And None Shall Sleep

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘At the bottom of the canal,’ he said. ‘That’s my bet. Maybe we should send a couple of divers down.’

  ‘Well, the nearest part of the canal to the hospital is four miles away so we can start there.’

  She was sitting in the car before he mentioned Matthew.

  ‘I nearly didn’t come,’ he said. ‘I thought Levin might give you a lift in. I saw his car outside,’ he added.

  ‘He left late last night.’ She shot him an angry glance.

  ‘Not that it’s any of your bloody business.’

  They were silent for the rest of the journey.

  Superintendent Arthur Colclough met them at the door, his jowls wobbling like an excited bulldog’s. ‘I’ve been trying to ring you,’ he said. ‘You’d better get out to Gallows Wood. Straight away. They’ve found something there.’

  ‘Selkirk?’ they said in unison.

  He nodded. ‘It looks like it.’

  Gallows Wood was a small wooded area on the edge of a new housing estate. Over the years it had given the police no more trouble than half a dozen other patches of waste ground close to the town. In other words, it was a haunt for alcoholics, runaways and courting couples. Lately the Staffordshire Wildlife Trust had taken an interest in the badger sett and had bought the small plot of land from the local council.

  Joanna frowned at Mike as he switched on the engine. ‘I didn’t expect him to have got there,’ she said. ‘It’s a couple of miles from the hospital.’

  ‘So he must have got there by car.’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ She remembered something. ‘There’s a footpath, isn’t there? If you go round the back of the housing estate and cut across those old factories ...’ She frowned. ‘The question is, could he have stumbled, barefoot, about three-quarters of a mile across unlit, derelict ground, in his condition?’

  Mike looked at her. ‘That might be the question. Let’s just wait and find out.’ He switched on the blue light, pressed his right foot down to the floor and they reached the wood in five and a half minutes.

  Two police cars were already parked, their lights still flashing. Mike pulled up behind them and spoke through the open window to the constable standing by.

  ‘Which way?’

  ‘In there,’ he said, pointing. ‘You have to go through the gate. Along the path. He’s in the middle.’ He looked pale. Finding a body is a shocking business.

  Joanna spoke to him. ‘Were you the one who found him?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Well done. The sooner he was found the better.’

  The constable nodded and Mike and Joanna climbed out of the car, looking around them. It was a pretty place, deserving of the Wildlife Trust’s money, probably filled with birdsong throughout the summer days and badgers playing through the long, light evenings. But now it was dark and dripping as the sun disappeared behind thick grey cloud.

  ‘Somehow,’ Joanna said, looking at the sopping leaves in the thick brambled undergrowth and the black path that twisted into its centre, ‘It looks the right sort of place.’

  ‘To top yourself? Yes,’ Mike agreed.

  ‘Depressing, isn’t it?’ Joanna said as they scrambled through the gate. She glanced at Mike jumping over the stile. ‘Of all the things I find depressing it’s a suicide.’ She took in a deep breath. ‘It’s as though the whole of the human race has failed that person. And we’re the ones who find them. It always makes me sad.’

  Mike attempted to cheer her up. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘He had a sense of humour. Gallows Wood. Ten guesses how he’s done it.’

  She agreed.

  They were wrong. On both counts.

  Rain dropped heavily from the trees, splashing around them as they stepped through the undergrowth. Then suddenly the September sun emerged again to give the wood a pale, unreal light. It was a small wood, the path almost impenetrable with snarling brambles and soft, black mud.

  Joanna glanced down at her shoes. ‘Bloody mud,’ she said, ‘and with this thing on my arm they’ll be tricky to get clean.’

  Mike turned round. ‘And I thought Levin licked your boots clean.’

  She stared at him. It took them a couple more minutes to reach the clearing in the centre of the wood. They looked around them and knew this spot was completely hidden from both the road and the nearby housing estate.

  The path turned sharply to the right and they saw the ring of police standing round a crumpled heap of old-fashioned striped pyjamas.

  They pushed forward and Joanna caught her breath. He was lying on his side, the back of his head clearly visible. His hair was cut short, making it easy to see the scorch mark of a bullet entry wound in the nape of his neck. His hands had been tied behind his back.

  She knew what she would see even before she leaned across the dead man. He had no face. And she felt a sudden, shouting queasiness.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she murmured. And already she knew from the position in which he lay that he had had his hands bound and had been forced to kneel before the executioner’s bullet in the back of his skull had killed him instantly. She forced herself to study him with a detective’s eyes. Jonathan Selkirk lay wearing only pyjamas, feet bare, pathetically scratched and bleeding. A long black thorn stuck out of one of them. The back of one hand had continued to ooze long after the IV line had been removed, leaving a tiny pool of blood and a large bruise. And she knew whatever sort of man Jonathan Selkirk had been in life, he had done nothing to deserve this.

  She addressed Mike over her shoulder. ‘Find out if they’ve contacted Matthew.’

  He grunted.

  Others were arriving now, carrying police equipment. A plastic shelter was erected over the body and a walkway carefully taped off. Ten minutes later the photographer arrived, and, twenty minutes after that, Matthew. He made a beeline for Joanna.

  ‘So you’ve found him,’ were the first words he said. ‘I’m glad,’ and, taking a step nearer and studying her face, ‘you look pale, I told you you shouldn’t be working.’

  ‘Matthew, he was shot in the back of the neck.’ The words sounded cruel and cold.

  Matthew gave a low whistle. ‘Shot,’ he said slowly. ‘I really didn’t expect that.’

  ‘Neither did we.’ She gave a quick shiver. ‘It’s made a mess of his head,’ she said.

  Matthew shrugged. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Guns are nasty things. They do a lot more damage than people realize. People think guns leave a neat little black hole. They just don’t understand. One little bullet rips out a ton of flesh. Sorry,’ he added, looking at her now chalk-white face. ‘Darling, I’m sorry Are you all right?’

  She nodded. ‘His hands were tied behind his back,’ she murmured. ‘He was wearing the pyjamas he’d left the hospital in. No shoes.’ She swallowed. ‘There was a huge thorn sticking out of one of his feet. It must have hurt.’

  ‘Not half as much as what came next,’ he observed drily, looking beyond her to the crumpled figure. ‘Oh, I’m sorry ... Sorry, sorry. I know. I’ve no sensitivity.’ He spat out the old joke. ‘That’s why I’m a pathologist.’

  He knelt down by the figure and opened his black scene- of-crime bag to take out some gloves.

  Matthew glanced around at the trees. ‘You’ll find most of his brains around there,’ he said. ‘Be a good idea to take some specimens.’ Then he peered at the bullet entry wound. ‘I think,’ he said slowly, frowning, ‘at a guess a small handgun. But a lot of damage. More than I would have expected.’ He paused. ‘Professional-looking job, isn’t it?’

  Joanna stood quite still and knew Matthew had voiced what she’d been thinking. She glanced again at the dead man, then across at Mike. She knew he too had been thinking the same thing.

  ‘I think I’ll measure the calibre at the morgue.’ Matthew touched the bullet hole. ‘Get it more exactly. The barrel was jammed right against his head. Nice example of contact burn.’ He looked up at her. ‘I suppose there’s no doubt it is Selkirk’

  Sh
e nodded. ‘It looks like it.’ She smiled as she watched him work. ‘There can’t be many middle-aged men wandering around Leek in nothing but a pair of pyjamas.’ She glanced at the back of the man’s hand. ‘Especially men who’ve recently had a hospital drip pulled out.’

  Matthew turned his attention to the bindings on the wrists. He studied them for a moment before rolling the body over and staring at it for a while. Then he stood up.

  ‘Judging from a very superficial examination, I’d say he most probably has been lying here since some time late Monday night/early Tuesday morning.’ He stopped. ‘In other words it’s probable that he was brought from the hospital straight here and shot within an hour or so of the abduction.’

  He peeled off his gloves. ‘I’ll be able to tell you more after the PM but I think we’d better get him formally identified first, if possible.’

  Her eyes were again drawn to the gaping face. ‘Identified?’

  ‘Well, you know what I mean.’ Matthew addressed the photographer. ‘Finished? Fine. Then get him moved. I’ll ring the Coroner, Joanna,’ he said. ‘And we’ll do the PM this afternoon. OK with you?’

  She nodded. As the team were starting to move Selkirk’s body Matthew touched Joanna’s arm. ‘Jo,’ he said. ‘I don’t know whether you’ve had time to think about this – started to draw any conclusions.’

  She could guess what he was about to say. ‘You think this is no ordinary killing, right?’ Selkirk’s body was being loaded on to the stretcher and covered with a sheet.

  ‘No way,’ he said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. ‘I don’t exactly have experience of this sort of thing. But I’ve heard about them.’ He stopped. ‘It looks to me very like a professional job – an execution.’ He stopped. ‘A paid killing. The knots around the wrist – very deft and very firm. Someone visited the hospital that night. God knows why Selkirk didn’t shout out. Why go meekly with an abductor?’

  ‘If he had a gun held to his head?’

  Matthew ran his fingers through his hair and gave her a worried look. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Maybe. Anyway, as you’ve said, this person probably held a gun to his head, ripped all the electrodes off and pulled out his drip, bundled him into the car, drove him out here, at some time tied his wrists, forced him to kneel – and blew his face off.’

  She blinked at the brutality of his words yet knew he was almost certainly right. It had happened like this.

  ‘But why? And who?’

  He grinned at her. ‘That’s where my work ends and yours begins,’ he said. ‘Darling.’

  Chapter Five

  ‘Let’s get him formally identified first.’

  Joanna was sitting opposite Superintendent Arthur Colclough. Mike was propping up the door.

  Colclough’s plump face was sober. She had spared him none of the details. ‘I thought you said most of his face was missing?’

  ‘Not quite all,’ she said shortly. ‘There’s enough there, if we use our discretion with a sheet.’

  He nodded. ‘I thought I might ask his son, save his wife the trauma.’

  Colclough grimaced. ‘But you said they weren’t close. It shouldn’t upset her, should it?’ His nose was still in Joanna’s preliminary report.

  ‘Yes, but ...’ She left the comment to hang in the air. Colclough hadn’t seen Jonathan Selkirk’s body.

  ‘That’s what I like about you, Piercy,’ he said. Always considering the victims’ feelings.’ He leered at her. ‘I suppose you’ve considered the fact that she’s one of the chief suspects.’

  ‘So’s the son,’ she said. ‘And if you think that not being allowed to hang her family portraits around the place is a just excuse for murder ...’

  ‘But how deep did it go?’ Colclough wagged his finger at her. ‘That’s what you’ve got to remember. How deep? She may have had this resentment festering for years. Something might have snapped. Or circumstances changed.’

  Joanna shook her head slowly. ‘You didn’t see his body, sir. It didn’t look like anything had snapped.’ She paused. ‘There wasn’t a sign of anger or hatred. He’d been led there and shot in cold blood. It looked like a professional job. There was no beating up, no obvious bruises. Anyway,’ she continued, ‘we’ll know more after the PM.’

  Colclough nodded. ‘So now what?’

  She stood up. ‘I’m going over to the school where Justin Selkirk works to pick him up.’

  ‘He’s a teacher?’

  ‘Yes. In some sort of Special School.’

  ‘Right. How’s the arm?’ he asked kindly. ‘Not too sore, I hope?’

  ‘A bloody nuisance. Still, Korpanski makes an able chauffeur.’

  Mike grunted and they both turned to look at him with amusement.

  Colclough gave her a curt nod and she know it was the nearest he would ever get to acknowledging her curtailed sick leave.

  She was almost through the door when he called her back. ‘How professional, Piercy?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘How professional a job?’

  ‘We’ll know more after the PM,’ she said.

  His eyes were grim and she knew he expected a better answer.

  ‘It looked like a contract killing,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Even the knots were neat and tight.’

  A long, tidy curved drive led to the charming old house that was now the Tall Firs school for children with severe learning difficulties. A few vans were slewed across the entrance. Scaffolding was erected at the side of the building. As they approached, a workman shuffled past them, wheeling a barrowful of cement.

  ‘I don’t envy anyone the upkeep of this place,’ Joanna remarked.

  Mike gave a twisted smile. ‘Think they appreciate all that’s being done for them?’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘It’s like the bloody old folks’ homes,’ Mike continued sourly. ‘Palaces, most of them. And they’re probably too knocked off to realize.’

  ‘Never mind, Mike,’ she said with a grin. ‘Maybe one day, if you play your cards right, you’ll be lucky enough to end your days in a “palace” like this.’ She turned and looked at him. ‘For goodness’ sake, it’s supposed to be the mark of civilized society how you treat your less fortunate members. Have a heart.’

  ‘I have,’ he protested. ‘I just don’t like to see all my taxes going to waste.’

  She decided to tease. ‘Your wages come out of taxes, Mike. Some people might think that was a waste too.’

  ‘Score one-all,’ he growled. He pulled the car up outside the double glass doors and a tall woman immediately rushed out.

  ‘Police,’ Joanna said, flashing her ID card. ‘We’d like a word with Mr Justin Selkirk.’

  ‘He’s taking a class at the moment.’ The woman was polite but firm.

  Mike stepped forward. ‘We can’t wait,’ he said.

  She looked him up and down. ‘Bad news?’ she asked. ‘Have you found his father?’

  Mike nodded.

  ‘Then come with me. Please.’

  The noise echoed along the corridor, loud shrieks ... laughter, pain, terror? Neither could work out what it was apart from being a discordant cacophony.

  The tall woman looked at them. ‘Singing,’ she said calmly. ‘It’s part of their treatment. Tremendously therapeutic.’ She smiled enthusiastically. ‘They just love it.’ Mike muttered something obscene under his breath. They reached a scarred oak door with a wired glass window. The tall woman peered through it for a moment, then knocked and pushed it open. There were about eight children sitting on the floor doing strange twisting movements with their hands, and screaming.

  In the centre of the circle was a small, slim man with thinning hair. He too was knotting his hands, twisting his fingers, absorbed in the exercise. He wasn’t screaming. But then he hadn’t noticed the three visitors walk in.

  ‘Mr Selkirk, Justin.’ The tall woman spoke sharply. ‘The police are here.’

  He stood up, alarmed, and lost balance, stumbling slightly. Around
him the children were still making strange, strangled sounds and moving their fingers.

  ‘My father,’ he said eagerly. ‘You’ve found him?’

  Joanna nodded and wondered how this small man would cope with the ugly corpse they had lined up for him at the mortuary.

  Justin Selkirk frowned and stepped out of the circle of children. ‘Is there something ...’ his voice was a nervous squeak, something you have to tell me?’ His eyelids were twitching.

  ‘I think it would be better outside,’ Mike said.

  ‘Don’t worry about the children. I’ll stay with them, Justin. Don’t you worry about a thing. ’ The tall woman spoke soothingly, as though to a child.

  He looked gratefully at her. ‘Thank you, Lou-lou.’

  Mike spluttered and Joanna knew exactly what he was thinking. She had never met anyone who looked less like a Lou-lou herself.

  They were outside the door before Justin Selkirk put his hand to his throat. ‘Tell me,’ he said theatrically. ‘Please, don’t spare me. What has happened to my father?’

  Joanna’s silence was cut short.

  ‘He’s dead?’ he squeaked. ‘Oh, my God. My father. He’s dead. Dead. Oh, do tell me. What happened?’

  It was like a badly acted, badly scripted play. If this had been a screen audition Justin Selkirk would have just flunked it.

  ‘He’s been shot,’ Mike said brutally. ‘We found him a short while ago.’

  Justin blinked and the awful charade began again. ‘Oh, my God.’ This time he clutched his forehead. ‘My own father. He shot himself.’

  ‘We didn’t say that.’ Mike was finding it hard to keep the dislike out of his voice.

  Justin Selkirk looked at him, then at Joanna.

  ‘He was found shot,’ she said quietly. ‘Obviously we can’t tell you much more. We only discovered his body a couple of hours ago.’

  ‘Where?’ Selkirk demanded.

  ‘Gallows Wood.’

  Justin Selkirk blinked, then he gave a nervous laugh. ‘Gallows Wood?’ he squeaked.

  ‘Do you know it?’ Joanna was suddenly curious.