Close Her Eyes

by Dorothy Simpson

  ‘Where does it come out?’

  ‘Just along the road from here, about fifty yards away. But surely she wouldn’t have … Not at night … in the dark …’ Fear had dried Pritchard’s throat and tightened his vocal cords. His voice was little more than a gasp, a whisper.

  Unless she’d been in a hurry, Thanet thought, anxious to get home quickly and minimise her father’s anger and anxiety. Of course, the opposite could be true. She might have opted for delaying tactics. He repeated his earlier question.

  ‘I suppose she could have called in at my brother’s,’ said Pritchard, his voice stronger now. ‘He and his wife live in Gate Street. There’s another footpath linking Gate Street and the short cut we were talking about. But I really can’t see why she’d have gone there instead of coming straight home.’

  ‘What number in Gate Street, sir?’ asked Lineham.

  ‘Fourteen.’

  ‘And your brother’s full name?’

  ‘Jethro Pritchard.’

  Lineham took it down.

  ‘Could you tell us what Charity looks like?’ said Thanet.

  ‘Looks like …’ Pritchard repeated. Once again he shook his head as if to clear it, passed his hand across his eyes as if brushing cobwebs away. ‘She’s … not very big. Comes up to here.’ He laid his hand on his chest. ‘She’s got brown hair, light brown. Long. Wears it tied back. Brown eyes …’ Pritchard’s lips worked and his face threatened disintegration.

  ‘All right, sir, that’s enough, I think.’ It would have to do, Thanet thought. With Pritchard in his present state too much time would be wasted trying to obtain either a more detailed description or a photograph. And time might be of the essence. The beat of urgency was back in his brain now, surging through his veins and tingling down into his legs, his feet. He shifted restlessly. ‘Sergeant Lineham and I will just stroll along and … meet her. We shouldn’t be …’

  ‘I’m coming too,’ Pritchard interrupted. ‘I can’t sit about here doing nothing a minute longer.’

  Thanet didn’t like this idea one little bit. The man looked dangerously near to cracking up, and if anything had happened to Charity …

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better for you to wait here, in case she comes home while we’re gone?’

  ‘No! I’ll leave the lights on and the front door ajar if you like, to show I won’t be long.’

  Thanet looked at him and empathy raised its inconvenient head. How would he himself feel if Bridget were missing in circumstances like these? He would be frantic to be up and about doing something, anything, to find her.

  ‘As you wish. Let’s go, then, shall we?’

  3

  Outside it was now marginally cooler and the air, though still humid, smelt clean and fresh after the stale, almost foetid atmosphere of number 32. The street was deserted. Lineham fetched torches from the car and they set off in the direction of the entrance to the footpath.

  After a few moments Pritchard stopped. ‘Here it is.’

  A narrow slit, barely three feet wide, flanked on either side by the blank side walls of two blocks of terraced houses. Dim light from a street lamp illuminated the first few yards. After that, darkness.

  Thanet had already made up his mind. He dared not risk Pritchard stumbling across Charity’s body alone. One of them would have to stay with him.

  ‘Sergeant, you go the long way round with Mr Pritchard. I’ll cut through the footpath and wait for you at the far end.’

  Thanet half-expected a protest from Pritchard, but there was none. Perhaps he was by now incapable of further rebellion. He moved off obediently beside Lineham and Thanet switched on his torch and plunged into the black, yawning mouth of the alley.

  Once past the houses the darkness thinned a little. The footpath now seemed to run between back gardens, and the six foot high close-boarded fence on either side was punctuated by wooden doors and gateways beyond some of which loomed the bulk of garden sheds of varying shapes and sizes. Thanet’s footsteps beat out an irregular tattoo as he paused to check each entrance. Some were padlocked, others were not and if there was access he opened the gate as quietly as possible and shone his torch inside. The detritus of years seemed to have washed down the gardens and come to rest here. Wheel-less, rusting bicycle frames vied for space with broken toys, rotting cardboard boxes, unrecognisable pieces of machinery, neglected tools and legless chairs. It was impossible to search thoroughly at present, he had neither time nor justification and he forced himself to keep moving on, dissatisfied.

  And all the while there was growing in him a sick certainty of what he was going to find, the apprehension that this time he would have no opportunity privately to prepare himself for the one moment in his work as a detective that he dreaded more than any other, his first sight of a corpse. He had never fully managed to analyse that split second of unbearable poignancy, compounded as it was of regret, compassion, sorrow, anger, despair and a sense of having brushed, however briefly, against the mystery of life itself and he had never talked about it, even to Joan, from whom he had no other secrets. For years he had fought against this weakness, had despised himself because of it until he had eventually come to realise that to do so was pointless, that this was one battle he would never win. And so he had in the end become resigned, had even managed to persuade himself that that one moment of private hell was necessary to him, the springboard from which he could launch himself whole-heartedly into an attempt to track down the murderer.

  If Charity was dead … if he were to find her … His stomach clenched and, praying that she had chosen to go the long way around and was even now safely in the company of Lineham and her father, he softly opened yet another door and played his torch over the mounds of junk, his fearful imagination at once transforming a broken mop into a battered head, a discarded rubber glove into a severed hand …

  Enough, he told himself severely. You’re letting this get out of hand. Determined to keep his thoughts firmly under control he shut the door, turned away and began to walk more briskly.

  After only a few steps his foot made contact with something that went skittering away across the path and hit the opposite wall. He focused his torch, advanced upon it frowning and bent to examine it.

  It was a hairbrush.

  He did not touch it, but quickly flashed his torch around it in ever-widening arcs. The immediate vicinity was clear but as the light probed the tunnel of darkness ahead the beam picked out a scattering of lightish splotches some ten to fifteen yards away.

  Slowly, carefully, he advanced, the certainty of what he was going to find churning his stomach.

  And yes, there she was.

  With one comprehensive sweep of his torch Thanet took in the whole scene: the gaping suitcase in the middle of the path, a jumble of clothes spilling out of one corner; more clothes, strewn haphazardly about and, the focal point of it all, the crumpled body of the girl, lying at the foot of a door in the left-hand wall of the alley.

  Thanet hurried forward, noting with relief that her clothing seemed undisturbed. Perhaps she had at least been spared the terror of a sexual assault—could even still be alive. He squatted down beside her and shone the light on her face. The brief flare of hope was at once extinguished. That blank, frozen stare left no room for doubt and the jagged gash on her right temple looked lethal. But, to be certain, he checked. There was no whisper of breath, not even the faintest flutter of a pulse. This, he was sure, was Charity. He looked at the rounded, still childish contours of brow and cheek and closed his eyes as the familiar pain swept through him. For a few seconds he remained motionless, abandoning himself to the protesting clamour in his head in the way that a patient resigns himself to the screaming whine of the dentist’s drill. Then, jerkily, he stood up.

  Now she was a case for Doc Mallard.

  The thought reminded him of Lineham and the girl’s father, waiting for him at the end of the footpath, and at once he realised his predicament. He dared not leave the body and risk someone else stu
mbling upon her. But if he didn’t, Lineham and Pritchard would most surely become impatient and return along the footpath to meet him. And to think of Pritchard seeing his daughter lying there like that …

  If only some passer-by would come along the alley it might be possible to despatch him with a message to Lineham, but on this Bank Holiday evening everyone seemed to be immersed in his chosen form of entertainment. Thanet hadn’t seen a soul since leaving Pritchard’s house. He glanced at his watch. A quarter to eleven. The pubs would soon be out. It was vital to get the footpath sealed before then. So, what to do?

  His dilemma was resolved by the sound of footsteps, approaching from the far end of the alleyway. He listened carefully: yes, two pairs. Lineham and Pritchard? If so, he must warn Mike in time …

  He waited tensely until the bobbing disc of light that was probably Lineham’s torch had become visible around a bend in the path some fifty yards ahead and then he called softly, ‘Mike?’

  There was a low answering cry and the footsteps accelerated.

  Thanet switched off his own torch, hoping that Lineham would take the hint.

  ‘Mike?’ he repeated urgently, advancing to meet them. ‘Wait. Stay there. Switch off your torch.’

  But it was too late.

  Involuntarily, Lineham had flashed his torch ahead, briefly illuminating the body of the girl and with a hoarse cry Pritchard rushed forward, shoving Thanet aside. Thanet staggered and put out a hand to hold him back and Lineham reached out, but the man’s frantic impetus had already carried him to where the girl lay and before they could stop him he had fallen to his knees and with a cry of anguish had gathered her up into his arms.

  Lineham made as if to pull him away but Thanet restrained him. ‘Leave it, Mike. The damage is already done.’

  Both men were painfully aware that forensic evidence might well have been destroyed before their eyes.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ Lineham’s voice was thick with guilt. ‘I should have thought … I shouldn’t have flashed that bloody torch.’

  Pritchard was weeping now, harsh, strangled gasps, his arms wrapped tightly around Charity’s body.

  Thanet turned to Lineham. ‘Go back to the car, get things organised as fast as you can. Stress the urgency, the pubs’ll be out in a matter of minutes. I’ll wait here, with him.’

  Lineham nodded and was gone, his receeding footsteps soon no more than a hollow, echoing blur.

  Pritchard slowly quietened down, the storm of tears gradually diminishing to irregular, sobbing breaths at ever-lengthening intervals.

  Lineham was soon back.

  ‘Everything’s laid on, sir,’ he whispered.

  ‘Doc Mallard?’

  ‘Available.’

  ‘Good. I’d like you to get Pritchard away now, then. Fast. Stay with him till I come.’ Thanet knew that it would be only a matter of minutes before the first reinforcements arrived. He stepped forward, laid a gentle hand on Pritchard’s shoulder.

  The man stiffened, turned his head to look up.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Pritchard. Deeply sorry. But you must leave her, now.’

  Pritchard gave his daughter one last, lingering look, then laid her gently down and stood up, staggering a little. Thanet steadied him with a hand under one elbow.

  ‘Sergeant Lineham will take you home.’

  Pritchard turned away without a word.

  Thanet waited until they were out of sight then flashed his torch once more over the girl’s body. Her sightless stare seemed to him a mute reproach, a silent protest against a life cut short.

  He promised himself that the moment the photographers had finished with her he would close her eyes.

  4

  The bald patch on top of Doc Mallard’s head gleamed in the light from the arc lamps as he knelt to examine Charity’s body.

  It was half past eleven and the secrets of this section of the alley were now laid bare, the harsh, merciless light probing into every crack and crevice. The last three-quarters of an hour had been packed with furious activity: the footpath had been sealed and a team of men despatched to inform the householders whose gardens backed on to it that it was temporarily out of bounds; photographs, sketches and preliminary searches had been made; Charity’s pathetic belongings gathered up and borne away and various samples assembled in polythene bags by the Scenes-of-Crime Officer.

  Now it was the turn of the police surgeon.

  Thanet was leaning against the fence, patiently awaiting Mallard’s verdict and jealously guarding a potentially vital piece of evidence. He knew better than to ask importunate questions. Ever since, some years ago, Mallard had lost his adored wife, he seemed to have lived in a state of imperfectly suppressed irritation. Thanet, who was fond of the older man and had known him since childhood, sympathised with Mallard’s inability to come to terms with his grief and was tolerant of his testiness.

  ‘Poor little beast,’ murmured Mallard at last, sitting back on his heels.

  Thanet waited.

  ‘Well,’ said the little doctor, heaving himself to his feet and dusting himself down, ‘for what it’s worth, and with the usual reservations, of course, I’d say she’s been dead for between one and two hours.’

  ‘That fits. In fact, we can narrow it down further. She was last seen alive at about 9.35 and I found her at 10.40.’

  Mallard looked gratified. ‘Hah! Thought you’d catch me out, did you?’

  ‘Didn’t work, though, did it?’

  They grinned at each other.

  ‘You found her yourself, you say?’

  Thanet grimaced. ‘Yes.’ He told Mallard how this had come about. ‘Can you commit yourself as to the cause of death?’

  Mallard frowned at Thanet over his half-moon spectacles. ‘You know I don’t like committing myself at this stage.’

  ‘We both know that,’ said Thanet equably, mentally castigating himself for his careless choice of words. ‘All the same, I’d appreciate …’

  ‘A signed statement, no less!’ Mallard relented. ‘Oh, all right then, if I must. You’ve probably worked it out for yourself anyway. I’d say it was that blow to the right temple. I’d look for something fairly sharp and jagged, possibly metal.’

  ‘This, for example?’ Thanet pointed to his bit of potential evidence, the rusted iron latch of the door at the foot of which Charity was lying. The projecting piece of metal which must be lifted to release such latches had been partially broken off and its jagged point glistened.

  Mallard peered at it. ‘Highly probable, I should think. Right height, too, I should say.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ Thanet saw it all in his mind’s eye: Charity walking along the dark footpath, suitcase in hand, the menacing figure of her assailant (lying in wait for her? Walking towards her? Running after her? Or even most hideous of all, accompanying her, in the guise of a friend?) He attacks her, Charity swings the suitcase at him but it bursts open, leaving her completely vulnerable; during the course of the ensuing struggle she is hurled against the door, striking her head against that wicked-looking metal spike … Thanet sighed. The Super wasn’t easily going to forgive him for allowing Pritchard to interfere with the forensic evidence.

  ‘What did you say the father’s name was?’

  ‘Pritchard.’

  ‘Pritchard,’ repeated Mallard thoughtfully. ‘Pritchard, Pritchard. Rings a bell. Can’t think why, though.’

  Thanet waited, but Mallard shook his head with finality. ‘It’s no good, I can’t remember. Perhaps it’ll come back to me. Anyway, her pants and sanitary towel—she was menstruating—seem undisturbed, and there’s no sign of violence, so it doesn’t look as though she was raped. Might be some comfort to the parents, I suppose. She was fifteen, you said?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m surprised. I’d have said she was younger, even though she was physically mature. They’ll be reaching puberty before they’re out of their cradles soon, the way things are going.’

  ‘She does look younger
,’ said Thanet thoughtfully. ‘I wonder what it is …’

  Death, perhaps, he thought grimly, but no, it was more than that. The way she had done her hair, then, scraped back into a thick pigtail?

  No, it was her clothes, of course. He didn’t know much about young girls’ fashions but Bridget had become very clothes-conscious of late and he now realised that Charity’s clothes were dowdy in the extreme, strongly reminiscent of school uniform: dark skirt, plain white blouse buttoned up to the neck, plain dark cardigan, white ankle socks and Clarks’ traditional-style school sandals. All in all, very odd clothing for a fifteen-year-old to be wearing on holiday these days, when cheap and pretty clothes are the rule rather than the exception. No doubt it was the religious influence. And from what he’d seen of the Pritchard household he would guess that there would be little sympathy for a desire to buy anything frivolous.

  Once again he wondered what she had been like, this young girl whose future was now reduced to a dissecting table. Had she been content, satisfied to live within the limitations imposed upon her by her parents’ religion? Or had she yearned for laughter, joy and beauty?

  Thanet clenched his teeth. However much or however little potential Charity had possessed, she had had a right to live to fulfil it. As he stood looking down at her he could feel the determination stiffening the sinews of his body, filling him with a sense of purpose and an urgency that made him itch now to be gone, to get on with his work, take the first steps towards bringing her killer to justice.

  Doc Mallard picked up his bag. ‘I’ll be getting along, then.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’ Thanet turned and nodded to the men who had been patiently waiting for Doc Mallard to finish. ‘You can take her away now.’

  As he and Mallard approached the canvas screen which had been erected across the entrance to the footpath Thanet heard a familiar sound, the hum of an expectant crowd.

  ‘The ghouls are out in force, by the sound of it,’ murmured Mallard.

  Thanet scowled, grunted agreement.

  The noise increased as he and the doctor came into view. The crowd was enjoying this unexpected Bank Holiday late-night entertainment. The uniformed branch had done their best, stretching tapes across the road to right and left, carefully ensuring that the Pritchards’ house was included in the empty section of the street, but even so Town Road was a very different place from the quiet thoroughfare Thanet had left a couple of hours previously.