Death Bed (27 page)

G
eraldine wasn’t deliberately avoiding her colleagues when she kept to her own office throughout the morning. The fact was, she had a mountain of work to get through. As well as updating her decision log she wanted to read through all the notes she had made talking to people in central London. William Kingsley’s BMW had been parked near Bond Street so there must be a chance the new owner of the vehicle worked or shopped in the area, a likely setting for a well-spoken, expensively-dressed man. If she cross-referenced all her notes against the statements taken by the team of uniformed officers who had been sent round the streets in central London, she might possibly come across some detail that would give them a new lead. It wasn’t as if they had anything else to go on.

It was a major task for one person to tackle alone but she decided to plough ahead regardless. Sometimes it was more efficient to look at everything by herself as that way she was more likely to notice if something didn’t fit.

She thought about her conversation with Sam. ‘They’re saying you don’t trust anyone else to do the job properly’ Sam had told her. ‘You might as well run the investigation single-handed, as you want to do everything yourself. You think everyone else is incompetent but you.’

But that wasn’t the point. Right now she had to stay busy. It helped her banish thoughts of the mother who had rejected her at birth, and who was still eluding her more than thirty years later. Scanning report after report left no space in her thoughts for anything else as she immersed herself in documents.

By early afternoon she was still re-reading statements until her head ached and she had to go to the canteen for something to eat. As soon as she sat down she saw Sam enter the room and hoped the sergeant would want to join her, but Sam didn’t respond when Geraldine smiled. Geraldine looked away and sipped at her coffee. She picked up her fork but her appetite had gone. Miserably she toyed with her pasta.

‘Mind if I join you?’ Sam asked. ‘If you can bear some company, that is.’

Geraldine looked up and smiled, waving her fork in invitation. ‘Please,’ she said gratefully.

She wanted to speak to Sam and was relieved that the sergeant had approached her first.

‘We’re alright then?’ she asked quietly when Sam had sat down.

The sergeant nodded uncertainly.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ she replied, and hesitated.

‘Thinking about the case?’ Geraldine prompted her.

‘No, about you and your mother. I think if you really want to find her, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t - ’

Geraldine interrupted her.

‘There’s something else, but I can’t talk about it here.’

She glanced around. A couple of uniformed officers were at the counter asking for tea and cake, sharing a joke with the woman who was serving them.

‘It’s too personal. I’d like to see you in my office when you’ve finished here,’ she said in a louder voice as she stood up.

‘Yes, Gov.’

‘It’s Geraldine.’

Her eyes held Sam’s for a second in a tentative smile. Then Geraldine turned and left. She was still smiling when she reached her office.

It was a lengthy task going over all the statements again and Geraldine was keen to crack on. By the time Sam knocked on her door she was already engrossed in reading.

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s me. You asked me to come and see you.’

‘Yes, of course.’

Geraldine looked up. She wanted to carry on with her work but couldn’t very well send her colleague away without speaking to her. Not after their recent misunderstanding.

‘Come on in,’ she repeated, reluctantly closing the file.

‘Sit down, Sam.’

They sat for a second without speaking. Geraldine was still mentally scanning the features of people she had seen in the shops and galleries in London.

‘Look, if this is awkward - ’

Sam stood up suddenly.

‘No, no. Sit down.’

With an effort Geraldine switched her attention to the sergeant. Finding relevant information was crucial, but getting along with her colleagues was also essential to the success of the investigation and besides, she really liked Sam Haley and hated the idea of any resentment developing between them. Briefly she told her colleague about her efforts to find her birth mother.

‘You’ll have to find her if you want to meet her. At least then you’d know if she’s prepared to have any sort of relationship with you.’

‘A relationship apart from being my mother, you mean?’

‘But she isn’t your mother, is she? Not really. She just gave birth to you. Someone else brought you up and loved you and everything. You don’t even know if your birth mother wants to have anything to do with you now.’

‘Yes, I don’t know, and that’s what’s driving me crazy because until I find her there’s always a chance she might regret having lost me. It’s possible she’s just too nervous, or embarrassed, to admit wanting to see me.’

‘She didn’t lose you,’ Sam reminded her. ‘She gave you away.’

‘She was sixteen. People change. Grow up.’

‘And if she still doesn’t want to have anything to do with you? How would you feel then?’

Geraldine shrugged.

‘Like you said, at least I’d know. If I hear it from her, then I’ll have to move on. It’s like hearing someone’s been reported missing in action. In a way it’s almost worse than knowing they’re dead, because you can’t get on with your life.’

‘I suppose.’

‘It’s exactly like that, not knowing if she’s dead to me, as a mother. I don’t know how she’d react to meeting me, and it’s the uncertainty that’s so hard to live with. It doesn’t get any easier, because I can’t shake off the feeling that if I could only meet her, face to face, she’d change her mind about wanting to know me.’

‘Even though she’s told the social workers she doesn’t want any contact with you?’

‘Yes. But imagine how frightening it might seem to her now, the thought of my confronting her after all these years. I can’t help thinking there’s a chance, if I can only speak to her, tell her I’ve forgiven her, I understand – she’s my mother, Sam - ’

‘You have to find her then. You have to ask her.’

‘You think so?’

‘Yes. You have a right to know. But don’t forget this feeling you have, that she might welcome you into her life after all this time – well, you could be completely wrong.’

‘I just feel there must be something there, some emotional tie.’

‘Don’t confuse what you want to find with the actual evidence you’ve got. All the indications are that she doesn’t want to see you. That’s all I’m saying. You don’t want to set yourself up for an even bigger disappointment.’

‘Yes, I know what you mean and I’ll be careful.’

‘Look, it’s getting late. I don’t know about you, but I’m shattered. Do you fancy a drink?’ Geraldine asked.

‘I would, but not tonight. I’m seeing Wanda.’

As Sam stood up, Geraldine felt a faint hint of envy. It wasn’t that she wanted her relationship with Sam to develop along more personal lines, but she liked Sam and enjoyed her company and she didn’t feel like being alone. Somehow it seemed more difficult than ever to meet people now she was living in London.

On a whim she phoned her sister, Celia, when she arrived home.

‘Are you busy this weekend?’

‘Busy? That’s an understatement.’

Celia reeled off a list of her plans, which included ferrying Chloe around to the shops, horse riding, and a party.

‘They’re having a disco,’ she explained. ‘Her friend’s nine years old and she’s having a disco!’

Geraldine gave a non-committal grunt.

‘How about you?’ Celia asked. ‘I suppose you’re up to your ears now, living in London.’

‘Yes,’ Geraldine lied.

‘Well, you must come and see us again soon,’ Celia replied vaguely. ‘I’ve got to dash, I’m late.’

‘Bye,’ Geraldine said, but Celia had already hung up.

Geraldine resigned herself to an early night. It wouldn’t do her any harm. Before climbing into bed she took the photograph of her mother out of the drawer and placed it carefully beside her bag, so she wouldn’t forget to take it with her in the morning.

O
n Saturday morning, Geraldine put the photograph of her mother carefully into an envelope and went into the framer’s on her way to work. Having the picture framed seemed the sensible thing to do but her hand trembled as she handed it over. She felt better when the woman behind the counter spoke confidently about framing it with protective glass.

‘You’ll be careful, won’t you?’

‘Careful?’

‘I mean, if you lose it I can’t get a replacement.’

She didn’t add that she had no other keepsakes from her mother, not even memories, nothing but that one small faded photograph.

Driving away from the framer’s she felt an overwhelming relief that her mother’s image would no longer be at risk from exposure to daylight. She would be able to look at it without fear of damaging it, display it openly on top of her bedside table instead of hiding it away in the drawer like a guilty secret, her mother’s features preserved for posterity like the characters depicted on the Grecian urn that inspired Keats’ poem she had been reminded of only the other day. She smiled, remembering how she had been intrigued by Keats’ idea when she was at school.

‘When old age shalt this generation waste, Thou shalt remain,’ she muttered to herself. And there was something about ‘She cannot fade’. Her mother’s photograph would last forever, like a work of art.

A scrap of conversation she had heard recently floated into her mind.

‘Unlike us, art is eternal.’

The words troubled her like a vaguely familiar face she couldn’t identify until, with a flash of adrenaline, she realised why they were nagging at her. A protest against the transience of life, they might reveal the strategy of a killer who clung onto his victims’ teeth and bones because they would outlast the living, just as she herself had become obsessed with preserving an image of her mother. It was only a hunch, but she couldn’t shake off the suspicion that she might have stumbled upon the killer’s insane logic.

She had to discover who had spoken to her about art being eternal. Strictly speaking, all the statements she had taken should have been transcribed and stored on the central computer in the Major Incident Room, but Geraldine had questioned some of the people in her own time and, since Sam had mentioned her reputation for preferring to do everything herself, she had been reluctant to record everything centrally. Sam’s comment had upset her more than she had admitted to herself at the time, and typing up all her notes would reveal how extensive her double-checking had actually been. As a result, she still had copious handwritten jottings in her notebook yet to be entered on the system. If she couldn’t access the expression she was looking for electronically she would have to read through all her notes to discover who had talked to her about art outlasting life.

It needed to be done quickly, but now she could do with help she felt she could hardly ask for it. The detective chief inspector might want to know why she had been questioning people in her own time outside the structure of the investigation, and more importantly, why she’d kept quiet about any information she had gathered. Of course Reg would know she hadn’t deliberately concealed anything from the team, but she had certainly failed to follow procedures strictly. She knew she hadn’t made a very good impression on the DCI and couldn’t afford to risk blotting her copybook again. In any event, in the absence of any information – let alone evidence - Reg was likely to dismiss her idea without a second thought. There was nothing else for it. She would have to conduct the search by herself. It was only a gut feeling, but her instincts had served her well in the past, and she could barely contain her excitement.

As soon as she arrived in Hendon she set to work. She remembered the words clearly but couldn’t see them anywhere on the system, so she turned to her notebooks. It took her several hours to scan through them but she still didn’t find what she was looking for. As the words referred to art she wondered if she had heard them in one of the galleries off Bond Street. It was a reasonable supposition, so she re-read her notes from that afternoon, trying to reconstruct the conversations from her brief factual notes.

She was wondering whether to return to Bond Street and retrace her footsteps in hopes of triggering a memory, when a note caught her attention.

‘3rd gallery. Owner fits description. Edward Barrington.’

She recollected the tall, suave owner of a collection of ancient artefacts. They had discussed a poem displayed in his gallery in which the poet set art above life, because art lasts forever.

‘Forever wilt thou love and she be fair.’

The poet described an image of a lover pursuing a beautiful woman on a Greek urn, the characters unchanged since antiquity, centuries after the artist had vanished without trace.

While the idea of courteous, cultured Edward Barrington as a vicious killer seemed far-fetched, Geraldine knew from experience how deceptive appearances could be. She needed to find out more about the art gallery proprietor with the soft, educated voice. Her fingers trembled as she keyed in his name and began to search.

Towards lunch time there was a knock at her door and Sam peered in.

‘What are you doing?’

‘What does it look like?’

Sam entered the room and closed the door.

‘I asked first,’ she said with a grin. ‘Oh alright, if you’re going to pull rank,’ she went on as Geraldine raised her eyebrows.

‘I was on my way to the canteen and wondered if you fancied some lunch. Or we could go out if you prefer?’

Geraldine shook her head and Sam sat down.

‘So, what are you up to then?’

Briefly Geraldine explained the conversation that had led her to suspect the art gallery owner.

‘I don’t get it.’

Sam shook her head, a puzzled frown on her face.

‘This Edward Barrington said something to you about art and you think he’s our killer? Why? Because he has a thing about art outliving the artist?’

Geraldine nodded.

‘Exactly. The killer is keeping parts of his victims – teeth, bones - ’

‘We suspect he’s removed their teeth and body parts. We don’t know he’s keeping anything,’ Sam pointed out.

‘He’s hanging onto them because he wants something of his victims to last. Everything – everyone – disappears eventually. He wants to save people from oblivion - ’

‘By killing them?’

‘By preserving something of them. Teeth. Bones. The only parts of us that don’t decay.’

‘That’s crazy,’ Sam said firmly.

‘You don’t expect this to be sane, do you?’

‘I’m sorry but all this sounds seriously weird. So, what now?’

‘I’m going to speak to the DCI. And then I think we should pay Edward Barrington a visit.’

‘But even accepting your theory that the killer’s mad, which obviously he is, I still don’t understand why you suspect this Edward Barrington all of a sudden. His name hasn’t come up at briefings. You haven’t even mentioned him before. So he made some random comment to you about poetry and life - ’

‘It was more than just a passing comment about art outlasting us when we’re dead. He had Keats’ Ode to a Grecian Urn on his wall. This is something he thinks about a lot.’

Sam looked even more baffled.

‘It’s a poem about how art is superior to life, because art lasts and life doesn’t,’ Geraldine explained.

‘You’re telling me you’ve got a feeling this man might be a killer because he reads poetry? No, I really don’t get it. There may be something weird about people who read poetry, but - ’

Geraldine interrupted her firmly.

‘It’s more than just a feeling, Sam. Edward Barrington’s interested in the idea of some part of us surviving our death. He told me he’s looking for the Grecian Urn that inspired Keats. I don’t suppose he meant that literally.’

Before Sam could say anything, Geraldine told her she had been looking into Barrington’s background.

‘His parents both died in a domestic fire when he was ten.’

Every trace of his family life had vanished in one night; the entire contents of his home, along with his mother and father. Only ten-year-old Edward Barrington had survived.

‘The terrible part of it was that he started the fire himself, trying to light a cigarette. So he was responsible for the tragedy that killed his parents. It seems he ran out of the house in a panic and his parents were trapped inside, probably looking for him. That was the conclusion of the Fire Investigation Team’s report.’

Geraldine stopped speaking and the two women sat in silence thinking about the child so violently orphaned, struggling to cope with intolerable guilt. Geraldine pictured the small boy suffering unbearable loss, desperate to cling on to whatever he could of his parents, to prevent them vanishing altogether; the child grown into a man with a macabre collection of human remains, steadfastly resisting the reality of death.

‘Forever wilt thou love and she be fair.’

‘Poor kid,’ Sam commented at last. ‘So you really think he could be killing people to keep mementos of them after they die?’

‘Something like that. Perhaps he doesn’t even intend to kill them,’ Geraldine said slowly. ‘But he lost his mother and father, and now he’s looking for a way to hold on to something that won’t disappear like they did.’

‘No, I don’t buy it.’

Sam shook her head.

‘I thought I did, but I don’t. Not as a motive for murder. It’s too weird.’

‘Well, we’re going to check it out whatever you think, so we might as well get on with it. We’re wasting time here.’

Geraldine stood up.

She was surprised that Reg Milton seemed more receptive to her theory than Sam had been.

‘It does no harm to follow it up,’ he agreed. ‘Although it will probably turn out to be another false trail.’

Registering grey circles under his eyes and an unhealthy pallor on his face, Geraldine felt a flicker of sympathy for her senior officer.