by Joy Ellis
One of the mortuary assistants looked hopefully at the clock. ‘Can we return the organs to the body cavities now, sir?’
‘I’m going through a career crisis here, Charlie, but you don’t care, do you?’
‘Can I take that as a yes, Professor?’
‘Charlie! Listen to me! You can get out while there’s still time! Go and be a hairdresser, or a hod carrier! Anything but this!’ Rory waved his hand at the body on the table.
‘I was rather hoping to get off at five tonight, sir . . .’
Rory gave an exaggerated sigh and told his assistant to leave the tidying up. ‘I’ll do it. It appears I have little better to occupy me at present. Leave her to me. Is your sidekick also trying to escape, or do I have to wash down and clean up as well?’
Charlie pushed the plastic bag containing the heart, lungs, oesophagus and trachea back into the chest cavity. ‘No, you’re okay. Spike is in no rush tonight. We wouldn’t both desert you, would we?’
‘Mmm. So what tears you away from my obviously less than dazzling company? A hot date, maybe?’
‘Something like that, though I’m not sure how hot yet.’
‘Warm is good. Warm is hopeful. Tepid is, well, a bit iffy.’
‘I’ll remember that, sir.’
Spike had yet to return from his tea-break, so Rory completed the work on Louise Lawson alone. He ran a finger along one of the deep, jagged gashes in the girl’s thigh, and tidied a lock of her corn blonde hair. The sound of water trickling in the background could just be heard above the hum of the ventilator fans, and somewhere a printer began issuing reams of forensic data.
Despite the occasional grouch, Rory was totally at home within these cold, antiseptic walls. The corpses and cadavers were all like beautiful puzzles that he tenderly and painstakingly solved. He was as comfortable in the mortuary as others are on a deserted beach, or strolling through a fragrant pine wood. But today, looking at the lifeless form of this pretty teenager, he felt strangely dispirited and more than a little uneasy.
Spike, named for his spectacular haircut, returned to begin cleaning down the tables. Rory briefly wished that his old technician, Matthew, was back with him. Matthew had moved on, having spent several years working with Rory. He had always taken Rory’s wicked jokes in good part and Rory missed his humour. Charlie and Spike were competent enough, but neither had Matthew’s spark. If Matt were here now, Rory would have told him about the alarm bells that were ringing. He sighed. He would just have to wait.
* * *
Sid Wilson had spent most of his working life looking after the Quintin School. Nikki was surprised at how much he remembered about the countless children that had come and gone during all those years.
‘They were bad times, make no mistake.’ The old man rubbed his arthritic hands together. ‘My wife and I thought of moving away, but,’ he shrugged, ‘this was our home. Both our families came from hereabouts, so where were we to go?’
Anywhere would have been better than Quintin, thought Nikki.
‘I was the one who found little Lucy Clark, after she had been . . . hurt.’
Nikki recalled seeing the name in the doctor’s notes. ‘What happened to her?’
‘Hard to say. I found her alone in the boiler room after lessons had finished. I was doing my rounds before locking up. Poor little mite was huddled in that dark, smelly room, and I could say nothing to console her.’ He sighed. ‘She was terrified and shrank away from me as if I’d been the one to hurt her. It was heartbreaking.’
‘And she never said what happened?’ asked Joseph.
‘Never. It still upsets me to think about it.’
The old man’s eyes were moist, and Nikki decided to call a halt to the interview. She thanked him for his help and they made their way back to the car.
‘Some wounds never heal, do they?’
Joseph shook his head. ‘Not the deep ones, no.’
* * *
Sid watched them go. He hoped they would find some answers. Mysteries were fine in films and books, but not to live with for most of your life. That was not fine at all.
He pictured Lucy’s face, and the memories flooded back.
It was nearly six o’clock when he finished mopping the long main corridor. The last of the teachers had gone, and he went through the old building, checking that all the lights were off and locking the classroom doors.
When he saw all was well, he went down the steep stone stairs to the boiler room where they kept the galvanised bucket and that old mop. The old place was quiet except for an occasional knocking in the hot water pipes that fed the big iron radiators in the classrooms, and the muffled roar of the boiler. He undid his long khaki overall and hung it on a free coat hook next to some freshly washed dusters hanging out to dry. Then he heard a different sound. It was like a cat mewing. He tried to fathom out where it was coming from. It sounded eerie.
He took a step towards the broom cupboard. Then another. His arm was shaking. he reached out to wrench the door open, but he couldn’t do it. That sound. It was horrible, like fear and grief all mixed up and it turned his blood to ice. He took a breath, and then he realised it was a child crying, and he pulled open the door.
On the floor, pushed back into a heap of old curtains, was a little girl. He saw the creased uniform of one of the younger pupils.
‘Sweetheart! Whatever has happened?’ he said.
The child drew further back and whimpered.
At that moment, he just couldn’t remember her name. Usually he was good with names. The kids liked him, and they often came to him with their problems. He was in a funny position really — an adult, but not a teacher or a parent, and they knew he couldn’t punish them.
He stared at her tearstained face. It was half turned away from him. Then he saw her long golden hair in those braids, tied with an emerald green ribbon. ‘It’s Lucy, isn’t it?’ he said. He knelt down on one knee. ‘It’s only me, Mr Wilson, the caretaker. You know me. I won’t hurt you. Let me help you.’
He held out his hand, but she cried even louder. She didn’t seem to want to move from her hiding place.
His mind was in a whirl. He would have to ring the headmistress, she would know what to do. As he started to get up, there was a loud knock on the front door and he heard someone calling his name. He pulled back the bolts and saw Ron Barnes, one of the local bobbies. He was looking anxious.
‘Sarge! Am I glad to see you!’ he said. ‘I’ve just found one of our youngsters, all crying and miserable in a cupboard, won’t budge for love nor money.’
‘Is it Lucy Clark, do you know?’
‘Yes, yes! It is.’ he practically dragged old Ron into the hall. ‘See if she’ll listen to you. Poor little mite, something has terrified her.’
After a few kindly words, and a few more stricter ones, Ron finally managed to crawl into the cupboard and lift out the child, now wailing out loud.
‘Oh my—!’ he just stopped himself saying it, in case he upset her even more.
He had seen what had made her cry so hard. When Ron put her down, he turned her around and he saw her hair. The right hand side still had a long blonde plait, but the left braid had been hacked off. It had been chopped so close to the scalp that he could see tiny drops of dried blood on the little girl’s head. The patch looked raw and tender, but he guessed that she was crying from shame, not pain. Lucy Clark had been righteously proud of her tresses, and if what people said about her was correct, she had precious little else. No wonder it had taken until now for her to be missed! They were a poor family. Her mum worked and Lucy usually stayed at friends’ houses until her mother got home. He’d never heard what had happened to her father. No one ever talked about him.
‘Who’d do an unkind thing like that? Poor little kid!’
Ron Barnes knelt down beside her. She was trying to cover the side of her head with her hands. He looked up at Sid and shook his head angrily. ‘I’m going to have to let the doc take a look at her. Ther
e is quite a nasty gash on the lower part of her skull, and who knows what else the bast . . . sorry, Lucy, who knows what they used to make the cut. She might need a jab for lockjaw. You wouldn’t ring the station for me, tell my constable that we’ve got her, would you, Sid? Her mother will be out of her mind with worry. And tell him to get round here as soon as he can.’
He ran over to the school secretary’s office and dialled the number Ron had given him. After that he went to the stockroom and brought out a soft blanket to put round the child.
‘I’ll carry her round to Doc Draper’s surgery, Sid. It’s not too far and it’ll be quicker than waiting for a constable to get here.’
‘Has she said who did it?’ he asked.
‘Not a word.’ Ron looked very serious. ‘And from the look in her eyes, I’m not sure when or if she will. Thing is, we don’t know if this is her only injury, do we? She may have been . . . well, you know what I mean, don’t you? Look, I’d better get her to the doctor. Could you hang on here, Sid?’ he asked. ‘We are going to have to search for any evidence. If it is an assault, this is very serious indeed. Don’t touch anything, just leave it all as it is for us to check, okay?’
He looked at the pathetic bundle in Ron’s arms. ‘Poor little thing. You get off. And don’t worry, I’ll look after things here.’
Sid rocked in his chair. He’d believed that whoever had hurt the child would be in custody by the next day. But now, decades on, there were still no answers. Just mysteries. Sid hated mysteries.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘Come in, Ben. Sit down, and do try not to look as if you are about to shit yourself every time you see me.’ Nikki fought hard to keep a straight face.
‘Sorry, ma’am.’ Ben Radley sat down, grinning in embarrassment. ‘I just can’t believe my luck in getting on your team. I keep thinking I’m going to mess up.’
‘Relax, Ben. I haven’t publicly flogged a detective for, oh, months now.’ Nikki sat back. ‘Now, listen. We know that our suicide case, Fred Cartwright, came from Quintin Eaudyke. Does that throw any light on your enquiries?’
‘I’ve just had the Quintin link confirmed, ma’am. I put a poster up in the foyer downstairs. One of our civilian staff saw it and thought it might be the same Fred Cartwright. Fred’s old neighbour in Churchgate Mews couldn’t help us at all. She had no idea where he came from. She said he hated talking about the past. She did believe he was expecting a special guest though, because he asked if she would bake him a cake. She said he seemed almost elated, but refused to say more. All he said was,’ Ben looked at his notes, “early days, early days yet. We’ll just have to wait and see.”’
‘That sounds as if Millie’s visit was imminent, doesn’t it? Any luck with hotels? Guest houses?’
‘No, ma’am. It’s hard enough to get people to identify someone from a photo, but when you have no idea what the person looks like, it’s nearly impossible. I’ve been working on the age, and the name Millie, or Millicent.’
‘What about New Zealand?’
‘I’m waiting for the Christchurch Police to contact me. The first address was pulled down years ago, it’s now a supermarket, but the Kiwis are trying to trace the owner.’
‘Okay, that’s all then. Keep it moving, and get back to me, as and when.’ Nikki paused. ‘And we are very pleased to have you join us, Ben. As you know, Dave is retiring in a few months. He will still be with us as a civilian, but we will miss him out in the field. I believe you will fill that gap very nicely. Any problems, and I mean anything at all, come to me, okay?’
Ben smiled, looking more confident now. ‘Cat and I talked about this, ma’am, and you have nothing to worry about. We are both professionals and we won’t forget that, I promise you.’
Nikki nodded slowly. ‘I believe you, but I also know that life has an uncanny knack of sticking spanners in the works. Just when you think you’ve got it all worked out, Bam! Take things one day at a time, Ben. See how it goes for a month.’
‘Thank you, ma’am. That’s appreciated.’ Ben left the office.
The telephone on Nikki’s desk began to ring. She glanced at the clock and smiled grimly. Six o’clock on the dot.
‘Nikki Galena here, Mrs Draper.’
The woman sounded anxious. ‘He’ll only be out for a short while, Inspector. He’s checking on a patient. I hope you understand about me not wishing to speak in front of John.’
Nikki let her continue.
‘Please understand, Inspector, I was, well, we both were, terribly affected by what was happening in the village. I made myself ill over it. That’s why John thinks I overreacted to what I heard. When I said I was somewhere I shouldn’t have been, I was simply trying to talk to one of the children. I’d been warned before about speaking with the kiddies, so I met them “by chance.” Some of the children used to gather at the lychgate. There were wooden seats on either side and they would sit and talk or play games under the cover of the roof. I was pretending to tidy up my grandmother’s grave, and when I noticed them there, I made my way out via the lychgate. They didn’t see me approach. Avril Hammond was sitting talking to Sylvie Smith. She was telling Sylvie that her father, Gordon, had killed her pet cat. She said he’d slit its throat. Then, very quietly, she added, “and it’s not just animals he hurts.” Then they saw me coming, and Avril ran away.’
‘Did you tell the police this when Avril disappeared?’
‘Of course. Though everyone was certain he’d done it anyway. I’m sure I was just one of many who had a story to tell.’
‘So who do you think could have killed him?’
‘Bert Gilmore spoke most openly about “sorting things out.” Cyril Roberts told my husband that it was Gilmore who pointed the finger at Hammond in the first place. But kill him? I don’t know.’
‘Could there have been a modern day lynch mob, do you think? You know how people can work each other into a frenzy.’ Nikki waited.
‘They were not hysterical killers out for revenge, Inspector Galena. They were simple working men, scared and superstitious. They muttered about retribution because their bairns were being terrorised, and they were frightened. I just don’t see them baying for blood.’
‘So who could have done it?’
‘Someone who kept it to themselves. A parent whose child had been damaged — and took it very badly. I would imagine that eventually the hate boiled over.’
‘Do you have anyone in mind?’
‘No, Inspector. You would have to speak to them yourself, those that are left. That awful time changed the folk of Quintin. People were no longer their usual friendly selves, and sadly they still aren’t. The children have grown up. Most of them have left the village, but none of them speak of it, even after all these years. None.’ Linda Draper sighed. ‘Hammond damaged this village, and the scars will never go away. He was an evil man.’ Nikki heard her give a slight intake of breath. ‘John is home, I hear his footsteps on the gravel. I hope I have been of some help. Goodbye.’
The phone went silent, and Nikki heard the words, ‘He killed her cat.’
It had been cat’s blood on the jacket.
Nikki yawned. Time to go. She pulled out a few reports to read at home, and then put them back. Not tonight. She would eat, then spend the evening with a good book and a glass of red wine.
* * *
Nikki lit the fire, more for company than warmth, and rummaged around in the freezer. ‘Joseph Easter, you really need to get back to normal soon or I will run out of things to eat.’ She pulled out a container labelled “Joseph’s Red Hot Chilli,” and a small bag of frozen rice. For Nikki, this was real cooking. She grated some cheese and opened a bag of tortilla chips. She enjoyed her meal, although she missed Joseph’s company.
She went into the sitting room, put down her glass and settled near the crackling log fire with a book. After reading the same line three times over, Nikki gave in. Quintin Eaudyke had slithered into her thoughts like stinking marsh gas, and she couldn’t let it
out. She poked at the glowing logs, sending showers of bright stars singing up the chimney. There was little point in going to bed with her brain in overdrive. She might just as well stay here, have another glass of wine, and go over what was on her mind.
Dave had established that Gladys Hammond, along with her sister, had died. No living siblings remained. She wondered if Linda Draper’s comment about incest was true. In that case, anyone could be related to anyone. Nikki considered the two Drapers. They were almost inseparable, yet poles apart in the case of Gordon Hammond.
Nikki sipped her wine. She was looking forward to hearing from Yvonne. Vonnie’s old mentor, Ron Barnes, could turn out to be an invaluable source of information. Thoughts of older, wiser people led Nikki to her mother. After what had happened to Louise Lawson’s daughter, maybe it wasn’t such a good idea for Eve to join the Briar Patch. Then again . . . she reached for the phone.
‘Eve Anderson.’
‘Mum, it’s me. How are you?’
‘I’m fine, dear, and you?’
‘I’m missing Joseph’s marvellous suppers, both the food and the company, if you must know.’
‘Oh dear. Still being nursemaid to the ex, is he?’
‘She seems to be having some kind of nervous breakdown, and she’s leaning very heavily on Joseph.’
Eve snorted. ‘Breakdown! I suspect that having been jilted, Laura is jealous and is trying to entrap your Joseph.’
‘He’s not my Joseph, Mum.’
‘He’s far more yours than hers, and you know it.’
Nikki didn’t answer.
‘Don’t worry, sweetheart. Joseph is no fool. He’ll soon see things as they really are.’