Gillespie was still waiting in the car at half-past nine. He was parked against a wall within the grounds of the city’s main hospital. Across a narrow strip of tarmac road was a long low building, the Department of Histopathology, modern, wood and glass, already falling apart. There were parking spaces in front of the building. Each one carried a name. Dr Mossiter’s was closest to the door.
Gillespie looked at his watch again. Another hour, he thought, then he’d have to find a different way. He folded his copy of the Daily Telegraph and glanced up at the rear-view mirror: A yellow Montego had appeared round the corner with a woman at the wheel. Gillespie watched closely as the car turned into the parking space marked Mossiter and stopped. The woman reached into the back seat, collected a shopping bag, and got out of the car. Gillespie did the same. The post-mortem report was folded in his pocket. He walked quickly across the narrow strip of tarmac and intercepted the woman as she turned from the car and began to walk towards the door. She looked briefly startled. She was small, with a kind thoughtful face, and a stocky build. Her hair was starting to grey around the temples. Gillespie gave her the report. She looked at it, uncomprehending.
‘What’s this?’ she said. ‘Who are you?’
Gillespie nodded at his own car, parked beside the flower bed.
‘I’m over there,’ he said, ‘and that’s a report of yours.’ He paused. ‘Do you have an office?’
She nodded.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘I’ll be over in ten minutes,’ Gillespie smiled, ‘after you’ve read it.’
He turned away before she had a chance to answer. By the time he was back in the car, she’d gone.
Ten minutes later, Gillespie tapped softly on the open door of her office.
‘Come in,’ she said tonelessly.
Gillespie walked in and shut the door behind him. He sat down, uninvited, on the other office chair. The report lay open on the woman’s lap. She looked up at him.
‘Are you a relative?’ she said.
Gillespie shook his head.
‘She had no relatives,’ he said.
‘A friend then?’
‘I knew her.’
‘Well?’
Gillespie looked at her. He liked her manner. Direct. No messing. ‘No,’ he said.
There was a pause. The woman folded the report and laid it carefully to one side.
‘Why me?’ she said at last. ‘Why are you here?’
‘You wrote the thing,’ Gillespie frowned, ‘didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it’s my job.’
Gillespie hesitated. The woman was watching him closely.
‘I saw the body,’ he said at last, nodding at the report on the desk, ‘and I know that’s incomplete. There were other marks …’ He touched his neck, the right side of his face. ‘Here and here …’
‘I know.’
‘So why didn’t you mention them?’
The woman looked at him a moment longer, tussling with some private decision. Then she got up and walked across to one of the big grey filing cabinets that lined one wall. She opened a drawer and extracted a file. From the file, she slid another report. She handed it to Gillespie without comment. Gillespie glanced at it. It was identical to the first report, except longer. He read it more carefully. Under External Injuries, it listed a 3-cm laceration about the right eyebrow, and a right peri-orbital haematoma. Gillespie glanced up.
‘What’s a haematoma?’ he asked.
‘A bruise.’
Gillespie nodded, returning to the report. Suzanne’s upper right lip had been torn laterally, and there were bruises on her neck and shoulders. These bruises, the report said, were associated with a deposit of a greenish pigment on the skin surface. He nodded to himself, picturing the girl on the concrete, the strange dark shadows on her neck. He read the rest of the report. At the end, under Comment, he found what he’d been expecting. The report confirmed that the fractured skull was consistent with a fall from a great height. Then came an additional note. The other facial injuries are probably not consistent with this unless the body struck some object during its fall. The marks on the neck would not seem to be explained by a simple fall. Gillespie read the sentence again, then he looked up. The woman was gazing at him.
‘Does that make sense?’ she said. ‘Is that what you saw?’
Gillespie nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it makes perfect sense, so why the difference?’
The woman extended her hand, wanting the longer report back. Gillespie gave it to her. She picked up the old one, the one Gillespie had given her, and flicked through it briefly.
‘You got this from the police or the Coroner’s office,’ she said, ‘must have done.’
Gillespie looked at her, but made no comment.
‘What about the inquest?’ he said. ‘Why the delay?’
The woman glanced up and smiled at him.
‘There’s a problem,’ she said.
‘About what?’
‘Me.’ She handed him back the shorter report. ‘Look at the last page.’
‘Why?’
‘Just look.’
Gillespie did so. Her name was at the foot of the page. Dr Kathryn Mossiter.
‘Have I signed it?’ she said.
‘No.’ Gillespie looked up. ‘Will you sign it?’
There was a long silence. The woman turned away, gazing out through the venetian blinds.
‘Are you some kind of detective? Enquiry agent?’
Gillespie shook his head.
‘Friend,’ he said, ‘ally.’ He paused. ‘My name’s Gillespie.’
She nodded, and hesitated again. Another decision. Another corner to turn.
‘Have you seen the Scene of Crime report?’ she said at last. ‘I imagine you probably have.’
Gillespie shook his head again. No point in pretending, he thought. Not with this woman.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I haven’t.’
‘You should,’ she said. ‘One of the CID boys showed me the draft. I think he’s as worried as I am …’ She paused, then glanced across at him. ‘I’ve got a copy. Just in case. You should read it.’
She opened a drawer in her desk and took out a yellow envelope. She gave it to Gillespie. Gillespie opened it. There were four sheets of paper inside, handwritten. He read them quickly, then again, letting the loopy, careful hand bring back the scene in the lounge, the upturned armchair, the ashtray, the blood on the carpet. Towards the foot of the second page, he found it, the one detail he’d missed, the key to it all. He looked up, finger on the line. The woman had been watching him. She obviously knew the report inside out, word perfect.
‘Really?’ he said.
She nodded.
‘Really.’
‘Are they sure?’
‘Quite sure.’ She paused. ‘That’s why I won’t sign the report.’
Gillespie nodded.
‘So who doctored your report?’ he said. ‘Who censored the injuries?’
The woman looked at him for a long time, then stood up and extended a hand.
‘Goodbye, Mr Gillespie,’ she said, nodding at the door.
Joanna Goodman was back from the morning school run by the time Gillespie turned in from the main road and pulled the ancient Marina to a stop outside her house. Joanna looked up from the sink, hearing the crunch of gravel under the wheels, recognizing the tall, lean figure stepping out of the car. She stopped, frowned, rinsed her hands under the tap.
The front door bell began to ring. Joanna dried her hands and walked through to the hall. She could see Gillespie through the frosted glass panels, and she felt a vague irritation. This man belonged to a past she no longer wanted to think about. He had no right to come up here, to barge in, to intrude. All that was over. Paid for, and over.
She opened the front door. Gillespie nodded at her.
‘Mrs Goodman,’ he said.
She looked at him, a cool appraising look she reserved for the less
er tradesmen.
‘Mr Gillespie,’ she said, ‘can I help you?’
Gilliespie smiled.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think you can.’
There was a long moment of indecision, then Joanna shrugged and opened the door wide, letting him in. She led him into the living room. He stood awkwardly by the door. She looked pointedly at her watch.
‘I have to go out in a minute,’ she said, ‘I’m on playgroup duty.’
Gillespie nodded.
‘I never gave you the photographs,’ he said.
Joanna shook her head quickly.
‘I don’t want them,’ she said.
‘They were paid for.’
‘I know. Burn them.’ She paused, frowning. ‘Is that what you’ve come up here for? To tell me that?’
Gillespie gazed round. The framed family groups on the polished walnut cabinet. The smell of the place. Fresh air and beeswax.
‘No,’ he said, ‘it isn’t.’
‘What, then? What do you want?’
Gillespie turned back to her, taking his time.
‘You went to see her, didn’t you?’ he said slowly.
Joanna looked briefly startled, then annoyed.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I did.’
Gillespie nodded.
‘There was a row,’ he suggested.
Joanna frowned again, her arms folded across her chest, the blood rising in her face.
‘What is this?’ she said.
Gillespie looked at her.
‘Was there a row?’
‘Yes, there was,’ she said, ‘but —’
‘She was upset.’
‘So was I, Mr Gillespie.’ She paused, not wanting to remember it, not wanting to bring it all back. She looked at her watch again, not understanding where the conversation was headed, wanting it to stop. ‘I really must be going…’ she began.
Gillespie was still looking at her.
‘Did she attack you?’ he said. ‘Is that how it started?’
‘How what started?’ she said. ‘She’d been drinking. She was drunk.’
Gillespie nodded. ‘Yes…’ He paused. ‘That’s what they said at the post-mortem.’
Joanna stared at him. There was a long silence. Gillespie could hear the steady tick of the clock in the hall.
‘She’s dead?’ she said at last.
Gillespie watched her carefully. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘she was killed. Murdered.’ He paused. ‘The night you went to see her.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
Gillespie shrugged. He pulled out the post-mortem report and laid it on the small sofa-table between them.
‘It’s true,’ he said, ‘you can read all about it.’
Joanna looked down at the report but didn’t pick it up. When she spoke again it was in a small, low voice, a private conversation.
‘Why didn’t I know about it?’ she said. ‘Why wasn’t I told?’
Gillespie said nothing. He picked up the post-mortem report.
‘Did she offer you a drink,’ he asked, ‘the night you went round?’
Joanna looked at him, not hearing the question. He repeated it. She nodded.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because they found the glasses,’ he said, ‘hers and yours.’ He paused again. ‘Same drink. But different lipsticks.’
Joanna nodded, her face quite blank.
‘So what?’ she said.
Gillespie hesitated a moment, returning the report to his jacket pocket.
‘It means you probably killed her,’ he said, stepping back towards the door.
Albie found Mick Rendall at the scrap yard, three acres of rusty old iron, empty boilers, engine blocks and the crushed remains of hundreds of abandoned cars. Mick was talking to the foreman of the yard, an ex-merchant seaman who occasionally flogged Albie choice bits of non-ferrous when the yard’s owner was otherwise engaged. Albie pulled his van to a halt, and got out. Mick gave him an uneasy smile. Cartwright’s old car, an F-registration Jaguar, was parked near by.
‘Hi, Alb …’ Mick began, ‘sold any paint lately?’
Albie didn’t smile. The other man, the foreman, sensed the atmosphere at once and withdrew, leaving them to it. Albie nodded briefly at the Jaguar.
‘Nice motor,’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ Mick smiled again, ‘good innit? Sweet as a nut.’ He paused. ‘What happened to your face, Alb? Someone cop a moody?’
Albie ignored the dig. He was still looking at the car.
‘So what was it then? Services rendered? Little divi on the proceeds?’
Mick frowned, affecting confusion.
‘What are you on about?’ he said. ‘Brain OK in there?’
Albie stepped up to Mick, very close. Mick blinked. One of Albie’s eyes was almost completely bloodshot. It made him look like a relic from a Hammer film. Albie picked a thread of cotton from the lapel of Mick’s suit, an intimate thoughtful gesture. Mates.
‘You know what hurts me most?’ he said.
Mick frowned. ‘What?’ he said.
‘You. Doing this to me …’ He nodded at the car. ‘You, of all people.’
Mick shook his head, starting to protest, going through the motions.
‘Alb—’ he began.
Albie caught him by the collar.
‘Do us a favour, Mick,’ he said. ‘I might be pretty thick. But not that thick.’
Mick tried again, changing the tone of his voice, bringing it down, low, confidential, wheedling, persuasive.
‘Alb …’ he said.
Albie pushed him away.
‘You know what,’ he said, ‘you’re not even worth loafing. You’re dogshit on my shoe. And you know it.’ He spat on the ground at Mick’s feet. ‘So bollocks to you.’
He turned on his heel and began to walk away. Then he spotted a length of angle iron lying in the dust. He stooped and picked it up. He glanced contemptuously at Mick, just the once, and walked to the Jaguar. The headlights went first, a straight jab into each, the thick glass splintering. Then the sidelights and one of the wing mirrors. Finally he lifted the angle iron above his head and heaved it through the windscreen. The windscreen shattered and went opaque. Albie wiped his hands on his jeans and got back into the van. The engine started first time. He drove away, bumping over the rutted track. Mick watched him go, shaking his head. Albie had been right. Nice motor.
Joanna sat in the church hall, watching Charlie. The play group had been going now for more than an hour, and she’d said sorry to everyone she could think of for being so late. After Gillespie had gone, getting into his Marina and driving slowly out of the gate, she’d sat for a long time in the lounge, oblivious of Charlie’s fretful cries. The news about Suzanne had shattered her, destroyed whatever peace of mind she’d won from the last four weeks. She’d no idea the girl had died. On the contrary, Martin had talked about her going away, out of their lives, the kind of tactful retreat she’d always hoped might happen.
Now, though, it wasn’t like that at all. The girl was dead. Worse, she’d been killed. Worse still, Gillespie appeared to have evidence that implicated her. She thought back to the evening in the flat, walking into the lounge, how hard it had been, Martin’s picture on the television, the girl bleating on about her pregnancy. She’d told herself at the time that accepting the drink was a right and proper gesture. It demonstrated her self-control, her composure. It confirmed that she was in charge, an older, wiser woman for whom a situation like this held no fears. In reality, of course, she’d felt no such thing, but oddly enough the drink had helped. It had calmed her. It had given her strength. Now, though, far too late, she was beginning to regret accepting it.
She tried to think the situation through again, tried to imagine what might happen next. She knew nothing about the legal process, except Charles Jenner’s phone number, but she’d read enough papers in her life to know that murders were seldom ignored. It was the one crime that really mattered. It was the one
occasion when the police really pulled their fingers out. All the more curious, then, that nothing appeared to have happened. No investigation. No publicity. Nothing. Except Jenner’s wretched private eye turning up on her doorstep with a copy of a postmortem report. Perhaps he’d invented the whole thing. Perhaps he’d imagined it. Perhaps he got his kicks from frightening middle-aged housewives with rumours of homicide. She closed her eyes a moment and shook her head. Martin had promised to take her out to lunch. Before she met him, she’d phone Charles. He, at least, might know what to do.
Gillespie parked the Marina outside Jenner’s office, and walked in. The receptionist glanced up and smiled as he passed her desk. She already had the kettle on, she said. Would he be staying for coffee? Gillespie said yes, and nodded at Jenner’s door. ‘He’s free,’ she said, ‘go right in.’
Gillespie tapped on the door and walked in. Jenner was sitting behind the desk, wrestling with a small portable dictaphone. He looked at him, and smiled. A couple of weeks away had done him the world of good. He looked fitter, tanned. He’d lost at least one of the chins, and he’d had a modest haircut. He looked up, and saw Gillespie by the door.
‘For God’s sake,’ he said, putting the dictaphone back on the desk. ‘I thought you’d emigrated.’
Gillespie shook his head, picking up the dictaphone and sliding back the cover. The battery compartment was empty. He showed it to Jenner.
‘No batteries,’ he said, ‘no work.’
Jenner looked vague, pushing a fresh set of batteries across the desk.
‘Please,’ he said, ‘you do it.’
Gillespie fitted the batteries and tested the dictaphone. It worked. He returned it to Jenner, who watched with open admiration.
‘Marvellous,’ he said, ‘quite marvellous.’
The door opened and the receptionist appeared with two coffees. She put them on the desk. Jenner produced a small tin of sweeteners, and dropped two in his cup, a recent innovation. He looked up, beaming.
‘Now then,’ he said, ‘I assume you’re well?’
‘Very well.’
‘So when do we start?’
Rules of Engagement Page 47