Charlotte’s tears were infectious and a sting came to his throat. His hand left its resting place on the hymnbook and lay, palm up, next to Charlotte’s black skirt, his fingers loosening in case she needed them. Without taking her eyes off the casket, she swapped the tissue to her right hand and interlocked her fingers with his.
An hour later, Daniel was supporting Charlotte, his right arm around her waist, his left sheltering them both with a black umbrella, as they shuffled through soft, damp grass towards the six foot deep hole which would soon become Alison’s resting place. Charlotte didn’t take much holding; she was barely five feet tall, and appeared to have lost weight she couldn’t afford to loose. Through her white silk blouse, Daniel’s supporting fingers inadvertently found the grooves between her ribs. To their right, DCI Ted Edwards and five church volunteers in mourning suits soberly carried the casket.
Daniel was struck by how well he was coping. That sting in his throat should have been growing, but it wasn’t. Charlotte was a mess, why wasn’t he? Surely your wife’s funeral was supposed to melt your soul. Perhaps the last six months, of helping her, of moving her in and out of that damn wheelchair several times a day, had taken its toll. They say ‘dead weight’ but sometimes the living can be heavy too.
Maybe that was it, or maybe it was the hundreds of times he had envisaged Alison’s inevitable funeral, making this day seem like one already lived, a day incapable of breaking him. Perhaps it was a mixture of these things, but whatever the reason, guilt was with him, the guilt of a dispassionate mourner, judged for dry eyes.
CHAPTER FOUR
As Alison Sheppard’s body was being lowered into the ground, Kanya Kitsuwan was less than a mile from St Hughs, happily doing her postal rounds.
Kanya was one of only two non-Caucasian faces in the village of Blaine. To worry about this, to lose sleep over not fitting in, had never entered her head. She had a work ethic which surged through every stride her wide, powerful thighs took up and down the winding paths of Blaine, as she delivered mail. The locals privately laughed about how she poured herself into those khaki chino shorts. She suspected this but chose not to fret about it. There were only two important things in life, as far as she was concerned: making a living and showing others respect.
It was one of those rare days on which the poncho came out. It had been a warm and drizzly winter, not at all like the snowy winter scenes her mother had imagined before they’d moved to England. Such scenes rarely blessed them. The frequent challenge was to keep the mail dry.
Most of the people in the village were friendly, but there were one or two who handled the plastic stylus at a distance when Kanya handed it to them to sign for a package, as though somehow she’d diseased it. These people would find reasons to ring the Royal Mail about the condition of their post. Kanya would only get a brief ticking off - the managers were dismissive of complaints - but that wasn’t the point. You had to do the job right.
No such complaint ever came from Sebastian Fallon. She’d barely seen him in the five years she’d been delivering post. Still, she would be as careful with his mail as she was with anyone else’s. This was especially difficult as she ducked the overgrown trees and bushes lining his driveway. Her movement disturbed water-pooled leaves overhead, providing an additional shower she didn’t need.
Whilst ‘driveway’ was the noun which came to mind, Kanya doubted a car had been up there in twenty years or more. The paving stones bulged with pressure from tree-roots, their surfaces flaking and crumbling away. She remembered tripping on one such paving stone last winter and fighting tears as she collected the damp letters, rubbing each envelope on her T-shirt to limit the smudging. So, today, she was careful. Getting in five minutes late, just because this was a rare day on which Mr Sebastian Fallon received mail, was no big deal. Finally reaching Fallon’s back door, Kanya stopped to check her bag's contents. Two letters for Sebastian Fallon, as it transpired.
The tarnished brass letterbox was at the bottom of the door and she knelt, the poncho’s plastic sparing her bare knee the doormat’s prickly bristles. She tried to push both letters through at once, but the spring was too strong. When it snapped back after devouring the first envelope, she smelled something.
A stench had drifted from the box, wafted then trapped by the tightly sprung brass plate. The smell reminded her of the time workmen had found two decaying seagulls behind a fireplace she’d had ripped out. But this smell was stronger.
She squinted and narrowed her nose as she posted the second letter. The smell returned with greater intensity, and she rocked back cross-legged on the mat, the crook of her arm bent over her face and mouth.
When Kanya finally stood, she rocked up on tiptoe and peered through the kitchen window, curiosity and a sense of duty overpowering fear. There was nothing to see in the kitchen (the worktop obscured her view of the floor) but in the hall, the deep-grooved sole of a booted foot faced her.
It was a size eight or nine, most likely a man’s. She gulped then reached under her poncho, to her back pocket for her phone. She dialled 999, then thought she should see if the man needed help. What if that smell wasn’t coming from him? What if he’d recently collapsed and needed help?
Fallon’s kitchen door was unlocked and Kanya pushed it open. As the call connected she saw the rest of the body lying facedown in the hall. Internal organs spilled out from underneath the body, as though the man had drowned in a pool of offal.
A glossy halo of dark, congealed blood spread from beneath him like melted crimson candle wax. Fruit flies enjoyed the blood's viscosity, rubbing their tiny legs together, and dipping them in the shiny surface before flying away, momentarily hovering then returning for more.
Kanya’s fingers spread across her mouth to stifle a scream.
CHAPTER FIVE
After Alison’s funeral, Daniel, Charlotte and DCI Ted Edwards sat on wicker chairs around a glass-topped, circular table in Daniel’s modest conservatory. That’s how he had to think about things now, ‘his conservatory’ not ‘theirs’.
The last of Alison’s friends, whom he had no desire to speak with, despite their kindness, were leaving via the hall. A few stopped off to pass on their final condolences, but most left without saying goodbye. He’d kept his distance from their church whilst Alison was alive, her death wasn’t going to change that. He knew it, they knew it, and Daniel respected their coldness towards him; at least they weren’t feigning friendship.
Charlotte’s usually cheery disposition was hidden away somewhere, but at least she’d stopped crying. Daniel had run out of consoling words.
The three of them sipped Merlot, Charlotte particularly slowly. On special occasions, she drank Prosecco, Cava at a push, but Daniel wasn’t going to offer bubbly. After a funeral you know you should be celebrating the life of the deceased, but more often than not, any attempt to lighten the mood feels inappropriate. Especially in Alison’s case; her final year hadn’t been much to celebrate.
Edwards’s question came from nowhere, “Will you come back Daniel?”
“To work?”
“To us. To Lincolnshire CID? I’m sure I could swing it.”
“Ted!?” Charlotte put down her glass, her lips quivering.
“No, it’s okay, it’s a fair question.” Daniel swilled his wine and paused, watching it grip the glass’s interior. “Give me a few weeks to think about it.”
“Three years is nothing you know. Don’t let that stop you. Not that much has changed.”
“Now that I doubt.”
Daniel had tried not to resent Alison for him having to leave the police service, but that was tough. At work he’d made a difference. No matter what he did at home, she was going to deteriorate. His mission had become one of damage limitation. How anyone could spend their lives delivering palliative care was beyond him and he thanked God that some people could do it.
A red light flashed on the pager clipped to Edwards’s belt. He looked down at it like it hadn’t gone off for mont
hs. “Sorry Dan. Got to go.”
Daniel said, “Drinking on call? Naughty man.”
Edwards looked ruffled, “I wasn’t supposed to be on call … I’ve only had half a glass … I told them only to … look, I’m sorry.” He swiped his cap from the table and straightened his jacket.
Daniel got up and they stood, face to face, motionless for a few seconds, Daniel staring into the face of the man he might have been: a Chief Inspector. Daniel extended a goodbye handshake, but Edwards pulled him in, over the tabletop, a chin on his shoulder and an arm around Daniel’s back. In a hushed voice he said, “Take care Dan, and call me. Nobody will think badly of you for coming back. We miss you.”
Their embrace ended and Charlotte got up. Edwards pecked her cheek coldly and said his goodbyes.
“What do you think could have been so urgent?” asked Charlotte.
Daniel shrugged. He didn’t want to discuss the morbid possibilities.
CHAPTER SIX
DCI Edwards ducked under the yellow ‘Police Line - Do Not Cross’ tape, which rippled and twisted in the breeze along the front of Sebastian Fallon’s property. He was pissed off already. They should have taped more discretely, closer to the house itself. Edwards knew these types of villages all too well; the locals’ unsatisfied appetite for scandal. This was going to be the biggest thing to happen in Blaine within living memory.
The morning drizzle, which had poured extra sobriety over Alison’s funeral, had slowed. Clouds had morphed into an impenetrable white haze.
Edwards had arrived quickly. The forensics team hadn’t showed up yet, no white van parked out front. He strode the length of the drive, brushing away branches of overhanging trees. He glanced at the front garden as he passed. A tree trunk, chopped at the waist, jutted through unkempt, sprawling bushes. Perhaps somewhere underneath the overgrowth lurked a yellowing lawn.
For a moment Edwards doubted a house existed there at all, the undulating driveway his only proof. As he proceeded, a path of disconnected paving stones ran to his right along the property’s front. Reaching the front door would mean stepping from one stone to the next, surging through countless needling, webbed fingers of holly; entry via the back was the only option.
The building’s side stretched out in front of him, its rustic brick thick with creeping ivy. Outside a door to the property’s rear, a solitary officer he'd met once, some months back, was talking to a postwoman. The officer leant in to say something close to her ear and touched her shoulder. If she’d discovered the bodies, she appeared to be holding up incredibly well.
It’s not sunk in yet, that’s all.
The officer left the postwoman and approached him. Despite their lack of familiarity, handshakes weren't exchanged. In the public’s eyes, policeman were supposed to know each other. “DCI Edwards?” He nodded and, in hushed tones, began rattling off questions, which had been queuing on the brief drive from Daniel’s house.
“The postwoman called this in?”
“Half an hour ago.”
“How many bodies?”
“Two, I think.”
“Think?”
“I’ve been with Miss Kitsuwan and didn’t want to contaminate the scene.” The officer tilted his head towards the postwoman who appeared preoccupied with her watch. “But I did poke my head in. It’s a mess. One man laid out, facedown, no sign of him breathing. By the shade of his ankles, he’s been there some time. You can just about make out the legs of another. Looks like someone’s been dismembered. Like I said, a mess … definitely no sense in checking for signs of life.”
“Okay. How’s she bearing up?”
“Well, considering.”
“What made her enter the house?”
“She says she smelled something bad through the letter box.”
“Do me a favour, would you? Move the line further up, across the drive and the lawn, where the trees will obscure it from view. I don’t want to spend the rest of the afternoon fending off curtain-twitchers. When you’ve done that, get an ETA from forensics. Sounds like they’re going to have their hands full.”
“Yes sir.”
“In the meantime I’ll speak with Mrs …?”
“Miss … Miss Kitsuwan.”
“Right … did she say anything else of significance?”
The officer checked his notepad, shook his head, confirmed she hadn’t and snapped it shut. As the officer sauntered down the long, neglected drive, Edwards approached Kanya who was leaning against the wall. “Miss Kitsuwan?” She looked up, tugging at her wrist-strap. “I’m Detective Inspector Edwards. Thank you for all your help … I know this must be hard.”
“They’ll be waiting.”
“Sorry, who?”
“My customers.” Confusion must have played out on his face. “Their letters!” She rattled the limp red bag, propped against the wall to her side.
“It’s okay, we’ll call the Post Office in a moment, I’ll do the talking if it helps. We’ll get someone else to finish your round.” She looked unimpressed. “I’m sorry, but we need to ask you a few questions. Would you be more comfortable if we did this at Louth station or at home?”
She peered up at the greying clouds and held out her hand, palm up. “Please, can’t we just talk now?”
“Sure. You made the discovery at … what …” Edwards glanced at his watch, “… one-thirty?”
“I guess it was about then. I didn’t think to look at my watch.”
“That’s okay. And you didn’t notice anything yesterday?”
“I wasn’t here yesterday. Mr Fallon doesn’t get much mail.”
“When was the last time you were here, before today?”
She looked to the ground’s moss-ridden concrete as if this would help her recall. “I’m really not sure. Two weeks … I think … something like that.”
“You knew him?”
She nodded. “Sebastian Fallon. He might have come to the door for a package a year or so ago. Tall man. Very tall. Much taller than me, you understand.”
“But he had post today?”
“Yes. Two letters.”
“How far did you get into the house?”
“Just a couple of steps.”
“And what did you see?”
“Do I have to say? Can’t you go in and see for yourself?”
“I’m sorry. I won’t ask for a lot of detail. Did you recognise Mr Fallon?”
“No, I could only see one man and he was short and fat - it wasn’t Mr Fallon.”
“We’ll have to take a swab of your saliva, if that’s okay.”
Kanya stood up straight with widening eyes, “You suspect me?”
“No … no. It will just stop us wasting time, if we can account for DNA found at the scene.”
Something beyond Edward’s shoulder caught Kanya’s attention: the forensic team marching up the drive, already in their whites. “My colleagues will take the swab. I’ve no more questions for now. But could you write your name, address and mobile number down for me? Just in case we need to follow up.” He offered her his notepad.
“Sure.” As she was writing, Edwards asked his final question.
“Today’s post, Mr Fallon’s, where is it?”
“Oh … I guess I must have left it inside.”
Edwards greeted both forensic officers, brought them up to speed and asked them to take a sample of Miss Kitsuwan’s DNA. One fetched a plastic pot and spatula from his bag whilst his female colleague secured her hairnet.
“It’s going to be messy,” said Edwards. She nodded at him. “Oh, and when you get in there, could you retrieve two letters. They should be just inside the door.”
“No problem.” She slipped protectors over her shoes and stepped inside, immediately spotting the letters on the floor. “Here.” She handed them to him. Thankfully they were blood-free.
“Wait a second, can I have a pair of your gloves?” She passed Edwards an off-white latex pair. He put them on then opened the first envelope. It was a flie
r, offering discounts on sculpting equipment. The second was thicker, stiffer.
Inside was a handful of photos which Edwards slowly flicked through in notable silence. The forensics officer, his gloved thumb hooked inside Kanya’s mouth, paused and looked around at Edwards, before collecting his sample. Edwards returned the pictures, sealed the envelope inside a transparent evidence bag, and slipped it in his inside pocket.
“If you don’t need anything from me for now Inspector, can I deliver my customers’ letters?”
Edwards hadn’t heard. The images had numbed his senses.
“Sir … can I?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Charlotte stepped upon the front door’s threshold, placed her palm on Daniel’s cheek and kissed the other. “Call me, don’t suffer alone.”
“I will.” A half smile accompanied her limp finger-wiggling wave, and she was gone. He shut the frost-panelled door behind her and watched through the glass as her car's blue haze turned into the beige of his empty drive. His forehead gently met the cold pane and stayed there for a minute as the silence of the house washed over him.
Do something mundane.
He went to the kitchen, put the kettle on, and reached up into a cupboard to extract the enormous joke mug Edwards had presented him with on the day he’d left the police. It was a Disney mug, publicising the film Frozen (at the time it was newly released and barely known). “Let it go” was printed in bold gothic font across the bottom. It was a jibe at the way Daniel dealt with cases: his inability to ignore insignificant flaws in otherwise satisfactory deductions. Perhaps it also told him not to think of his colleagues, to let them go as he embarked on a new life - who can know the full meaning of anything, held as it is in so many minds? He’d smiled wryly at the time as they’d clapped him and slapped his back.
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