Authors: Elizabeth Corley
‘Right, well, you get on with it. I have an appointment with the Superintendent and then the press. At least I’ll be able to tell them we’re handling several lines of inquiry!’
In reality the case was going nowhere. Exactly one week to the day of Katherine Johnstone’s death they staged a televised reconstruction – more in hope than expectation. Even the weather refused to co-operate. The sun shone brightly, making the tall dark bobby on the bike sweat profusely inside his yellow cape. The response that evening and the following day was one of the lowest experienced by the TV production company.
Several callers rang in claiming to have seen a large black Honda motor bike – some said 500cc, some said 750cc – leaving the multistorey on Thursday evening. No one recalled a number plate nor any details of the rider other than he/she was wearing a black helmet with a tinted visor.
Cooper had finally got around to voicing his opinion to Fenwick that the murderer was probably an old boyfriend and he had probably swapped his pedal bike for the motorised variety. The atmosphere between the two was distinctly cool by Friday.
All Katherine Johnstone’s relatives and friends had been interviewed at least twice and tempers were starting to fray. There was no evidence of a current boy-, or for that matter, girlfriend. Two old boyfriends had been traced, both now happily married, both with water-tight alibis. Fenwick confirmed
Octavia Anderson’s whereabouts for the Thursday evening. Not water-tight, but close to it. She was being driven from her home in London to Heathrow for a 7.30 p.m. flight to Amsterdam. They were still trying to trace the driver.
On the following Wednesday, the team was slightly reduced to release resources to investigate a recent string of barn fires and to find the arsonist before more than property and livestock were torched. Fenwick had fought against the reduction without success and re-planned the team’s workload in a foul mood but with no less determination to pursue and resolve the case.
Ingemisco tanquam reus,
Culpa rubet vultus meus,
Supplicanti parce, Deus.
I lament, for I am guilty:
And I blush for my wrong-doing:
I implore Thee, Saviour, spare me.
Several weeks later Fenwick, dressed in dark grey suit and black tie, promised his mother that he would be back from Katherine Johnstone’s memorial in time to take Christopher for his fourth assessment in as many weeks.
He made a habit of attending the funerals or memorials of victims – both as a mark of respect and to observe the interaction of family, friends and acquaintances. It would not be pleasant. It never was and it would be made more uncomfortable by his distinct lack of progress.
Cooper would be there with him. The strain between the two had eased. Fenwick was genuinely optimistic that his sergeant’s hunch about a motorcycle might be correct and he was pleased that Cooper had dropped the idea of an old boyfriend.
He was now down to a team of twelve including Cooper, with a promise of immediate additional resources as soon as a new lead came up. The detectives were still hard at work – two following up the loose ends of Deborah Fearnside’s disappearance in the hope of finding a connection. One, WDC Nightingale, was almost through the list of all the old girls from 1976 to 1983, at least those she could trace.
The school term had long finished but the back rows of the church were crammed with pupils, many in school uniform as a mark of respect. Kate Johnstone had been a popular teacher. Family sat quietly in the front pews – mother, father, sister, a very elderly grandmother and various aunts, uncles and cousins. Between the two groups, more tightly packed, sat
friends, colleagues and the police.
The church was full. Delicate and beautiful flower arrangements stood on pedestals by the altar, donated by the flower arranging club to which she had belonged. Readings and speeches confirmed Fenwick’s impression of the woman as a well liked, friendly, local girl who had stayed loyal to her community and who had put a lot back in her teaching and musical work. There were no grand statements to be made. Her kindnesses and contributions had been measured out in small gestures, unremarked during her lifetime but weighty now, on her death.
The ceremony was poignant. There were a lot of flowers. Among them a cat shaped in white carnations stood out incongruously. Fenwick paid his respects to her parents and declined the invitation to the Sussex equivalent of a cold collation. He lingered at the church as the family led the group of mourners to their waiting cars.
‘I can’t actually believe she’s gone.’ Octavia Anderson came up behind his right shoulder. ‘Of all of us, she was the one in the lead – she always knew where she was going. It didn’t surprise any of us that she became a teacher, and a
good
one at that.’ There was vehemence in her tone.
‘Does anyone say she wasn’t a good teacher?’
‘Oh no. It’s just that under this government, it seems to be a profession that needs defending.’
‘Not from me. You said, a moment ago, “of all of us”, as if you knew her very well whilst you were at school. Did you?’
‘Well yes. We were quite close really. In the same gang, you know how teenage girls are – or perhaps you don’t, Chief Inspector?’
On a less attractive woman, the look she gave him would have diminished into a simper, on her it was provocative.
‘My memories of teenage girls come heavily tinged with embarrassment.’
‘At least you’re honest.’
‘Who else was in the gang?’
‘I’m not sure I can remember now, me, Kate … oh, and
Debbie. Which reminds me, I was surprised she wasn’t here today. She’d stayed very close to Kate.’
Fenwick stopped walking towards his car and looked at her closely. She appeared sincere.
‘You obviously don’t know then. Mrs Fearnside – Debbie – disappeared about three months ago. We have no idea where she is.’
‘Disappeared? My God!’ Octavia paled and stretched out a hand to a nearby tombstone to steady herself. She seemed to shrink inwards on herself, forgetting she still had an audience.
‘Debbie, too …’ Her voice was barely a murmur. ‘My God.’
‘You said, “Debbie, too”, Ms Anderson – have you reason to think there might be a connection?’
‘What? I’m sorry. What did you say?’ She still looked shaken, deeply disturbed. Fenwick took her elbow and guided her to a wooden bench to the side of the path which ran through the graveyard. He gave her time to recover.
The sun had reached its zenith during the service and cast short dark shadows at the foot of each gravestone. The inclined graves disappeared into the distant heat haze long before the eye could reach the boundary wall. This was an older part of the graveyard but still well tended with the attention to detail of small town churches everywhere. On the nearest grave a rose had been planted. In the long years it had grown there, well enriched in its soil, sporadic and inexpert prunings had taken their toll. Now it ran almost like a briar over the close green turf to the foot of the granite tombstone.
Octavia appeared calmer; some of the gloss had returned to her looks and gestures. ‘I’m sorry Mr Fenwick.’ The use of his surname sounded inappropriate from her lips. ‘It was just the shock on top of the service today.’
‘Don’t worry. And if you’re not going to call me Chief Inspector, I’d prefer Andrew.’ He was rewarded with a warm smile.
‘Do you think there might be a connection between Mrs Fearnside’s disappearance and Kate’s murder?’
Her reply was immediate. ‘No, I can’t think how there
could be one. It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘Nothing that happened to them both while you were all at school together?’
She shook her head decisively. ‘I can’t think of anything. We were just ordinary schoolgirls. It must just be a ghastly coincidence.’
They were still sitting on the bench, the sun burning into their dark mourning clothes. Around them, the churchyard hush was emphasised by constant humming from the bees. The colours that surrounded them were all greens and golds; even the stones in this part of the cemetery had weathered in the fifteen or twenty years since they had been planted in loving memory. From where they sat, no bright yellows, or pinks or reds of florist’s ribbon decorated these graves. The flowers planted in remembrance had softened and naturalised over the years.
‘Are you ready to move now?’
‘Yes, I’m fine but, Andrew, I could really do with a drink! Would you think it too forward of me to ask if you’d join me?’
There was a lot he should be doing, papers on his desk crying out for attention. But it was a beautiful day, the case was going nowhere and he was with a beautiful woman.
‘I’d like that, Miss Anderson.’
They walked together slowly towards the cast-iron gates, the sun, hot on their backs, casting a short linked shadow before them through the haze of green and gold.
Just before they reached the gates Fenwick caught a flash of red from the corner of his eye. To his left, set back from the path, one of the graves had been covered with dozens of crimson roses – placed directly on the cropped turf.
‘Good Lord, look at that!’ Even Fenwick’s normally tough and unemotional heart was touched. ‘I doubt anyone would do that for me long after I’m dead. “Carol Anne Truman”,’ he read carefully. ‘I wonder who she was – and who loved her so much that they would keep putting flowers on her grave since 1980 – that’s how many years? – nearly twenty! ‘
Dearly loved daughter of Vera and Robert, treasured niece of Alice and George
–
Requiem Aeternam.
Must be the parents – she seems to have died young.’
Fenwick became aware that he was talking to himself. After a cursory glance, Octavia Anderson had walked on towards the gates.
‘Sorry, I got side-tracked.’ He jogged to her side.
‘I’ve seen enough of graves for one day.’ She was clipped and unamused.
‘Time for that drink, then?’ Fenwick took her elbow again gently and led the way, rehearsing as he did so the manner in which he would make it clear to her that he knew she had lied to him at their first meeting.
The service had touched Detective Constable Nightingale deeply. This was her first murder and it hurt. For the first few days she had been secretly so deeply affected that she had doubted her vocation. Then the thrill of the hunt took over and the pain had turned to slow, controlled anger. She no longer doubted her choice of a police career in the least but now she despaired of being any good at it.
At the church, it had been the relatives that reached her most. The body had ceased to have a significance. She had seen the photographs, read the PM reports; the physical remains now had nothing to do with Katherine Johnstone, were only so much evidence. But the family were different. They were real people, grieving people whose few consolations included the hope that justice would be done and their daughter’s/sister’s/niece’s/friend’s/teacher’s killer would be caught and punished. The sight of a loving family, united even if it was in grief, affected her deeply. It was so strange, beyond her own personal experience.
Woman Detective Constable Nightingale was letting them down. She took it personally, this lack of progress. Immediately after the service, she returned to the incident room and read through all her notes and the main evidence files again. Hers had been the responsibility for checking on the school friends. It had been a disappointing task. She’d had hopes of Leslie Smith but the woman had been upset, defensive and simply
wanted to be left alone. The interview had revealed little – confirmation of the strong musical tradition of the school, a few harmless reminiscences, some names of classmates remembered. An ineffectual interview that hadn’t even produced an insight into Katherine Johnstone’s character.
Something was niggling Detective Constable Nightingale. She read the Smith notes again but that wasn’t it. Frustrated she made herself a coffee – the combination of instant caffeine and powdered milk was making her slightly sick, but it was a break. She stirred the muddy mixture vigorously, creating a mini whirlpool in the mug. Why was Smith so defensive? Why did she have so little to say? Why had she given no insight into Katherine Johnstone’s character?
It dawned on her what was wrong –
why
had she not been at the service? The woman appeared to be trying to create some distance between herself and Katherine Johnstone and yet there was no logical reason for this. It could just be grief or she might not be a particularly strong person. On the other hand, she could be hiding something. Nightingale decided to call on her again. She decided not to ring first, that would only alert her. She would call round on the off-chance she was in.
The door was opened promptly by Leslie Smith herself after the first ring.
‘Yes?’ She kept the heavy wooden door between her body and the policewoman.
‘Mrs Smith, I wonder if I might come in? I have a few more questions for you.’
‘Why? Haven’t I answered enough already? I’ve told your superior officer that I’m fed up with all this intrusion.’
‘It won’t take a moment, Mrs Smith; and I’m afraid it has to be today.’
The door was opened in a sulky, childish yank as Smith turned on her heel and entered the sitting room. It was left for Nightingale to close the outer door behind her.
‘Mrs Smith, how close a friend to Katherine Johnstone were you?’
‘I’ve already told you, not very.’ Her hand shook as she lit a cigarette.
‘Not now, when you were at school together.’
‘Not really close, even then. I knew her, of course, everyone did. She was one of those people – good at games, good at maths, good at everything it seemed.’