And None Shall Sleep

by Priscilla Masters

  Chapter Thirteen

  The mortuary was hardly Joanna’s favourite place to be at nine o’clock on a Saturday morning, but she would not be alone. As Mike dropped her off she saw the cars of the SOCO team waiting in the car park, as well as Matthew’s BMW.

  An officer she knew, Barraclough, greeted her with a wave. ‘Dr Levin’s already inside.’

  Matthew was gowned up, impatient to start. He barely greeted her before he focused his attention on the body.

  All post-mortems begin in the same way. The body must be naked. So first of all Yolande’s uniform had to be cut off and the stocking removed from around her neck. The same care was given to her overwashed, faded underclothes, but it was when Matthew began to examine her neck that he took particular interest. Even Joanna could see the extensive bruising where the stocking had been pulled tight. Beneath the skin the tiny hyoid bone had been broken.

  Half an hour later she was drinking coffee in Matthew’s office. ‘Pretty obvious, really,’ he said. ‘She was strangled. She did try to fight off her attacker. There are marks on her fingers and a couple of broken nails from where she tried to pull away the stocking but she didn’t have much of a chance. From the evidence it was quick and unexpected. And the person who killed her was strong as well as having the distinct advantage of surprise. After all,’ he pointed out grimly, ‘Yolande was a fit, healthy girl. Not so easy to kill,’

  ‘Was it a man?’

  Matthew sighed. ‘A man or a strong woman.’ There was a glint of humour in his eyes. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t make such a concerted effort to get me to name the murderer.’

  She held up her hand. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘All I can give you is a cause of death – strangulation.’

  Barraclough took her back to the station and she found Mike waiting for her.

  ‘Did you get Justin Selkirk’s address?’

  He nodded, failing to hide an involuntary smirk. ‘Lou- lou gave it to me,’ he said, ‘after a bit of a struggle. She’s very hot on human rights as well as being protective towards her employee. I think she’s hiding something.’

  Joanna laughed. ‘You think everyone’s hiding something, Mike.’

  ‘No,’ he said earnestly. ‘I mean it. She really didn’t want me talking to him again.’

  ‘Well, tough.’ Joanna said, ‘because he’s next on my list. So where does he live?’

  ‘You’re not going to believe this.’

  They parked the squad car at the entrance to the field where a dirt track led to the caravan. On a bright summer’s day it might have looked idyllic, a great, gypsy adventure, but today, in a fine grey drizzle, it looked bleak.

  Yet this was where Justin Selkirk lived.

  Joanna stared at it incredulously. ‘Are you sure they live here, Mike?’

  ‘This is where she said. I did check.’

  ‘But the family are worth thousands. That great big house and Jonathan Selkirk allowed his son, daughter-in-law and granddaughter to live here?’

  Mike read the entry from his notebook. ‘The caravan standing near the entrance to Dallow’s Farm.’ He pushed the gate open. ‘Besides which, isn’t that his car?’

  Parked next to the caravan was the distinctive yellow and rust Citroen 2CV

  ‘Pritchard didn’t really need to come down and tell us what a sod Selkirk was,’ he observed. ‘We only had to come and visit his son. He must have hated his father.’

  ‘Or do you mean the father must have hated the son?’ They walked on a few paces before Joanna thought further. ‘You know, I don’t think hate’s the word. Selkirk wanted to belittle his son, make him feel inadequate. It probably suited him that he was reduced to living like this – such an obvious failure.’

  ‘No wonder Selkirk ended up with a hole in his head.’

  ‘Ssh,’Joanna said, and raised her hand to knock at the caravan door.

  Teresa Selkirk must have heard their voices. She tugged it open before the first knock. Her pale face looked only mildly surprised as she recognized them. ‘Oh, it’s you. Hello.’ She gave one of her vague smiles and pulled the door behind her. ‘It isn’t terribly convenient at the moment. We’re rather busy.’

  ‘We won’t keep you long, Mrs Selkirk. We really wanted to talk to your husband.’

  ‘Justin?’ Her narrow eyebrows arched. ‘You want to speak to Justin? What about?’

  ‘Well, it was his father who was shot,’ Mike said brusquely, ‘and we’re still investigating.’

  ‘I thought you’d arrested the man.’ She waved her hands around. ‘The papers said you had.’

  ‘Someone hired him, Mrs Selkirk. We thought your husband might be able to help us with our enquiries.’

  An expression of sharp intelligence crossed Teresa’s face. ‘Is that a euphemism for arresting him, Inspector?’

  ‘No, Mrs Selkirk, it isn’t. If we were going to arrest him we would have said so. We merely want to talk to him. Is he in?’

  Teresa Selkirk’s face changed to one of mild amusement. She flattened herself against the door. ‘He is in the drawing room, actually.’

  She hadn’t lied when she’d claimed they were busy. It was a small living area and the floor was cluttered with bundles of clothes tied up with string. Justin was sitting in the corner on a grubby orange foam seat. His daughter was on his knee, drawing on his outstretched palm with an extended index finger. As they watched she clapped her hands then looked up. Round, baby eyes watched warily. Teresa sank down on a heap of blankets, one hand holding her back, the other resting on her stomach.

  ‘Twinges,’ she explained. ‘I keep getting them.’

  ‘Why have you come here?’ Justin asked in his high-pitched voice. ‘I can’t help you. I thought you realized that. I hardly saw my father. I don’t know anything about his murder.’

  ‘We understand that you and your father didn’t get along too well.’

  ‘I would have done. He didn’t want to be bothered with me. Tell them, Teresa.’

  ‘How long have you lived here?’

  ‘About eight months. We fell behind with the mortgage. Things were difficult. It wasn’t my fault.’ Justin’s face trembled. ‘We tried to manage. But with Lucy and another baby on the way it was hard. The more we got behind the more they pestered us, didn’t they?’

  His wife nodded.

  ‘And our house had dropped in value. The only way out was to sell and try to pay off the debt.’ Justin reached across and squeezed his wife’s hand. ‘The farmer said we could live here until we got sorted out. It’s got a drain, mains water and electricity. We’ve managed,’ his face dropped, ‘in a way.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have moved into your parents’ house?’

  ‘Justin’s father wouldn’t have allowed it,’ Teresa said coldly. ‘He believed couples of our age had responsibilities. He was very anxious we stand on our own two feet, as he liked to put it.’

  ‘You did ask, then?’

  Teresa bent her head and her black hair dropped like a curtain. It was impossible to read her expression. ‘We did.’

  Mike was incredulous. ‘He wouldn’t put you up, even for a short time?’

  Teresa Selkirk lifted her head and gave another calm I smile. ‘You didn’t know my father-in-law,’ she said. ‘Anyway, sometimes things happen for the best. We’re getting out of here now. Aren’t we, Justin?’

  Her husband gave her a swift, grateful glance and buried his face in the child’s curls.

  ‘Where are you moving to?’

  ‘We’re moving in with my mother-in-law.’

  ‘How very convenient.’

  For the first time Teresa Selkirk took a good look at Mike. ‘What would you know about it?’ she said, gently, not unpleasantly. She was goading him.

  Mike flushed.

  She pursued him. ‘Ever lived in a tiny little caravan like this with your wife and child? Or have you got a proper home? And it’ll only be a couple of weeks before there’s four of us here. You want to try it some ti
me, Sergeant. My mother-in-law, bless her, would have given us a home any time. It was only that old sod who stopped her. Justin has had a very difficult life.’

  They turned to look at Justin Selkirk, still apparently absorbed in his daughter. The child was teasing them, giggling and peeping through her fingers. Her father was watching with a wary, absorbed expression on his thin, pale face.

  Perhaps it was then that Joanna realized there was something different about Justin Selkirk.

  He glanced up then shyly, met her eyes, and gave a slow, deliberate wink. Was he a clever fool or a foolish fool? She watched him play with the child’s curls, long, strong, bony fingers wrapping the yellow hair tightly. Then, quite suddenly, and without warning, he pulled. The child yelled. Pain flashed across her face before she laughed again, with tears shining in her eyes.

  Teresa watched without emotion. ‘Don’t do that, Justin,’ she warned. ‘Please, don’t do that.’

  Immediately Justin Selkirk stopped playing with the child’s hair and dropped his hands to his sides. The child almost toppled before grabbing on to his sweater.

  His wife’s face sagged. She looked older, bleaker, and frightened. This much both the police officers read before she again bowed her head and used the curtain of hair to conceal her emotions.

  Joanna felt compelled to divert the conversation back to Selkirk’s murder. ‘Your father’s death must have upset you very much, Mr Selkirk.’

  ‘Yes, it did. It was an absolutely awful shock.’ The glimpse they had had of Justin Selkirk had been replaced by Selkirk the ham actor with predictably awful lines. ‘I don’t think I shall ever get over it.’ He met their eyes with an expression of fatal grief. ‘We shall never forget him.’

  ‘A terrible shock,’ Joanna said softly but Teresa Selkirk picked her head up and gave her a penetrating stare. ‘Haven’t you two understood anything?’

  There was a long silence.

  Selkirk broke it. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I have dreams about my father’s murder. I actually dreamed about it the night he disappeared.’

  ‘Really, Mr Selkirk?’ Mike could hardly contain his interest.

  ‘Even now ...’ Selkirk glanced around him fearfully, ‘I think I hear his voice.’

  ‘And what does he say?’

  Selkirk closed his eyes. ‘He screams.’

  It was Mike who spoke first as they paddled back through the mud. ‘It looks as though Selkirk handed on a bit of his character to his son.’

  Joanna nodded.

  ‘I know it’s just imagination,’ he continued, ‘but I’ve met mass murderers I’ve been more comfortable with than that little trio.’

  The officers were unusually attentive during the Saturday briefing.

  Yolande’s murder had heightened the feeling of pressure. All felt a certain sense of failure – of anti-climax, of disappointment. They knew the person morally responsible for both murders was still walking free. Each gave their findings dully in voices taut with stress. Sure, in their dreams it might be an arrest followed by a conviction, but their worst nightmares gave them something quite different from fear another investigation scaled down because of the cost and pressure of other cases. The police force was not financed by an elastic budget. Joanna watched them file out quietly. Cases were always like this. The first couple of briefings ended boisterously, with confident jokes, the inevitable leg- pulling. But this acceptance, these bowed shoulders. The officers could not work overtime for ever. After one week they were getting tired and their families would soon be complaining, adding to the pressure.

  She turned to Mike after the last one had left. ‘You get yourself to the gym. Take a bit of time off.’

  He was quick to demur but she touched his shoulder. It didn’t suit her plans to have Mike at her elbow all evening.

  ‘I mean it, Mike,’ she said. ‘Work off a bit of that energy. I want to run some routine checks on the Frost case.’

  The file on Michael Frost was quite thin. There had been very little formal police investigation and no reason to suspect that his death was anything but a psychiatric suicide. His depression was well documented. The consultant psychiatrist had spoken of the patient’s anguish and grief following years of nursing his wife through a long illness.

  Yes, the suicide had been both unexpected and tragic. Yes, on reflection he should have been on a ward with closer supervision.

  Joanna gave a wry smile as she read the transcript of the consultant’s statement. It was very difficult to prevent a really determined suicide bid, she read. Very difficult. The future of depressives was assured, she read. The psychiatric Ward was now situated on the first floor, staffed with trained mental nurses. The windows had all been barred. There were double the number of staff on duty at any one time. No untrained nurse was to be left in sole charge.

  Joanna threw the file down on the desk. It all sounded too good to be true. Where was this all leading her?

  She picked it up again and glanced through the pathologist’s report. Frost had suffered horrendous injuries. Head, chest, pelvis. Two broken legs.

  Yolande would have heard all this evidence. How must she have felt?

  Another sentence jumped out at her. No one had assessed him a suicide risk.

  She looked again through the post-mortem report. There was no record of the toxicology analysis. So if O’Sullivan was right and Yolande Prince had not given Frost his medication, they were the only two who knew ... unless the letter had revealed more. She was suddenly curious about that letter. To whom had it been addressed? To the invalid wife?

  Had Yolande pocketed it, then passed it on without revealing its existence?

  The last sheet of paper in the file was the published results of the hospital inquiry. And it was this that had been more damning of Yolande Prince.

  She had stepped outside her bounds of duty trying to advise the patient.

  She should have realized the desperate state of her patient and called for medical aid.

  She should have consulted the night sister.

  She should have made sure the bathroom window was locked and secured. No mention of a chair.

  In all there were fourteen criticisms aimed at the nurse and Joanna felt a wash of sympathy for her.

  They had used her as a scapegoat for the tragic death of a patient. Joanna could well see it would have made Yolande Prince both notorious and vulnerable. The local paper had hounded her for weeks before forgetting the case.

  Forgetting? Joanna admonished herself. The press never forgot.

  She rang Matthew at his flat. ‘Matthew,’ she said, ‘tell me about depression. Does it have to have a cause?’

  He gave an explosive laugh. ‘I don’t know, Joanna. You cancel our night out and then the next day instead of apologizing or, even better, arranging another seductive evening, you ask me about depression?’

  ‘I do it because I love you,’ she said, ‘because I can depend on you and because I know you know the answer.’

  ‘Hmm. Well,’ he said slowly, ‘thinking on depression has changed recently. I believe the current theory is that it does need a cause. At least ...’ The logical scientist won over the doctor, the love of precision, ‘not really a cause so much as a reason. It’s usually there, although frequently the relatives fail to recognize the severity of the resulting depression. That’s the trouble. Depressed people’s small problems tend to increase in size. The depression makes them magnify their problems thus increasing the severity of the initial depression.’

  ‘And will someone who commits suicide usually have tried before?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘What’s depression got to do with your case?’

  ‘Plenty,’ she said. ‘At least I think so.’

  ‘And how are you getting on with it?’

  ‘I think I’m just starting to understand,’ she said slowly. ‘Do you want picking up and taking home?’

  ‘No. Thanks,’ she said awkwardl
y. ‘It’s really nice of you but I’ll cadge a lift home. I’ve got some more work I want to catch up on, plus an early start in the morning.’

  ‘Don’t overdo it.’

  She felt suddenly touched by his concern. She pictured the strength in his face that could so suddenly turn warm and gentle. She fell silent and Matthew, with his intuitive understanding of her moods, said nothing until he tentatively broached the subject of the weekend. ‘You haven’t forgotten about our little romantic break for two, have you?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Definitely not.’

  His voice was even softer when he asked the next question. ‘And you will consider the future?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Good.’ He sounded satisfied. ‘I’ll see you soon, then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Luckily for Joanna WPC Critchlow was on duty and available for the rest of the evening. Joanna found her chatting to the duty sergeant by the coffee machine.

  ‘I hate to be sexist about this,’ she said. Dawn turned a pair of enquiring dark eyes on her. ‘I need someone to come with me.’

  ‘And Korpanski won’t do?’

  Joanna shook her head. ‘I need the kid gloves of the female of the species.’

  ‘I’m intrigued.’ Dawn unhooked a set of car keys from behind the desk. ‘Where to?’

  ‘Emily Place, number fourteen.’

  It was strange, Joanna reflected during the ten-minute drive, how much people’s style of driving differed. Mike was heavy on the accelerator and bad language. Dawn Critchlow made the car positively glide.

  Emily Place was deserted, the residents’ curtains tightly drawn against a dull, cold evening. There was nothing to tempt people out of doors when inside there was the fire, warmth, light, the television. They could hear the Carters’ TV on loud as they walked up the concrete path, threading themselves past a rusting car.

  ‘Tidy-looking place,’ Dawn observed. ‘Do you want me to come in or shall I wait outside?’

  ‘Come with me,’ Joanna said. ‘I want you to hear all that’s said.’