The Hidden Page 6

  ‘And you haven’t looked at the newspaper?’

  ‘We don’t take a newspaper, either,’ said Mrs Green’s disembodied voice.

  ‘When was the last time you saw your daughter?’ Meadows asked.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’ Mr Green countered.

  ‘Please just answer the question,’ Meadows said, with a new – more commanding – edge to her voice.

  ‘It must have been yesterday morning,’ Mr Green said.

  ‘So she was out for most of the day?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Weren’t you worried when she didn’t come home last night?’

  ‘How do you know she didn’t come home?’

  ‘Please, Mr Green, just do it my way, and all will soon become clear,’ Meadows said.

  ‘No, I wasn’t worried when she didn’t come home last night, because I wasn’t expecting her to come home. At weekends, she looks after Mrs Brown, who is practically bedridden, and on Monday mornings, she goes straight from there to school. So I don’t see why you’re—’

  ‘I’m afraid I may have some bad news for you,’ Meadows said.

  Up to that point, Green had merely sounded defensive, but now an element of alarm crept into his voice.

  ‘What … what kind of bad news?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s possible your daughter may have been murdered.’

  Green shook his head. ‘No, you’re wrong, that isn’t possible. It couldn’t have happened to one of us.’

  ‘One of us?’ Meadows repeated. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  But before Green had had time to answer, Higgins had unrolled the artist’s impression, and was holding it out for him to inspect.

  ‘Is this your daughter, Mary?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Green replied, giving the sketch no more than a cursory glance. ‘No, it’s not her.’

  Mrs Green appeared in the doorway, and, elbowing her husband out of the way, glanced down at the sketch.

  ‘Oh my God!’ she groaned. ‘Oh sweet Jesus!’

  ‘Now, Joan, this is just an artist’s impression, and we all know how misleading they can be,’ her husband said.

  But Joan Green seemed to have absolutely no doubt at all.

  ‘This is Satan’s work,’ she said – to no one in particular. ‘He has tracked us down, and now the slaughter begins.’

  ‘Joan …’ said Mr Green, ineffectually.

  ‘Mother!’ said a louder, firmer voice, and a new figure appeared in the corridor – a tall young man, dressed in a yellow jumper and jeans, who looked vaguely familiar.

  The young man put his hands on his mother’s shoulder, and half-eased, half-dragged her into the corridor. Once he had her there, he turned his attention to his father, and said, ‘Take her into the kitchen and make her a good strong cup of tea, Dad.’

  ‘Now just a minute—’ DS Higgins began.

  ‘I’ll tell you anything you need to know,’ the young man interrupted him, as he ushered his father into the corridor. ‘Won’t you at least give my mum and dad a few minutes on their own, to get over the shock?’

  ‘I suppose we could,’ Higgins said, dubiously. ‘But that would mean putting a lot of responsibility on you.’

  ‘I can handle it,’ the young man said.

  At the sound of the kitchen door being closed behind his parents, a look of relief crossed his face. He held out his hand to Higgins and said, ‘I’m John Green, and, as you’ve probably gathered by now, I’m Mary’s brother.’

  ‘You do know, don’t you, John, that in all likelihood, your sister Mary is dead?’

  John Green nodded, sombrely.

  ‘I’ve seen the picture. I know it’s her.’

  ‘You seem remarkably calm,’ Meadows said.

  ‘I have to be calm,’ John Green said, ‘just as, if I’d been the one who’d been murdered, Mary would have had to be calm. We’ve known, from the moment we stopped being little babies, that it was always going to be a case of us looking after our parents, rather than the other way round.’ He paused. ‘But that doesn’t mean I’m not gutted. I loved my sister – I always will.’

  ‘How did your sister end up in Backend Woods?’ Meadows asked.

  ‘I honestly have no idea,’ John Green confessed. ‘She should have been looking after Mrs Brown all day yesterday. Mrs Brown is practically bedridden, you know.’

  ‘Do you take turns?’ Meadows wondered.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Do you and your sister take it in turns to look after Mrs Brown at the weekends?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ John Green said.

  ‘So she got to keep all the money herself.’

  ‘What money?’

  ‘The money Mrs Brown paid her.’

  ‘Mrs Brown didn’t pay her anything. Mary did it out of the goodness of her heart.’

  ‘Is that because she saw it as her Christian duty?’

  ‘She isn’t – she wasn’t – a Christian. None of us are.’

  ‘And yet your mother said, “Oh God, no,” and thought that your sister had been killed by Satan himself.’

  ‘That’s just a figure of speech,’ John Green said. ‘My parents aren’t exactly militant atheists – they haven’t got the spirit or the fire to be militant anythings – but we’ve never been to church, we don’t get Easter eggs, and even Christmas is hardly celebrated in this house.’

  ‘Anyway, you’re saying that you don’t help out with Mrs Brown,’ Meadows said.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Because there is no goodness in your heart?’

  ‘Because it’s a job that girls are better at than boys.’

  ‘So where were you, yesterday?’ Higgins asked.

  ‘Do you think I killed my own sister?’ John Green asked, outraged.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ DS Higgins told him. ‘If you want the truth, I consider the prospect that you killed her to be highly unlikely. But I’d still like to know where you were yesterday.’

  ‘I was at seventeen Inkerman Street from ten in the morning until nine thirty in the evening.’

  ‘That’s quite a long time to be anywhere that isn’t your home,’ DS Higgins said.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘What were you doing there?’

  ‘I was visiting a friend.’

  ‘I’ll need his name.’

  ‘Roger Smith.’

  ‘Do you go to school with him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So which school does he go to?’

  ‘He doesn’t go to school at all.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Possibly because of his age.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘I couldn’t say for sure,’ John Green said, ‘but I would guess that he must be around fifty.’

  Higgins raised a questioning eyebrow in Meadows’s general direction.

  ‘Was Mrs Smith there?’ he asked.

  ‘Roger isn’t married.’

  ‘So it was just the two of you, then?’

  ‘No, Michael Gray and Philip Jones were also there.’

  ‘And are they as old as Mr Smith?’

  ‘No, they’re my age.’

  ‘I see,’ Higgins said, scratching his head thoughtfully. ‘And what were the four of you doing all that time?’

  ‘We were playing Diplomacy.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s a board game.’

  ‘And you were playing it for nearly twelve hours?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How many games did you play?’

  ‘Just the one.’

  ‘If you’re going to lie, at least be clever about it,’ Higgins said. ‘No game lasts that long.’

  Meadows was wondering whether it was better to contradict Higgins or to allow him to carry on making a fool of himself. She’d lose out either way, she decided.

  ‘Games of Diplomacy can often last that long,’ she said.

  DS Higgins looked at her through suspicious e
yes. ‘You did say it was a board game, didn’t you?’ he said, as if he wanted to make absolutely sure he had his facts right before he went on the attack again.

  ‘That’s right,’ Meadows agreed.

  ‘I’ve played Monopoly, and there’s no way that a game of Monopoly could last for nearly twelve hours,’ Higgins said.

  ‘Diplomacy isn’t like Monopoly,’ Meadows replied. ‘There are no dice and you don’t draw any cards. In fact, there’s no element of chance in it at all.’

  ‘How does it work, then?’ Higgins demanded.

  ‘Since you’ve played it more recently than I have, maybe you should explain,’ Meadows said to John Green.

  ‘The board is a map of Europe,’ John said. ‘The game starts in 1901, although, strictly speaking, the map corresponds more to the situation in 1914, and—’

  ‘What the hell’s he talking about?’ Higgins asked Meadows.

  ‘Each player is one of the Great Powers,’ Meadows said, deciding to draw John Green away from the firing line. ‘You start out with a given number of armies and navies, but if you wish to increase the size of your armed forces, you must instruct one of your armies to occupy one of the neutral territories for a whole campaign season.’

  ‘And it’s as simple as that, is it?’ Higgins asked, clearly still disbelieving her.

  ‘No, of course it isn’t,’ Meadows said. ‘Since in the initial stages of the game you’re not strong enough to bully the other powers, you have to persuade one or two of them to support your occupation.’

  ‘And why would they do that?’

  ‘Because you offer them something in return.’

  ‘So how do you ever get the upper hand?’

  ‘You wait for the right moment, then you stab your allies in the back.’ Her own attempt at ‘diplomacy’ clearly wasn’t pacifying her unasked-for and unwanted partner, Meadows thought – so why not have a bit of fun instead? ‘Doesn’t that all sound rather familiar to you?’ she continued.

  ‘How do you mean?’ Higgins asked.

  Meadows smiled sweetly. ‘Well, isn’t it more or less the same game that ambitious sergeants play virtually all the time, down at police headquarters?’

  For a moment, it looked as if DS Higgins might say something he would later regret. Then he changed his mind and turned his attention back to John Green.

  ‘I’m going to need the names and addresses of all these “friends” of yours,’ he said.

  ‘Of course,’ John Green agreed.

  ‘And your parents are going to have to identify the body. Do you want to tell them that yourself, or should I ask DS Meadows to do it?’

  Green had been very much in control of himself – and perhaps of the interview – up to this point, but now his eyes were filling with tears and his chin had started to wobble.

  ‘Couldn’t I do it instead?’ he asked. ‘Couldn’t I identify the body?’

  ‘How old are you?’ Higgins said.

  ‘Seventeen.’

  ‘Then you’re not an adult in the eyes of the law, and we need an adult to make a formal identification.’

  ‘But I don’t know if they’ll be able to cope,’ John said, and now he really was crying. ‘You see, we never … we never thought this would happen.’

  Louisa sat in the living room, cradling Philip in her arms, and keeping a watchful eye on Thomas, as he roamed with wild abandon across the floor, in search of objects with which to harm himself.

  She had not slept well, and now her arm was tired, her head was pounding, and every time she thought about her mother she felt her chest heave and her heart beat out a drum solo.

  She needed a break, and now that her mother was in hospital, she was unofficially the head of the household, so she could, if she wished, instruct Elena to take over.

  Instruct?

  No, that would never do. She could ask Elena to take over.

  Yet she didn’t feel comfortable doing it – was simply not happy to assume the role of boss over a girl who was actually a couple of years older than her, because it just didn’t feel right.

  Yes, Elena was having a better life in Whitebridge than she would probably have had in the Spanish village, near Benidorm, from which Louisa’s biological mother’s family hailed. And, yes, she’d been given time off to take all kinds of educational courses, which would help her be more successful once she was back in Spain. But all the same, to treat someone like a servant, even if that was actually what they were …

  ‘Give Felipe to me,’ said a voice, and when Louisa looked up, she saw Elena standing there.

  ‘I’m fine with him,’ she said.

  ‘You are not fine,’ Elena said bluntly. ‘If you do not believe me, take a look at your face in the mirror.’

  ‘But if I’ve not got Philip and Thomas to look after, what will I do?’ Louisa fretted.

  ‘Go to school,’ Elena said.

  ‘I couldn’t do that!’

  ‘You must. There you will have an … an estructura.’

  ‘A structure?’

  ‘Yes. You will know what to do there. Here, it take all your effort not to cry, and pretty soon, the babies are gonna notice.’

  Louisa felt a huge wave of relief surge through her whole body.

  ‘If you’re sure …’ she began.

  ‘Madre de Dios, do you want me to have it tattooed on my arm?’ Elena asked, exasperatedly.

  ‘I’ll go upstairs and get changed,’ Louisa said.

  ‘Good idea,’ Elena agreed.

  The Incident Room (a.k.a. the basement) in Whitebridge police headquarters had undergone one of those rapid transformations it always underwent when a major crime had been committed. Barriers, road signs and other routine policing paraphernalia had been cleared out (God alone knew where to!), desks, chairs, a blackboard and a podium had been moved in, and by the time detective inspectors Beresford and Marsden arrived, all the chairs were occupied, some by local officers, others by men who had been drafted in from other divisions.

  Having made a similar entrance perhaps a couple of dozen times, Beresford was almost at the podium before he realized it wasn’t his podium, because this wasn’t his incident room.

  ‘Would you like to take a seat, inspector?’ Marsden invited.

  Oh no, that would never do, Beresford thought.

  To sit there amongst the detective constables, while another DI stood on the podium and briefed his troops – with the godlike certainty that whatever he wanted done would be done – really wasn’t on at all.

  ‘I think I’ll stand by the door,’ he said.

  Marsden shrugged. ‘Please yourself.’

  Beresford turned on his heel, and retreated the three or four steps to the door. And there, for the duration of the briefing, he intended to stay – a part of the investigation, if not quite part of the team.

  He watched Marsden mount the podium. They were about the same age, he guessed (though Marsden’s thick black beard made him seem older), and they were roughly the same height. Marsden, he believed, was married with kids, but he didn’t know the other man well enough to say for certain that he was right about that.

  Marsden looked down at all the expectant faces below him. ‘For those of you who don’t know me, I’m DI Marsden,’ he said. ‘You’re here because a young girl has been murdered, and one of our own has been put into hospital with injuries from which she may never recover. Now it shouldn’t be necessary to say that I expect your best work from you, so I won’t – but God help you if that isn’t exactly what I get from you.’

  That’s the wrong way to introduce yourself to the team, Beresford thought – totally the wrong way.

  Oh really, asked an unexpected – and certainly unwelcome – voice from the back of his head? Is it really wrong? Or is it that you just wouldn’t do it that way yourself, Colin?

  It may just be that I wouldn’t do it that way myself, Beresford admitted, with some chagrin.

  ‘We now have the rough figures for visitors to Stamford Hall
on Sunday – and they’re not exactly encouraging,’ Marsden was telling the detective constables. He turned to DS Yates – a respected veteran and safe pair of hands – who would be handling the nuts and bolts of running the incident room, and said, ‘Tell us the worst, Graham.’

  I wouldn’t have handled it like that at all, Beresford thought. I’d never have said the figures weren’t encouraging – I’d have called them a challenge.

  Well that’s just you, isn’t it? the voice asked. Lesser mortals just have to do the best they can.

  ‘Eight hundred and five cars and twenty-seven motorbikes entered the grounds through the West Gate,’ DS Yates said. ‘That’s over three thousand three hundred visitors already. There were also fifteen chartered coaches, which, at sixty passengers a coach, is another nine hundred. And in addition, there were shuttle buses from the railway station, which brought in another four hundred. That’s a lot of potential suspects.’

  ‘Whoever was initially in charge of the crime scene was sensible enough to follow standard procedures and take the names and addresses of all the drivers who left after DCI Paniatowski’s body – I mean, after DCI Paniatowski – was found, but there were at least a hundred who had already left before that,’ DI Marsden said. ‘We’ve put out an appeal, asking them to contact us, and also appealed for anybody who arrived by shuttle bus to come forward. We expect, based on previous experience, that something like a half of them will. The rest, of course, won’t want their neat little lives inconvenienced just because there’s been a murder. As far as the coaches go, most of them were hired by social clubs and similar organizations, so we expect to have a list of those visitors fairly soon.’

  ‘We have had one bit of luck,’ DS Yates said. ‘As you all know, closed circuit television cameras are still a bit of a rarity in Lancashire, but the earl got some installed a couple of years ago, when he was holding that big pop concert of his. So what that means is that every vehicle that entered or left that day is on tape, and – barring accidents – we should have all the licence plates, once somebody’s gone through the tapes.’

  ‘That sounds like just the job for DC Crane, with his university education,’ DI Marsden said. He turned to look at Beresford. ‘Do you have any objection to us using DC Crane, DI Beresford?’

  ‘None at all,’ Beresford replied, though the voice inside his head was saying, ‘Sod you, you bloody bastard!’