High-Wired

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘I’m afraid it’s rather more serious than that. I’m sorry to have to inform you but he was murdered.’

  ‘Murdered?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I think, if it’s all right with you, we should leave that till a little later. In the meantime, would you be able to come down to the mortuary and formally identify his body?’

  ‘But how did he die? I have to know. He is … was … my son … our son. We need to know.’ Mrs Dunbar was now wailing and keening, and rocking herself backwards and forwards in her seat as grief and shock set in.

  ‘You can’t keep the details from us. He was our flesh and blood,’ chimed in Mr Dunbar, whose own eyes had filled, and looked as if the pupils would drown in unshed tears.

  ‘I think we’ll leave the details until after we’ve had a nice cup of tea,’ responded Hardy, as Groves entered with a tray in her hands, the cups rocking in their saucers as the sergeant’s own nervousness made itself visible. She was always like this when it was a case of breaking bad news: she simply couldn’t either avoid it, or get used to it.

  Lauren put down the tray on a convenient coffee table, and checked whether they wanted milk and sugar before handing over the cups. When all had been served, she made a banal comment about not knowing where to find the biscuits, then a veil of silence settled over the scene. What could they talk about? It hardly seemed appropriate to ask whether they’d had a good holiday. Coming back from this one would be something they’d never forget.

  ‘Why did we have to go away?’ sobbed Mrs Dunbar. ‘We never even had the chance to say goodbye. Maybe if we hadn’t gone when we did, this would never have happened.’

  ‘There, there, love. We can’t live on might-have-beens,’ her husband consoled her, rubbing her back in an attempt to comfort her.

  ‘He was only a boy, really. We should have taken him with us.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have come, love. We both know that. He may have been a boy to you, but he was an adult in the eyes of the law.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit about the eyes of the law! My baby boy is dead, and you try to comfort me like that.’ Her voice had risen in pitch and volume, and her husband suddenly knelt down beside her chair, and gathered her to his chest, holding her tightly as she wailed and struggled.

  ‘Can you tell me where I can find your doctor’s number, Mr Dunbar? I think your wife should be looked at, and possibly given something to calm her down’ said Hardy quietly.

  ‘In the address book by the phone in the hall,’ he replied, ‘under U for Underhill.’

  Hardy nodded slightly in Groves’ direction, and she put down her cup, got up and left the room, closing the door into the hall behind her. ‘Mrs Dunbar could certainly do with a little chemical help to get her through the next few days. I think it would be better if you went on your own to identify your son’s body, Mr Dunbar. Is there someone we could contact to sit with your wife after the doctor’s been?’

  ‘Her sister lives just the other side of the town centre. Her number’s in the same address book under F for Filey, Mrs Judith Filey.’

  ‘I’ll tell my sergeant as soon as she’s finished calling the doctor, and she can arrange for her to come over.’

  ‘If she doesn’t answer the landline, her mobile number’s in there as well,’ said Mr Dunbar, tears now coursing down his cheeks as he rocked with his wife as they expressed their grief and sorrow.

  Within ten minutes, Dr Underhill arrived and was left ministering to his patient as the other three people in the house retired discreetly to the dining room. When he had finished, he called them back through and handed a small bottle to Mr Dunbar. ‘I’ve given her a sedative for now. This bottle has some sleeping tablets in it to help her get through the night, and I suggest that you take one, too. This has been an appalling shock for you both. I’d like to call back in the morning to see how you both are.’

  He shook hands with the bereaved man and, as he was leaving, a car pulled on to the drive containing Judith Filey. A woman evidently in some distress got out of the car, and rushed towards the still open door, where she engulfed her brother-in-law in a hug.

  ‘God, how awful this is. Where’s Mary? How is she?’

  ‘Not good,’ replied Clive Dunbar, hugging his sister-in-law back. ‘You’d better go through to her. I have to go with these policewomen to identify Ricky’s body.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ the newcomer asked.

  ‘I don’t know the details as yet, but the officers said they’d tell me on the way to the mortuary.’

  At the sound of that dread word, Judith Filey suddenly let loose her tears as she realised that this was all real and not just some stupid prank.

  Interrupting at this point, Hardy announced that she was going to radio in for a constable to come and sit with the two women until Mr Dunbar returned and break the news of how their son had died to his wife, and they would play it by ear until then.

  As the car left for the mortuary, which was at the hospital, nearly ten miles away, Groves drove, and DI Hardy sat in the back with Mr Dunbar, slowly explaining about what he could expect to find when they got there.

  ‘I’m afraid your son’s not a pretty sight, Mr Dunbar. It would appear that he was beaten very badly ante-mortem, then left in a field to die. I don’t know how much of this you will decide to discuss with your wife, but you must be prepared for there to be some pretty gory details appearing in the local press. It would be better coming from you, than her finding out from a local news report or from the local paper. When the constable arrives, she will do her best to be gentle about what she tells your wife.’

  ‘Oh, God, I hadn’t even thought about that … can you stop the car, please,’ he asked very politely, adding, ‘Quickly,’ with more urgency.

  Groves pulled over on to a grass verge, and Mr Dunbar opened the door and was flamboyantly and ingloriously sick. When he had reached the stage of dry heaving, Hardy rubbed one of his shoulders in comfort, then waited for him to sit back up and close the door.

  ‘I’m so sorry about that.’

  ‘It’s only to be expected, sir, after such dreadful news. Drive on, Groves.’

  At the hospital they approached the mortuary entrance, Dunbar’s footsteps at first quick, as if to get this dreadful thing over with as soon as possible. Then, as they reached the entrance, he slowed to a snail’s pace in dread and fear at what he would have to confront.

  ‘Come along, Mr Dunbar. You’ll only be shown his face for the purposes of identification. Let’s get it over with so that you can go back to your wife. She’s in great need of you at this tragic time.’ The words may have sounded trite to Hardy’s ears, but they represented good common sense and, taking a huge breath to brace himself, he increased his walking pace to normal.

  They led him to a glass-walled room, on the other side of which lay a hospital trolley covered in a white sheet. Dunbar thought that he had never seen such a fearful sight in his life, or one more intimidating and threatening as that covered form underneath all that pristine whiteness, and he began to shake, dreading what was about to happen.

  ‘Don’t be afraid, Mr Dunbar. You’ll feel better for doing this. At least it won’t let your imagination conjure up anything worse, and at least you’ll know.’

  ‘What do I do if my wife says she wants to see him?’ he asked, a quiver of uncertainty in his voice.

  ‘If you think she’s up to it after you’ve made the identification, then of course she can come and view her son’s body. It might be a good idea if you left it a day or two, though.’

  It was Dr MacArthur the FME himself who entered the room and pulled back the sheet to uncover the face. Mr Dunbar took a good look, then yelped like a kicked puppy. He paled to the colour of milk. ‘Yes, that’s our Ricky, God bless his soul.’

  ‘Catch him, Groves,’ barked Hardy, as the man crumpled towards the floor. DS Groves caught him under the armpits as he went down – thank God she was a tall officer – and Dr MacArthur rushe
d out of the room to find a chair to rest him on.

  ‘Well fielded, Groves. We’ll make a cricketer out of you yet,’ Hardy congratulated her. It wouldn’t do to bring this poor man home with a concussion. He’d been through enough as it was.

  Dr MacArthur opened his mouth to make some comments on the injuries to the young man’s body, but was effectively silenced by Hardy who delivered a swift kick to his right shin. ‘This man’s been through hell today, Dylan. Don’t make it any the worse for him by saying things that are bound to give him nightmares. I’ll speak to you on the phone later, and you can spout forth to your heart’s content to me.’

  Draping an arm each of Dunbar’s round their shoulders, and making quite an off-kilter sight with their difference in height, they assisted him back to the car, leaving the FME rubbing his shin and swearing under his breath about police brutality.

  Dunbar was recovered a little by the time they returned to his home, and they found the female officer and Judith Filey sitting on the sofa in the living room with Mrs Dunbar, comforting her. As they entered, Mrs Dunbar shot to her feet.

  ‘I want to see him, too,’ she announced immediately. ‘It was him, wasn’t it, Clive, and not some dreadful mistake?’

  ‘It’s him, Mary love, but I’ve seen him and he’s at peace now.’

  ‘Then I can go, too?’ Her face was unnaturally eager in the circumstances, and, thought Hardy, her body language made imminent hysteria a distinct possibility.

  ‘Not today, love. Maybe tomorrow,’ replied her husband wearily. It was only early afternoon, but he felt as if the day had already lasted forever.

  ‘You promise? Promise me, Clive!’ shrieked Mrs Dunbar, confirming what Hardy had thought of her current mental state. Judith Filey interrupted at this point to say, ‘I’ve persuaded Mary that she and Clive ought to come to stay with me, just for a few days while things settle down.’ She had foreseen an intense press interest, and thought that it would be better if they weren’t available to anyone from the media that cared to call at their home.

  ‘I’ve got a different surname, so there’s no way the press could find me easily. And I think they could do with the company. I’ll phone their workplaces and sort everything out, and I’ll take a few days off myself. They’ll be in good hands, Inspector.’

  Hardy heartily agreed with this suggestion. As they were preparing to leave for Judith’s, the uniformed constable offered to go with them, but the two women said it wasn’t necessary, although Hardy recommended it for a couple of hours at least, so that they could ask any further questions that occurred to them.

  Once Hardy and Groves arrived back at the office, there was the usual stuff to deal with, things that Uniform could handle for now: shoplifting, aggressive begging, domestic fallouts. The events of the morning had done nothing to lift Groves’s spirits at the imminent arrival of her husband, soon to be back to the bosom – and a few other parts – of his wife, and she would do everything within her power to prolong her working day.

  Having ascertained that the uniformed officers were dealing with the domestics, Groves took a break for lunch – a very late lunch as it happened – promising to interview those shoplifters arrested during the course of the morning when she came back. She took her full hour, eating in a small café that specialised in liver and bacon, enjoying one of their generous servings with the wry thought that the condemned woman ate a hearty lunch, before returning to the station to string out the interviews she would conduct that afternoon, spinning them out for as long as possible.

  When every guest in their ‘special rooms’ had been dealt with, she went back to her desk to type up the notes, something that should have been delegated to a more junior officer, but which she attacked slowly and with the thought that her late arrival home would probably keep Kenneth off her back – or at least her front – until it was time for bed.

  When DI Hardy packed up and shut down her computer, she called over to Lauren that she wouldn’t get any overtime for all this extra work as the budget was stretched tighter than an old film star’s face, but the sergeant just waved and carried on with her work. When she was finally alone in the office, she finished off her notes then made herself a good, hot, strong cup of coffee and pulled her e-reader out of her handbag.

  It was only common sense to come to work prepared. Sometimes things took a lot of waiting for, and this was her secret weapon against boredom. Now, she used it to ward off the evil hour for as long as possible, when she would have to return home. Finally, she looked at her watch and decided she really ought to leave. It was eight o’clock, and by the time they’d eaten or, if the au pair from hell had already fed Kenneth, eaten something herself, it would be almost time to surrender to the inevitable.

  Pushing her horn-rimmed glasses back up her nose, she grabbed her handbag and jacket, and walked very slowly down to the car park, her stomach churning with dread at the ordeal that she knew awaited her. Taking the long route home, she drove as slowly as she could, and finally opened the front door at half past eight, her hands actually shaking as she tried to get her key back out of the lock.

  Kenneth came bounding out of the open-plan living space with a smile on his face, and wearing only a bathrobe and the mules he had adopted as slippers. He engulfed her in a bear hug, then kissed her with enthusiasm and rather a lot of tongue which, she found, turned her stomach. How long could she carry on with this charade?

  ‘Kenneth, I’m tired and hungry. Let me come in and get something to eat before you start pawing at me,’ she said in her bravest voice.

  ‘But I haven’t seen you in months,’ he protested.

  ‘Not now, Kenneth. I presume, from your friskiness, that you’ve had a nap since you got back.’

  A sly smile pulled at the corners of his mouth as he agreed that he had indeed been to bed since he’d returned. At that point Gerda sidled out of the living room, similarly attired to Kenneth and with the satisfied expression of a cat that’s got the cream, the milk, and the chicken breasts.

  ‘Have you been in the bath?’ asked Lauren suspiciously.

  ‘I thought I’d have an early night but I came downstairs to keep Kenneth company until you got back from your precious job,’ she replied insolently.

  ‘We’ve already eaten,’ added Kenneth, suppressed triumph in his voice, and Lauren’s face turned stony as she stalked off into the kitchen to microwave herself something acceptably hot but, inevitably, bland.

  She left the two of them in the living room watching what sounded like an American film with lots of car chases, shouting, and shooting. Kenneth called through to her asking if she’d like a glass of wine, but she declined; she simply wasn’t in the mood. After she had eaten, she took the back stairs up to the bedroom, taking her e-reader with her.

  If she snuck off like this, it would delay Kenneth’s hour of retiring, and leave her in peace for just a little precious time longer, unmolested, and lost in the book she was currently reading. She could hear Kenneth’s heavy footsteps on the main stairs at ten o’clock, but continued to read, hoping he’d be too tired after his overnight flight, and had started to suffer from jetlag.

  Her luck was out, however, and he looked as perky as ever when he entered the room. As he shed his bathrobe, revealing that he was wearing nothing underneath it, he got into bed, and she could smell the alcohol on his breath. He’d either drunk the whole bottle himself, or he’d shared it with Gerda. Yes, she decided, they probably had shared it, as there was still a twinkle in his eye that boded nothing good for her.

  A few minutes later she lay on her back, as Kenneth pumped away at her body, grunting and groaning like an animal, totally absorbed in his own pleasures, while tears ran down the sides of her face as she endured this rutting ritual – because that was all it was – for the first time in months.

  When he’d finished, he rolled off her, turning his back, and almost immediately started to snore. Lauren slipped from under the sheets, put on her dressing-gown and made for Gerd
a’s room to see if there was any truth in what she suspected about that little foreign bitch and Kenneth. She thought that Gerda had looked much too smug when she arrived home from work, and Kenneth would normally have wanted to have his selfish way with his wife at least twice on the day of his return. Maybe he’d already had a feed of his oats elsewhere before she got home.

  As she approached the young woman’s room she heard a soft singing, and took this as the second bit of evidence she had uncovered; the first being the little smile that had hovered at the edges of Kenneth’s lips when they stood in the hall together. Without the courtesy of knocking, given the circumstances of her state of mind, she burst through the door like an avenging angel and asked her outright if she had been sleeping with her husband.

  Gerda answered, at first, only with a smile, but her tongue was soon loosened when Lauren grabbed her by the lapels of her towelling robe and pulled her up from her seat on the dressing-table stool. ‘Tell me, you sly little bitch, are you sleeping with my husband?’ As she asked this she shook the younger woman backwards and forwards, her own face a murderous mask. Maybe she didn’t love Kenneth anymore, but he was still her husband, and it made her sick to think of the two of them in bed together under this roof.

  ‘How long has this been carrying on? Come on, tell me, you little slapper. Tell me, or so help me, I’ll swing for you.’ Letting go of her terry-towelling hand-holds, Lauren slapped the au pair soundly round the face, then stood back and waited for her to say something, suddenly aware that she was breathing as if she’d been running. She hadn’t realised how territorial she was.

  To her total surprise, Gerda struck back at her, catching her on the right cheek. ‘You naïve little cow,’ spat Gerda. ‘This has been going on since the week after I arrived! We’re very discreet and have never let the children catch us in bed, but don’t be fooled, we’ve been at it like rabbits.’

  Lauren stared at her in disbelief, then took a deep breath and launched herself at this picture of victory, grabbing her by the hair and dragging her down to the ground, where she began to kick at her with her bare feet. Gerda grabbed her by the ankle and brought her down too, managing to disentangle the painful handfuls of hair that her opponent held, and getting back to her feet, she fled from the room to where she knew Kenneth was.