Mabel’s memories made for easy reading. The fact that they had been transcribed from the spoken word somehow made the prose
more vivid. As Wesley turned the pages he almost felt that Mabel was there sitting opposite him, telling her story.
He made a mental note of the characters in the little
drama. The pale and sickly Mrs Jannings, the rather sinister and possibly damaged Miles, Mary the pretty, vivacious land girl,
the other evacuees – Belle and Charlie – and an assortment of people who lived round about including Otto Kramer, the son
of a Jewish refugee.
He’d reached the final sheet of paper and when he’d finished reading he felt disappointed. As Sandra had said, the transcripts
weren’t yet complete: there was, as yet, no mention of a Pat and, far from revealing the identity of the victim or the killer,
the last page proved to be about the Kramers who had taken refuge in the village, their presence having created quite a furore.
Although this was interesting from a sociological point of view, it wasn’t really what Wesley had hoped to find. He’d hoped
for a clue to the identity of the boy’s bones. But, over his years in CID, he’d come to learn that vital evidence doesn’t
often come so easily.
There was a mention of Charlie owning a wooden car but then lots of boys would have done in those days. Charlie was a possible
victim but, on the other hand, he might still be alive and well.
There was, however, one interesting fact concerning the Kramers: Mr Hilton, the man they were staying with, was described
as a local historian and Otto had apparently taken great pleasure in teasing the children at Tailors Court with what he’d
learned about the former resident, Simon Garchard, back in the sixteenth century. It probably meant nothing, Wesley thought.
But it was interesting all the same.
But then he looked more carefully at the last page. At the foot of the paper was the first line of a new section. It began
‘One Sunday after church John Haynes came
round to fetch Mary. That was when he found the bloodstained knife.’ And then, frustratingly, the narrative stopped.
Wesley began a frantic search through the sheets, almost knocking over the tea in his agitation.
But there was nothing there. How John Haynes had found a knife and what happened next had to remain a mystery for now. Until
Mary Haynes was in a fit state to throw light on the matter.
Or her granddaughter, Nuala Johns, knew more than she’d already told him.
Even though it was only three o’clock in the afternoon, the darkness had already begun to close in. There were no lights on
at Carl Utley’s address but the neighbours who lived on the opposite side of the landing – a very young couple with a baby
and a harassed look on their plump, pasty faces – told Gerry and Rachel that it was always like that. However, they often
heard somebody moving about in there and it gave them the creeps.
Rachel thanked them and tried the door bell again but there was still no reply. She’d had the mysterious call traced but as
it was a pay as you go mobile, she was none the wiser. She just hoped Gerry’s instincts were correct and they’d got the right
man.
‘Utley’s got form for burglary and handling stolen goods, you know,’ Gerry said casually, seemingly quite unconcerned at their
lack of success. ‘Nothing recent though. Not since the incident at the Podingham Clinic clipped his wings.’
‘So what do we do now?’
Gerry looked round. ‘Do you know, Rach, I’m a bit
worried about this bloke. I mean, he’s not answering his door and something might have happened to him. I vote we look for
a way in.’
Rachel hesitated. ‘Is that wise, sir?’
‘He’s called us to report a murder and now we can’t get hold of him. Of course it’s wise.’
Without another word Gerry took out his wallet and extracted something that looked like a credit card from its leathery depths.
He grinned at Rachel. ‘Don’t worry, love. It’s only a Huntings loyalty card – out of date.’ He slipped the card down the edge
of the lock and there was a satisfying click as the door opened half an inch.
When he pushed at the door with one finger it opened silently.
‘Oh dear,’ he said theatrically. ‘He’s left his door open. Now we wouldn’t be doing our duty if we didn’t just have a quick
check round to make sure everything’s all right, would we?’
Gerry Heffernan stepped through the open doorway into the darkness and Rachel followed close behind, stepping into the unknown.
Transcript of recording made by Mrs Mabel Cleary (née Fallon) – Home Counties Library Service Living History Project: Reminiscences
of a wartime evacuee.Dr Kramer’s son, Otto, used to play with us sometimes. He and his dad were living with Mr Hilton and I think this made me
a bit jealous because I wished I had my dad there. I probably said some horrid things to Otto and called him names and if
I could see him again I’d say I was really sorry. Children can be so cruel, can’t they?Belle was much worse though. She was really nasty to Otto. But all that changed when Otto started telling his stories – the
ones about Tailors Court. He told her how it used to be called Flesh Tailor’s Court because a body snatcher had lived there.
He’d dug up bodies in the churchyard and then he’d cut them up in the attic. I told
him the stories made me feel sick but Belle didn’t care a bit. She just wanted to hear more.
Gerry tried to flick the light switch but nothing happened. It was pitch dark and the only sound he could hear was the rain
pattering on the windows.
He could see a faint glow coming from underneath the far door. It could have been from the newly lit street light outside.
But, on the other hand, it could mean that their efforts weren’t in vain. Gerry pressed on, his large form colliding every
so often with jutting items of furniture.
But slowly his eyes adjusted and he could make out the shapes that loomed out of the darkness. A hallstand laden with coats,
a vacuum cleaner and some sort of table.
All of a sudden the door at the end began to open slowly and Gerry froze. He felt Rachel touch his shoulder but he didn’t
know whether she was reassuring him or herself. Both probably.
A dark figure stood in the doorway blocking out the faint dribble of light. It was impossible to see the figure’s face but
it was tall and thin. A slight stoop gave the impression of someone elderly but if this was who Gerry thought it was, he was
only twenty-seven years old.
Gerry decided to speak first, just to get any misunderstandings out of the way. ‘Is that you, Carl? Sorry, but your door was
on the latch so when we couldn’t get a reply we took the liberty of …’
‘There’s no way I’d leave my door open. You broke in.’ The accusation sounded more weary than angry.
‘Well, anyway, we’re here now,’ the DCI said lightly, glossing over his transgressions. ‘This is DS Tracey. You
spoke to her on the phone earlier, about the Podingham Clinic. You told her you’d witnessed a murder.’
Carl Utley made no move to deny that he made the call or to acknowledge Rachel’s presence.
‘That’s why we were worried about you, Carl. Your average murderer doesn’t like being seen so he sometimes tries to get rid
of witnesses, if you see what I mean. So when there was no answer …’
Carl retreated into the far room, leaving the door wide open. Gerry and Rachel followed. The room was lit only by a single
red-shaded lamp in the corner and Carl pulled up the hood of his dark top as he sat down on a beanbag in the centre of the
floor so that his face was in shadow.
Gerry perched his large form on the edge of a sagging armchair. ‘Why did you call us, Carl?’
‘Dunno. Seemed like a good idea at the time.’
‘But now you’re not so sure?’
Carl didn’t answer.
‘Come on, Carl,’ he said quietly. ‘I think it’s time you told us everything you know.’
For a minute or two Carl said nothing. Gerry’s eyes had become accustomed to the lack of light now and he could see Rachel
standing by the door. She was swaying slightly as though she was preparing to make a quick getaway.
Then Carl’s voice broke the heavy silence. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’ The statement was followed by a split second of hesitation.
‘Well, they’d say I was trespassing but …’
‘I’m willing to turn a blind eye to a bit of trespassing, Carl,’ said Gerry. ‘I’m investigating a murder and that’s all I’m
interested in at the moment. So come on – what have you got to tell us?’
Carl turned his face away, as though he felt more comfortable holding a conversation that way. Gerry watched him, wishing
he could see his face and wondering whether the effects of the disastrous drugs trial were bad enough to murder James Dalcott
for.
Carl began talking, almost in a whisper. ‘I’ve been borrowing my dad’s van and driving to the clinic. There’s this wall that
runs all round the grounds and it’s easy to climb so there’s no problem getting in. They’ve got security lights and that near
the building but there’s lots of trees and woodland: plenty of places to hide.’
‘How often do you go?’
‘About twice a week. Sometimes in the day but mostly at night.’
‘Why?’ Rachel asked. Gerry had been about to ask the same question. He wanted to know why the place held such an attraction.
If something bad had happened to him in a place like that, he’d probably be careful to avoid it for the rest of his life.
‘Why?’ Carl’s voice sounded strained, as though the question had brought an array of uncomfortable memories bubbling to the
surface of his mind. ‘You know what happened to me there?’
‘We’ve heard you took part in a drugs trial and you had some unfortunate side effects.’
Carl stood up. ‘Unfortunate?’ he hissed at Rachel who took a step back. ‘Unfortunate? I’ll show you how “unfortunate” it was.’
He moved fast, making for the light switch by the door. When the light flicked on Gerry couldn’t help blinking with the unaccustomed
brightness. Then he looked at the figure standing still and straight by the door. The hood of
his top was now pushed back to reveal his face and Gerry’s mouth opened to let out an involuntary gasp which he managed to
stifle at the last moment.
The young man’s flesh was raw and shiny, red and mottled like salami and it looked as though it had healed badly, twisting
the features out of alignment. The watery, bloodshot eyes were half closed. Gerry couldn’t imagine what kind of test could
have left him in that state. But he knew that if he himself had been so badly disfigured, he’d have fought for generous compensation
by any means at his disposal. And he’d probably have been tempted to wreak revenge on those responsible as well.
‘You’re not saying anything. That’s how most people react. They just stare, like people watching a car crash.’
Gerry took a deep breath. ‘I hope they gave you a lot of compensation.’ It was the only thing he could think of to say.
Carl Utley snorted. ‘Compensation? You’re joking. According to them I signed something saying I took part at my own risk.
I can’t remember signing anything like that.’
‘You sure they weren’t lying?’ asked Rachel quietly.
‘They showed me a form with my signature on it and they told me it meant I had no legal claim against them if anything went
wrong. When I first went there I signed so many things and I bet it was in the small print and some of it was fucking small,
I can tell you. They gave me a grand as a “goodwill gesture” they said.’
‘I know what kind of gesture I’d have made,’ said Gerry with feeling.
‘They kept me in there – said I’d had the best private care.’
‘I’ll bet.’
‘Then when I was better and I started kicking up a bit of a fuss they said I was banned from going anywhere near the place.
They said they’d call the police.’
‘And did they?’
‘I’ve been careful not to let anyone see me. I’ve got quite good at that since …’
Even though Gerry felt for the man, his sympathy didn’t blind him to the possibility that Carl Utley was a suspect. ‘So why
do you keep going there?’
Utley shrugged. ‘I’ve got a lot of time on my hands and I keep thinking that one day they’ll make a slip-up. One day I’ll
see something that …’ He turned away.
‘You could go to the newspapers,’ said Rachel.
‘They said they’d take me to court if I did – something else that was in the small print.’
There were a few moments of heavy silence before Gerry spoke again. ‘What about Dalcott? Did you blame him for what happened?’
Carl sat down on his beanbag and appeared to consider the question for a while. ‘Dalcott gave me the injections so yeah, I
do blame him. But that doesn’t mean I killed him.’
‘But you think he was responsible?’
Carl shrugged his shoulders stiffly and sighed. ‘I did. But when I really think about it, maybe that’s just because he was
the one I saw most. I remember he was bloody worried when I started to react badly. I was a bit out of it but I’m sure I remember
someone saying they should get me to Morbay Hospital.’
‘But you didn’t go there?’
‘No. Maybe if I had …’
‘You think Dalcott stopped them sending for an ambulance?’
Carl looked confused. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Maybe it was him who wanted to send you but he was overruled. Perhaps someone higher up than Dalcott didn’t like the idea
of Morbay Hospital nosing into what the clinic was up to.’
‘I don’t know. Like I said, I was out of it.’
‘I met a Dr Shallech there. A woman – quite elderly. Retired and working there part-time.’
Carl shrugged. ‘I never met her.’
‘What about Dr Welman?’
Carl shook his head. ‘He was the one who told me I couldn’t sue them for compensation. Slimy bastard.’ He raised his hand
and Gerry noticed for the first time that he was wearing gloves. ‘And don’t forget that Dalcott was hardly whiter than white
to start with – he killed my mate’s baby.’
‘Would that mate be Adam Tey?’
‘That’s right. How did you –?’
‘He’s already been interviewed.’ Gerry knew it was time to put sympathy aside and start asking awkward questions. ‘You seem
to be pretty good at sneaking around at night without being seen. Were you in Tradington last Saturday night?’