderful she had thought Annie B. was and told her about that day in late October when she bumped into her mother on the London train. She explained that they had got talking about her marriage to Bob. There was something about the way Annie B. listened with such care and perspicacity that she had felt she could see beneath her pretence that all was well. Perhaps it had been because Stella’s own mother was so far away or because Annie B. had such a wise, maternal way about her, that had made her burst into tears and pour out her heart to her.
Stella told Eliza what she had revealed to Annie B. While she was telling her, she couldn’t prevent herself from sobbing. She recounted how abusive Bob had been towards her, mostly mentally but on a couple of occasions physically, once when he had smacked her face and another when he had kicked her leg. There was, she had explained to Annie B., something innately angry and violent in the man that he generally kept well hidden, but that she had witnessed enough to scare her. When she had threatened to leave him, he had given her the cold warning that he would kill her without hesitation. Stella said he had bragged about having an affair with Louise. It had surprised Stella that Annie told her that she had already harboured strong suspicions that Bob had psychopathic tendencies.
Stella had the feeling that somehow her revelations on the train were in some way connected with it. On the Saturday afternoon, she continued, the day before they had lunched at Manor Farm, the housekeeper had told her that Annie B. had delivered a letter for Bob. Stella had not mentioned it to him as he was “funny” about what he considered his personal affairs and would be annoyed if she had. That is how frightened she was of her husband, who, she added, she had come to hate with a deep loathing. She had waited for him to tell her what it was about. But he had not said a word about it, which had made her feel very uncomfortable. Whatever had Annie B. written to him that was so urgent it couldn’t have been sent in the post? She had prayed it had not been to do with the conversation they’d had on the train but had a nasty feeling it may have been. Since the police had charged him, she had searched through the house to find the letter. Being Bob, he had made sure to destroy it.
The Decoy Page 17