There was no note, but Kate had left cold chicken and salad ready for her in the refrigerator, the manner of its presentation suggesting she might be back soon. It occurred to Charmian that she had not told Kate about the rabbit and the threat to herself, and that perhaps she should. Kate might not feel invulnerable. On the other hand, at her age, she probably did not believe that she and death were running on converging lines. Yes, Kate would feel safe and therefore be all the more at risk. So she must be told.
On the kitchen table was a thick envelope which had been delivered by hand. Kate had added a note:
‘Handed in by a smashing bloke. Hope it’s a love letter.’
The smashing bloke was certainly Wimpey, who was personable; she had registered this fact for herself.
But it was not a love letter. Instead she drew out a file of papers on the three murders. They were drawn from various sources, starting with a survey of work so far from the Chief Investigating Officer (in this case, Chief Inspector Merry), through to reports from the pathologists on the knife wounds, and another from the laboratories on the so-called ‘forensic debris’. These documents were photocopies of reports, and attached to them was an assessment of the current position as seen by the CIO. In addition, there were maps, diagrams and folders.
In fact, she had a skeleton of the case before her on the table. She read while she ate, abstracted, but enjoying her food. Kate had anointed the chicken with something like honey and brandy before she cooked it and the taste came through the crisp skin. Everything that the girl did she did well. Down on the floor Muff too was tasting a chicken supper. She was less appreciative, honey and brandy were not quite to her taste. Moreover, the mixture made her whiskers sticky, something no cat could endure. She patted them with an angry paw.
Charmian spread out the photographs of the three bodies, pictured as discovered. There were close-ups of the faces. Not pretty. Then long shots of the whole scene. The killer seemed to choose grassy, wooded spots, as if these milieux offered what he or she wanted. They also offered shelter and protection.
There was no sign of struggle. The killer had not alarmed the intended victim, but had had an easy ride.
Mouth full of salad, she studied the pathologist’s reports. Photographs here of the wounds, all remarkably similar. On the arms, legs and trunk there were slash wounds which were longer than they were deep. But it was the stab wounds, smaller but deeper, that had probably caused death. More detailed reports would be following further examinations later. There had been no sexual assault.
The third victim, as suspected by Sergeant Wimpey, had been killed before Millicent. But the exact time difference, certainly over twenty-four hours, possibly much longer, had not yet been clearly defined.
Reading between the lines, she thought that the local pathology department was at full stretch and feeling desperate. As she recalled it was a small one, struggling hard at the best of times.
The wounds on the bodies reminded her of the very first victim of all, the mare.
In addition to all this, there was a list of some fifteen men who were investigated because of their past history, or because they had known the victim or been seen near the place of the crime. Men in the wrong place at the wrong time, in other words. Among them might be found the killer. Their names and addresses were attached.
But her business was not with them. She was to occupy herself with Joanna Gaynor.
She drew all the papers towards her again to study once more. They provided a marvellously complete outline of the case as of today. Wimpey had been very clever in his selection of them, but then he was clever. The investigation had not got very far yet; that was clear for everyone to see.
There was a note in his own hand. The horse-droppings of which he had told her were going to be analysed to see if the horse could be thus identified. Small chance, she thought, but perhaps worth trying. Casts had been made of the hoof-prints, which had been sent for expert examination. That too, she thought, could be non-productive. Turning up the type of evidence that would be helpful once you had caught the criminal and were putting together a case, but not much help in actually finding him. But it had to be done, and she would be delighted to be proved wrong. Sometimes you were lucky. In any case, every small detail had to be checked; that was good police work.
She went to the window to get a breath of air before setting off to see the Gaynors. Better change into something innocuous and casual like a linen skirt and cotton sweater. She mustn’t look official. They might not let her in, of course, but she thought they would. Brian Gaynor would never put himself in the wrong. Only her, if he could.
Muff jumped past her and sped out into the garden where a garden chair and the scattered remains of a newspaper showed that Kate had been out there in the sun. It was amazing how the house felt full of Kate even though she was out somewhere. Kate would enjoy the lunch and the polo on Sunday. You’ve been a trouble to me and your mother in your time, Kate, she thought, but you’ve come through and turned into a good person. There’s hope for the human race yet. For a moment the thought satisfied her, and she felt rested and happy.
Then another idea struck her about the third body discovered. No hole. Nothing that reminded her of a so-called Frisian beard.
She gave a mental shrug. Oh well, so there wasn’t. I’m not always right.
Since it was wise to be careful and take precautions, she had requested that a woman police officer from the Alexandria Road Station accompany her to the Gaynors, and had arranged to meet her outside the Park at one of the gates equidistant for them both.
To her pleasure she saw Dolly Barstow already sitting waiting in her car. She had come across Dolly about a year ago; they had worked together for a short while.
Dolly had her head down and was reading. Not a newspaper or a novel but a small, heavy book that looked like some technical tome. Dolly had an alert and scholarly mind which she was always training to be of use to her in her career.
She got out of her car as she saw Charmian, putting aside the book which was a manual on police work from the University of Chicago.
Charmian smiled. ‘Glad it’s you.’ Dolly was an easy person to work with, quick and clever. Charmian realised that she both admired and was fond of this young woman. ‘I must be getting old,’ she thought. ‘I’m not competing here, I just like her.’
‘I fixed it.’
That was Dolly for you, she did fix what she wanted.
‘Get in,’ Charmian opened the car door. ‘I’ll drive.’ It was sometimes necessary to let Dolly know who was in charge.
As they drove through the Park, down a winding avenue through trees heavy in leaf, they talked of old acquaintances from the last case.
‘How’s Tom Bossey?’ Chief Inspector Tom Bossey had been a quietly helpful figure in the last case.
‘Promoted and transferred to another division.’
‘And Harold English?’ A different sort of man altogether. She had never known what to make of him.
‘Still master-minding things in the back room.’
They both smiled.
‘A devious character,’ said Charmian.
‘You can say that again.’ But then Dolly added, with that honesty and perception that one had to give her credit for, ‘And yet one trusts him.’
‘And how’s Len?’
Len had been the young doctor with whom Dolly had been in love. If she admitted to anything so soft. At any rate, it had been a strong and unceremonious attraction, visible to all their friends.
‘Sadly we agreed to call it a day. His ambition and mine didn’t match up.’ Dolly shook her head with obvious regret, Len had meant something to her. ‘His idea, not mine.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘He’ll marry a pretty little nurse and get his two-and-a-half children and a BMW.’
After all, she had loved him more than he had loved her.
‘Maybe I’ll get him second time round.’
Charmian supposed
she was joking.
‘But by then I may not want him. He will be fat and bald and on the way to his mid-life coronary.’
This time she wasn’t joking.
In silence, trying to read the route through the Park, Charmian drove on. A signpost told her she was on the way.
‘About your rabbit,’ began Dolly.
‘Oh, you know about that?’
‘Sure.’ Dolly was reproachful; naturally she had prepared herself. In case you are wondering, the delivery van had an accident on the way to the Windsor Castle.’ There were two Windsor Castle pubs (as well as the real castle with the sovereign’s standard fluttering above it): one on each side of the town, this one was the other one. ‘Some of the goods got lost, and someone must have picked up the rabbit. And in case you are wondering why it was not skinned, the cook there liked to do his own.’
They had come to a stop outside a square brick house with white gables. A plate on the door read, Fletcher’s Cottage, while on the gate a box said, Bingham. Through an archway to the right of the house, they saw a cobbled yard with low buildings ranged round it. The smell and sound of horses seemed to float out of it and over to them. Everything in sight looked newly painted and freshly polished from the brass letters which spelt out the name to the knocker on the white front door. It was bandbox trim. Charmian realised that this was where her young friends Johnny, Lesley and Co. worked. Pololand.
Charmian looked at the house again. She could see a face at the window, a man, Brian Gaynor probably, manning the barricades.
‘Let’s go in,’ she said to Dolly.
Brian Gaynor opened the door to them himself. He stood there for a moment as if blocking the way. He was a square, sturdy figure with a brush of short fair hair and bright blue eyes. He waited, without a word, letting them stand on the doorstep. In an inner room to the left of the small entrance hall Charmian could see Annabel sitting stiffly upright on a sofa, her eyes focused on nothing much, but turned towards a window. Three suitcases by the stairs suggested that not much effort to settle in had yet been made. The house looked comfortably furnished with chintz and old oak, but unused as if Tommy Bingham only put in an odd appearance. But when he did, he smoked, or someone did, the smell of old tobacco still hung around, strong and thick. Either a rich pipe or strong cigars.
Charmian did not fail to notice that Brian Gaynor seemed totally unsurprised to see her.
Charmian introduced herself, he nodded silently, and motioned them to go through. He still had not spoken. Words were obviously going to be handled seriously, like a currency in short supply.
Annabel looked at them as they came in, her eyes flicking over Charmian and then Dolly, then she shook her head and went back to staring out of the window.
‘We have talked before, Mrs Gaynor,’ Charmian reminded her. ‘But this is WPC Barstow.’
‘Hello,’ said Dolly cheerfully, she was busy assessing the atmosphere. Heavy, she thought, no help for us here. ‘You met me before, remember?’
Annabel did not turn her stare from the window.
Brian Gaynor moved so that he was standing behind his wife. ‘I think you will understand that we are all in a shocked state, Chief Superintendent.’ His voice was carefully neutral.
‘I see that, naturally. It was a terrible thing that happened. But it would be helpful if I could talk to your wife and daughter. In your presence, of course.’
‘I understand your position, Chief Superintendent, I know you specialise in dealing with violent crimes concerning women and children.’
‘It’s one of the things I do, yes.’
Someone had been talking to him, he had been expecting her. If not now, then some time soon. It had probably been Humphrey Kent. Oh, nothing overt, nothing direct, but he had got the message across. One protected one’s friends.
‘You have, as you would doubtless say, your job to do. I am the last person to impede that. Since I am a lawyer, I am not asking you to wait before questioning my wife and daughter until I have a solicitor present. I waive that right. For the time being.’
Dolly Barstow coughed. Charmian eyed her repressively.
‘But I must ask you to wait until I have my own expert present.’ He moved round to the front of the sofa, partially blocking out the sight of his wife. ‘I have asked Dr Ulrika Seeley to assist me.’
Charmian took a deep breath. So she and Ulrika would now be on opposite sides, be a challenge to each other.
But she seemed to hear Ulrika’s shocked voice. No, no, she was saying, we shall be working as one, forming a picture between us. No rivalry, no competition, that is not how I work.
It might be so, nothing to do but wait and see.
‘May I at least see your daughter?’
‘She has been questioned, you know. By Detective Chief Inspector Merry.’ There was a perceptible hostility in the way the full title was rolled out. Merry clearly had not scored a success.
‘This is something quite different,’ said Charmian, she was prepared to show infinite patience.
With difficulty, as if his lips could hardly get round the words, Brian Gaynor said, ‘My wife got the distinct impression that you suspected my daughter of involvement in the killing of the pony.’
Charmian remained silent, but Dolly made a soft noise.
‘If you can suspect a child of anything so dreadful,’ said Brian, his bright blue eyes full of pain, ‘then I have to face the fact that you may suspect her of something even worse.’
‘I would just like to see her,’ said Charmian. Just to satisfy myself of the state she is in, whatever that may be. Or to find out what chances she might have had of getting out of her parents’ house to do what she might, just possibly, have done. Anything could happen here in this family, she thought; the parents did not seem to communicate at all.
‘I love my child.’
‘I know, sir.’
She waited for Annabel to say something similar, but she did not. Brian Gaynor seemed to feel the omission, for he gave his wife a quick, anxious look, then suddenly yielded.
‘Very well. I’ll take you upstairs. The children are there.’
If Joanna is a child, thought Charmian, which I seriously doubt.
‘Thank you.’ She nodded to Dolly to come with them. Dolly dutifully trotted after.
‘Stay here, Annabel,’ Brian Gaynor said to his wife. He lightly touched her shoulder as he passed. Annabel remained silent.
‘She’s had a tranquilliser,’ he said, half apologetically, half defensively to Charmian.
A narrow stairway of polished oak led to an upper landing from which four doors opened off.
‘This used to be the head stableman’s house,’ said Brian. ‘ Tommy uses it as his base now when he’s down here. Decent of him to let us have it. He’s there now with the children. Couldn’t leave them on their own.’
He took them up one more flight to an attic room, flooded with light, which had been turned into a kind of games room with a bar at one end. A camp bed in one corner was made up with a pale blue duvet on which lay a girl’s blue cotton dressing-gown.
A tall thin man looked up from a low table on which a chess set was arranged between him and the boy, Mark. The boy had a broad grin on his face, no shock and tension there.
‘Just taken my Queen, this lad of yours,’ the man said. ‘He’s a better player than I am.’
‘He’s always been good. Just the way he is. Born good at chess.’ Gaynor introduced the two women.
Tommy Bingham stood up and shook hands politely. ‘ Know your name, of course,’ he said to Charmian. ‘Humphrey’s spoken of you.’ He did not mention the luncheon engagement, and Charmian saluted his tact.
He had a charming smile, in a lined, tanned face with a hint of pallor under the tan. Charmian remembered that Lesley had mentioned an illness.
‘Want to see these two, do you?’
Charmian looked round the room for Joanna. She was seated on the window-seat with her back to the window. Her f
ace was empty of all expression, but there was a bruise across one cheek where her mother had struck her. Possibly other bruises elsewhere. There were certainly hidden bruises. Her mother had been staring out of a window. Joanna appeared to be reading a book.
Her eyes looked dull and quiet.
No one at home, thought Charmian, but she would have a try.
‘Joanna?’ Behind her, Charmian heard Brian make a noise of protest; she ignored him. ‘I’d like to talk to you sometime. Do you agree to it?’
‘What about?’
‘About Millicent.’
‘Oh.’ Joanna absorbed this idea, without reaction. It wasn’t what interested her. ‘Not about the knife?’
‘The knife?’
‘The knife in my bag. The one you took away and kept when Dobbin was killed. Only we did all that. I think it would be beastly to ask about it again.’
‘That’s enough for now,’ said Brian Gaynor.
Charmian walked to the window and looked out, giving herself time to think.
From the windows of this room, which were barred, and in which, judging by the bed, Joanna slept, she could see down into the stable-yard in the centre of which stood a large box-like structure. The bars made the room like a prison and in this prison Joanna was placed. By this action Charmian was convinced that in her own home Joanna had her exits, and that her parents thought she might have used them.
‘What is that object in the stable?’ she asked.
‘A polo pit, for practising polo on a wooden horse.’ Tommy Bingham gave her the answer.
‘Oh yes.’ Charmian turned away from the window. ‘The child doesn’t seem well,’ she said.
‘She’s had a bad time. The doctor prescribed some stuff.’
‘You don’t think it’s too powerful?’
‘No. She’ll sleep it off. I wouldn’t mind some myself.’ Brian’s eyes looked bruised and sore behind their brightness.
‘I’ll come back,’ she said to Brian Gaynor. For the moment, she felt she had seen enough.
Joanna returned to her book but her thoughts were elsewhere. She had read that the mind was a powerful weapon, able to wound and even kill. She concentrated her mind on her mother.
A Cure for Dying Page 12