Authors: Marni Graff
Chapter Eight
“Before the murder I was grateful to live where I live, to work where I work—for all the happy facts.”
—
Rafael Yglesias,
The Murderer Next Door
1:30 PM
Detective Sergeant Douglas McAfee paced restlessly outside Bryn Wallace’s flat, waiting for the SOCOs to pack up and leave. He had barely made the height requirement for joining the force, and as such, was known for his upright posture. A young man impatient to rise up through the ranks in the Criminal Investigation Department, he discovered that the thorough, routine parts of murder investigations didn’t provide him with the stimulation he had anticipated when he set his sights on becoming a detective inspector. He would have liked to be the family officer on this case, just to experience that angle, but the job had been given to Watkins because of his seniority. McAfee consulted his watch for the fourth time in ten minutes, chastising himself for expecting the plum parts to fall into his lap. He needed to become proactive, to deliver something that advanced the investigation instead of grousing like an adolescent, if Barnes and his superiors were to take more notice of him.
He continued his pacing, this time with renewed purpose. As he paused to collect his thoughts, he saw the constable posted on the entry door allowing the postman to enter the lobby, where the man began slipping mail into the tenants’ boxes.
“You there!” he called. The postman thrust a set of letters through one of the slots. McAfee strode toward him, holding up his warrant card. The young officer had always wanted to do that.
“Let’s see what you have for Bryn Wallace,” McAfee said.
The man scrutinized McAfee’s ID, then thumbed through the stack he was holding before handing over the few items and having McAfee sign a receipt.
Now he’d clinched it, McAfee thought, labeling the evidence bag containing the victim’s mail, careful to hold it by just one corner. Inside was a general circular announcing the opening of a new day spa in Cowley, a credit card bill, and two personal letters: one of ivory, watermarked paper, the address written with an elegant hand; the other a bright, lime-green note card printed in metallic gold ink. Certainly one of these should provide a clue to someone in the victim’s life, with the added bonus of giving him something interesting to pursue in his own line of inquiry. Even if it proved a dead end, he would garner points for his initiative. McAfee smiled in silent satisfaction, industriously jotting in his notebook.
*
The Old Vicarage stood next to St. Mary’s Parish Church, circa 1500, five minutes from the town center and just down from a row of picturesque, gabled almshouses with mullioned windows that lined the path to the church. It was the site of a popular bed and breakfast owned by Susan and Anthony Ross, managed and inhabited by Janet Wallace.
It was Janet’s favorite position in a long line of work to provide support for herself and her only child, Bronwyn. As hostess she provided booking duties and checked people in, but did none of the heavy housework. Managing allowed Janet to meet people and to stay involved in the modern world, something on which she prided herself. She’d learned how to use a computer to take bookings, and with her own comfortable suite in the building provided rent-free, she had enough left from her wages to enjoy bus trips to Stratford with a local theatre group.
At the sound of the bell, Janet moved into the hall to open the door. She had the same fine facial structure as her daughter but not her height. Her feathery hair, once light brown, now sported wings of white at the crown. Her sharp brown eyes saw a police car parked outside. Janet was like a dog on alert, even as she strove to be welcoming.
“Valentine! What a wonderful surprise!” she said cheerfully, her face lighting up. “Welcome to the Old Vicarage,” she said to the two men with Val.
As a Celica pulled up behind the cruiser, Janet looked from one man to the other as they withdrew their warrant cards and introduced themselves. Her puzzlement changed to alarm when she realized her daughter was not among the unexpected guests. “What’s going on?” she whispered, her crisp look wilting.
One of the detectives gently took her arm. “Perhaps we should go inside, Mrs. Wallace,” he said.
Chapter Nine
“This is the reason why mothers are more devoted to their children than fathers; it is that they suffer more in giving them birth and are more certain that they are their own.”
—
Aristotle,
Nicomachean Ethics
2 PM
Nora was in the kitchen making tea with Simon. “The Brit’s panacea,” she told him ruefully. The room was airy and tidy, overwhelmed by a large Welsh dresser filled with stoneware and china and with a setting for one at a small table. From the sitting room, the murmur of voices had become low and soothing, Janet’s weeping controlled. Nora nodded to Simon, who carried in the full tray ahead of her. She took in the scene in front of her.
“Who would do such an unthinkable thing? She was so lovely, our Bryn, wasn’t she, Valentine?” The muscles around Janet’s neck and jaw looked tense. She clutched Val’s hand as they sat next to each other on a chintz love seat. The men sat in armchairs across from them.
The room was low slung, with an inky beamed doorway that all of the men had to duck under to enter. Wide-plank floors softly reflected a few polished tables; three armchairs covered in crewel prints shouted the Shakespearean influence in the area. A wide casement window drew the eye to a small but well-tended garden with a petite pergola crowned with wisteria vines. Nora thought it was a place of tranquility now spoiled by the devastating news.
It had become humid as the noon sun warmed the room, and Nora rose and cranked the casement open. The peppery-sweet scent of the wisteria wafted into the room on a mild breeze, accompanied by the melody of a song thrush. From a chair in the corner, Nora watched Watkins take notes as the inspector gently questioned Janet. He’d gotten through Bryn’s state of mind, her work and her friends. When he asked about Bryn’s father, there was a noticeable change in the red-eyed woman who had seemed to shrink into the sofa as the room became sultry.
“There is no Mr. Wallace, Inspector Barnes,” Janet said quietly, drawing her frame to the edge of the couch with great dignity and leaning forward. “Wallace is my maiden name. The man who fathered my daughter disappeared when she was two days old—I never knew if it was because he was disappointed the baby was a girl or just felt trapped by the responsibility.” Her voice trembled as she recounted the day she was to take her baby home, waiting for Allen Wesley to arrive.
“I was convinced he’d had an accident when he didn’t come. I called my parents, but they hadn’t heard from him. He wasn’t from around here so I had no one else to call. My father finally took us home, to the flat he’d made us over our barn.”
Her voice faltered, and she paused to take a sip of her tea. Nora’s heart turned over for her pain. Janet cleared her throat and continued.
“He’d left the baby things we’d collected and the money we’d saved and just took his clothes. I was certain he’d panicked and would be back in a few days. It took six months with no news from him for it to sink in he wasn’t ever coming back, probably a year before I admitted that to anyone else.”
The inspector nodded sympathetically. “How did you divorce?”
A blush rose on the pale face. “We weren’t married. I wanted a proper dress, not one made to disguise my pregnancy. I suppose that turned out to be a big mistake.”
Nora caught her breath. She understood Janet Wallace more than she’d ever imagined she would. At least she was having her baby in a time where it was more common for a woman to raise a child alone. She could only imagine the struggle Janet had gone through almost thirty years ago.
Janet shrugged, smiling ruefully, and her voice got stronger as she summoned the mettle it had taken her to raise her child alone without a father. “Perhaps in the end it was for the best. We didn’t really know each other well, and the pregnancy pushed us into thinking we should get married. Allen gave Bryn her long legs and dark hair. She had beautiful hair—I used to braid it when she went to sleep and all the next day she would have brown waves like a soft cloud around her face.” Janet blinked rapidly, hurrying to get her story out.
“My parents helped me raise Bronwyn while I worked in a series of town shops and then the postal office before coming here. We had a good life, I think. We all doted on her, and I managed, although it was tough at times. She was always pretty, a delightful child, but on occasion melancholy. I thought it was because she never knew her father.” Janet’s eyes misted over, and she was lost to her memories again; the room’s occupants shifted their positions, giving the mother time to compose herself.
Nora found Barnes’ eyes on her and realized her empathy was showing. She looked quickly away, struck by the intensity of his gaze. He turned to Janet, and Nora heard him gentle his tone as he continued.
“And you’ve had no contact with him, no idea where Allen Wesley is now?”
Janet shook her head. “I decided he either made a new life for himself, or he died.”
“Would you have a picture of him?” Barnes asked. There was a pause as Janet concentrated.
“I had one from when we were dating. Bryn used to keep it in her room; I guess she took it with her when she moved to Oxford.”
“Bryn had a tin she kept old photographs in; it might be in there,” Val offered.
“Right, we’ll get it and have copies made.” Barnes paused before asking: “Do either of you know if Bryn ever tried to find her father, to contact him in any way?” Both women shook their heads, but a look between Barnes and Watkins told Nora they, like she, wondered if Bryn’s father could be a part of this equation.
Nora stirred and got up to take the tea tray into the kitchen. While listening to the questioning, she had been trying to figure out who might have had a motive to kill Bryn Wallace, but she was at a loss. Surely if her father had surfaced, he would want to reconnect with his daughter. What possible reason could he have had to kill her?
Simon followed her, and as he helped her load the dishwasher in the large vicarage kitchen, she saw him notice her frown and distant expression. His own expression turned to one of dismay.
“Oh, no, I’ve seen that expression before,” he said.
“What expression?” Nora asked, eyes wide, handing him a dish towel.
“The one that says you’re getting ready to poke your nose in where it doesn’t belong,” he answered good-naturedly.
Nora was sorry she’d ever told him her mother called her a “nosey parker.” She noted he was trying not to sound stuffy, but still, she wasn’t going to let him off that easily.
“That’s absurd,” she said with more than a hint of defensiveness. “I’m not poking, I’m involved. Val is my dearest friend, and this was her love. I’m just going to try to think of anything those two detectives out there may have missed. I have no intention of trying to solve this murder.”
“You promise to leave the detecting to the professionals?”
“Of course. At least I mean to leave it to them … I’m just
thinking
—thinking can’t hurt.” Simon groaned as she rushed on. “How about a compromise? I’ll only poke about if it seems Val is a serious suspect. You’ll just have to be happy with that.”
*
When they returned to the drawing room, the inspector had finished his questioning. Watkins spoke next, suggesting Janet Wallace travel into Oxford later to the John Radcliffe Hospital to formally identify her daughter’s body that evening.
“Stay with me tonight, Janet,” Val offered. “It will be late, and you won’t be in any shape to come back by taxi.”
When the woman murmured that she didn’t want to cause any trouble, Nora stepped in. “At least overnight, Mrs. Wallace. You shouldn’t be alone. We’ll be happy to take you with us back to Oxford.”
“It’s probably the best idea,” Barnes agreed. “You’ll be required to testify at the inquest, and we might have a better idea when that will be by tomorrow.”
Both detectives expressed their condolences again to the bereaved mother, and with Val accompanying them, they left to return to Oxford.
Val had already notified Janet’s employers, who would be arriving shortly to take over her duties; they insisted she take off as much time as she needed. Not only was Janet a valued employee, but they had both known Bryn as a girl and were shocked at the news of her violent death.
“I’ll need to pack a bag,” Janet said but continued to sit.
Nora said, “No rush. Let’s take a walk through town for a few minutes, Simon. I need to get in my daily constitutional.” She raised her eyebrows in Janet’s direction, and Simon understood she wanted to give the grief-stricken woman a few moments of privacy. As they left, Janet was leafing through one of a series of photograph albums she had compiled of her only child, tracing the history of the daughter she had loved and lost.
Chapter Ten
“Death is always the same, but each man dies in his own way.”
—
Carson McCullers,
Clock Without Hands
4:30 PM
Charlie Borden was known to be punctual, in life and in the pathology lab. Therefore Declan was not surprised when, after returning Val Rogan to her flat, he got the call telling him Charlie was ready to review the postmortem with him. Declan directed Watkins to drive him to St. Aldate’s Station, where he could pick up the MGB. He left Watkins combing through the initial reports and interviews that filtered in before they were logged into the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System computer network. It was a collation of information on similar serious crimes, and Declan wondered how long it took the person who created the system’s acronym to get it to read HOLMES.
The John Radcliffe Hospital, Declan’s destination, was known locally as “the JR” and had a newly built mortuary. Every accommodation had been made in the public areas to soften the harsh reality of its purpose. But in the pathology lab, the rooms had the sterile air, tile floor, and preponderance of stainless steel that spoke of areas washed down regularly with disinfectant.
Declan was not surprised to see the postmortem advance promptly.
“All set?” Charlie asked before dictating his assessment on the external exam of Bryn Wallace. He began by noting her height and weight and the location of her wounds. His assistant helped the pathologist roll her body onto its side as he examined her back and dictated his findings, then rolled her back. “Can you grab a pint later?”
“Maybe a quick one after the formal ID,” Declan responded.
“Let’s go then.” Charlie picked up a scalpel and made the usual Y incision down Bryn Wallace’s torso.
Declan sucked hard on the strong peppermints he used to help disguise the fetid odors of death. All of the worst smells he had ever experienced merged here, mingled with the rank metallic odor he associated with blood.
Declan considered the postmortem a source of vital information and didn’t dwell on the gaping cavity and slicing of internal organs as the post advanced. He steeled himself to view the scene unfolding before him as if he were looking at a stage set. He thought it fantastical, the bright mustard yellows, blues and maroons of the body’s interior contrasting sharply against the bloodless, almost translucent, chalky skin. It was all more startling than anything a Hollywood director could hope to produce.
Charlie grunted as the assistant helped him turn the body over one last time, and after inspecting the wound between Bryn Wallace’s shoulder blades, he turned her back. Stripping off his gloves and mask, he finished dictating into the microphone suspended from the ceiling, while his assistant weighed her organs and prepared microscope slides prior to sewing the organs back inside of her. The pathologist beckoned Declan closer.
Stripping off his own mask, Declan wondered if Charlie’s beard trapped the odors of the pathology suite.
“It would appear the posterior wound was the original entry site, just below the scapula. The slight downward angle indicates a small degree of height over the victim.” Charlie indicated the area on Declan’s back. “It was made with a large, thin, pointed blade, very much like the fillet knife missing from that kitchen rack. This sliced the pulmonary artery and punctured the lung, causing massive internal hemorrhaging into the body cavity, and it was the lethal injury.”
Declan made several notes as Charlie continued.
“Two other stab wounds to the abdomen were not as deep, missing vital organs. The wounds to the dorsal aspect of the hands and arms were defensive. Here is what I surmise might have happened, and note I use ‘surmise’ and ‘might have happened’ deliberately.”
Declan nodded. Charlie couldn’t testify that this was exactly the way the murder happened, but years of experience told them it would be very close if not exact.
“The lass opens the door to someone she knows. They talk or argue, and she goes into the kitchen with the murderer following as the argument escalates. Her mistake was turning her back on someone she trusted. The knife was handy, the first wound made, and she spins around, instinctively putting her hands up across her face as the killer keeps lashing out, scoring two in the belly.” Charlie sighed. “She would lose consciousness rapidly from the first wound, and the killer seems to have run out of steam, leaving the flat with enough thought to take the knife with him.”
Or
her
, Declan thought, thinking of Val Rogan.
Charlie looked over at the well-formed slim body that had once been Bryn Wallace and shook his head. “She was a pretty one.”
Declan agreed, going back a few pages in his notebook. “Charlie, the way the body was found this morning, did it look arranged to you?”
The pathologist scratched his beard. “I wondered that earlier. There was a symmetry to the arms and legs that would be difficult to achieve in a natural fall. Oh, one other thing,” he said, consulting his own handwritten notes. “There was little external blood, except for the small slice across the radial artery, which left the spray across the cupboard and might have gotten the killer’s clothes, but not much.”
“Easily covered with a coat, then?”
“Yes, I’d say so. If the killer hid the knife in a pocket and threw a coat or jacket on, I doubt anyone passing in the street would know he’d just committed cold-blooded murder.”
Declan raised his head. “You said he? Could a woman have done this?”
“Oh, I’d say so, if she were a bit taller than the victim, and angry enough. Wallace was 177.2 centimeters and was certainly taken by surprise.”
“And stabbing is still the most common form of homicide in the UK,” the inspector added as they headed for the changing room, where he put in a call to Watkins.
“Any joy?” Declan asked, pulling off his second paper suit of the day.
“We can go over a few things from the house-to-house that bear looking into. All done at your end?”
Declan visualized his first interview with Val Rogan in the entryway of Bryn Wallace’s building. She had come up to about his chin. “Just finished. Say Watkins, how tall do you think Valentine Rogan is?”