Murder of a Dead Man (32 page)

The young doctor ushered Trevor and Peter into the cubicle where Brian Marks was lying on the trolley he’d been brought in on. His skin was waxy and he was trembling. His eyes, dull and glazed, remained unfocused although he turned towards them.

‘Is there anyone we can send for, Mr Marks?’

Trevor asked.

‘No one. I live quite alone…’ his voice faded to a whisper.

‘What about your nephew in America?’ Peter suggested.

‘It will be over before he could get here.’

‘We could telephone him.’

‘No.’ Brian Marks’s reply was final.

‘We’ve been looking for you,’ Peter said. ‘One of our colleagues went to the States to interview your nephew, Laurence Marks, in connection with a case involving murder and arson. As a result of that interview, we have reason to believe that both the murder and the arson attack were carried out by one Adam Weaver, who was represented by your firm when he was charged and convicted of murdering his wife. We now also know, that courtesy of your nephew’s surgical skill, Weaver is wearing the face of one Anthony George, now deceased and also an ex-client of yours. Would you like to tell us what you know about these crimes and Adam Weaver’s current whereabouts? However if you do so, I have to caution you that anything you say…’

‘It’s too late for a caution.’ Brian Marks closed his eyes. If it hadn’t been for the slight movement of the blanket covering his chest, Trevor would have believed him already dead.

‘Would you please tell us, sir, why you arranged for Adam Weaver to receive another man’s face in a transplant operation?’ Peter pressed.

‘I didn’t. Laurence did. He told me about it afterwards. By then it was too late.’

‘Too late?’ Peter moved closer to the trolley so he wouldn’t miss a word.

‘Laurence thought I’d be pleased. That I’d take Weaver to Emma…’

‘Who’s Emma?’ Peter interrupted.

‘Anthony George’s mother. Laurence knew I loved her. But she was already…’ his voice tailed off as his eyelids flickered.

‘Dead?’ Trevor prompted.

The old man moved his head slightly. ‘I told Laurence he was mad. He could never have fooled a mother about her own child.’ Marks’s voice was growing frailer, feebler by the second.

‘Did you arrange Adam Weaver’s escape from prison?’

‘No. I didn’t know anything about it until it was all over.
Fait accompli
. Laurence –’ the old man’s eyes clouded with death. ‘He would never have admitted it, but he was afraid the transplant wouldn’t take. I blame myself for not going to the police when Laurence first offered me Anthony George. Lazarus returning from the dead to comfort his dying mother…’ a bubble of bloody froth burst on the old man’s lips. ‘It was preposterous…’ Brian Marks gripped the sleeve of Trevor’s coat. ‘I thought no one would believe me. And Laurence wouldn’t tell me what he’d done with Adam Weaver afterwards.’

‘Did you know that Adam Weaver was wearing Anthony George’s face when I interviewed you in your office?’ Peter demanded.

‘I suspected Laurence had killed him. I had no idea he had set him free…’ Marks’s voice was so low, Peter and Trevor had to bend their heads to hear what he was saying. ‘I didn’t think he’d kill again, but I should have known…’ the old man’s eyes closed again.

‘What should you have known?’ Peter urged.

‘I saw the photographs of what he’d done to his wife. All those people dead and I’m to blame because I kept silent.’ Brian Marks’s grip on Trevor’s coat tightened. He sat up suddenly; his eyes no longer dull, but burning feverishly. ‘He swore he was innocent in court and I believed him.

There are plenty of innocent people in our prisons.

We all know that.’

‘More than is generally realised,’ Trevor agreed in an attempt to soothe the old man as he lowered him gently back on to the trolley.

‘Adam Weaver said he would do anything to get out of prison and prove his innocence. And he did, didn’t he? He exchanged his face for a dead man’s. He said – he said –’ The effort proved too much, Marks sank down on the trolley, his hand swung heavily at the side. A nurse, who’d been hovering nearby, stepped closer. She picked up his hand and laid it on his chest.

‘We’re moving him to the ward now.’

‘Can we stay with him?’ Trevor asked.

‘I’ll check with the doctor, but you’ll be wasting your time.’ She blotted the bubble of frothy blood from Marks’s lips with a tissue. ‘The end is very close. I doubt he’ll come around again.’

Anna opened her eyes and sensed something was wrong. She stretched out her hand to find the other half of the mattress empty and cold. Had Adam gone without saying goodbye? Heart pounding, she slid out of the bed, switched on the light and checked the clock. Half past three in the morning.

Slipping on her dressing gown and holding it closed with her bandaged thumb she checked the bathroom. It was empty. Shivering, uncertain whether she wanted Adam to be in the house or not, she went downstairs. The curtains were closed and the light was switched on.

Adam was sitting at the table, his back towards her, a pen in his hand and a pad of notepaper in front of him. He turned, and she gasped. He’d cropped his hair to within half an inch of his scalp, with her nail scissors, judging by the unevenness of the cut. He’d bleached the remains with the peroxide she used on her own hair. He’d applied a tan make-up to give his face colour and painted a credible scar down his left cheek, using a mixture of clear and red nail varnish.

An actors’ trick they’d been taught in college.

‘I tried not to wake you. I’ve taken five pounds from your purse. I left an IOU. I’ve no idea when I’ll be able to pay you back.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’ She’d noticed her sharpest kitchen knife lying on the table next to him.

It was the one she used for slicing frozen food. He picked it up and she shrank instinctively towards the door.

‘I made toast. Do you want some?’

Walking backwards, she shook her head as she crashed her spine painfully into the newel post at the bottom of the stairs.

He gestured to the notepad. ‘I’m writing a letter to Hannah.’ He turned back towards her, his hand closed lightly around the knife. ‘You’ll post it for me?’

‘Of course.’ She began to retreat up the stairs.

‘Anna…’

‘I have to go to the bathroom.’ She turned and raced up the last few steps; diving into the room, she closed and bolted the door. Sitting on the edge of the bath she stared at the flimsy bolt, wondering how long it would hold if Adam Weaver applied his shoulder to the door. Not long at all.

‘Damn Brian Marks for pegging out before telling us the whole story,’ Peter complained, as he and Trevor stepped out of the entrance to the casualty department.

‘I don’t think there was much more. I doubt he saw Weaver after he left prison.’

‘You’re probably right. But where does that leave us now?’

‘Where we were this morning. Nothing’s changed except we know a little more.’

‘Like?’

‘Like the guilt an old man carried around with him for keeping his mouth shut.’

‘Has it occurred to you that Philip Matthews and those kids who fried in that old factory might still be alive if Brian Marks had come to us when he found out what his nephew had done to Weaver?’

‘Yes. But the thought doesn’t bring us any closer to finding him.’

‘No, but it does bring us nearer to Blanche Davies.’

‘You reckon she knows something?’

‘She knew Brian Marks fairly well.’

Trevor glanced at his watch. ‘It’s four in the morning. We can hardly go banging on her door at this hour. I’m for bed, even it is only for an hour or two. Want to come back for a nightcap? If you have one too many, the spare bed is made up.’

‘I wish I could say I’ve somewhere better to go to but, seeing as I haven’t, thanks.’

‘You two look as though you’ve had a night on the tiles,’ Dan commented, when Trevor and Peter strolled into the office bleary-eyed at nine o’clock.

‘A night in the hospital more like. We found Brian Marks,’ Peter sat behind Trevor’s desk.

‘What was he doing there?’

‘Being a patient – attempted suicide.’

‘Why didn’t you contact me?’ Dan walked around Anna’s desk, where Sarah was working on the computer.

‘There wasn’t time. He very inconsiderately died soon after we found him.’

‘Then it wasn’t attempted suicide. It was successful,’ Dan countered.

‘He was still alive when we first saw him.’

‘It was paracetamol poisoning,’ Trevor interrupted. Peter in a pedantic mood was more than even he could take. ‘But we did talk to him and he corroborated everything Laurence Marks told you about transplanting Anthony George’s face on to Adam Weaver. He blamed himself for not coming to us sooner.’

‘As well he might,’ Dan declared.

‘But none of that gives us a day off from playing “Hunt the Weaver”,’ Peter moaned.

‘I’ve every available man looking, and I see no reason why you two shouldn’t join them,’ Dan helped himself to water from the cooler. ‘Either of you heard from Anna?’

‘No, why?’ Peter looked at him in concern.

‘She isn’t answering her landline or mobile.

Could she be staying with friends?’

‘No one I know anything about,’ Peter answered.

‘I’ll send a car round there.’ Dan picked up the phone.

‘Don’t bother with a car. Trevor and I will call in on our way to see Blanche Davies.’ Peter rose from his chair.

‘Haven’t you and Anna already interviewed her?’

‘That was before Brian Marks died.’

‘Marks was her solicitor too, wasn’t he?’

‘And very good friend,’ Peter confirmed.

‘Don’t get side-tracked. Upstairs is complaining about the cost of this investigation. If we don’t come up with Weaver in the next twenty-four hours, they’re cutting our manpower.’

‘There’s a chance that Blanche Davies might think of someone from Weaver’s past who may be sheltering him,’ Trevor said hopefully.

‘I haven’t come up with a single lead that hasn’t already been checked out clear.’ Sarah pressed a button on the computer, and set the printer spewing out paper.

Trevor picked up the first sheet. ‘If Weaver had a friend to fall back on, you think he would have gone to them in the first place, rather than rough it on the streets.’

‘I feel sorry for Weaver in a way,’ Sarah said absently, as she tapped into a search programme.

‘He was a good-looking fellow. It must have been a shock when the bandages came off and he saw an ordinary face staring back at him.’

‘You’re still not entirely convinced that Weaver is our killer, are you, Trevor?’ Dan dropped the file he’d been studying on to Trevor’s desk.

‘I don’t think the facts add up.’

‘Why the hell are you trying to complicate an open-and-shut case?’ Peter demanded irritably.

‘You’re as bad as Anna.’

‘Just trying to get at the truth.’

‘Don’t. It confuses the investigation and makes for more work. Let’s look for Weaver, find him, charge him, and get back to normal.’

‘What’s your idea of normal, Peter?’ Dan smiled.

‘Unfortunately for me, it’s the celibate life of a monk,’ he replied, winking at Sarah.

‘Monks don’t tend to drink as much as you.’

‘I didn’t say which religion I followed. Come on, Trevor. Anna’s first then Blanche Davies.’

‘Her curtains are closed,’ Trevor observed as he drew up outside Anna’s house.

‘That doesn’t mean anything. She often keeps them closed so the neighbours can’t see the mess in her living room.’

‘Then you have ventured into the lady’s den.’

‘Once.’

Trevor winced as Peter banged the passenger door shut. He watched him walk to the front door and ring the bell. Peter pressed it six times, each time more impatiently, but to no avail. Eventually Trevor switched on the ignition and touched the button to lower his window.

‘Like the inspector said, she could be away.’

‘Without telling anyone at the station?’ Peter walked along the front of the house and tried peering through the curtains, but there were no gaps.

He returned to the front door, and checked it was locked. ‘I’m going around the back.’

‘I’ll come with you.’ Trevor raised the window and locked the car, before following Peter around the house. He found him staring at a bloody hand-print on the glass panel of the back door. Trevor glanced down. Red footprints ran in a cartoon trail up the garden path. A pair of bloody garden shears lay discarded in the middle of the lawn. The prints ended abruptly before a four-foot fence that marked the boundary between Anna’s small garden and the woods behind.

Peter pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket.

Wrapping it around his fingers he depressed the handle of the back door. It opened and swung inwards.

‘Anna!’ It was the first time Trevor had heard fear in Peter’s voice.

She was lying face down on the vinyl floor, wedged between a row of kitchen units and the table. Her right arm was folded beneath her head.

The black hilt of a carving knife protruded from the crook of her elbow. Her short blonde hair was stained crimson, soaked by the blood that had formed puddles on the brown and white chequer pattern.

Peter backed out through the door. Trevor could hear him vomiting into the drain as he crouched to lay his fingers on Anna’s neck – where a pulse would have throbbed, if she’d been alive.

‘Weaver’s fingerprints are all over this place, Superintendent,’ the forensic scientist who greeted Bill Mulcahy when he parked outside Anna’s house looked like a pantomime snowman in his white hooded suit, mask, gloves and boots. ‘We found them in the living room, the bathroom, the bedroom.

Even under the stairs.’

‘Anything else?’ Mulcahy demanded.

‘Semen stains on the sheets on her bed. We’ll have DNA for you later.’ The man pushed a box of bagged items, including bedding, into the back of his van.

‘The bastard raped her!’ Excluded from the crime area by the forensic team, Peter leaned against Trevor’s car. Trevor had wanted to drive Peter back to the office but Peter categorically refused to leave.