Karen knew what Metcalfe was about to ask, and forestalled him.
“I need time, Bob,” she implored him quietly. “Please give me time.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Did you enjoy dinner last night?” Collison asked his wife.
“Very much,” Caroline replied. “Nice people, your colleagues. Interesting too. Shame that Bob Metcalfe doesn’t have a girlfriend. It’s the job, I suppose. Too many nights and weekends in the incident room.”
“I suppose,” he answered absently. “Tell me something, darling, did your feminine intuition notice anything odd about the atmosphere?”
She looked puzzled. “No, I don’t think so. What do you mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” He put teabags in two mugs and switched on the kettle. “Maybe I’m sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong, but it seems to me that Karen and Bob have become very close.”
“Well, that’s to be expected isn’t it? After all, they’ve been working on the case together. Or do you mean something more?”
“I wonder, yes.”
“Oh dear, that’s all going to be a bit complicated isn’t it? If you’re right, I mean. What about that poor Peter? He’s very lovely, but seems totally unsuited to the real world. He’d fall apart without Karen, and that is my feminine intuition talking.”
“I know,” he said moodily. “Let’s hope I’m wrong.” He poured the tea and added milk.
“Wouldn’t it create problems on the force as well? They’re different ranks, aren’t they?”
“It would,” he said heavily. “Strictly speaking you’re supposed to register a relationship with a colleague, though the rules do allow quite a bit of discretion about what constitutes a relationship, and when it’s deemed to have started.”
“One night stands are OK, then?”
“God, yes. If they weren’t, half the Met would be in trouble.”
“Charming!”
At this juncture the phone rang. He answered it. “Collison here.”
“The AC Crime’s office, sir. He rang in from home. Have you seen the news this morning?”
“No, I haven’t switched it on.”
“Gary Clarke was attacked in prison, sir, almost as soon as he was moved across from the remand wing. He’s in hospital with serious head injuries. Critical condition.”
“Thank you for letting me know,” Collison said after a pause.
“There’s something else as well, sir. The AC Crime wonders if you could spare him a few minutes at ten o’clock?”
“Of course. You can’t give me a clue what it is, I suppose?”
“Sorry, sir. Something the AC Crime wants to discuss with you personally.”
“Very well, I’ll be there.”
He rang off.
“What was that all about?” Caroline asked.
“The AC Crime’s office. Wanted to let me know that Clarke was attacked in prison. Sounds like he may not survive.”
“Oh, Simon, that’s awful.”
“It happens,” he said shortly. “They don’t like SOs—that’s what they call the sexual offenders. Strange. They’re in there for all sorts of horrible things yet they all take a stand against sex crimes. I don’t know whether that’s comforting or just downright hypocritical.”
“Dreadful thing to happen, though,” she said, looking at him with concern. “You mustn’t blame yourself.”
“I know, I know,” he replied. “It’s just my job to find them and put them away, right? What happens thereafter is none of my concern.”
“Exactly. And there’s no way you could have anticipated anything like this anyway.”
“You’re right there. Usually it’s just scalding with cocoa.
“Damn!” he burst out suddenly. “Why didn’t they keep him segregated from the others? At least for a few weeks.”
“Overcrowding perhaps?” she suggested gently.
“I suppose so, yes.” He sighed and picked up his tea. “And the AC wants to see me, so I’d better get going.”
“Well, that’s good isn’t it?” Caroline asked. “He probably wants to congratulate you on a job well done, and discuss your next career move.”
“That’s what I was thinking too, but it’s not necessarily good. He’s already hinted that he wants to take me off operations, and that’s what I really want to do.”
As it turned out, his thinking was wide of the mark.
“Sit down, Simon,” said a strangely distant AC Crime. “Look, I’ll come straight to the point. We may have a problem with Clarke.”
“Yes, I know, sir. Your office telephoned me earlier.”
“No, not that. Well, yes, of course that’s bad, but the real issue is this.”
He stood up and walked to the window, looking out. “Late last night someone rang the Yard switchboard and asked to speak to someone on the Clarke case,” he said without turning round. “Said he had some fresh evidence that should have been considered at the trial. An alibi, in fact, for one of the earlier killings. What do you say to that?”
“I would say,” Collison replied evenly, “who is he or she, and why didn’t they come forward earlier?”
“His real name is Bob Grant. He’s a homeless person who goes by the nickname of Kitbag. He knew Clarke slightly a year or two back and claims that on the night Jenny Hillyer was murdered he and Clarke got drunk together way over in Essex. Clarke was so drunk he could hardly walk and so the hostel in Barking where Kitbag was dossing allowed him to stay the night since they had a spare bed.”
Collison felt an iron band clamp itself around his chest. “We asked Clarke several times if he had an alibi for any of the killings, sir, and the only one he ever advanced was for Katherine Barker.”
“I’m well aware of that,” the ACC said, turning back to face him. “I’ve been reading the interview notes in the file. The fact remains that this is potentially important new evidence and needs to be investigated.”
“Of course, sir. I’ll get onto it right away. But I still don’t understand why this Kitbag character didn’t come forward before. After all, the case has been all over the media.”
“Tom Allen says Kitbag doesn’t read newspapers or watch TV, and anyway most of the time he’s off his head on meth and has little idea of what’s going on.”
“Tom Allen?”
“Yes. He rang me first thing this morning.” The ACC shifted uncomfortably, walked back to his desk and sat down. “It seems,” he said heavily, “that Allen has been investigating the case on his own, exactly as you suspected, in fact. He’s been digging around among all his snouts and one of them came up with Kitbag. Allen says he only found him yesterday.”
Collison tasted something nasty in his mouth, and swallowed to try to get rid of it—without success. As he did so the phone rang. The ACC picked it up, listened, said “Thank you,” impassively, and put it down.
“Clarke is dead. Never recovered consciousness apparently. So now we have a fresh murder case on our hands.”
There was a long silence.
“Would you like me to take it on, sir?”
“No,” the older man said decisively. “Much better if we can show that we’ve kept them separate. Better too if you stay out of the way on this Kitbag fellow, for the moment anyway. Send Metcalfe over to Barking to check out the hostel, and then you report back to me ASAP. I need to brief the Commissioner.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Simon,” came a voice behind him before he could reach the door. “As I said, I’ve read the interview notes, albeit briefly. It seems quite clear to me that you did everything you could to get at the truth. If this does turn out badly I want you to remember that it’s not your fault.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said quietly over his shoulder, “but somehow that doesn’t seem to matter right now.”
“Karen, it’s Bob,” Metcalfe said on the phone later, as he walked through the rather depressing environs of Barking station. “We’ve got a problem—with th
e Clarke case.”
“What?”
“The guvnor rang me earlier. Somebody contacted the Yard with apparent alibi evidence that puts Clarke well away from the scene on the Hillyer killing. Said Clarke was staying the night in a hostel in Barking. Well, I’ve just been there and it checks out. They keep a record of all overnight guests and sure enough his name is in the book.”
“That doesn’t prove it was him,” she pointed out. “He might have got someone to stay there and give his name.”
“I agree, but then it doesn’t really make sense, does it? Why go to all the trouble of constructing an alibi for yourself and then not raise it in court?”
“Quite right,” she said gloomily. “Then it looks like we’ve goofed, though God knows how or when. I thought the case was so strong. Absolutely everything fell nicely into place.”
“I know. I feel really choked. I was convinced we’d got our man. Now it looks as if we’ll have to start all over again.”
“So what happens now? I suppose Clarke will be released pending an appeal, which we won’t contest?”
“Haven’t you heard?” Metcalfe said awkwardly. “He’s dead. Attacked in prison yesterday. Died in hospital this morning.”
“Oh my God…” Her voice trailed away.
“There’s more,” he said grimly. “The new witness was found by Tom Allen, who has apparently been as good as his word and has been pursuing a parallel investigation on his own.”
“Damn the man!”
“I know how you feel. Don’t forget he dropped me right in it. But you’ve got to give credit where it’s due. His instinct told him we’d got the wrong man and he worried away at the case until he found something.”
“He just wanted to prove us wrong, if you ask me.”
“Agreed—but he did.”
“Have you told Collison?”
“Yes, just now before I rang you.”
“Poor man. How is he?”
“Subdued,” said Metcalfe with the air of a man choosing his words with care.
“That,” she said, “is nothing to what Peter is going to feel. Oh God—and I have to tell him.”
“Collison wants us to reconvene at Hampstead tomorrow. I’m arranging to have all the files brought out of storage. It means setting up the incident room and starting all over again. I think I’ve managed to grab Priya Desai, but I’m not sure about the others yet.”
“OK, I’ll see you then.”
She rang off and sat down, where she stayed staring blankly out of the window for a long time. Then she took a deep breath and walked into the next room where Peter sat at his desk, taking notes as he read.
“Peter, darling,” she said. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
“Well, that is a turn up for the books and no mistake,” said Lord Peter Wimsey. “Fancy Charles Parker getting the wrong man convicted. But from what you say it was the fault of that damn fool profiler, or whatever you call him.”
“Not entirely,” Harriet reminded him. “The profiler only offered a guide as to where the police should look. It was Charles and his men at the Yard who conducted the enquiry. And they did find pretty compelling physical evidence of the man’s guilt. Good grief, Peter, surely the victims’ underwear would be damning enough for most people?”
“True,” Wimsey conceded. “But the fact remains that he must have taken a false turn somewhere, or he wouldn’t have ended up at the wrong place. There must be a proverb in there somewhere.”
“And it was up to the jury, don’t forget. Charles’s job is just to find the evidence, not try the case.”
“True, oh wise one,” Lord Peter said, throwing up his hands in defeat. “I am justly rebuked.”
“I say, though,” he went on, “what a dreadful thing for old Parker-bird. Particularly this new evidence not coming to light until after the poor blighter had been hanged. I do hope sister Mary is looking after him. Should we invite them here? He must be feeling absolutely wretched.”
“We could do that, of course,” she said cautiously, “but you may find he’d rather spend some time on his own for a while.”
“Quite so,” Lord Peter agreed. “Perhaps you should sound Mary out and see how the land lies?”
“Of course I will,” she replied.
“I wonder,” Wimsey said slowly, “whether Charles would like me to review the evidence for him. Go back to the beginning and start again? Difficult though, what? Wouldn’t want the feller to think I was trying to interfere. He’s a dear old chap but he can be a bit touchy.”
“Well, why don’t we take one thing at a time?” she suggested. “Let’s see whether he wants to pay us a call and then we can feel out the situation for ourselves.”
“Capital idea,” he agreed. “Shall we send Bunter round with a note?”
“Bunter is away,” she said. “Don’t you remember? He’s visiting his aunt down on the south coast somewhere.”
“Oh, is he?” Wimsey asked vaguely. “I really don’t remember.”
“Don’t worry, Peter,” she said with a sad smile. “Leave it to me. I’m used to living without servants, after all.”
Collison and Metcalfe stared at her in dismay as she told them the news.
“Oh dear, how dreadful,” Collison said at last. “I’m sorry, that seems very inadequate somehow.”
“Just when I was thinking that at least things couldn’t get any worse,” Metcalfe chipped in, “they have.”
“But surely he can be made to realise that whatever happened wasn’t his fault?” Collison said. “Bob and I found the evidence and made the arrest, and it was the jury that convicted him, and understandably too, on the evidence. Perhaps I should speak to him?”
“It wouldn’t do any good, I’m afraid, sir. In fact, according to the therapist I’ve been speaking to, it might make matters worse. Presenting him with an alternative world view that doesn’t fit with the one he’s chosen to inhabit for the time being may only add to his problems.”
“So what can we do?” Metcalfe asked.
“There are apparently three possible courses of action,” Karen explained. “First, a hospital could have him heavily tranquilised and let him just sit around and vegetate in the hope that it will pass off naturally, just as it came on in the first place. I’m not keen on that, partly because I don’t like the thought of pumping drugs into people, partly because I have a feeling that it won’t work, and partly because I couldn’t stand just sitting around and doing nothing to help.”
“I think I’d be with you on all of that,” Collison said. “What about the other two?”
“Second, I could confront him with some sort of shock version of reality as it is,” she said. “Apparently what is happening here is an extreme version of something we all do naturally every day, which is slightly to alter our perception of reality to make it more palatable to our belief system of how reality ought to be. That’s sort of what being in denial is all about. When the gap between reality and perception becomes too big to bridge we end up having to alter our beliefs, which we do only eventually and reluctantly because we have to. We don’t want to because psychologically it’s painful.”
“But this is much more than that, surely?” Collison asked.
“Yes, and that’s why I’d be very reluctant to try shocking him out of it. What we have here is more a sort of trauma. It’s much more usual, when confronted by something that is too horrible to come to terms with, either to forget about it altogether, blank it out as it were, or to retreat into yourself, perhaps by becoming unresponsive or even totally mute. What’s happened here is that Peter has retreated all right, but into an alternative reality that I suppose he’s always had waiting for him should something really awful happen. Like a sort of internal panic room.”
“So what’s left, then?” said Metcalfe.
“I think I have to get into the room with him and try to show him a way out of it. I’ve discussed it with the therapist who is dubious. When it’s done normal
ly it would be handled by a trained psychiatrist, and it can take years. My idea is that if I try very hard I might be able to do it, but to be honest I just don’t know.” She broke off and stared at them helplessly.
“How would you go about it?” Collison asked uncertainly. “It doesn’t sound the sort of thing one should muck about with without the proper training.”
“Damn training!” she exclaimed. “Most so-called counsellors are just quacks anyway. Very few of them are even doctors. What do they know? I know Peter. I know how he thinks and how he feels. I know!” Her eyes were blazing. It was as though a curtain had been ripped aside to reveal a new person, a woman in pain.
Collison and Metcalfe looked at each other awkwardly. Karen sat bolt upright, staring into space. Then she snapped open her handbag, grabbed a handkerchief and crumpled it viciously in her hand. A single tear rolled down her cheek.
“So if you don’t want to try shocking him out of it,” Collison eventually said, with an air of normality which suddenly sat awkwardly with the tense atmosphere in the room, “the only logical alternative is to go along with his version of events.”
“Yes.” Her voice was strained and small.
“For how long?”
“For as long as it takes. I know that sounds crazy, I know it makes me sound as though I won’t face up to what I don’t want to hear, but I honestly think it might work.”
“Go on,” Metcalfe prompted her.
“Well,” she said, still clutching the handkerchief, “if I’m right he’s withdrawn into this parallel world of his because reality became too painful to deal with, making the fantasy seem more attractive. But suppose it works the other way round as well? If we can find a way of sustaining the fantasy while feeding in a realisation that the reality may not be as bad as he thought—that he really wasn’t to blame, in other words—then why shouldn’t the process go into reverse? After all, he often slips in and out of the whole Lord Peter Wimsey persona for a few minutes at a time. This is just a more extreme example. Why shouldn’t he slip out of it again just as he always has before?”
What Would Wimsey Do? Page 15