The Discourtesy of Death (Father Anselm Novels) (7 page)

Anselm remembered using the image. It had been a favourite. Now it made him flinch. He’d made so many false pictures in the name of justice. He’d even preferred some of them to the truth. They’d been far more credible.

‘First, we’ll assume that Jennifer Henderson was murdered,’ said Mitch, warming to the game. ‘But second, we’ll suppose it wasn’t Peter who killed her. And third, we’ll suggest that the person who did is the author of this letter.’

Anselm spoke from behind arched hands. He didn’t know whether to be bored or annoyed. ‘Go on.’

‘We’ll now imagine that Peter knows this author. We’ll call him X. We’ll further imagine that Peter knows what X has done because, in a way, X did it for Peter. You see, Peter the philosopher can argue that killing is necessary – even a moral obligation – but he couldn’t actually do it himself. So he turned to someone who could. A relative. A friend. Someone who didn’t like the idea of the cancer and what it can do.’

‘What about the doctor?’

‘He didn’t like it either.’

‘So they’re agreed, all three of them? Peter, the relative or friend and the doctor?’

‘Yes.’

‘This is ridiculous.’

‘Do you mind if I finish?’

‘Sorry, carry on.’

Mitch took an injured breath: ‘Now, Peter has just brought national attention to himself by nearly killing a bairn in a Manchester bread shop. Like you say, his conscience has accused him. He’s wondering if the cancer should have been left to do its worst. But X doesn’t agree. And he’s seriously worried that Peter might fall to pieces. He might talk. Which means our killer has to kill again.’

‘This is complete nonsense.’

‘It’s what the letter might mean,’ replied Mitch, testily. ‘If this guy runs the risk of being exposed, he’ll have to act first. So what does he do? First off, he sends a letter to a well-meaning monk who’ll come running to the destitute and abandoned, because, frankly – thinks X – these otherworldly types are pretty easy to wrap around your finger. He’s confident the monk will believe whatever is written to him in confidence.’

Anselm mustered some patience. ‘I don’t see how a letter to Larkwood might silence Peter.’

‘It wouldn’t. That’s not the point. The only reason you’re drawn into the scheme is to provide an explanation for Peter’s later disappearance.’

‘
Disappearance?
’ Anselm tried to sound engaged.

‘Yes.’ Mitch was unmoved by Anselm’s tone. He’d played to many a sceptic audience. ‘Just look at the wording. There’s a flaw. It’s the insinuation of time pressure. You’ve only got “two weeks”. After that Peter Henderson walks free to end his own life. It was written to twist your Prior’s arm. To make him put you on the case. Because X wants a man like you to go searching for evidence of Jenny’s murder … because he knows it isn’t there. But it also reveals the wider game plan: what he intends to do as soon as Peter gets out of prison. For now he just wants to get you digging, knowing that all you’re going to find is evidence of a man’s unredeemed regret. Reasons to substantiate the suicide that hasn’t happened yet.’

‘And then what?’

‘When Peter Henderson goes missing and everyone wonders why, you turn up on cue with an envelope and your explanation. Short version: “His behaviour matches the allegation of murder in the letter. He threw that brick out of guilt. I got involved because I feared he might take his life out of remorse.” The Detective Inspector nods and when you’ve gone he says to his team, “We’d better have a word with the doctor.” Which they do and, as you’d expect, the doctor says, “She died of cancer. I should know.” And so they all head back to Martlesham for some instant coffee. Six months later, the police are still looking for Peter’s body and maybe a note for Timothy. But it’s Jennifer’s story all over again. There’s no murder to investigate. The file lies on a different kind of desk. Missing persons. Downgraded in importance. Everyone gets on with their lives … except for a rogue cop with scruples. But X has thought of him, too. And he’s not overly concerned. Because after some soul searching the doubter joins his colleagues in the canteen. Why? He sees the light: there’s no one to catch. Jenny’s killer went and topped himself.’

With that snappy conclusion, Mitch reached for his drink, took a mouthful and waited.

‘Completely fascinating,’ applauded Anselm, dutifully, marvelling – genuinely – at the breadth of Mitch’s imagination. ‘I’d never have been able to come out with that lot in a million years. But – no offence – we’re engaged in a serious investigation and I think we’d better stick to the notes on the page.’

‘I just played it as I saw it.’

‘Absolutely,’ affirmed Anselm. ‘But we’ve got to be practical. Frankly, it’s not that kind of case.’

The jazzman didn’t reply. He wasn’t offended. Improvising was a hit and miss activity. You put yourself on the line and sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t. Instead he suggested lunch. He was always hungry after a performance. Even a bad one.

The sausages were excellent (enthused Anselm). Home-cured pork, prime cuts. At Larkwood there was a consensus that the bulging chipolatas served on feast days contained eyelids, earlobes and nasal hair collected from makeshift abattoirs throughout East-Central Europe. A ghastly image of the production process came suddenly to Anselm’s mind and, transfixed, he dropped out of the conversation, leaving Mitch to ruminate over the death of Jennifer Henderson. When Anselm came around, the jazzman was still chewing over the same theme: why murder a paralysed woman with terminal cancer? What was in it for the killer? What was in it for the doctor? All they had to do was wait. Her death was already guaranteed.

‘What motive could they possible share?’ wondered Mitch.

His tone was disingenuous, as though he had a good idea, but Anselm didn’t favour him with the invitation to speculate. He said: ‘I appreciate that’s the question investigators always pose but in my experience people do very strange things for even stranger reasons. Best leave motive till last. For now let’s stick to the facts. Plain, boring facts.’

‘But no one’s going to give us any. You said so yourself. They’ve closed ranks.’

Anselm had already considered the matter. Perhaps it was his monastic training, but notwithstanding the acclaim set forth in the
Sunday Times
, he didn’t especially rate his own importance, let alone his abilities. If Anselm was the last resort – he’d concluded – there must have been a first one.

‘The writer of the letter believes that Jennifer Henderson was murdered. I’m inclined to think that they are not alone. My guess is that someone did, in fact, go to the police. I refuse to believe that Jennifer Henderson died without anyone raising the alarm … even timidly. So that’s where we begin … where the timid left off.’

Anselm had first met Detective Superintendent Olivia Manning at the outset of her career, an opera buff who couldn’t understand Anselm’s obsession for jazz. They exchanged CDs in the hope of finding common ground. The venture failed and, in time, they stopped meeting for coffee or lunch. Things that might have happened didn’t happen. But not just because of their differing tastes in music. Fate or chance – those goading imps who’d vied to ruin Peter Henderson – placed them on opposing sides in a string of significant trials. Trials Olivia had cared about and lost. Trials that Anselm had won. Sitting in her office on the second floor of Suffolk Constabulary HQ in Martlesham, they’d steered away from victory and defeat; and what might have been.

‘So you’re a detective, now?’ she asked, wryly.

‘I prefer “fretful explorer into the dark places of the human conscience”.’

After digesting that mouthful, Olivia’s expression seemed to quip, ‘Did you bring a compass?’ but she held back. After all, her old adversary had become a monk. He’d placed the search for truth above all else.

‘I ought to have cautioned you,’ she said, feigning regret. ‘But you know the score. Just remember anything you say from now on may, and will, be given in evidence.’

Olivia hadn’t changed much. Her hair was still short and jet black though responsibility had turned a few strands into silver. They fell from the crown like neatly trimmed piano wire. Long black eyelashes moved slowly as she spoke. Her voice was hard without being harsh.

‘You’ll be listed in Yellow Pages?’

‘No. I’ll rely on word of mouth.’

‘A public service?’

‘Yes.’

‘For those who can afford it?’

‘No, for those who can’t.’

She made a shrug, but the indifference wasn’t entirely convincing. Sensing an open door and a softening of memory, Anselm spoke plainly, addressing the past and the future: ‘This time I want to do something completely different. I don’t want to shift evidence around trying to make a pretty picture. I want to get it absolutely right … even if no one likes what they see. This time the client is the situation. I’m no longer taking sides, not for any price.’

Anselm produced the letter. He explained its background and his thinking. He made no reference to Mitch’s fantasy that the author had tasked him to uncover evidence to support a verdict of suicide; that another murder had been planned. This was not the time for laughter, even for the purpose of completeness. The real problem with this case was not a fresh, unfolding drama, but the stale and settled history. The past had been left undisturbed for years. It had become compressed and solid. Anselm’s difficulty was to find a crack on a seemingly smooth surface.

‘I’m imagining that back then someone approached the police. Since they’ve never made any public declaration, I’m guessing they wanted an off-the-record meeting. I’m hoping they had an irrational distrust of junior detectives and came to someone senior. Someone with the power to act behind the scenes. Someone who shut the case down because there was no evidence of any crime.’

Olivia’s stern face slowly relaxed and, for a moment, Anselm thought they were in a wine bar near the Old Bailey. They’d just exchanged confidences, shyly:
Tosca
by Puccini for
Lady in Satin
by Billie Holiday; different takes on love and dying. Things hadn’t quite worked out. It had been difficult explaining why because a murder trial had lain between them. This time, the vibes felt promising. Olivia couldn’t quite suppress her amusement. She, too, had been warmed by the remembrance of wanting to be understood and to understand, recalling, too, the unexpected disappointment. And now, when the shape of their lives had changed beyond recognition, they were moving in the same direction.

‘I know who wrote the letter,’ she said, smiling.

Had there been a wine bar in Martlesham, they might have gone there to reclaim even more of the past; to toast (perhaps) a strange and unforeseen fulfilment. Instead, Olivia made tea. She’d always had a passion for tea, keeping in her locker a private stock of mysterious blends from Asia and the Orient. Her interest bordered on the religious. She’d tasted aspects of revelation.

‘A couple of years back I got a phone call from a man who wanted to see me on “a matter of some delicacy”.’ Olivia used two fingers to open and close the quotation marks. ‘They didn’t want to talk on the phone so I suggested they come here for a meeting.’

‘Who was it?’

‘Nigel Goodwin.’

The first name meant nothing to Anselm and his face said so.

‘Jennifer Henderson’s uncle,’ explained Olivia. ‘The brother of Michael, her father. Estranged brother, I should say. Turned out they hadn’t seen each other for years. There’d been some sort of dispute or breakdown in the past that had never been resolved. Your territory, I imagine, not mine.’

‘Then why come to you?’

‘He was also Jennifer Henderson’s godfather. She’d died three days earlier. He wanted to know if the police had the power to request a post-mortem examination notwithstanding the existence of a death certificate. Whether it could be done without the consent of the immediate family. Whether it could be done secretly.’

‘No, no and no,’ replied Anselm with a flourish, though not entirely sure about questions one and two. He reflected for a moment. ‘A
post-mortem
?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he say why?’

‘No.’

‘A solicitor could have answered his question. Why come to you?’

‘He wanted to make an allegation without making an allegation. To report a crime without naming a crime. He was distressed. As was his wife. I got the impression she had something to say … that she wanted to interrupt and give her point of view. But she just sat there, letting her husband do the talking. He’s a man who’s used to running the show.’

Anselm drank some Gorreana, a tea from the Azores. Olivia had branched out from the mysteries of the East; she’d looked closer to home for enlightenment. The thought came to Anselm like a welcome distraction, because in this desperate meeting between godfather and police officer lay the first and last opportunity to obtain concrete evidence of any crime before the burial of Jennifer’s body. It would have been there … faint abrasions on the neck, a chemical in the blood … however it was done, there’d have been some signs of forensic significance; and those indicators would—

‘You can’t act on this kind of thing,’ she said, quietly, following Anselm’s thoughts. ‘He had a suspicion … but it was based on nothing he was prepared to reveal. He wasn’t even involved with the Henderson family. He was a stranger to everything that had happened after Jennifer’s accident. I sensed he was kicking himself for not having sorted out the problem with his brother.’

‘As if that might have made a difference?’

‘Perhaps.’

Anselm placed his cup on the edge of Olivia’s desk. As with
Tosca
, he couldn’t see what the fuss was about. Perhaps his palette lacked refinement. That’s what Olivia had managed to say when Anselm had given back the recording. He’d lost the booklet that had come with the box. Worse, a killer had been acquitted earlier that afternoon. He’d shaken Anselm’s hand afterwards and asked if he could have one of the autopsy photographs.

‘He should have spoken up while he had the chance,’ continued Olivia, trying to reach the brooding monk; she’d lost him, suddenly, and felt the separation. ‘If he’d said something specific before the burial, I could have responded appropriately. But he said nothing. And he’s saying nothing now. He came to me in secret and now he’s come to you in secret. But behind all this is a simple, tragic, all too human story. It often happens when people enter retirement. They look for something to do. Something meaningful. And Nigel Goodwin … he’s a distant uncle who feels he let his niece down. She was sick and he didn’t pull his weight. To make up for his absence while she was alive, he’s become her saviour in death. He’s lost his way.’