Doomed to Die

by Dorothy Simpson

  ‘Lineham here, sir. We got a match!’

  The relief was overwhelming, the pain forgotten. ‘Terrific! How soon are you leaving?’

  ‘Right away.’

  ‘Good. Don’t break your neck on the way home. I won’t go without you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Elated, Thanet replaced the receiver. Then he remembered what would follow the arrest and his heart sank. When you were working on a case you couldn’t think any further than solving it. It was only when that hurdle was surmounted that you really became aware of the aftermath. An arrest was never the end. The lives of friends and relations of both murderer and victim are often blighted for years. And in this particular case one innocent victim might perhaps never recover.

  His knee was still aching and he stood up, tested it. No real harm done. He would go to the canteen and have some lunch, get a sandwich for Lineham to eat in the car. They wouldn’t want to linger once the sergeant arrived.

  By two o’clock they were on their way, tense and silent. Thanet was preoccupied with planning the crucial interview ahead, trying to anticipate possible obstacles, to decide how to counter possible lines of resistance. Despite the fact that they now had concrete proof of the murderer’s presence at the scene of the crime, he knew that this did not necessarily mean that he would get a confession. And a confession was what he was aiming for. He wanted it over, done with.

  Apart from a young mother pushing a pram Wayside Crescent was deserted.

  Lineham glanced at the house as they got out of the car. ‘Think he’ll be expecting us?’

  Thanet shrugged. ‘Who knows?’ All the curtains were drawn, he noticed, an almost obsolete way of announcing a death in the family. Oh God, in concentrating upon the murder he had ceased to think of Harrow as a widower of less than twenty-four hours. He remembered Harrow’s protectiveness towards his wife. Whatever else the man was guilty of, his concern for her had been genuine. Thanet hardened his heart. He wasn’t going to allow sympathy to get in the way.

  In silence they walked up to the front door, rang the bell. Already, Thanet noticed, minute signs of neglect were beginning to mar the pristine perfection so noticeable on their first visit. Empty crisp packets and sweet wrappers had blown on to the front drive and muddy footprints defaced the shining surface of the quarry tiles in the porch. Footsteps sounded within, the door was unlocked and a blast of warm air came out to meet them, as if the gates of Hell had briefly opened.

  ‘Mr Harrow? We’d like a word.’

  Harrow looked at him dully, without recognition. He was wearing the same dark grey suit and black tie as on the last occasion they had visited him. But last time it had been to mark a different death, Thanet reminded himself. And that death was the reason why they were here.

  ‘Detective Inspector Thanet and Detective Sergeant Lineham.’

  Harrow’s expression changed, became impatient, faintly hostile. ‘Does it have to be now, Inspector? I’m just off to the undertaker’s. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but my wife died last night.’ You ought not to be bothering me at a time like this.

  ‘Yes, I did hear. I’m sorry. All the same, I’m afraid I must insist …’

  Harrow hesitated a moment longer, then shrugged, stood back and ushered them into the stifling semi-darkness of the sitting room. Thanet had a brief glimpse of the lilies and the moon in Perdita’s painting gleaming ghost-white on the wall opposite the fireplace before Harrow switched on the electric light and the sickly yellow glow of artificial light in daytime robbed the picture of some of its magic.

  Harrow sat on the very edge of his seat, an obvious hint that he expected the interview to be brief.

  Shock tactics, Thanet had decided, would be best and as soon as they were settled he nodded at Lineham and watched Harrow as the sergeant delivered the caution. Harrow’s hands were resting on his plump knees and now he rubbed them back and forth as if his palms had begun to sweat. Thanet saw the muscles of his throat move in an involuntary though silent gulp of fear. But the man’s face remained impassive. He must have lived through this moment in his imagination so often over the years and especially since Monday night that he had managed to armour himself against self-betrayal.

  ‘Is this some kind of bizarre joke, Inspector? If so, I don’t find your sense of humour to my taste.’

  Thanet shook his head. ‘No joke, Mr Harrow, as you know only too well. I don’t treat murder with levity, I assure you.’ The temperature in the room was so high that already he was conscious of the prick of sweat beneath his arms. But he couldn’t remove his jacket, run the slightest risk of imparting an air of informality to the interview. He would just have to stick it out. He wondered if Lineham were equally uncomfortable.

  Harrow stood up. ‘Then I can only inform you that you are making a grotesque mistake. And now, if you don’t mind …’

  ‘Oh but I do,’ said Thanet softly. ‘I mind very much. I’m afraid you’re going to have to resign yourself to hearing me out. Sit down, please.’

  But Harrow was not yet ready to capitulate. ‘I just don’t believe this. When I’ve heard tales of police brutality or callousness I’ve always thought that people were exaggerating. But to barge into the house of a man who’s just lost his wife, and prevent him from going to arrange her funeral …’

  ‘You shall arrange it, I assure you. Soon. As for your accusation of callousness, well, I don’t like this situation any more than you do, but as far as I’m concerned it has to be dealt with and that’s all there is to it. So, please, sit down and let’s get on with it.’

  Harrow hesitated a moment longer and then returned to his chair. He sat back, folding his hands primly on his lap. ‘I don’t seem to have any choice, do I?’

  Thanet had had enough. He wanted the whole distasteful business over with. ‘It’s pointless to continue with this charade of innocence, you know, Mr Harrow. We not only know exactly when and how you killed your stepdaughter …’ He paused, to give emphasis to his next words. ‘We also know why.’

  For the first time Harrow’s composure slipped. Fear flashed in his eyes and he unfolded his hands, rubbed them again against his bulging thighs. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oh yes you do! But just to convince you that I’m not bluffing, I’ll spell it out to you, chapter and verse.’

  This time Harrow said nothing. He stared at Thanet like a rabbit mesmerised by a stoat.

  ‘What happened on Monday night was, as we now know, the climax of a long process which began many years ago, the gradual destruction of your stepdaughter. A process which ended as it was begun, by you.’

  Harrow’s fear was even more evident now. A sheen of sweat had appeared on his forehead and his jowls quivered as his teeth clenched.

  ‘Things might have gone on as they had for years if it hadn’t been for an unfortunate combination of circumstances. Perdita fell in love with someone else and eventually plucked up sufficient courage to tell her husband she was leaving him and, on the same day, your wife was unexpectedly found a bed in hospital. And so it came about that when Perdita sought refuge here on Saturday night you and Stephanie were alone in the house and Perdita found that history was repeating itself in the worst possible way. She caught you in bed with your daughter.’

  Thanet paused and his last words hung in the air, the disgust in his voice ringing in his ears. The atmosphere in the room was heavy with condemnation.

  But Harrow was not ready to give in. He had, after all, too much to lose. ‘I should be careful if I were you, Inspector. Those are very serious accusations.’

  ‘I am well aware of that, Mr Harrow. And I certainly shouldn’t have risked making them if they hadn’t been corroborated.’

  This time the fear in Harrow’s eyes was stark, urgent, his voice so husky that he had to clear his throat, make two attempts to get the word out. ‘Corroborated?’

  ‘You must realise that I can only mean one thing. Yes, your daughter Stephanie has at last pluck
ed up sufficient courage to lay evidence against you. Her mother can no longer be hurt by having to live with the knowledge of her husband’s corruption of her daughter.’

  ‘You realise that it’s only her word against mine.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think there’ll be any problem there. In fact, I’m certain of it. But we won’t waste time on that at the moment. Let’s get back to the murder of your stepdaughter, or rather to Saturday night. Perdita, of course, was appalled. Having suffered so many years of abuse herself I’m sure she kept a watchful eye on Stephanie. But somehow Stephanie must have managed to reassure her that everything was all right. How did you manage to keep Stephanie quiet, Mr Harrow? Did you convince her that no one would believe her if she talked? Or that if they did believe her they would think she was the one to blame, for leading you on? Or paint a dire picture of what would happen to the family if it came out – you would lose your job, be put into prison, the house be lost because mortgage payments couldn’t be kept up … And then, of course, there was the most powerful deterrent of all: what would it do to her mother – her mother who was so frail that such a shock would surely kill her?’

  Harrow had lowered his head and was staring at the floor, unable perhaps now to meet Thanet’s eyes.

  ‘But I digress again. For Perdita this was the last straw. She saw now that she had been wrong to keep quiet about her own sufferings. By doing so she had simply ensured the same purgatory for Stephanie. I’m sure you begged and pleaded, but she realised that even if you promised never to lay a finger on Stephanie again, you were simply not to be trusted – the children at your school could well become your next victims. Quite simply, you had to be stopped, for once and for all, and she told you that as soon as your wife came out of hospital, she would tell her the truth.

  ‘Nothing you could say would make her change her mind. She insisted that you arrange that while your wife was away Stephanie stay with a friend and she herself would stay only the one night. When, the next day, she arranged to go and look after Mrs Broxton’s children for the week, she had of course to tell you where she was staying in case you had to get in touch with her quickly about her mother. So on Monday night you knew where to find her. You also knew that apart from the children – and you didn’t think of them, did you, when you killed her? – she would be alone in the house. So you waited until late evening, then went. When you got there the place seemed deserted. You rang the bell but got no reply. You knew she must be in at that time of night because of the children, so you went around to the back of the house. The kitchen curtains were undrawn. You looked in and could scarcely believe what you saw. Perdita was lying on the floor. You tried the door. It was unlocked. You went in, saw that she was either unconscious or dead – I doubt that you even bothered to check – bleeding from a head wound. I don’t know whether, up to that point, you had actually thought of murder, but now you realised that if Perdita were dead all your problems would be solved, and no one would ever suspect you of killing her. No one had seen you arrive, and you would make sure that you left no trace of your visit. But you had to act quickly. What could you use, to make absolutely certain that Perdita never woke again? Then you realised. In your pocket you had the perfect weapon. This.’

  Harrow raised his head as Thanet felt in his inside pocket, took out his wallet, opened it and extracted a sample bag. Inside, clearly visible through the plastic, was another plastic bag, folded up and labelled. The temptation now, of course, was to lie, to tell Harrow that there were clear samples of his fingerprints on the bag. Many of Thanet’s colleagues, he knew, would not hesitate to do so if they felt that it would be useful, give them an advantage, and would think Thanet a fool for not doing so. But he hated such tactics. Victory was so much sweeter if fairly won. Anyway, in this case deception was unnecessary. He had another card up his sleeve. And knowing that there were no traceable prints on the bag he had no compunction in taking it out, shaking it, holding it up.

  Harrow said nothing, simply stared at the bag as though he had never seen one before. Or perhaps, Thanet thought, he was staring through it, beyond it, into the past, seeing instead Perdita’s body lying on the floor, watching his own hands ease this very bag down over her head …

  Thanet shrugged. ‘There’s not much more to tell. The deed was very quickly done. You couldn’t have been there more than a minute or two.’

  He stopped, waited. There was no tension in him, only relief that the unsavoury tale was told, and a weariness that was a result of the telling. He sensed rather than saw Lineham look at him expectantly.

  Harrow too looked up. He was showing more resilience than Thanet would have given him credit for. ‘If you’ve quite finished, Inspector … As far as the death of my stepdaughter is concerned, you have no proof of any of this. One plastic bag is, after all, just like any other plastic bag …’

  So the fact that Thanet had not mentioned identifiable fingerprints had not escaped him.

  ‘Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, Mr Harrow. We do have proof.’

  Once again Thanet took out his wallet, opened it. He laid another labelled sample bag on his knee. ‘In here is a sample of woollen fibre, found in the plastic bag which was put over your stepdaughter’s head.’ He took out a third bag, laid it on his other knee. ‘In this one is a sample of fibre taken from the woollen bedjacket which you took in to your wife on Monday evening before going on to see Perdita. Our forensic science laboratory has confirmed that they match.’

  All three men stared at the two little plastic bags, the minute scraps of blue fluff inside them. It was against the rules to have borrowed them for this purpose, of course, but Thanet had been unable to resist the temptation.

  Harrow looked up and Thanet could tell from the look in his eyes that he knew when he was beaten. ‘What will happen to Stephanie?’

  Thanet experienced a surge of anger and it was difficult to keep his voice level as he said, ‘You should have thought of that before.’

  TWENTY

  ‘What’s this Mrs Bonnard like?’ said Lineham.

  They were on their way to see Stephanie. Harrow had been charged, taken back to Headquarters and left to stew for the moment; as far as Thanet was concerned Stephanie’s welfare now took priority. Mrs Bonnard was the mother of the friend with whom Stephanie had been staying and it was she who had rung Thanet that morning to tell him that Stephanie, released from silence by her mother’s death and terrified that she would now be entirely at her father’s mercy, had broken down and confided in her.

  ‘She sounds very nice. Very concerned for Stephanie’s welfare, even took the day off work to stay with her. She’s known her for several years as a friend of her daughter and she’s fond of her. She’s very upset by all this, of course, could hardly believe it when Stephanie told her about the abuse … Turn into Wayside Crescent, then first right, second left.’

  ‘Poor kid,’ said Lineham, signalling then turning the wheel obediently. ‘She’s had a rotten time, hasn’t she. Years of putting up with that and then, this last week, a positive avalanche of disaster – her stepsister murdered, her mother dead, and now her father arrested … I don’t envy you the job of breaking that piece of news to her, I can tell you.’

  They passed Harrow’s house, its curtains still drawn as if to hide its secret from the world. Thanet experienced a spasm of revulsion against those overheated rooms, which like a hothouse had nurtured the monstrous bloom of perversion that had flourished there. Harrow had turned off the heating before they left and by now the temperature should have dropped, perhaps symbolically, to something like normal. ‘I don’t think it’ll be that much of a surprise, actually. I forgot to tell you … Later on this morning, when I rang back to tell Mrs Bonnard about the arrangements I’d made with the Social Services, she said that she was convinced Stephanie was holding something back, something else to do with her father. She was sure that Stephanie wanted to tell her but couldn’t bring herself to do so. I would guess that something Harrow has sa
id or done since Perdita’s death has made Stephanie suspect him. No doubt she witnessed the row between the two of them on Saturday night and heard Perdita tell him that she was going to report him to the police as soon as Mrs Harrow came out of hospital. She must have realised how powerful a motive this gave him, and put two and two together. This is the turning, I think. Yes, Meadow Drive.’

  Lineham turned in. ‘Number 14, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Thanet was peering out of the window.

  ‘Poor kid. If she did suspect her father, it must have been a great temptation to try and get him off her back by getting him arrested for murder, instead of sexual abuse. Much less of an ordeal for her. And yet she chose to do it the other way around. She’s got guts, hasn’t she?’

  Guts, loyalty or a desire for revenge? Thanet wasn’t sure, and didn’t suppose that he would ever find out.

  ‘She must be scared stiff about what will happen to her now.’ Lineham was scowling, leaning forward to peer out of the window as if he were trying to read Stephanie’s future.

  ‘I know. She’s very lucky that … Ah, there it is.’

  Mrs Bonnard’s house was much smaller than the Harrows’, semi-detached with a cramped garden and no garage. She had obviously been looking out for them because the car had scarcely drawn up at the kerb when she opened the front door. Her smile could not disguise her anxiety. ‘Inspector Thanet?’ Her gaze went past him to Lineham, who had stayed in the car. ‘He’s not coming in?’

  Thanet shook his head. ‘We thought it would be a bit overpowering, if there were two of us. And as you’re going to be present …’ He gave her a reassuring smile.

  She was in her forties, heavily built and fair-haired, with laughter lines at the corners of eyes and mouth. Thanet guessed that her usual expression would be one of good-humoured placidity – just what Stephanie would need in these appalling circumstances. Her clothes were clean but dowdy – a dark green sweater and brown Crimplene skirt. Thanet knew that she was a single parent, having been divorced ten years ago. She worked as a supermarket check-out attendant, and one of his anxieties regarding the tentative arrangements he had made for Stephanie’s future had been that Mrs Bonnard’s generous offer might have been prompted chiefly by mercenary motives. Now, although he had been with her for no more than a few seconds, Thanet was reassured. This woman was not out for what she could get, he was sure of it.