‘Yes?’
He looked over his shoulder to check that Evans was out of earshot. ‘I wanted to apologize.’
Grace was taken aback. ‘What for?’
‘John Kirkby kicking up a fuss. I mean, I don’t blame him for being upset right now, but I hope you don’t think I went running to him like I had any kind of problem.’
‘He’s lost his son,’ said Grace. ‘Think no more of it.’
‘OK. Thanks.’
He stepped back to give her room to open her car door. Before she got in, she scrutinized his face, trying to make out what he was really thinking. ‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘With the benefit of hindsight, would you have handled Russell Fewell’s arrest any differently?’
Curtis looked at her in a way she found impossible to decipher. ‘I could’ve not turned up for work, I suppose,’ he said, his tone hovering on the edge of insolence.
It was obvious he wasn’t going to elaborate, so, already regretting that she’d spoken without forethought, she got into her car. Driving away, a glance in her rear-view mirror showed him standing in the street, watching her.
The Accident and Emergency Department was enjoying a three-in-the-morning lull, and Grace quickly located the young medic who had pronounced the victim dead. He confirmed what Sergeant Evans had reported, that the victim had suffered serious and multiple head injuries. ‘Looked like he’d been attacked with a baseball bat,’ said the doctor. ‘Never knew what hit him, I’d say.’
‘So an unprovoked attack rather than a fight?’
‘I’m no expert,’ he said. ‘He was dead when he got to us, and we were requested not to remove any of his clothing, but I didn’t see any signs of other injury.’
‘OK, thanks,’ said Grace. The doctor directed her to the hospital morgue, where she found the uniform constable who had accompanied the ambulance paramedics waiting in the anteroom. He stood up as Grace came in, and from the way he blinked and opened his eyes wide she suspected that he had been asleep. She wasn’t too concerned: the body was secure enough in here for continuity of evidence not to be an issue. However, while there was no pressing need for her to disturb a Home Office pathologist in the middle of the night, she did need to make a decision about whether to wait or go ahead and search the pockets for anything that would help establish the victim’s identity.
The low background institutional hum and buzz of the hospital building seemed preternaturally loud, and the artificial lighting seemed to have acquired an almost invisible flicker. She was aware that her own lack of sleep was making her mind play funny tricks, jumping about and losing her train of thought. She’d have preferred to go home for a couple of hours’ sleep, but the idea that somewhere this man might have a family or friends wondering why he hadn’t come home and what had befallen him made the decision for her.
She’d brought a forensic suit with her from her car, having learned from prior experience that one of the night-duty mortuary attendants tended to be less than helpful. She pulled it on over her clothes and, with the uniform constable present to record her actions, unzipped the body bag. There would be ample opportunity to study the full extent of his injuries later at the post-mortem, so she tried not to look too closely at the head as she slid a gloved hand carefully into each of the jacket pockets, hoping to find a wallet or mobile phone. Yet something familiar drew her eyes to the face. Despite the matted hair and terrible black mash of bone and blood that had been his left eye socket, she recognized him. It was Peter Burnley.
19
Grace and Duncan sat together in an increasingly cold car outside Lance’s Lexden Park flat. It was seven in the morning and barely light. The trees that in the spring and summer gave a glossy richness to this part of Colchester now looked like bony fingers reaching out to a colourless sky, promising another dreary, dank January day. They were waiting either for a light to go on or for Lance to open the shutters on his living-room windows so they would know he was up and about. This was the worst death knock she’d ever had to do. Dreading it, she was glad Duncan had been available to share the task. It was essential to have another member of the Major Investigation Team with her in case Lance suddenly and unexpectedly confessed to murdering his lover or later turned out to be a suspect, and Duncan was discreet, observant, thorough and, above all else, kind.
Grace had left the hospital telling herself she was going home for a quick shower and some strong coffee, but really it was to give herself time to prepare for this. Poor Lance, in that first flush of love; Lance, a very private man whose relationship with a murder victim would have to be disclosed and investigated, whose relationship made it necessary to exclude him as a suspect; her friend Lance, whose heart she was about to break. She longed to get on with it, but held back, reluctant to barge in and rouse him from sleep merely to relieve her own need for action.
Lance would want to know everything that had happened to Peter, but there was little Grace was allowed to tell him until he had accounted for his own whereabouts last night. Only six or seven hours had passed since Peter’s death and her team was still gathering evidence. Nothing that it was in her power to do would be overlooked, yet she was acutely aware how family and loved ones were nearly always left with unanswerable questions about what had taken place. Lance knew as well as she did that this could be the worst part of a murder case, yet knowing it would not protect him from the devastation of possibly never fully understanding why this had happened or – perhaps worse – from unsubstantiated hints of unsuspected lies or betrayals.
‘He’s up and about.’ Duncan’s voice interrupted her thoughts, and she looked over to see a line of artificial light appear above the tall wooden shutters.
‘Give him time to get the kettle on,’ she said.
They sat a few minutes more before Grace sighed and opened her door. Duncan followed her to the imposing entrance porch of what had once been a commodious Victorian family home. She pressed the bottom bell and, after a moment, heard Lance’s voice on the intercom.
‘It’s Grace. Duncan’s with me. May we come in?’
The front door buzzed open immediately, and she led the way across the hall to Lance’s flat. He opened the door wearing an old-fashioned paisley-patterned dressing gown. His face showed alarm. ‘What’s the matter? What’s going on?’
‘I’m so sorry, Lance, but we have bad news. Can we come in?’
Lance stood back, and Grace waited for him to close the door and show them into his living room. It had a high ceiling with deep plaster mouldings, bare floorboards and a comfortable brown leather sofa and armchair. An old upright piano stood against one wall, and there was a homely scatter of books, magazines and a laptop on the floor beside the sofa.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked. The slight tremor in his voice anticipated how his world was about to be divided by the sharp line of before and after her reply.
‘It’s Peter. He was found earlier this morning with serious head injuries and was taken to A & E.’
‘But he’s OK? I can go to him?’
‘The ambulance got to him very quickly, and everything possible was done, but I’m afraid he was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital.’
‘Dead?’
‘Yes. I’m so very sorry.’
‘I don’t understand. What happened? Some kind of accident? A car crash or something?’
‘We’re treating the death as suspicious.’
‘Someone attacked him?’
‘We’ll know more in due course.’ It was abundantly clear to Grace that Lance’s shock was genuine, that he had nothing to do with Peter’s death, but there was no room in a murder inquiry for personal loyalty or compassion. She was determined to do this absolutely by the book so there could be nothing for a slippery defence lawyer to catch them out on later, and could only hope that Lance would eventually appreciate her reasons for remaining professionally detached.
‘What about next of kin?’ she asked gently. ‘Are his parents alive? Does he have siblings
?’
‘Yes, I think so. He never really talked about them.’
‘Do you know where they live, where he grew up?’
Lance shrugged. ‘London.’
‘OK, don’t worry. We’ll track them down. Do you know where he was last night?’
‘Out with clients.’
‘You didn’t go?’
‘Why would I? It was work. Some boring financial management company.’
Grace licked her lips, psyching herself up. ‘Where were you? I’m sorry, Lance, but you know I have to ask.’
‘Sure,’ he said without any bitterness. ‘I was here.’ He looked down in bewilderment at the previous evening’s distractions on the floor beside the sofa. Only now did he sit, dropping down onto the leather seat as if all his strength had gone.
‘Alone?’
‘Yeah.’
Grace took the armchair so that she remained on a level with him. Duncan pulled out the piano stool and perched on that.
‘Did you call anyone, speak to anyone?’ she asked.
‘Only Peter. He rang to say goodnight.’
‘Did he say where he was?’
‘Just leaving the restaurant, some country-house hotel in Dedham Vale.’
‘Did he say where he was heading?’
‘That he might go for a quick drink to wind down, then home.’
Feeling her release of tension, Grace recognized how scared she’d been that, if Peter had been at the late-night bar, he’d kept his visit a secret from Lance.
‘Home here, to you?’ she asked.
‘No, his place. He said it was too late to disturb me. Oh God!’ Lance rubbed his face, clearly realizing that the call he was describing had been his final contact with his lover.
Grace gave him a moment or two to recover sufficiently to continue. ‘And after his call,’ she asked. ‘What did you do?’
‘Watched the end of a film on my laptop, then went to bed.’ He took a deep breath and let it out in a long, juddering sigh. ‘You can check my browser history. And confirm what time I shut down the computer. That’s all the alibi I have.’
‘You realize we’ll have to bag it?’ Duncan spoke for the first time. ‘We’ll get it back to you as soon as we can. You do understand, don’t you, mate? Trust me, we’re going to dot the i’s and cross the t’s on this one. Do our best to get the bastard.’
Grace had no idea how many people at work knew or cared about Lance’s sexuality, and she was touched by Duncan’s heartfelt avowal of support.
Lance smiled wearily. ‘Thanks. Do whatever you have to do.’ He turned to Grace. ‘I don’t suppose they’ll let me see him?’
‘Not yet.’ Grace was glad she didn’t have to spell it out: Peter’s body was evidence, and it was vital to avoid contamination.
‘We’re obviously going to have to exclude you from the investigation, but we also need to build up as full a picture of Peter as we can. Anything you can tell us will help.’
‘Of course. I’ll have a think. Later.’
‘That’s fine. But one question meanwhile. Had Peter mentioned any recent problems or threats of any kind? Anything he’d been concerned about?’
‘Nothing. Life was fine. He was happy. We were happy.’
‘Can I get you something, mate?’ asked Duncan. ‘Tea, coffee?’
Lance shook his head, the confusion of grief beginning to take hold. ‘No, thanks. I can manage. I think I’d like to be on my own now, if you don’t mind.’
‘Are you sure there’s nothing we can do?’ asked Grace. ‘Is there anyone you’d like me to call?’
‘No, really.’ He looked at her beseechingly. ‘And there’s nothing more you can tell me? Nothing at all?’
‘Not at the moment. I’m so sorry, Lance. Peter was such a lovely man. A really, really lovely man.’
Grace looked at Lance in his old-fashioned dressing gown, hunched forward on the sofa, elbows on knees and head in hands. It had been a long time since she had felt quite so helpless.
20
Robyn found Leonard waiting outside school on Friday afternoon to give her a lift home, as he had promised. The high roof of the muddy Land Rover was easy to spot even among the other parents’ glossy SUVs, and she climbed up into the passenger seat with relief: never had the clattering bang required to close the door sounded more welcome. It had been a long, exhausting week, and tough enough to struggle with the weirdness and hysteria surrounding Angie’s death without post-Christmas torpor and the threat of impending exams. She really needed the escape offered by the weekend.
‘OK?’ asked Leonard once he had manoeuvred the rugged vehicle safely through the school-gate traffic.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Exams start on Monday. No one will have time any more to write sad poems or huddle in corners and cry.’
He glanced across at her. ‘Didn’t know you were such a cynic.’
‘I’m not. But Angie would’ve hated all that. And it’s the people who barely knew her making the loudest fuss.’
‘Fair enough.’
They drove in companionable silence through the outskirts of Colchester. It took a while to clear the suburbs, but finally they were on the familiar B road with fields and trees on either side. It was not until Robyn glimpsed the distant blue glitter of the reservoir that the tension of the school day slipped away and she could feel her shoulders relax. The sun was low in a clear sky, and it would be starry and cold again tonight. She leaned back into the seat, watching out of the passenger window for the occasional opening of the view across to Mersea Island and the surrounding wetlands. That was her landscape, her world, her place of refuge.
But as the suffocating pressure of school released, another anxiety took its place. This was a new undercurrent that she’d tried and increasingly failed to banish from her thoughts. It had to do with the overweight balding man in the badly-fitting suit who’d come to talk to her dad the day after Boxing Day. At the funeral her mum had said he was a detective, but that hadn’t been what Leonard had told her, and she had lain awake that night trying to work out why something so trivial bothered her so much in the midst of possibly the worst thing that had happened in her life. She had decided that maybe that was precisely it: the mind seizing upon the least significant detail to chew away at as a way of protecting itself from something too big to comprehend. But then why had it risen to the surface again now, right when she could leave the cares of Angie’s funeral and the school week behind her?
She shifted in her seat to glance at her dad. His eyes were on the road, his hands relaxed on the steering wheel. He knew this road backwards, could probably negotiate every twist and turn with his eyes shut. She wondered what he was thinking about and with a jolt realized suddenly that she couldn’t ever recall asking herself that before. Leonard had always been so pragmatic, such a steadying influence, that she’d never had reason to speculate about his inner life. But he must have one: everybody did. What did grown-ups think about? Her parents got on well. Robyn wasn’t aware of any pressing business or financial or practical issues. He always seemed to be occupied with something or other in a calm, contented sort of way. She’d always assumed that he was thinking about what he was doing or was about to do next.
It might be due to the grief and stress of the past two weeks, but the notion that she had no clue to her dad’s inner existence was frightening, as if a chasm of uncertain depth had opened at her feet right when she already felt herself on slippery ground. And all because of a pointless discrepancy between what he and her mum had each said to her about DC Duncan Gregg! She wasn’t even sure that it was a discrepancy, for both had mentioned the wildfowling club. But why had Leonard not simply said, when she’d asked, that the visitor was from the police? She had already worked out the answer: because he didn’t want to upset her any more than necessary about Angie.
The Land Rover looped down the gentle hill towards the bridge spanning a narrow point of the reservoir and bumped across the giant concrete-aggregate slabs t
hat made up the roadway. Several birdwatchers with binoculars leaned against the fencing on the nearside of the road, looking up the main body of water, stubbornly staying put until it was too dark to see. The setting sun reflected back off every ripple and wavelet, making the water almost too bright to look at. A swan was making its final effort to rise into the air, madly beating its wings and kicking its webbed feet against the water until it won free and rose magnificently into flight, its wings steadying almost immediately to a more lyrical rhythm. No doubt the birdwatchers were interested in rarer species, but no matter how many times she watched a swan take wing, the sight never failed to impress her. She turned to look at Leonard, who must have seen it too, for he smiled at her.
‘The guy who came to see you last week,’ she said impetuously. ‘Who was he?’
‘Which guy?’
It was true there must have been several visitors over the past week while she was at school, yet a nagging suspicion whispered that her father knew exactly whom she meant. ‘He was at the funeral too,’ she said. ‘Mum said he was a detective.’
‘Oh yes.’ Leonard sounded unconcerned. Robyn allowed herself to be reassured: maybe the omission, or obfuscation, or whatever it was, was unimportant.
‘Why didn’t you tell me he was from the police?’
‘Dunno. Can’t remember. Didn’t want to worry you, probably.’
‘Why would I be worried?’
‘Well, because of Angie. You were already upset. I didn’t want you thinking about it more than you had to.’
‘Why did he come to see you?’
‘The police were talking to quite a few registered gun dealers. You know, had we heard anything? Did we know the gunman or have any idea where he might’ve got the rifle? That sort of thing.’
‘Did you?’
‘What?’ Leonard laughed at the question.
‘Did you know the gunman?’
‘Of course not.’ Leonard checked his mirror and pulled the Land Rover onto the grass verge and stopped. He switched off the engine then turned to face her. ‘What’s up, Birdie? This isn’t like you.’
Shot Through the Heart: DI Grace Fisher 2 Page 11