My impending arrival must have given her a jolt, nevertheless. I wonder if she deliberately allowed it to happen, or whether it was a mistake? What did she tell Ronald? Was the fact of my existence the reason behind all those hideous night-time rows? There was one thing of which I could be certain: that everyone, including Tirzah, had loved Bryony best, even if with the very imperfect love which was all my family was capable of.
You’d think that that would have struck a chord with Doris, because Colin had always received more of her mother’s love than she did. You’d think that she would have noticed the same injustice being done to me. But she showed just as much favour to Bryony as everyone else did.
As for Colin: apart from telling me the secret, which I supposed passed for a sort of intimacy, he barely took more notice of me than of the other children in the neighbourhood. Less, if they had been sent on errands by their mothers, and had money to spend. But telling me was actually an act of supreme selfishness, because it turned me into a freak, an outcast with an unpleasant secret coursing through my blood. And he didn’t balance it up with anything good that could help me. No affection, no generosity. He wouldn’t even give me one of those cheap plastic Red Indians, to put on my desk at work. I took the whole bag, to annoy him.
I didn’t care much about Colin, though, and I never saw eye to eye with Ronald, even during my childhood, when I still believed that he was my father. It was Tirzah that I cared for, Tirzah whom I wanted to impress. And I loved Bryony, too, in spite of myself. Bryony’s death was an accident. Truly, it was an accident.
When I was little, Tirzah always hated it when my grandmothers visited. She particularly minded her own mother’s visits. Her mother was called Eliza, the same name as my great-grandmother’s, Colin’s mother. Since I knew the secret, I’ve often thought what a strange coincidence this was. I was nine years old when Tirzah’s Eliza died. I remember the day of her last visit. Tirzah and Ronald had been up half the night before, having one of their terrible rows. It was some time after I realised that sending up a prayer-funnel was not going to have any effect. I lay quivering under the sheets as I always did during their fights, unable to sleep in case something dreadful happened before I woke up again.
The next morning I found myself listening to something very unusual when I was getting dressed: Tirzah was apologising to Ronald. She said that the row had been her fault, and it was because she was always tense and upset before Eliza’s visits. I think that they may even have embraced.
I knew then that Eliza was the cause of all the rows, and I reasoned that if I could put a stop to Eliza’s visits, it would not only end the arguments between my parents, but also make Tirzah love me more than anyone. It was simple logic, really. I didn’t bear Eliza any ill-will – she was nice enough to me, even if, like most of Tirzah’s family, she seemed to prefer girls to boys – but her life had got in the way of the smooth running of my family, and therefore I had to take it. I didn’t put it in quite those terms at the time, of course, but that was what I meant.
When I came home from school on the day of her last visit, I went straight up to my room to wait for tea. Bryony and I had walked home from school together that day, but she stayed in the dining-room, talking to Tirzah and Eliza. I knew that Eliza would come upstairs herself just before tea-time, to powder her nose and wash her hands. It was what she always did. I waited in my room, listening, until she went into the bathroom, and then I stretched one of the French skipping ropes that Bryony had plaited out of rubber bands across the top of the stairs, fastening it on the wainscotting on either side of the staircase with drawing-pins. I went back into my room. I heard my grandmother come out of the bathroom, take a couple of steps, and then there was a crash and a cry and a series of bumps as she fell down the whole flight. A soon as the bumping stopped, I came out of my room and knelt at the top of the stairs to unpin the French skipping. I worked at it as quickly as I could, but the rubber broke away from the drawing-pin, leaving some strands trapped behind it on the skirting-board. I was still trying to prise the drawing-pin free when Tirzah came through the door from the kitchen into the hall. I looked up and met her eye, and I knew that she knew. She didn’t say a word. She was looking past me. I became aware of Bryony, standing behind me. She must have just come out of my parents’ room, dressed up in my grandmother’s scarf. She and my grandmother must have come upstairs together. It was not until afterwards that I realised that Bryony had pushed her. I yanked the drawing-pin free and scooped up the pieces of rubber, and put them in my pocket.
Tirzah found her voice then. She told me and Bryony to come down the stairs and go to watch television in the dining-room. We did as she said, taking the hall door that led into the kitchen and then the kitchen door into the dining-room, because the hall door to the dining-room was blocked by the body. We had to step over our grandmother’s legs on our way through.
As a family, we never discussed what had happened. Like the prayer-funnels, though, it didn’t work. The arguments continued. My relationship with Tirzah didn’t improve, either: in fact, I sometimes saw something close to dread flicker across her face when she looked at me. Her attitude to Bryony was changed, too.
The circumstances of Bryony’s death were quite different, although paradoxically the way in which she died was very similar. I knew, of course, that after our split Kathryn had remained friends with Bryony. . . .
Shit. The bus is standing at some temporary traffic lights and I haven’t notice that it has stopped. I look at my watch. It is already almost eight o’clock and we haven’t reached the outskirts of Peterborough yet. I am on tenterhooks now. I hear the engine of the bus judder into life again and we rumble on, far too sedately to ease my nerves. I fidget with my watch strap and make myself count sixty between each time check. The driver is getting up speed now and I think that perhaps we might make it, when some hideous crone stands and presses the button. She is a fat old woman with several baskets and packages and it takes her an age to haul herself up the aisle of the bus and out on to the pavement. I feel faint with worry, overwhelmed with an exhausting mixture of frustration and anger.
At last the bus stops at the Queensgate shopping centre. This is where almost everyone wants to get off it and I have to force my way through. An old man sticks his elbow out and tells me to mind my manners. I brush him away, jump off the bus, and sprint to the railway station. I hear indignant voices calling after me, but I can’t hear what they are saying and in any case I don’t care. It is not far to the station, but I am weak with anxiety. My mouth is dry and I can’t breathe properly. I can see that it has begun to rain, but I can’t feel the rain on my skin, which is burning as if with a fever. As I reach the station, I get a stitch in my side and have to rest against a wall for some moments. Then I forge on. I run into the station and make for the departures board. It says 20.19. My train is already standing at Platform 3. I see that there is only one man in the ticket office, serving a queue of three people. I know that it is impossible for me to buy a ticket in time, and decide to board the train without one. There are no platform barriers to hinder me. I can explain my predicament once I’m on board, offer to buy a ticket then and if necessary pay a fine. I run onto the platform. I’m about to board the train, when I’m intercepted by one of those female railway officials dressed in long red coats who seem to spend their lives standing on platforms waving miniature tennis bats. She demands to see my ticket. I’m about to explain how important that it is that I catch the train when its doors close. I lunge towards the one nearest to me, intending to push the button to open it again, but the female with the bat holds me back. It takes all my self-discipline not to knock her down, as together we watch the train glide out of the station.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Tim Yates decided to wait until after the forensic pathologist had made an initial assessment of Ronald Atkins’ likely cause of death and the time at which he had died, before he authorised a return
to work on the raising of the package buried in Bevelton’s yard. The pathologist, Professor Stuart Salkeld, would have to travel from Leicester University, so there would be a two-hour wait until he arrived. Giash Chakrabati was detailed to stand guard with the body. In the meantime, Tim called Andy Carstairs and asked him to apprehend Hedley Atkins and take him to the police station for questioning. The SOCOs arrived while he was doing this. Juliet Armstrong remained with Henry Bevelton, who seemed to have recovered both his health and his composure. He had been informed of Ronald Atkins’ death, but asked to keep the information to himself until told otherwise. He did not appear to be unduly distressed by the news of Ronald’s demise. It occurred to Juliet that possibly he was relieved: any shady dealings they may have had had or whatever bargains might have been struck between them could now only be disclosed according to Henry Bevelton’s own version of what they had hatched.
Professor Salkeld examined the body meticulously before he pronounced that the cause of death was strangulation by hanging from a ligature placed around the neck. The ligature itself was made of reinforced plastic rope, of the kind commonly used for washing-lines. Asked by Tim whether he thought that Ronald Atkins’ death had been a suicide, Professor Salkeld was cautious.
“It could have been,” he said. “As you see, there is an overturned chair on the landing. Did you find it like that, or was it disturbed when you cut the body down?”
“It was like that,” said Tim. “I stood on one of the other chairs on the landing to cut down the body, so that that one shouldn’t be disturbed. I’ll have it checked for prints. Am I right in thinking that you are not ruling murder out as a possibility?”
“I’m not ruling it out,” said Professor Salkeld, “but a death by hanging is much more likely to be suicide than murder. If you think about it, it is quite difficult to string someone up against their will, and I see no signs of struggle on the corpse. However, he was an old man, and someone stronger and younger than he was could have overpowered him without injuring him.”
“Or he could have chosen not to resist,” said Tim.
“Quite. Whether it was suicide or not, the act itself was carried out very professionally. Someone knew exactly what they were doing. It looks as if he died quickly and relatively painlessly. It’s quite easy to botch a hanging, you know. Worth researching properly if that’s how you’re intending to finish things.” He gave a wry smile. “Of course, you can probably find out how to do it on the Internet these days.”
“And the time of death, Professor?”
“I’d say less than twelve hours ago. He’s certainly not been dead for more than fifteen hours.”
Tim looked at his watch. It was just after 2 p.m.
“So at midnight or in the early hours of this morning?”
“In all probability, yes. I’d like to do some more checks on the body, though. Examine the stomach contents, check for signs of alcohol or barbiturates, that kind of thing. I’ll have it removed to my laboratory at the university, if that’s OK with you?”
“Of course,” said Tim. “Thank you. If you don’t have a pressing need to return to Leicester immediately, I’d be grateful if you could stay here this afternoon. We’re in the process of digging up something which could turn out to be human remains in the works yard which adjoins this property.”
“Indeed?” Professor Salkeld raised one black and bushy eyebrow. “Is this a coincidence, or do you think that the two events might be connected?”
“I think that there’s every likelihood that they are connected. In fact, I think that Ronald Atkins’ death was precipitated by the police excavations that have been taking place next door.”
“I see. No doubt you will explain it all to me in your own good time. Thank you for telling me, though. It will make me extra vigilant when I’m looking for any signs that his death was a murder. And of course I will stay. Otherwise, you’ll only be dragging me back here again tomorrow, won’t you? Is there any prospect of a cup of tea?”
The SOCOs had erected a tent over the place where the package had been semi-unearthed. Two of them were kneeling inside the tent. They were carefully loosening the earth around the package, and digging deep holes on either side of it in order to try to insert ropes underneath it and lever it out gently. Henry Bevelton’s men were standing around a little distance away, uncertain of whether or not their help was still required, trying to peer into the tent from time to time. Jason Beech was standing a little apart from them, looking slightly aggrieved. Tim realised that he probably felt that it was unfair that the Bevelton’s gang had been ousted by the SOCOs, just when things were getting interesting. He went across to talk to Jason.
“Your men can go home now, if you wish, Mr. Beech. I don’t think we’ll be needing them here again today. I’m not sure when they’ll be able to work in this yard again – almost certainly not tomorrow. I’ll keep in touch with you about it – and Mr. Bevelton, of course. I’d like to thank you and your team for the help that you’ve given us here. I’d also like you to ask everyone to be discreet about what you’ve seen. Please don’t talk to anyone about it, particularly the press.”
Jason nodded and moved back to his mates. They stood in a huddle, talking, and then gradually dispersed. Only Jason himself was left.
“Is it all right if I stay?” he asked.
“Not here, if you don’t mind,” said Tim levelly. “Perhaps you’d like to join Mr. Bevelton in the office?”
Jason Beech scowled, but nodded. Strange bloke, thought Tim.
He turned back to the tent. The SOCOs had levered out the package now, and were placing it on a tarpaulin. Stuart Salkeld had squeezed into the tent with them, and was giving them instructions, his words blurred slightly by the cotton mask that he had placed over his nose and mouth. Like the SOCOs, he was wearing a white paper suit as well as the mask. They all wore surgical rubber gloves.
“Don’t pierce it – don’t tilt it, if you can help it. Easy now. That’s it. Well done.”
The package was about five feet long, and sausage-shaped. It was quite thick. The outer covering was of opaque plastic sheeting, which had become brittle and faded with the passing of time, but which had once been blue. It was wrapped around at intervals with thick bands of tape, and also tied in several places with rope.
The two SOCOs came out for a breather, allowing Tim the space to crawl into the tent.
“What now?” he asked Professor Salkeld.
“I’m going to make a small incision in the plastic,” he said. “I’ll have to drill into it to quite a depth, because I think that the plastic has been wrapped around whatever it contains many times. If your guess is correct, and it contains human remains, there will probably be a thick soupy fluid trapped in this parcel. Decomposed human tissue. If the body had been buried in the open ground for the thirty-odd years that you’re suggesting, all that would have remained by now, besides the bones and teeth, and possibly some hair, would have been black stains in the surrounding soil. But if there’s a body in there, the fluids resulting from decomposition will have been trapped in the plastic, and are probably still there. Put on a face mask,” he added. “If I’m right, this won’t be pleasant.”
Tim noticed for the first time that Patti Gardner was one of the SOCOs. She was standing nearest to the entrance of the tent, smoking a cigarette. Tim poked out his head.
“Hey, Patti,” he said, grinning. “Pass us a face mask, will you?”
She turned to face him, then turned away again to exhale the smoke from her lungs. She walked over to the police van which she had driven there earlier that day and rummaged in the back of it, returning with a mask, latex gloves and a full protective suit, all of which she passed to Tim, stooping so that he could reach them easily.
“Thanks,” he said, still grinning. She regarded him levelly.
“My pleasure,” she said. He didn’t miss the hurt in her ey
es. He felt guilty about Patti sometimes. He knew that he hadn’t treated her well. He scrambled into the suit and pulled on the gloves and mask.
Stuart Salkeld had affixed a slender bit to his drill, and was testing it on a piece of cardboard.
“Perfect,” he said. “Lean back.”
Tim squashed himself against the tent wall, sitting back on his heels. Stuart Salkeld held the drill above the plastic for a moment, then applied it deftly. The drill whirred efficiently. It only took a few seconds to produce a result. Tim had smelt death before, on many occasions, but he had never before experienced a stench like this. The tent was filled with the evil reek of remains that had been trapped in a synthetic shroud for decades. Black tar-like fluid was bubbling up through the plastic, trying to escape through the drill-hole. Stuart Salked produced a syringe, and poked it through the hole, suctioning up some of the vile liquid.
“I’m going to try to seal the plastic again, and have the whole thing moved as it is to the lab,” he said. “But just in case that doesn’t work, I’ll remove some of this stuff now, for DNA testing and so on.”
“It is a body, then?” said Tim.
Stuart Salkeld regarded him with cool amusement.
“What do you think?” he replied. “This parcel contains animal remains for sure, and from the shape and size of the parcel – and the very fact that they’re in a parcel, as well as the distinctive smell – I’d guess that they are human. What we need to find out now is how long they’ve been here and, even more to the point as far as you’re concerned, whose they were. Of course, we think we know the answer, which gives us a bit of a head start, doesn’t it?”
In the Family Page 28