Authors: Laura Wilson
He withdrew a little as Higgs and the other assistants began to remove the bodies from the coffin. Ballard, who’d done likewise, murmured, ‘Are you all right, sir?’
‘Not really,’ muttered Stratton, grimly. ‘It was bad enough the first time. But I’ll manage.’
‘Of course, sir.’ From this simple exchange Stratton knew that the sergeant was remembering it, too – the horror of seeing the baby’s little clothes taken off, one by one, and the toy duck, just like the one he’d said his daughter had to have in her cot or she couldn’t sleep, and then sitting up late in the office afterwards, when he’d told the sergeant about Jenny being pregnant when she died and how determined they’d been to see Davies swing … He shuffled further away, towards the door.
Ballard followed. ‘Do you suppose he ever thinks of them, sir?’ he asked quietly. ‘Backhouse, I mean.’
Stratton shook his head. ‘Or about Davies, either. I’d like to think they all bloody haunt him, but I doubt it – I mean, you’d need to have a conscience, wouldn’t you? Christ, I hope this works.’
Hearing Tindall’s voice, ‘Very well preserved,’ they turned back to see him bending over the dun-coloured shape on the slab. ‘A sample of the outer shroud, if you would, Mr Higgs … thank you.’ They kept their distance, and Stratton glanced into the coffin, now empty save a bed of sawdust, stained brown, then watched as Tindall, bald head shining waxily beneath the electric bulb, lifted Judy, who was clad in her own separate shroud, away from her mother. The little bundle lay in his arms as he held her secure against his white rubber apron, carrying her across the room and gently laying her down.
The shroud being now removed from Muriel, Stratton could see that her face was, incredibly, almost recognisable. He nodded when Tindall looked to him for confirmation, then focused his attention on the rough line of McNally’s sutures down the stomach that disappeared into the dark mound of pubic hair. The organs detached from Muriel the first time would have been crammed back inside her, he knew, like so many parcels in a bag of skin and bones … These were things one shouldn’t have to think about, never mind
see
. She –
it
– is here because of me, he thought. I must watch, and I must not be sick. It occurred to him then that Jenny would have looked like this now, had she been buried and not
cremated. The doctors of death had performed a post-mortem on her, laying claim to her flesh by cutting, removing, replacing and stitching, with others standing by, watching while she lay there, wounded, naked and forlorn …
At the time she’d died, he hadn’t thought about those things. The heavy pall of grief had dulled him, blunting his mind, so that the post-mortem had been simply another fact, a stage in the process, not something actively imagined.
Swallowing hard, he felt Ballard’s hand, gentle, on his arm. ‘Sir?’
‘I’m all right,’ he said through clenched teeth, and moved away, keeping his eyes fixed on the corpse.
Muriel’s skin was a dirty white, but there were two areas of pink on her thighs where the child had lain. ‘Cherry pink,’ said Tindall. ‘We’ll need specimens for carbon-monoxide analysis. McNally, if you would …’
‘Of course,’ said McNally, adding defensively, ‘It would have been evident the first time. I’d say that patch of colouring’s more likely to be post-mortem pink, but by all means …’
‘Best be on the safe side,’ said Tindall, a slight edge to his voice.
‘Is it likely to show up now?’ asked Stratton, mildly.
‘Pretty unlikely, I’d say,’ said McNally.
‘Must do the thing properly,’ said Tindall, in a manner which suggested it might not have been done properly before. Privately, Stratton doubted this – McNally was experienced and, from what he’d seen, painstaking and careful about his work. Besides which, even his untrained eye could see that the pink colour was slowly beginning to fade. ‘Let’s have a look at the pubic hair, shall we?’ continued Tindall, briskly. ‘Doesn’t look like anything’s been cut. We’ll need a sample of that, too, for the lab, so if you would … Now, let’s begin, shall we?’ He held out a gloved hand. ‘Scalpel, please, Mr Higgs.’
Chapter Seventy-Three
Stratton sat in the office, trying to ignore the thump and ping of a dozen typewriters from across the corridor. He was looking through the list of samples sent to the police laboratory –
Jar labelled 15, both lungs of woman, Jar labelled 16, vagina and labia of woman, Jar labelled 17, sample of sawdust from coffin
– and trying to get his thoughts into some sort of order, when a telephone call came through from Dr Sutherland at Pentonville Prison where Backhouse, like Davies before him, had been remanded in custody.
‘I’ve interviewed him twice,’ said Sutherland. ‘He was physically exhausted when he arrived, and underweight. He was complaining of fibrositis in his back and shoulder, but it proved pretty mild on examination … I’ve taken a medical history, and barring the incidents during the war, which I believe you know about – loss of voice and so on – he seems to have spent his life taking refuge in minor ailments, fibrositis, diarrhoea, sleep disturbance and so forth. Quite the hypochondriac, in fact, always in and out of the doctor’s surgery.’
‘Yes, the first thing he did when I arrested him was to tell me about his health,’ said Stratton.
‘Well, I can certainly give you some more information, if that would help. I believe you’re going to interview him again, about Muriel Davies.’
‘That’s right …’ With the receiver wedged uncomfortably between his chin and his ear, Stratton flicked through his old notes
to find the details of their conversation about Davies. Coming to something heavily underlined, he said, ‘When we spoke about Davies, you were under the impression that he was telling the truth about killing his wife and child. Is that still your opinion?’
There was silence – no radiating of quiet strength or square-jawed film-actor stuff this time, thought Stratton – just the hesitation of a confused human being.
‘It
was
my opinion, yes …’
‘And now?’ persisted Stratton.
‘It’s difficult to say. I’ve been looking at my notes, and I certainly was confident of it at the time. Backhouse hasn’t said or indicated to me that he killed Mrs Davies. The only time he spoke of it was when I was taking his medical history and he told me he’d given evidence at Davies’s trial and he’d been very much upset by it. Treated for chronic diarrhoea and insomnia afterwards, according to my notes. He was distressed that Davies had said he was an abortionist. Said Davies had mistaken his St John’s Ambulance first aid manuals for medical textbooks and jumped to the wrong conclusion. I have to say that did give me pause – judging from what I wrote down at the time, I wouldn’t have said that Davies possessed the mental agility to make such a leap. He was a liar, certainly, and imaginative, but it was more in the realm of storytelling than putting two and two together to make five, if you see what I mean.’
‘I think so,’ said Stratton. ‘What did Backhouse say about the other women?’
‘Told me the wife was a mercy killing, and he showed some signs of emotion while talking about her, but I had the impression that it was more to impress me than from genuine feeling. He was very anxious to tell me how happy they’d been together. As far as the others were concerned, he tried to tell me that the women had died accidentally and then he said … wait a minute … Ah, here we are: “I must have done them, the police said I did.” Distancing himself … Yes, again, “If I did it, I must have dismissed it from my mind afterwards.”’
‘Very convenient,’ said Stratton, drily.
‘In my experience, it’s not uncommon in people accused of murder. There’s also the lack of remorse – but then one can hardly regret things that one can’t remember … That’s a protective mechanism of the mind, of course. He’s not going to remember something that might incriminate him. When I asked him about the evidence of the semen in the women he said, “It must have happened at the time of strangulation.” I asked him if he meant he’d had sexual intercourse with them, and he said he thought it
had
happened but he wasn’t clear about it. He didn’t say anything about gassing them. When I asked him he said he didn’t remember anything like that.’
‘Well, it’s a bit more than I got, I suppose … Do you have any idea
why
he did any of it?’
‘It’s always hard to say when these abnormal impulses begin. There doesn’t seem to be any history of sadism – torturing animals and so forth, and—’
‘Talking of animals, did he mention any pets?’
‘Yes, a dog and a cat. Seemed very fond of them … Wait a minute – the cat died a few years back and the dog was getting very old and blind so he took it to the vet and had it put to sleep before he left his flat. Got quite emotional telling me about it. Anyway, as far as his sexual history is concerned, nothing much seems to have happened – at least, not out of the ordinary – until an incident when he was sixteen or seventeen. He used to go to a local place – that was in Halifax – he described as being “frequented by girls of loose morals” – what one might call a “Lovers’ Lane”, I suppose, judging from what he said. There was an occasion when he was there with a couple of male friends and was unable to have intercourse with one of these girls. He was teased about it afterwards – by the boys as well as the girls, apparently. They called him “Norman No-Dick”.’
‘And you think that might …?’
‘It’s possible. Hatred of women, and so on. Of course, thousands
of men might have had an experience like that in boyhood, but it wouldn’t affect their subsequent behaviour in such a way. He was very damning about anything to do with sex – masturbation, prostitutes et cetera. Tendency to moralise … Oh, yes, and there was an incident around the same time where a local girl became pregnant out of wedlock and he told me she’d thought a lot of herself before but … here we are: “That took her down a peg or two, she couldn’t hold her head up after that, with everybody talking …” He seemed to take a good deal of pleasure in remembering that. And he said his sisters – four of them, and one brother – were always bossing him about and he didn’t like it … Afraid of his father, told me he had a violent temper, very critical, bullied him … He said he’d had recourse to prostitutes while he was in the forces … difficulty with intercourse during the first two or three years of marriage. Said they’d stopped having sexual relations by mutual consent about two and a half to three years ago—’
‘Around the time of Davies’s trial.’
‘Yes, I suppose that would be right. Both disappointed in not having children. He’s physically quite normal in terms of his development. He spoke about all this quite freely – unlike his discussion of the murders. However, I ought to point out that what he says seems to depend on who he’s talking to. I was told this morning that he’s been quite happy to talk about the case with the other prisoners. In fact, one of the warders overheard him boasting that he’d … where is it? Oh, yes, that he’d “done twelve of them”. Those are his words, of course.’
‘Twelve?’ echoed Stratton.
‘I shouldn’t read too much into that. Probably just an attempt to impress. He’s very conscious of his status – how other people view him. The other possibility, of course, is that he’s beginning to form the idea of a defence of insanity. So, the more the merrier, as they say – or madder, in this case. If that’s what he’s doing, it’s possible that he may confess to the murder of Muriel Davies in order to bolster it, although none of the staff or – so far as I’m
aware – the other prisoners, have heard him mention her or the baby.’
‘So you
don’t
think he killed them?’ asked Stratton, rumpling his hair in frustration.
‘As I said, it’s hard to tell. The confession – if he makes one – may be entirely genuine.’
Stratton sighed. He knew it wasn’t worth asking for anything more definite, because he wasn’t going to get it. ‘Do you think he’s insane?’
‘No, I don’t. The psychologist appointed by the defence may, of course, have other ideas, but in my opinion he’s sane. Highly abnormal, certainly, but not suffering from mental disease.’
‘I suppose that’s something to be grateful for,’ Stratton told Ballard at the end of the day, when they were comparing notes.
‘Yes, sir …’ Glancing at his wristwatch, the sergeant added, ‘If you don’t mind my saying, you look as though you could do with a drink.’
‘I don’t mind at all,’ said Stratton, gratefully. ‘But I’m buying. Come on.’
By unspoken consent, they headed for the Three Crowns, known to be favoured by policemen and therefore not too popular with villains, and found a quiet corner.
‘We ought to get results with that lot,’ said Ballard, once they were settled with their pints. ‘All those samples …’
‘Ballard?’
‘Sir?’
‘Would you mind if we talked about something else?’
‘Of course, sir. Anything in particular?’
Stratton shook his head. ‘Just anything that isn’t
this
.’
‘There’s always football, sir.
We
,’ Ballard grinned, ‘are doing rather well at the moment.’
Stratton pulled a face. ‘Perhaps not such a good choice of subject.’ Ballard had a lot more reason to be cheerful than Stratton, whose
team, Tottenham Hotspur, had not been enjoying nearly so much success. ‘Why do you support Arsenal, anyway?’ he asked. ‘You live in Putney.’
‘I grew up near there – the Holloway Road, up towards Archway. My dad used to take me to matches when I was a nipper. Haven’t been for a while, though,’ he said wistfully. ‘Being so far away doesn’t help.’
‘I had an idea you came from south of the river.’
‘Heavens, no. That’s the missus. I’d have preferred to stay north – doesn’t feel like proper London, somehow, being across the river – but Pauline likes it, being close to her family. My father-in-law’s a Chelsea supporter, always giving me stick … What about you, sir? You grew up in Devon.’
Stratton, detecting a faint undertone of accusation – the suspicion that he might have done the unthinkable and turned his back on a boyhood, and therefore formative, allegiance – said hastily, ‘I wasn’t really interested as a kid. The local team wasn’t up to much, and I didn’t play beyond the odd kick around. Other things to do in the country, I suppose, and my dad had us all helping on the farm as soon as we could walk. When I was courting Jenny her dad invited me along to White Hart Lane – I think it was his way of showing his approval – and I enjoyed it, so,’ he shrugged, ‘I carried on going.’