The Hidden Page 8

  ‘Most of the bobbies that I’ve come across are methodical to the point of plodding—’ Crane began.

  ‘Got anybody in particular in mind?’ Beresford asked.

  ‘Oh, not you, sir,’ Crane said, perhaps just a little too hastily. ‘Anyway, what they tend to do is start at the beginning, work their way through to the end, and then stop.’

  ‘And you don’t?’

  ‘No, I’m a university boy – as everyone round here suddenly seems to get malicious pleasure in reminding me – and I approach a job the way I used to approach my studies, which is by getting an overview first, and then homing in on what seems particularly significant.’

  ‘Right, that’s the commercial over and done with – now let’s see the result,’ Beresford said.

  Crane grinned, awkwardly. ‘Sorry, I must have sounded like a bit of a knob,’ he said. ‘Anyway, take a look at this.’

  Crane pressed the fast forward button. Beresford watched as coaches passed through the West Gate at breakneck speed, followed by cars which seemed to be going even faster. Then they reached the point in the tape that Crane had been looking for, and he pressed the freeze button.

  ‘What do you see?’ he asked.

  Beresford saw a Honda 250cc motorbike. The driver was wearing a full-face crash helmet, but from his general shape, he was almost definitely male. The passenger also had a full-face helmet, and was wearing a skirt, holding it down at the front with one hand.

  ‘Could that be Mary Green?’ Crane asked.

  ‘It’s possible. She’s wearing a skirt and Mary was wearing a skirt, but looking at her from that angle – and seeing it in black-and-white – I wouldn’t like to say if it’s the same skirt or not.’

  Crane did not seem the least discouraged. ‘What do you make of the box strapped to the back luggage rack?’ he asked.

  ‘It looks like a wicker basket,’ Beresford said. ‘I’d guess it was a picnic hamper.’

  ‘Me, too,’ Crane said. ‘So we’ve got these two young people intending to spend a pleasant day in each other’s company. Agreed?’

  ‘It seems likely,’ Beresford admitted.

  ‘Then just wait till you see the next bit,’ Crane said, hitting the fast forward button again.

  When Crane stopped the tape again, Beresford glanced at the clock at the bottom of the screen, and saw that just over an hour had passed.

  What he was looking at now was a Honda 250cc motorbike, and it was exiting the park.

  ‘It looks like the same bike to me,’ he said to Crane. ‘Is it?’

  Crane nodded. ‘Unless it’s changed number plates with another motorbike inside the park, then yes, it is.’

  ‘It’s looking more and more likely that the girl was Mary Green, and if we can find that picnic hamper somewhere in the woods, we can be almost certain it was her,’ Beresford said. ‘So what do you think happened once they were in there? Did they have an argument?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Crane said. ‘If you have a row with someone – and kill them in a fit of rage – you don’t then hang about long enough to wash out your victim’s vagina with tea.’

  ‘So you’re saying the murder was planned in advance, and the killer was using the idea of a picnic as bait?’

  ‘Essentially, yes,’ Crane agreed.

  ‘So he didn’t panic at all?’

  ‘No, I don’t think he did. I still believe it was a ritual killing, and there’s never any panic in a ritual killing, because the killer believes – has to believe – that he’s doing no less than obeying the laws of the universe, and so, obviously, the universe has to be on his side.’

  ‘Or at least that’s what he tells himself before he stabs the knife or swings his hammer, but once he sees blood spurt out or hears bones crunching, he can sometimes lose it – and that’s what I think happened here,’ Beresford said.

  ‘What have I missed?’ Crane wondered.

  ‘He left the picnic hamper behind,’ Beresford said. ‘That hamper probably contains any number of clues which will lead us to him, and if he’d thought about it, he’d have realized that – but he didn’t think about it, because the only thought he actually had was to get away.’

  ‘Unless he’s more cunning than we think, and leaving the hamper behind was no more than a ploy to mislead us,’ Crane said. ‘Or – and here’s another possibility – the ritual compelled him to leave the hamper behind.’

  ‘You’re giving me a headache,’ Beresford groaned. ‘And you know, when you stop to think about it, you realize that all this speculation is just a waste of time, because we’ve got the bike’s number, which means that we’ll soon have the bike’s owner, and when we have him, we can ask him what the truth is.’

  Louisa had told Miss Broadbent that there was some comfort to be found in seeing what she expected to see, but now she was learning that there was some comfort – no, not comfort, but rather, diversion or distraction – to be found in seeing what she’d never expected to see.

  What had sparked her curiosity was a meeting – and it simply couldn’t be called anything else but a meeting – that was taking place near the edge of the bike sheds.

  There were two things which made it noteworthy – three, if you took into account that, unlike most of the kids who congregated around the bike sheds, none of the participants seemed interested in having a furtive, guilty smoke.

  The first of these noteworthy things was that one of the four girls involved was Jennifer Black.

  Though Jennifer was a couple of years younger than Louisa, they were both members of Fielden House, and Louisa, who considered it part of her duties as house captain to take an interest in other house members, had been making a note of her behaviour for some time.

  Jennifer, it seemed to her, was one of the least sociable girls she had ever met – on a par, she would estimate, with poor Mary Green. She appeared to have no friends and no interests. She would attend a house function without complaint if it was compulsory, but if it wasn’t, she wouldn’t go within a mile of it. Louisa got the general impression from her teachers (and it was only a general impression, because even though she was the most active house captain they could ever remember dealing with, she was still a pupil, so you could only tell her so much) that Jennifer was getting by in her studies, but could have done much better with just a little effort.

  Thus, it was strange that this veteran non-participant – this professional opt-outer – should now be engaged in conversation with three other girls.

  And that was the second strange thing – none of the girls were the same age as Jennifer!

  The youngest, Louisa guessed, was a first year, which would make her going on twelve. The other two were either third years or fourth years. By all the social codes which operated in this school – and had operated in all other schools, since the beginnings of time – these four girls should be having nothing to do with each other. And yet here they were, involved in a deep – almost intense – discussion, which seemed to have been going on for several minutes.

  Maybe she should find out what was going on, Louisa thought. It could even be argued that it was her duty to do just that – and if, by being dutiful, she satisfied her own curiosity, well, that was just a handy bonus.

  But then, just as she was about to approach them, someone else did – a tall boy in a yellow jumper and blue jeans.

  Really, if he was going to be in school at all, he should be in uniform, Louisa thought.

  And then she realized how absurd she was being. The boy had just lost his sister – and unlike the case of her mum, there wasn’t even the slightest chance of Mary ever coming back.

  So did it really matter if he ignored regulations?

  Of course not!

  He could have turned up naked for all she cared – except that might have frightened some of the younger girls!

  John knelt down, so that his own eyes were at the level of those of the smaller girls, and began talking in what was plainly an earnest fashion. But w
hat was really interesting to Louisa – what was bloody amazing, as a matter of fact – was the effect his words seemed to be having on them.

  The tension drained from their faces, a smile came to their lips, and they almost glowed with happiness.

  Now what was that all about?

  The house on Sebastopol Street was a mirror image of the one on Balaclava Street, even down to its navy blue front door and daffodil and snowdrop curtains, but when DS Higgins knocked on the door, no worried-looking, middle-aged woman in a floral pinafore came to answer it.

  Instead, a much older woman’s voice called out, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s the police, Mrs Brown,’ Higgins said. ‘DS Higgins and DS Meadows. We’d like a word with you, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘The door’s kept on the latch in the daytime,’ the woman said. ‘You only have to push.’

  They stepped into the hallway. The parlour door was open, and inside they could see a bed with a frail-looking woman – who could have been anything from seventy to ninety – lying in it.

  ‘I’m in here,’ the woman said unnecessarily.

  Higgins and Meadows entered the room, and positioned themselves at the foot of the bed. Higgins produced his warrant card, though, for all the attention the woman in the bed paid to it, he might as well not have bothered.

  ‘Have you come to ask me about poor little Mary Green?’ the old woman asked.

  ‘So you do know she’s been murdered?’ Higgins said, in a tone that was not quite accusatory.

  ‘Yes,’ the old woman said, ‘my morning home help, Mrs Goodman, told me. It was a terrible shock, of course.’

  ‘Your morning home help?’ Higgins repeated, as if he were expecting some kind of trick.

  ‘I have three,’ the old woman explained. ‘One comes in the morning, another, Mrs Holiday, comes in the afternoon, and, in the evening, it’s Miss Soper. They each stay for about half an hour. It’s how I survive.’ A look of self-pity flooded her face for a second, then was gone. ‘I shouldn’t complain,’ she continued. ‘I should be grateful for what I have.’

  ‘So your home helps look after you during the week, and Mary looks after you – looked after you – at the weekend?’ Higgins asked.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And when was the last time you actually saw Mary, Mrs Brown?’ Higgins asked.

  ‘Let me think for a minute,’ the old woman said. ‘It must have been around noon on Sunday. Yes, it was noon, because, as she was leaving, I remember the clock at St Thomas’s chiming out the hour.’

  ‘But I thought she stayed here all day on Sunday,’ Higgins said. ‘I thought she even slept overnight here.’

  ‘So she did, normally,’ the old woman agreed. ‘But this Sunday, she said she wanted to meet a friend, and asked if I’d mind.’

  ‘That’s just typical of the young, these days, isn’t it?’ Higgins asked. ‘They have absolutely no consideration for others.’

  I know what you’re doing, Meadows thought – you’re basing your approach on the assumption that the old will automatically resent the young, and all you need do to set them off on a tirade – which is often more informative than they ever realize – is to press the right button.

  Well, there was no disputing that while it might be crude as a method of questioning, it was often very effective.

  ‘I mean, as far as she was concerned, why should she care how you’d manage once she’d gone, as long as she got to meet her friend?’ Higgins asked, ramming the approach home.

  ‘Oh no, you mustn’t think it was like that at all, because it simply wasn’t,’ Mrs Brown protested. ‘To be honest, she was very tentative about it, and she’d no sooner mentioned the idea than she started to backtrack on herself and say it wasn’t important and she’d stay with me. It was all I could do to persuade her that I could manage on my own once she’d gone.’

  ‘How did you manage?’ Meadows asked.

  ‘Oh, I can deal with most things, if I really put my mind to it and take my time,’ Mrs Brown said. ‘I couldn’t make the bed or prepare a meal, of course, but I can go to the toilet without help, and I can wash myself.’ She paused for a second, then, managing to look both ashamed and defiant, she continued, ‘I can wash most parts of me, anyway.’

  ‘Did Mary often abandon you on a Sunday?’ Higgins asked, reluctant to abandon his chosen line of approach, though, so far, it had brought him no results at all.

  ‘Oh no, of course she didn’t,’ Mrs Brown said. ‘In fact, last Sunday was the first time she’s ever done it.’

  Meadows felt her finely tuned bullshit antennae tingle.

  First time she’d ever done it?

  Like hell it was!

  ‘What can you tell me about this friend of hers that she was meeting?’ Higgins said.

  ‘Well, nothing, really,’ Mrs Brown said.

  Another lie, Meadows thought.

  ‘But it was a boyfriend, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mrs Brown said.

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘I didn’t think to ask.’

  ‘I find that very strange,’ Higgins mused. ‘If I was in your situation, I think my natural curiosity would have forced me to ask.’

  ‘But you’re not in my situation, are you?’ the old woman asked. ‘And anyway, I was brought up to consider minding your own business as no more than good manners.’

  Higgins scowled – and the scowl deepened when he saw that Meadows was grinning.

  ‘Did he pick Mary up from here on Sunday, Mrs Brown?’ the detective sergeant asked.

  ‘No, he …’ the old woman began. Then she realized her mistake, and was silent for several seconds before saying, ‘Mary went off to meet this friend of hers somewhere else.’

  ‘And where did they go?’

  ‘It must have been to that big house, mustn’t it, since that’s where they found her body?’

  ‘Everybody I’ve talked to tells me she was a lovely girl,’ Higgins said, abandoning his ‘teenagers are shit’ approach in favour of something much more benevolent.

  ‘She was,’ Mrs Brown agreed. ‘She was such a lovely girl.’

  ‘And I’m sure that you’d like to see her killer brought to justice, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So why don’t you help us, Mrs Brown? Why don’t you tell us what you know about this boyfriend of hers?’

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ Mrs Brown said, turning to Meadows for help. ‘I’m an old woman. I haven’t left this house for years.’

  Meadows had been looking around the room. There was no Chinese girl or flying ducks, but there was a painting of a child with apple cheeks and almost grotesquely large eyes, and on the shelf which hung over the bed there were three Toby jugs of various sizes, so it was likely that Hitchcock would have been as happy with this set as he’d have been with the Greens’ front parlour.

  ‘I imagine you spend most of the day in bed, don’t you, Mrs Brown?’ she asked, sympathetically.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ the old woman agreed, clearly grateful to have the focus shifted from Mary Green to her own poor health. ‘There’s not much choice in the matter. It’s the price that you pay for getting old – as you’ll find out yourself, eventually.’

  Meadows grinned. ‘If I live that long,’ she said.

  The old woman returned the grin with a weak smile. ‘Well, you certainly won’t find out if you don’t live that long,’ she said.

  ‘It must get very boring for you, just lying there, with no one to talk to,’ Meadows said, laying on the sympathy with a trowel.

  ‘It does,’ the old woman agreed.

  ‘Still, I expect television helps,’ Meadows said artlessly. She looked around the room. ‘I don’t see your TV, Mrs Brown. Is it in the kitchen?’

  ‘No,’ Mrs Brown said, speaking cautiously now, as if she had started to suspect that the woman she’d embraced as an ally was about to turn out to be no friend at all.

  ‘So where
is your television?’ Meadows asked, still guileless.

  ‘I don’t have one,’ the old woman told her.

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Televisions cost a lot of money,’ the old woman said. ‘I’m only a poor pensioner.’

  Meadows beamed with obvious delight. ‘Well, this is your lucky day, Mrs Brown,’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A girlfriend of mine has just emigrated to Australia, and she’s left her television with me. But I already have one, you see, so I’ve been wondering what to do with it. And now I know – I’ll bring it round here for you, Mrs Brown.’

  ‘I couldn’t afford the licence fee,’ Mrs Brown said.

  ‘Oh, don’t you go worrying your head about that,’ Meadows said airily. ‘I’ll have a whip-round at the station. No one will begrudge putting a few bob in the hat to help an old lady.’

  ‘I don’t want it,’ Mrs Brown said, starting to sound hostile. ‘I can’t be doing with it.’

  And she wasn’t just hostile, Meadows thought, there was an element of fear in there, too – the old woman was frightened at even the idea of having a television in her house.

  Meadows laughed, though neither of the others had any idea what she had found funny.

  ‘You got a bit cross with me, then, didn’t you, Mrs Brown?’ she asked.

  ‘I suppose I did, a little,’ the old woman agreed.

  ‘And when you did, your accent changed,’ Meadows said. ‘You could easily have passed as a native up to that point, but you’re not from round here at all, are you?’

  ‘Well, no,’ the old woman admitted.

  ‘So where are you from originally? I’d guess you come from Somerset. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes,’ the old woman said, with reluctance.

  ‘But I expect you’ve lived here a long time, have you?’

  ‘Quite a while.’

  ‘Now doesn’t that just cover a multitude of sins?’ Meadows asked, laughing again to show she wasn’t being serious. ‘How long – exactly – have you lived here, Mrs Brown?’

  ‘It must be five years.’

  ‘And you came here directly from Somerset?’

  ‘Yes.’