The Chemistry of Death

by Simon Beckett

  Then anger.

  Lacking any other focus on which to vent it, Manham reacted by rounding on the outsiders attracted by its misfortune. Not the police, although resentment for their impotence was already starting to bubble. But the press had no such immunity. The news-gathering media’s breathy excitement seemed to many to evince not just a lack of respect, but also contempt. It was met with hostility, exhibited first by stony faces and closed mouths, but then by more overt means. Over the next few days untended equipment either went missing or sustained mysterious damage. Cables were cut, tyres slashed, petrol tanks spiked with sugar. One persistent reporter, whose tightly lipsticked mouth seemed curled in a permanent and inappropriate smile, needed stitches when a flung stone gashed open her head.

  Nobody saw anything.

  But all that was only a symptom, an outward expression of the real malaise. After centuries of self-containment, of knowing it could always rely on its own no matter what, Manham could no longer trust itself. If suspicion had been a contagion before, now it threatened to become an epidemic. Old feuds and rivalries developed a more sinister depth. A fight broke out one night between three generations of two different families when smoke from a barbecue drifted over the wrong garden. A woman phoned the police in hysterics, only to find that her ‘stalker’ was a neighbour walking his dog. And two houses had bricks thrown through their windows; one for a perceived slight, the other for no reason anyone was ever able to determine, or at least admit.

  And through it all, one man’s presence seemed to grow larger every day. Scarsdale had become the voice of Manham. Where everyone else shunned the media, he showed no such reticence in putting himself before the cameras and microphones. He played all sides off against each other, speaking out against the police failure to catch the killer, the moral complacency that he claimed had led to this situation, and—apparently unaware of the irony—the press for exploiting the tragedy. If it had been anyone else they would have been accused of courting publicity. But, while there were a few mutterings about his willingness to have his sulphurous views broadcast, our good reverend developed a growing support. His voice thundered with the outrage everyone felt, and what it lacked in reason it more than made up for in intensity and volume.

  Even so, perhaps naively, I expected him to keep his most vociferous announcements for the pulpit. But I’d underestimated Scarsdale’s capacity to surprise, as well as his determination to capitalize on his new-found importance. So I was as unprepared as anyone when he announced he was holding a public meeting in the village hall.

  It was held on the Monday after Lyn Metcalf’s body had been found. The day before there had been a memorial service for her in the church. I’d been surprised to find that this time Scarsdale had refused to allow the media inside. Cynically, I’d wondered if that was less from consideration for the bereaved family than to make the press feel they were missing out. As I approached the village hall, I saw I’d been right.

  The hall was a low, utilitarian building set back from the village square. When I’d driven past that morning on my way to the lab I’d seen Scarsdale outside, imperiously directing Tom Mason in its garden. Now the scent of freshly cut grass sweetened the air, and the yew hedges had been neatly trimmed. Old George and his grandson had been kept busy. Even the already immaculate green in the village square had been mown again, so that the area under the sweeping old horse chestnut and around the Martyr’s Stone looked almost parklike in its neatness.

  But I doubted it had been for our benefit. Denied access to the memorial service, the press had seized on the public meeting as the next best thing. Except this was less a public meeting than a press conference, I realized as I went into the hall. Rupert Sutton stood at the entrance, sweating and breathing adenoidally as he guarded the door. He gave me a reluctant nod, clearly aware I’d earned Scarsdale’s disapproval.

  Inside it was already cramped and hot. At the far end was a small stage, on which stood a trestle table and two chairs. A microphone was set in front of one of them. On the floor in front of the stage rows of collapsible wooden seats had been set out, leaving space around the sides and at the back of the hall for the TV crews and journalists.

  All the seats were taken by the time I arrived, but I saw Ben standing off in one corner where there was a little more space. I made my way over.

  ‘I didn’t think I’d see you here,’ I said as we regarded the packed hall.

  ‘Thought I’d hear what the miserable bastard has to say. See what poisonous bullshit he’s dreamed up now.’

  He stood a good head above most of the other people there. I noticed a few of the TV crews looking over at him, but none seemed inclined to try their luck with an interview. Or perhaps they just didn’t want to risk losing their places.

  ‘Doesn’t look like any of the police are here,’ Ben said. ‘You’d have thought they’d show their faces at least.’

  ‘They haven’t been invited,’ I told him. Mackenzie had admitted as much earlier. He hadn’t been happy about it, but a decision had been taken above his head not to interfere. ‘Manham residents only.’

  ‘Funny, I don’t recognize some of the neighbours,’ he said, looking at the assembly of cameras and microphones. He sighed and pulled at the neck of his shirt. ‘God, it’s hot in here. Fancy a pint afterwards?’

  ‘Thanks, but I can’t.’

  ‘Got some late visits?’

  ‘Uh, no, I’m seeing Jenny. You met her in the pub.’

  ‘I know, the teacher.’ He grinned. ‘Been seeing quite a bit of each other, haven’t you?’

  I was conscious that my face had coloured like a teenager’s. ‘We’re just friends.’

  ‘Right.’

  I was glad when he changed the subject. He looked at his watch. ‘Might have guessed he’d keep everybody waiting. What do you think he’s up to?’

  ‘Soon find out,’ I said, as a door on the stage opened.

  But it wasn’t Scarsdale who appeared. It was Marcus Metcalf.

  The room instantly quietened. Lyn Metcalf’s husband looked awful. He was a big man, but grief seemed to have reduced him. His suit was crumpled and he walked in slowly, as though favouring some deep injury. When I’d visited him shortly after the police had broken the news he seemed to have been barely aware of me. He hadn’t wanted a sedative, for which I couldn’t blame him. Some wounds can’t be dulled, and trying only makes them worse. But looking at him now I wondered if he hadn’t taken something anyway. He looked dazed and in shock, a man caught in a waking nightmare.

  In the silence, Scarsdale followed Marcus out onto the stage. Their footsteps echoed on the wooden boards. As they approached the table the reverend placed his hand supportively—proprietorially, I couldn’t help but think—on the younger man’s shoulder. I felt a prickle of apprehension, knowing that the presence of the latest victim’s husband would give far more credibility to whatever our reverend had in mind.

  Scarsdale steered him towards one of the chairs. The one without a microphone, I noticed. He waited until Marcus was seated before sitting down himself. He tapped the microphone once, making sure it was working, then unhurriedly surveyed the people in front of him.

  ‘Thank you all for—’ A faint whine of feedback made him draw back, frowning sharply in displeasure. He slid the microphone further away before continuing. ‘Thank you for coming. This is a time of mourning, and under normal circumstances I would respect that. Unfortunately, the circumstances are far from normal.’

  His amplified voice sounded even more sonorous than usual. While he spoke Lyn Metcalf’s husband stared down at the table as though he wasn’t aware of anyone else in the room.

  ‘I will be brief, but what I have to say concerns all of us. It concerns everyone in this village. I would ask only for you to hear me out before asking any questions.’ Scarsdale didn’t look at any of the press when he spoke, but it was obvious who that last point was addressed to.

  ‘Two women we all knew have now been kille
d,’ he went on. ‘As unpalatable as it may be, we can no longer avoid the fact that, in all likelihood, someone from this village is responsible. The police are obviously either unable, or perhaps unwilling, to take the necessary steps. But we can no longer sit back while women are being kidnapped and murdered.’

  With deliberate, almost exaggerated solicitude, Scarsdale gestured to the man beside him. ‘You all know the loss Marcus has suffered. The loss that his wife’s family have suffered, having their daughter, their sister, ripped from them. Next time it could be your wife. Or your daughter. Or your sister. How much longer are we going to do nothing while these atrocities continue? How many more women must die? One? Two? More?’

  He glared around, as if waiting for an answer. When none came, Scarsdale turned and murmured something to Lyn Metcalf’s husband. The man blinked as if waking up. He looked blankly into the crowded hall.

  ‘You have something to say, don’t you, Marcus?’ the reverend prompted, moving the microphone in front of him.

  Marcus seemed to come to himself. He looked haunted. ‘He killed Lyn. He killed my wife. He…’ His voice faltered. Tears had started running down his face. ‘He’s got to be stopped. We should find him, and…and…’

  Scarsdale put a hand on his arm, either to comfort or restrain. The reverend’s expression was one of pious satisfaction as he slid the microphone in front of himself again.

  ‘Enough is enough,’ he said, in reasoned, measured tones. ‘Enough…is…enough!’ He slowly beat the table in emphasis. ‘The time for doing nothing has passed. God is testing us. It’s been our weakness, our complacency, that has allowed this creature masquerading as a man to conceal himself among us. To strike with impunity and contempt. And why? Because he knows he can. Because he sees us as weak. And he doesn’t fear weakness.’

  The microphone jumped as he banged his fist on the table.

  ‘Well, now it’s time to make him fear us. Now’s the time to show our strength! Manham has been a victim for too long! If the police cannot protect us, then we should protect ourselves! It’s our duty to root him out!’

  His raised voice merged into a howl of feedback. As he sat back the hall burst into commotion. Many of the people in the chairs came to their feet, applauding and shouting approval. As the cameras flashed and journalists shouted questions, Scarsdale sat centre stage and surveyed his work. For a moment he looked right at me. His eyes burned with fervour. And triumph, I realized.

  Unnoticed, I made my way out.

  ‘I just can’t believe the man,’ I said angrily. ‘He seems to want to stir people up rather than calm things down. What’s wrong with him?’

  Jenny threw a piece of bread for a duck that had waddled up to our table. We were at a pub on the banks of the Bure, one of the six rivers that run through the Broads. Neither of us had wanted to stay in Manham, and although this was only a few miles away it could have been a different world. Boats were moored on the river, children played nearby, and the tables were full of people chatting and laughing. Textbook English pub, textbook English summer. It was a far cry from the oppressive atmosphere we’d left behind.

  Jenny gave the last crumbs to the duck. ‘He’s got people listening to him now. Perhaps that’s what he wants.’

  ‘But doesn’t he realize what he’s doing? One man’s already been put in hospital by idiots who got carried away, and now he’s encouraging vigilantes. And using Marcus Metcalf to drum up support!’

  I remembered how Scarsdale had been with him even during the search for his wife. I wouldn’t have put it past our reverend to have been priming him even then, getting ready to exploit the tragic husband. I wished now I’d spoken to Marcus when Lyn went missing. I hadn’t wanted to intrude on his grief, but I couldn’t deny there might be a selfish aspect as well. Seeing him had been a painful reminder of my own loss, but by standing back I’d given Scarsdale a free rein to exert his influence. And he hadn’t missed the opportunity.

  ‘You think that’s really what he wants? To stir things up?’ Jenny asked. She hadn’t been to the meeting; said she didn’t feel she’d lived in the village long enough to take part in it. But I think it was also the prospect of the crowd that had kept her away.

  ‘That’s what it sounded like. I don’t know why I’m surprised. Fire and brimstone makes more of an impression than turning the other cheek. And he’s spent years standing in front of an empty church on Sunday morning. He’s not going to miss his chance to say “I told you so” now.’

  ‘Sounds like he’s not the only one who’s worked up.’

  I hadn’t realized how angry Scarsdale had made me. ‘Sorry. I’m just worried somebody might do something stupid.’

  ‘There’s nothing you can do about it anyway. You’re not the village conscience.’

  She sounded distracted. It occurred to me that she’d been quiet all evening. I looked at the line of her profile, the faint pattern of freckles across her cheeks and nose; the fine blonde down on her arms, whitened by the sun against her tanned skin. She was gazing off into the distance, lost in some internal dialogue.

  ‘Anything the matter?’ I asked.

  ‘No. I was just thinking.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Oh…just stuff.’ She smiled, but there was a tension about her. ‘Look, do you mind if we go back?’

  I tried to hide my surprise. ‘Not if you want to.’

  ‘Please.’

  We drove back in silence. There was a hollowness in the pit of my stomach. I cursed myself for making such a fuss about Scarsdale. No wonder she’d had enough. Well, now you’ve blown it. Congratulations.

  The light was fading when we reached Manham. I indicated to turn off onto her road.

  ‘No, not here,’ she said. ‘I…I thought you could show me where you live.’

  It took me a moment to understand.

  ‘OK.’

  The word didn’t come out right. I felt breathless as I parked the car. I unlocked the door to the house and stood back to let her in. The delicate musk of her perfume made me light-headed as she passed.

  She went into the small lounge. I could feel her nervousness, matching my own.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’

  She shook her head. We stood awkwardly. Do something. But I couldn’t. In the half-light I couldn’t see her clearly. Only her eyes, bright in the darkness. We looked at each other, neither of us moving. When she spoke, her voice was unsteady.

  ‘Where’s the bedroom?’

  Jenny was hesitant to begin with, tense and trembling. Gradually, she began to relax, and so did I. At first memory tried to impose its own template of shape, texture and scent. Then the present took over, sweeping away everything else. Afterwards, she lay curled against me, breath soft on my chest. I felt her hands go to my face, explore the tracks of wetness running down.

  ‘David?’

  ‘It’s nothing, just…’

  ‘I know. It’s all right.’

  And it was. I laughed, hugging her, then tilted up her chin. We kissed, long and slowly, and my tears dried unnoticed as we moved together again.

  Some time that same night, while we were in bed together, across the village Tina thought she heard a noise in the back garden. Like Jenny, she’d avoided the meeting in the village hall. She’d stayed in, a bottle of white wine and a block of chocolate for company. She’d intended to stay up until Jenny got home, eager to hear how the evening had been. But by the time she’d watched the DVD she’d hired she was yawning and ready for bed. It was as she turned off the TV that she heard something outside.

  Tina wasn’t stupid. There was a killer at large who had already murdered two women. She didn’t open the door. Instead, snatching up the telephone, she turned out the light and went to the window. With the telephone poised, ready to connect to the police, she peeped cautiously into the back garden.

  Nothing. The night was bright, the moon full and revealing. The garden, and the paddock beyond, was empty of menace. Even so, she watche
d for a while before she convinced herself it had been her imagination.

  It was only next morning that she saw what had been left outside. In the centre of the lawn was a dead fox. It might almost have been arranged there, so carefully was it positioned. If she had known about the swan wings, or the mallard, or any of the other dead creatures the killer had used to decorate and elaborate his creations, Tina would not have done what she did next.

  But she didn’t know. Country girl that she was, she just scooped it up and deposited it into the dustbin. Judging from its wounds, it had probably crawled there after being savaged by a dog, she reasoned. Or perhaps been run over. She might still have mentioned it to Jenny, if only in passing. Who might then have told me about it. Except Jenny hadn’t come home that night. Jenny was still at my house, and when Tina saw her again the topic of conversation was naturally about matters far removed from dead wildlife.

  So Tina told no-one about the fox. It was only days later, when its significance was all too obvious, that she even remembered it.

  And by then it was too late.

  CHAPTER 18

  TWO THINGS HAPPENED OVER the next twenty-four hours. Of the two, it was the first that had most people talking. At any other time this was an event that would have been a source of scandalized gossip, subject to endless tellings and retellings before it became absorbed into Manham folklore, a chapter of village history to be chuckled and tutted over for decades. As it was, it was to have repercussions that were far more serious than any physical injuries it caused.

  In a confrontation that many thought was years overdue, Ben Anders and Carl Brenner had a fight.

  It was partly drink, and partly animosity, and partly the pressures of recent days. The two men had never made any pretence of liking each other, and the unnatural tensions in the village had the effect of rubbing raw far slighter grievances than theirs. It was almost closing time at the Lamb. Ben had just ordered a whisky to finish, after what he admitted was a pint or two more than normal. He’d had a hellish day at the nature reserve, having to give first-aid to a birdwatcher who’d had a heart attack in the heat, as well as coping with the usual crises of the tourist season. When Carl Brenner came into the pub, ‘cocky and full of himself’, as Ben later put it, he’d turned his back, determined not to give a bad day a worse end by letting himself be goaded.