Embroidering Shrouds (18 page)

 

The bike was a luxury Joanna could not afford during a murder investigation when time was of the essence. And as always driving seemed to instil in her a huge impatience to
know
what had happened last Sunday in the hours of darkness.

On impulse she drove right through Leek and took the Macclesfield road, past the football club and out towards Spite Hall. She wanted to catch Bill Tylman. Somewhere in the muddled jigsaw puzzle there must be a reason for everything, even his silence on a subject she would have expected him to speak about – the discovery of Cecily Marlowe.

She didn't have long to wait, at seven forty the milk float trundled up the drive. Tylman didn't notice her at first sitting in her car. She watched him pick up two bottles of milk and disappear round the corner in the direction of Brushton Grange. She met him on the way back, a couple of empties in his hand. He started.

‘Good morning, Inspector. Didn't expect to see you here –' a pause ‘ – so early.'

She gave him a frank smile. ‘To be honest, Mr Tylman, I couldn't sleep very well, something was worrying me.'

He looked wary. ‘And what was that, Inspector?'

‘Lots of things,' she said vaguely.

Tylman waited.

‘One of them was that I just couldn't understand why you didn't mention you'd been the one who found Cecily Marlowe the morning after she was attacked.'

‘I can't keep boasting about –'

‘But you should be proud of yourself, Mr Tylman. If you hadn't found her who knows what would have happened?'

‘Lucky I was there, that's all. There weren't nothing to it.'

‘And Nan Lawrence? Not so lucky, was it? Still, we police would always prefer a body to be found earlier rather than later.'

He met her eyes steadily.

She continued conversationally. ‘By all accounts she was a difficult woman. How did
you
get on with her?'

Tylman busied himself noisily putting the bottles in the crates. ‘No worse than anyone else. I couldn't call her a friend.' His back was to her.

‘She was a bit of a gossip, wasn't she?'

‘If you're trying to imply –'

‘I'm trying to imply nothing, Mr Tylman.' Joanna laughed. ‘I'm just a nosey copper. Satisfy my curiosity a little further. Tell me, did you deliver milk to any of the other people burgled? Emily Whittaker for instance? Or Florence Price? Jane Vemo, maybe?'

‘I'd have to look in my book.'

‘Surely you'd remember the names? They were
all
victims of crime.'

He was climbing into his cab. ‘I've a big milk round, Inspector. I can't recall every single old lady on my –'

‘Check your books then, please, Mr Tylman. I'd appreciate it.'

She watched as the float trundled as fast as it could towards the main road.

She met up with Mike in the car park, his thunderous face discouraging small talk. Instead she suggested the time was ripe for a repeat call on Cecily Marlowe. Even that didn't please him, he scowled. ‘We harassed her so much last time she nearly had a nervous breakdown. She was so terrified by the attack, people said she'd lost her marbles, and now Nan Lawrence has copped it we won't get anything more out of her.'

‘We must speak to her, Mike.'

‘Well, she's not going to able to explain how her candlesticks and pension book turned up in her old mate's wardrobe.'

‘You think not?'

At the time of the burglary Cecily Marlowe had lived in an end terrace on the outskirts of the town – the same house she had inhabited from the day she had arrived as a young bride in 1942 – but from the evening she had been assaulted she had never spent another night in the place. She had flatly refused to return when due to be discharged from hospital. So Social Services had helped her to sell her home and move into a tiny, warden-patrolled flat – red brick, a solid, comforting place. Safe.

It wasn't only Mike who opposed Joanna's visit to the old woman. A stout, sensible-looking middle-aged woman with short brown hair opened the door to her and introduced herself as the warden before letting fly. ‘I do wish you'd leave her alone,' she said. ‘The poor thing was so traumatized by it. It can't do any good, raking up the past; she told you everything she knew.'

‘New evidence has come to light.'

‘What new evidence?'

‘I'm not at liberty.'

‘A load of tosh. She can't help you solve this blessed murder.'

‘I'm sorry. But I must insist.'

Still grumbling the warden led the way along a concreted passageway. ‘She's only just settling down with us.'

Joanna was stung. ‘Well, she's lucky. Nan Lawrence wasn't quite so –'

That made the warden turn around. ‘Just don't use the word lucky again. You police are such perverted people. You can't possibly think of Cecily Marlowe as fortunate. Have you seen her face? Please, don't insult her by calling her fortunate.'

‘She isn't dead,' Joanna retorted through gritted teeth.

‘She might as well be.' It was said very softly.

Without uttering another word Joanna followed the stout figure up the stairs, standing back while the warden knocked. ‘Cecily ... Cecily, it's Mavis. Can I come in?'

There was an interminable wait before the warden knocked again. ‘Cecily, Cecily, my dear.'

The door opened and the scarred face peered out.

Joanna stepped forward then. ‘I'm sorry, Mrs Marlowe, but ...'

Cecily recognized her, she gave a little squeak. ‘Why have you come?'

Mavis swivelled her head to give Joanna a sour stare. ‘I'm afraid, Cecily, dear, that the detective wants to ask you some more questions.'

Mrs Marlowe made a feeble attempt to close the door. ‘I don't want to answer any more questions. Do I have to?' It was a querulous voice.

Joanna was glad she'd left Korpanski in the car. While his effect on younger women was positive, he couldn't help but intimidate nervous septuagenarians. Ever conscious of time wasted she moved forward. ‘You do remember me, Mrs Marlowe, Detective Inspector Piercy?'

Pale eyes flickered across her face. The door swung open. ‘Ye-es, I do remember you.'

Now Joanna had a full view of the disfigured face. Criss-crossed with red lines, flesh and skin similarly puckered, one eye not quite fully open and when she blinked, the other not fully closed. Joanna struggled to keep the revulsion out of her expression. She had thought wounds healed better than this. Quicker. But more than a month later, possibly for the rest of her life, whenever Cecily Marlowe ventured out people would notice her scars first. When she shopped or went to church or anywhere else her face marked her as a victim.

Joanna felt guilty. Mournful eyes were gauging her reaction, assessing it accurately. Joanna smothered all with a quick smile.

It didn't fool Cecily. ‘You've asked me all the questions before,' she said. ‘Why have you really come?'

‘Because someone else has been attacked.'

Cecily fingered her face. ‘And does she look as pretty as me?'

Joanna had a swift vision of Nan Lawrence's wrecked features and opened her mouth to answer but it was Cecily who supplied it. ‘She's dead, isn't she? Beaten. Oh, it's all right,' she said quickly. ‘I read the newspapers.'

They were standing in a tiny kitchenette, cream Formica, a kettle, microwave oven, a couple of electric hobs. A claustrophobic little room, lit with fluorescent strips, bright enough to read reactions. Cecily Marlowe felt no grief at the death of her one-time friend. It was hard to accurately read expression on a face so distorted. It looked devious, strange, queer, then – fleetingly – shrewd.

Joanna knew she must be honest. ‘I want to know who it was that broke into your house. I want to know exactly what they said to you. I want to know why they picked you out.'

‘I've already told you.'

‘I know what you've
told
me. Bits. Now I want the whole truth.' Joanna forced her eyes to focus unflinchingly on Cecily Marlowe's eyes. ‘Who were they?'

‘How many times do I have to tell you? They wore masks.'

‘What sort of masks?'

‘Stocking masks. I told you all this.'

‘Sometimes it's stockings over their faces, sometimes balaclavas.'

‘All I know is I couldn't recognize them again.'

‘Sure about that?'

Even marred, Cecily Marlowe's face looked cunning. ‘I'm sure,' she said, steadily now. ‘I am quite sure that I wouldn't be able to stand up in a court of law and identify the people who attacked me.'

It was as learned as a catechism. ‘Wouldn't be able to identify them or wouldn't be willing?'

The old lady ignored her.

‘And they were waiting for you when you returned from your shopping?'

‘It's what I said.'

The warden opened her mouth to intervene, Cecily Marlowe shot her a swift glance.

Joanna persisted doggedly. ‘You did know them, though?'

‘No, I didn't. I didn't.'

‘How many were there?'

‘Two.'

‘Sometimes two, sometimes three. Where were they sitting?'

‘I don't know,' she wailed, ‘I was frightened, terrified. Can't you imagine?' Her hands were up to her face. The middle ring finger on the right hand was circled in red. Another suture line.

Joanna steeled herself to ignore it. ‘What accents did they have? Irish? Scottish? Local? What's the truth, Mrs Marlowe?'

‘I don't know anything. That's the truth.'

‘OK. How tall were they?'

‘Taller than you.'

‘This is sheer intimidation,' finally the warden was moved to speak, ‘bullying an old woman. I'm sure, Inspector, that you aren't supposed to interrogate frail old ladies this way.'

‘I'm simply trying to get at the facts.'

‘Which Mrs Marlowe can't remember. She was shocked, terrified out of her wits. It's probably better that she never does remember.'

‘Well, if she had and we had been able to act on the evidence it's just possible that Nan Lawrence would still be alive.'

‘What?'

The colour had drained out of Cecily's face so the scars stood out, vivid red streaks against parchment white. Her knuckles, blue white, clutched the side of the kitchen unit. ‘What did you say? You think it was the same person?'

‘It's possible. No, it's likely.'

Cecily Marlowe was shaking. ‘No. No,' she said. ‘No, not possible. Not possible.' She gathered herself quickly. ‘Tell the newspapers,' she said quickly. ‘Issue a statement. Whatever you do. Say that I saw nothing of my attackers because – because this is the truth. From the moment I walked in I saw nothing. I screwed up my eyes in terror. I saw nothing, I tell you. I heard nothing and I saw nothing. Put it in the newspapers.'

Joanna watched her hysteria with a cold detachment. Something was very wrong here and so she decided to produce her trump card. ‘Can I ask you one more question, Mrs Marlowe?'

Cecily looked wary.

‘Can you explain how your pension book and a pair of candlesticks, matching the description of the ones stolen at the time of your assault, have turned up in Nan Lawrence's wardrobe?'

Cecily Marlowe fell back against the cabinet. The warden picked her up, fussing noisily over the old woman. Joanna sighed, she knew when she was beaten.

Back in the car Mike was dozing, his head flat against the neck rest as she opened the door. He came to with a grunt. ‘Learn anything?'

‘What do you think? She may be a frail old woman but the inmates of Broadmoor aren't tougher or more stubborn. She's keeping the whole thing back. I used to think it was out of fright, now I'm not so sure. It's more like ...' She and Mike were back at the station before she finished the sentence. ‘More like', she said, ‘keeping secrets. That's what it feels like.' She opened her eyes wide. ‘It's all to do with keeping old secrets. Nan Lawrence, Cecily Marlowe, old man Patterson, young man Patterson, and the eccentric Lydia, all of them are busy keeping dusty old secrets, protecting other people. But she's frightened, she wants it put in the newspapers that she would be unable to identify her attackers because she had her eyes tight shut.'

Mike stretched his long legs out in the car. ‘That's what she says is it? So who went for Witchie Lawrence and over which particular dusty secret?'

They walked in through the double doors, straight into her office, picking up some coffee on the way. Joanna sat down behind her desk. ‘Correct me if I say anything wrong.'

Mike nodded.

‘Cecily Marlowe was attacked on Tuesday, September the seventeenth, at four o'clock in the afternoon. Right?'

Mike nodded.

‘She'd been out shopping. Her details were very vague, they changed from day to day. One thing that changed was the number of men involved in the assault. She said maybe two, maybe three. But Barra only found evidence of one, wearing blue jeans. So we stick at one. Am I still on track?'

‘So far.'

‘We initially thought her shifting story was probably due to shock, trauma, stress. Call it what you like.' Joanna's eyes were sparkling with something.

Mike waited.

‘But in actual fact shock usually does the reverse. Unless there is brain damage what you get are uninvited flashbacks. The incident is seared on to your brain, intensified, not dulled, and not removed. It seeps back into your consciousness.'

Mike listened.

‘We went back a week later. We questioned her again, and again, and again. And all the time she claimed she could not be sure of anything. Masks? Stockings? Balaclavas? How many men? She
never
said just one man. But Barra was sure, he said only one cushion was dented, one cup held traces of tea, the other, found on the table in the sitting room, of coffee. Did the other man stand? Did one drink tea, the other coffee? Was one man tidy enough to put his teacup in the sink while the other left his coffee cup on the table? No. I'll tell you what I think.
One
man was waiting for her when she returned from shopping. The other cup was hers, left over from before she'd been shopping. The one man had been sitting and watching television, it was still on when Tylman found her in the morning.
She
hadn't switched it on,
he
had. So Mrs Marlowe entered her house, with her bags of shopping and saw someone whose presence didn't worry her at all. It was someone she was used to seeing in her home. She passed the sitting-room door and put her shopping down on the table, it wasn't dropped. The man was not masked or she wouldn't have been initially so calm and unafraid; her coat was even hung up. But then something happened, things changed. He spoke, he threatened her, and then he lunged at her with a knife. And then she really did become traumatized. She cowered, terrified, beneath the kitchen table until Bill Tylman found her many hours later. This is the truth, Mike. She was so terrorized by her assailant she could not cross the six or seven steps to her front door to help and safety. She was too afraid that he would still be there. Right the way through the night she was still paralysed with fright. That, Mike, is the truth. Christian Patterson worked alone that night.'