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Six Feet Under
An Inspector Thanet Mystery
Dorothy Simpson
For Mark, Ian and Emma
Author’s Note
People often ask me where my ideas come from. Often I don’t know.
But not in this instance.
In December 1975 the newspapers were full of a story which fascinated me. I followed it, filed it and forgot it – or so I thought. Then, when I was thinking about this book, the idea popped up: why not use that story as a basis for a murder mystery? The characters and setting would of course be my own creation.
The result was SIX FEET UNDER.
Cruelty has a Human Heart,
And Jealousy a Human Face;
Terror the Human Form Divine,
And Secrecy the Human Dress.
The Human Dress is forged Iron,
The Human Form a fiery Forge,
The Human Face a Furnace seal’d,
The Human Heart its hungry Gorge.
William Blake
1
Detective Inspector Luke Thanet was a happy man. He had an interesting job, no pressing financial worries, two healthy lively children and, perhaps best of all, a wife who was all that any man could wish for. And so it was that on this blustery March evening, blissfully unaware of the nasty little shock that Fate was preparing for him, he stretched out his toes to the fire, settled back into his armchair and reflected that he wouldn’t change places with any man in the world.
Reaching for his pipe he tapped it out, scraped it, inspected it, blew through it, then filled it with loving care.
“It’s nine o’clock,” Joan said. “D’you want the news?”
“I don’t think so. Do you?”
“Not particularly.”
She went back to her book. Thanet lit his pipe and picked up the newspaper. He hadn’t been reading for more than a few minutes, however, when he realised that Joan was unusually restless. Normally, when she was reading, she plunged at once into total absorption. One one occasion Thanet had counted up to a hundred from the time he asked her a question to the moment when she looked up, eyes unfocused, and said, “What did you say?”
Now she fidgeted, crossed and re-crossed her legs, fiddled with her hair, chewed the tip of her thumb.
Eventually, “Book no good?” Thanet enquired.
She looked up at once. “Mmm? Oh, it’s all right. Very interesting, in fact.”
“What’s the matter, then?”
She hesitated, gave him a speculative look.
He laid down his newspaper. “Come on, love. Out with it.”
To his surprise she still did not respond. “Joan?” He was beginning to feel the first faint stirrings of alarm.
She shook her head then, a fierce little shake. “Oh, it’s all right. There’s nothing wrong, not really. It’s just that I’ve a nasty feeling you aren’t going to like what I’m trying to pluck up the courage to say.”
“Oh?” he said, warily.
She looked at him with something approaching desperation. “It’s just that … oh, dear.… Look, you know we’ve said all along that when Ben starts school I’ll go back to work? Well, that’s only six months away now. So I really ought to start thinking about what I want to do.”
“I see,” Thanet said slowly.
“There you are. I knew you wouldn’t like it.”
“Darling, don’t be silly. It’s just that, well, the idea will take a bit of getting used to after all this time, that’s all.”
“Don’t pretend,” she said. “You’re dead against it really, aren’t you? I can tell.”
And she was right, of course, he was. They had been married for eight years now and for all that time Joan had been the good little wife who stayed at home, ran the house efficiently and without fuss, coped with two children and made sure that everything was geared to Thanet’s convenience. Unlike the wives of so many of his colleagues, Joan had never complained or nagged over the demands of his job, the irregular hours. Now, in a flash, he saw everything changed. Uncomfortable adjustments would have to be made, there would be inconvenience, irritation, arguments. Theory and practice, he now realised, were very different matters. All very well, in the past, to contemplate with equanimity the prospect of Joan returning to work one day, but to accept that that day was almost here … No, she was right. He didn’t like it at all.
“Nonsense,” he said. “We’ve always said you would, when the children were old enough.”
“Oh, I know you’ve always said you wouldn’t mind. But that’s very different from not minding when it actually happens.”
“I thought you’d more or less made up your mind to do an art course.”
“No. Oh, I did think so, at one time. I’m very interested, as you know. But … I don’t know, I’d like to feel I was doing something, well, less self-indulgent, more useful. Oh, dear, does that sound horribly priggish?”
He grinned. “To be honest, yes. But I know what you mean.”
“Do you?” she said eagerly. “You don’t think I’m being stupid?”
“Not in the least. What sort of thing did you have in mind?”
“Well, that’s the trouble. I’m just not qualified for anything. That’s why I feel I ought to start thinking about it now, so that if I have to do a course, or any special training, I can get myself organised for September.”
“Yes. I can see that. You haven’t gone into it yet, then?”
“I wanted to speak to you about it first. Oh, darling,” and she came to kneel before him, took his hands, “you’re sure you don’t mind?”
“No,” he lied valiantly. “I knew, of course, that the time would come, sooner or later …”
Very much later, he told himself, as he drove to work next morning. And preferably not at all. He had awoken still feeling thoroughly disgruntled and the weather matched his mood: grey, lowering skies and a chilly wind.
In his office he scowled at the pile of reports awaiting his attention, riffled through them impatiently. It wasn’t even as though there was anything particularly interesting on at the moment … With a sigh he opened the top folder, began reading.
A moment later he was on the phone.
“Where’s Lineham?”
“Gone out to Nettleton, sir.”
“What for?”
“Some woman making a fuss, sir. Name of … Pitman, sir. Marion Pitman. Apparently there’s this old girl who’s an invalid, a neighbour of Miss Pitman, and her daughter’s disappeared.”
“What d’you mean, disappeared?”
“Didn’t come home last night, sir. The old woman …”, the sound of papers being rustled came clearly over the phone, “Mrs Birch, didn’t find out until this morning.”
“Probably out on the tiles,” Thanet said. “What the devil did Lineham have to go out there himself for?”
“Miss Pitman was most insistent, sir. Apparently the daughter, Miss Birch, just isn’t the type to … er … stay out all night. A middle-aged spinster, sir.”
“Well, as soon as Lineham gets back, tell him I want to see him.”
But Lineham did not return and half an hour later Carson rang through.
“Sir, DS Lineham’s just been on the radio. That woman he was looking for, they’ve found her. Dead, sir, in
an outside toilet …”
“Lavatory,” growled Thanet, who didn’t like euphemisms. Poor old girl, what a way to go …
“Murder, sir, he thinks,” Carson finished eagerly.
In a matter of minutes Thanet was on his way. As he passed the desk he paused to say, “Manage to get hold of Doc Mallard yet?”
“Yes, sir. We’re having to send a car for him. His has broken down.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll pick him up. I have to pass his house anyway.”
Mallard came hurrying down the path as Thanet drew up in front of the trim little bungalow into which Mallard had moved after his wife’s death some years ago. Thanet had known him since childhood and was fond of the older man, patient with his moods, aware that Mallard’s testiness was the result of his inability to come to terms with the loss of his wife. “It’s as if half of me has been amputated,” Mallard had once said to Thanet in a rare moment of intimacy. “And the half that’s left never stops aching.”
Thanet greeted him warmly, told him the little he knew of the reported murder.
“Lineham’s already out there, you said?”
“Yes.”
“Think he’ll make it to the altar this time?”
Lineham was supposed to be getting married on Saturday.
Thanet grimaced. “Don’t know. I hope so, for his sake. He’ll go berserk if it has to be put off again.”
Detective Sergeant Michael Lineham was an only child. His father had died when Mike was six and Mrs Lineham had never remarried, had lavished all her love, care and attention on her son. Lineham had fought the first great battle of his life over his decision to enter the police force; the second was still in progress. Twice already the wedding had had to be postponed. On both occasions Mrs Lineham had had a mild heart attack the day before.
“Those attacks,” Thanet said now. “They are genuine, I suppose?”
“Oh yes. No doubt of that. Brought on, I would guess, partly by distress over losing her son and partly by the subconscious desire to delay the wedding.”
“So there might well be another one, this time?”
“Quite likely, I should think.”
Thanet sighed. “I do hope not, for Mike’s sake. And for Louise’s, of course. She’s a nice girl, but I can’t see her putting up with these delays indefinitely. And who would blame her? Ah, this is where we turn off.”
Nettleton was a small Kentish village of around a thousand inhabitants, a couple of miles from the centre of the ever-expanding town of Sturrenden, where Thanet was based. At one time it had been a completely separate community but over the last ten years the advancing tide of houses had crept inexorably over field and orchard until Nettleton had become little more than a suburb on the very edge of Sturrenden.
“At this rate the English village will be a thing of the past by the end of the century,” muttered Mallard.
Nettleton, however, had still managed to retain something of its individuality, perhaps because the main Sturrenden to Maidstone road did not run through the centre of it. Mallard and Thanet looked around approvingly at the picturesque scatter of cottages on either side of the road, the black-and-white timbered building which housed the general shop and post office.
“Village school’s gone, I see,” said Mallard, gesturing out of the window.
It had shared the fate of so many of its kind and had been converted into a private house.
“One of the biggest mistakes they ever made,” the doctor went on. “And now, of course, they’re howling over the cost of transporting the kids so far to school. Typical.”
“Here we are,” Thanet said. “Lineham said to park in front of the church.”
There were already several police cars in the small parking area. Thanet got out of the car, locked it and then stood frowning at a small crowd of sightseers clustered on the opposite side of the road around the entrance to a footpath which ran along the back of a row of terraced cottages.
“Ghouls,” he muttered—aware, however, that the sudden tension in him, the flutter of unease in the pit of his stomach, had nothing to do with the onlookers. The moment he always dreaded was approaching. He had never admitted it to anyone, even to Joan, but he hated his first sight of a corpse, could never dissociate the dead flesh that he would have to handle from the living person it had so recently clothed. Other men, he knew, evolved their own method of dealing with the situation, erecting barriers of callousness, indifference or even, as in the case of Mallard, macabre levity, but he had never been able to do so. Somehow, for him, that moment of suffering was necessary, a vital spur to his efforts to find the killer. Without it his investigation would lack that extra impetus which usually brought him success.
He and Mallard crossed the road together.
“Move these people away,” Thanet snapped at the constable on duty at the footpath entrance.
Preoccupied as he was with the coming ordeal, he and Mallard had walked on a few paces before it registered: in the knot of sightseers one face had been familiar. Whose was it? Thanet stopped, turned to look back, but the little crowd was already dispersing, drifting away reluctantly with their backs towards him.
Thanet shrugged, followed Mallard to the spot where a second constable stood guard, at an open doorway in the ramshackle fence on their right. He peered in at a long narrow garden crammed with mounds of sand and ballast, planks, bricks, paving stones and bags of cement, then picked his way through the clutter to the little brick building tucked away in a corner, behind the fence.
Here Lineham was watching the photographers, who were already at work. They all moved back as Mallard and Thanet approached.
Thanet steeled himself, looked.
The bundle of old clothes, crammed into the confined space between the wooden lavatory seat and the door, resolved itself into the body of a woman, head slumped forward on to raised knees, face invisible. There was dried blood in her sparse brown hair.
Thanet took a deep, unobtrusive breath.
“Which shots have you taken?” he asked.
The photographers had been thorough.
“Better get her out, then,” Mallard said. “It’s impossible to examine her properly in there.”
They spread a plastic sheet upon the ground and Lineham summoned the constable at the gate to help him. Together they stooped to ease the body out of its hiding place. It was not an easy task. Rigor had stiffened her and Lineham had to struggle to lift the upper half of the body sufficiently to enable the other man to manoeuvre the feet through the narrow doorway. Gently, they lowered her on to the plastic.
“Turn her on her side, for God’s sake,” said Mallard. “Looks like a bloody oven-ready chicken.”
The bent head, knees tucked up to the chest and splayed feet did indeed look grotesque and the two men stooped hurriedly to obey the police surgeon’s command.
Perhaps Mallard, too, resented the fact that the woman had been denied any dignity in death, Thanet thought, moving closer as the doctor squatted down beside the body.
The woman was, as he had been told, middle-aged—in her early fifties, perhaps? She was small, slight, and her clothes were drab: brown woollen skirt, fawn hand-knitted jumper, brown cardigan, sensible black lace-up shoes, worn and scuffed. Thanet’s limited view of the side of her face gave him a glimpse of sparse eyebrows, muddy skin. There was a large mole sprouting hairs just above the jaw-line.
An unobtrusive little woman, Thanet decided. Unassuming and probably undemanding. And, above all, a most unlikely corpse. Women like this were not usually the victims of deliberate violence. Of a casual attack, a mugging perhaps, yes: that might, of course, be the answer here. If so, it would be the first crime of its kind in a village community in this area. There had been several cases in Sturrenden itself of late, but so far the villages had remained immune.
Thanet grimaced at the thought. Brutality against the old was a particularly repellent manifestation of violence. But in any case this explanation somehow didn’t feel
right. The victims of muggings were usually struck down and left to lie. Here, trouble had been taken to hide the body.
“This lavatory in use?” Thanet said to Lineham.
“No, sir. The house is empty. It’s being done up by a builder, but in any case it has an indoor loo, has had for years.”
“Any sign of the weapon?”
“Not yet, sir, no.”
“What was her name? Birch?”
“Yes, sir. Carrie Birch.”
“Carrie Birch,” murmured Thanet. Insignificant though she may have been, Carrie Birch had been a person with her own hopes, fears and daydreams and she had had as much right as anyone to live to enjoy them.
I’ll get him if I can, Thanet promised her silently.
2
Thanet shifted his buttocks into a marginally more comfortable position and resumed his contemplation of Nettleton. From his perch on the five-barred gate he had a clear view of the area which interested him, the area around the church.
At the beginning of a case he always liked to establish in his mind the geography of the place in which the crime had been committed. After that came the people and then … ah, then the part which really interested him, the relationships between them. Always, somewhere in that intricate web of attitude, emotion and interaction, would lie the truth of the murder. Who and where and how and why would slowly become evident as his understanding grew, as would the unique position of the victim in that web, murder the inevitable outcome of its weaving.
The row of terraced cottages in which Carrie Birch had lived lay at right angles to the road and almost opposite the church. They looked out upon open fields and in front of them a narrow lane wound its way to a cluster of farm buildings. The gate upon which Thanet was sitting was a hundred yards or so further on along that lane.
Behind the cottages ran a footpath which, according to Lineham, provided a short cut to the church from the far side of Nettleton. On the other side of that footpath and immediately opposite the church was the vicarage, an attractive modern house, brick and tile-hung in traditional Kentish style. The Old Vicarage on the other side of the road was a much larger and presumably therefore uneconomic building, and was the last house in the village. Between it and the church, in what must once have been its extensive grounds, had been built two relatively new modern houses, one a wooden Colt bungalow, the other a much larger and more opulent construction of brick, plastic “weatherboard” and generous expanses of glass.
Six Feet Under Page 1