* *
*
You are coming
under a great deal of pressure to re-arrest me. Mary Knightly's set
have made it a campaign. Georgina has phoned the local MP, Gerald
McNaughton, to ask why I was released, and Hilary has written to
you to the same effect. Everyone entering the doctor's surgery is
invited to sign a petition for more effective policing in the area,
which you take to mean that they want a result and, if not a
result, a head.
You are, I am
sure, familiar with the politics of policing. The public is
invariably more comfortable with the thought of the wrong person
being behind bars than that of having nobody there at all. It is
nonsensical, but it is human nature.
The finger
print crew have been round the house and found twenty-seven recent
female finger prints. They thought their must have been a
party.
A secret
passage has been discovered, evidently frequently used. Tom's house
dates back to the sixteenth century, so it has both a secret
passage and a priest hole. This might be how the murderer got in
and out of the house without being detected. Who would have known
about it?
It is still
puzzling the police as to why the passage is so well maintained.
That must have been Tom. What was he doing using it when so much of
his malfeasance was out in the open?
The police
have also discovered a gun. It was hidden in classic fashion behind
a loose brick in the darkest corner of the passage. What would Tom
have been wanting with a gun? Stranger still, it is a woman's gun,
a Ruger. This baffles you even further, and makes you very
crotchety.
For the hell
of it, you decide to go and interview Mary Knightly. You cannot
imagine what she could have to do with Tom's murder, but having
exhausted the most likely leads, you have decided to attend to the
least likely.
George meets
you at the door, and looks rather startled. “Good afternoon,
Inspector”
“
Good
afternoon, Sir. Is Mrs Knightly at home?”
“
Well, yes,
she is. Would you like to see her?”
“
That would
be most kind.”
George turns.
“Dear, there is the Inspector here to see you.”
Mary Knightly
appears at the door. “What a pleasant surprise, Inspector. Do come
in. We were just wandering what little tasks we should be doing
this afternoon and you have saved us the bother. George, dear,
please get the Inspector a cup of coffee.”
“
Thank you,
Madam.”
“
George's
pleasure, Inspector. He makes a very good cup of coffee with that
cartridge gadget he has. Give a man a gadget, and you have a slave
for life. Sit down, sit down.”
“
I assume
that you must have known Tom Willows a long time,
Madam.”
“
Oh years,
Inspector, absolutely years. We have both been in this village all
of our lives. We were at school together. We sang in the choir
together. Tom has been most helpful in supplying equipment for my
musical festival, and he is an excellent gardener. Will you be
attending my music festival, Inspector? You don't sing by any
chance?”
“
I used to,
Madam, but I am more into brass bands.”
“
Do you play
in a brass band, Inspector?”
“
I do, Madam.
Twice a week.”
“
I am very
partial to a brass band myself. Your band wouldn't be available for
the festival, would it? That would be something really quite
different.”
“
Well, I can
ask the lads, Madam.”
“
Please do
so, Inspector.”
“
Now, Madam,
I have a favour to ask you. You have lived in this village all of
your life, as you say. Who do you think might have killed Tom
Willows?”
“
Well, he was
a bit of a ladies' man, Inspector. There is plenty of room for
jealousy there, I would say.”
“
Any
candidates?”
“
Well, the
obvious one is Julia Blackburn. She is rather unstable, I would
say. Visiting Mary Maloney one minute, and Tom the next. I assume
that you are aware of that. Yes. It is what I call fishing with a
wide trawl. Anything and anyone.”
“
Why do you
think she would want to kill him?”
“
As I say,
jealousy. She is new to the area. She does not know our country
ways, and she probably did not know Tom's reputation when she got
involved with him. She is a strange girl. There is something most
definitely odd about her. Everyone notices her looks first. I
noticed her eyes. I would say that she is extremely vengeful. Not
one to cross. I never mean to hurt a fly, but I would be very much
more comfortable if she were behind bars. If she has not committed
a murder yet, I would be very surprised if she does not do so in
the not so distant future. Frank will come back from the pub or
fishing or something unexpectedly, and catch them in flagrante,
there will be a fight, and Julia will shoot him. Something like
that, or do you think I am being too melodramatic?”
“
It may be
too early to say.”
“
That is the
problem with crime. You only know that you were right after the
fact.”
“
Tell me
about it.”
* *
*
Chapter
10
“
Miss
Blackburn.”
“
Hello. Good
morning.”
“
Good
morning, Miss Blackburn. My name is Simon Stanley. I am the local
vicar here …..”
“
Oh, hello. I
am pleased to meet you, come in.”
“
Please call
me Simon.”
“
I am
Julia.”
“
Hello,
Julia.”
There is an
embarrassed silence while we shuffle momentarily on our respective
sofas.
“
You have
been through a terrible ordeal.”
“
Yes, it has
been an awful shock.”
“
Do you mind
talking about it?”
“
Do I mind? I
don't know. I mind talking about it to the press, especially to the
Sun. To you? No, I assume that you will give me a fairer hearing,
and be less intrusive about the more personal side of things, or at
least the physical personal side of things. I am not a church-goer,
I am afraid.”
“
Very few
people are, Julia. If I had to survive on the contents of my
collection plate, I would be half the size I am.”
This is a
self-deprecatory joke. Simon Stanley is about five foot ten and
seventeen stone.
“
I cannot
remember the last time I went to church, beyond going to weddings,
that is.”
“
Then it
cannot have been too bad.”
“
Or maybe I
was asleep.”
He smiles
passively. “You know, Julia, that I am here to listen any time you
would like to talk to me. I cannot claim to have had much
experience of life, but I am a friend, and we in the church are not
at all judgmental about whatever we hear. And we hardly even
mention God nowadays, so we do not put any pressure on you to
believe, or to pretend to believe.”
“
I do not
pretend to believe, yet maybe I do.”
“
What do you
believe in, if you do not mind me asking?”
“
I believe
that there may be a God.”
“
Good. I
believe that too. There are a few of us left.”
“
In life, or
in the church?”
“
Both. The
press suggests that the ratio is about the same, but that has not
been my experience. The people I know in the church are very
honest, questioning believers. Seekers after the truth, so to
speak. I think that is a vast improvement on the past. As you
accept the possible existence of God, do you think He is a loving
God or a judgmental one?”
“
An
accidental one.”
“
An
accidental one? How intriguing. In what way accidental?”
“
I consider
it at least a possibility that He made the world by mistake, and
then did not know what to do next.”
“
The blind
watchmaker.”
“
Yes,
something like that, although I do not know that theory in any
detail.”
“
Nor do I,
although I believe that it does not necessarily postulate the
existence of God.”
“
Yes, well
that sort of thing.”
“
Would you
say that you are a religious person, Julia?”
“
Now that is
a difficult question. Religious enough to ask questions, I suppose.
Much like everyone else. More religious than church-going,
anyway.”
“
I think that
is the right way round. Good.”
“
Other than
that, I have nothing specific to say. No burning need to discuss my
life with anyone at the moment.”
“
Well, I am
here anytime you wish to discuss anything whatsoever. Life can be
very perplexing and confusing sometimes, and we all need to talk.
And frankly, it is something of a relief for me to be able to talk
to somebody and to be free to mention God. Most people treat me
like a double-glazing salesman the minute I bring up the G-word.
Which is different from the G-spot, by the way.”
“
Simon,
vicars should not make jokes.”
“
No, I am
sorry, Julia. I should definitely not have said that.”
“
Don't worry,
Simon. I am not offended. I am just trying to give you some
guidance. Mentioning G-spots does not make you trendy. And being
trendy does not make you relevant.”
“
Thank you,
Julia. I will see you around. I look forward to our next
conversation together.”
“
Indeed,
Simon. Thank you for calling in, and for being concerned about
me.”
“
I get the
impression that you are fully capable of taking care of
yourself.”
“
Most days of
the week, yes.”
“
Goodbye. And
thank you for the tea.”
I frown.
“There wasn't any tea.”
“
Oh, whoops,
sorry. So there wasn't. Everyone also offers me tea. I just assumed
I must have had some. Sorry. By the way, this house used to be a
vicarage, but you probably know that already.”
“
Actually, I
didn't.”
“
Old Parson
Markham built it. It was the first house in the village to have
central heating. This is the first time it has left the family.
Very nice people, too. It was as sad to see them go as it has been
a pleasure to meet you. Good day.”
“
And next
time you can stay for tea.”
“
Oh don't
worry. I am not really a tea-drinker, to be honest. I am heartily
sick of the stuff, and it is always embarrassing asking people to
use their toilets. When you are doing your rounds all day, you
always have to bear that in mind. I cannot keep popping back to the
vicarage, and I am not as young and absorptive as I used to
be.”
* *
*
I went to see
the remand hearing of Harold Shipman, the GP and possibly the
world's most prolific serial killer, if you ignore the famed
executioner of the Lubyanka who bumped off more decent souls in an
afternoon, a bottle of vodka in one hand and a revolver in the
other, than the 400 or so old women that Shipman killed in three
decades of well-honed practice. If Harold Shipman had looked evil,
if he had chilled the air as he entered the room, if he had sworn
and threatened and openly abused, he would never have got past the
first ten before being stopped. It was because he had a quiet, even
gentle, air about him that he was allowed to carry on, and on, and
on. He was in the dock a few yards away from me. He was small and
humble looking. He had a bemused look on his face. He did not say a
word, and he did not react other than the way any human being would
react.
I am imagining
Dr. Berringer at Stansted Airport with his wife, Phyllis, on his
way to Spain. They have taken the courtesy bus from the long term
car park, and are entering the terminal building pushing a trolley
stacked with four cases. Jeff is looking for the screens to tell
them where to book in. It is 4:00 p.m., so a reasonably long queue
will already have formed - perhaps twenty minutes' worth - and they
have two hours to go to take-off.
Phyllis is
easily described as a rather silly woman with finicky ways and
blue-washed grey hair. According to the Hanburgh gossip (Brenda
again), when she first met Jeff, she was a nurse at the local
hospital, and he was a junior doctor. She was shy and beautiful, he
was handsome and a doctor. She lacked his class, but made up for it
in sex appeal and compliance.
She is waiting
for Jeff to tell her where to go next, and she often gives the
impression to a casual observer of meek, foolish subservience. As
ever, appearances deceive. In most aspects of life she has Jeff
wrapped around her little finger. Her demeanour hides the steely
vision of a determined social climber. She only had her beauty to
commend her, so she was going to exploit it to hitch a ride in the
lift up the social ladder. Do not think that she is ever far from
the buttons. She also knows everything about Jeff's “other life”,
and takes it in her stride as a necessary evil. Luckily his
conquests are all young girls, so he will not be bringing any
diseases home with him, which is what she is most concerned about.
She is a heavy user of Domestos. The house smells like a hospital
used to smell when they still bothered to clean them
properly.