Requiem Mass (23 page)

It was a near-perfect recital. Fenwick wondered whether she had practised it for him or whether it was her standard interview opening.

‘To return in September, just for one performance, is still a very generous gesture.’

‘I know, but at sixteen I was awarded a music scholarship. One of the founding governors had left a bequest sufficient to finance an annual endowment, and I never looked back.’

‘What prompted Miss Johnstone to contact you, do you think? Did you keep in touch? Were you friends?’

‘Well no, not really, not since school. We weren’t really close, and I hadn’t seen her since I left – well, only once or twice at weddings of mutual friends, that sort of thing. I suppose she was egged on by others on the organising committee, someone else’s idea that she followed through. That would be typical of Kate, being put upon by friends, being embarrassed into compliance.’

‘And you did say yes. When did you let her know the good news?’

‘Last week. I rang the school personally first but they
couldn’t find her. Someone took a message. Then I wrote a few days ago. More coffee?’

It was a rich, dark complex blend, an embodiment of the hostess.

‘Was that a hand-written letter or typed?’

‘No, handwritten. I felt it ought to be a personal response to a personal request, a letter from my agent would have been all wrong, and there were no fees involved.’

‘Could I see an example of your handwriting and envelopes? I just need to check for our records.’

‘But surely you have the letter by now?’

‘I’m not sure. We need to check. A sample, please.’

She was gone no more than a minute and returned with a stationery box and address book which she handed without a word to Fenwick. The leather-bound book was full of addresses in a neat, stylised calligraphy that matched that of the envelope photocopy in Fenwick’s pocket. The stationery in the box was of heavy, expensive, cream paper, the same as the envelope that was probably being examined by forensics at that moment. He removed the photocopy from his pocket.

‘Is this the envelope in which you sent her your letter?’

‘Yes. I remember the stamp – an old Christmas one I had left over from the last time I was in the UK. But you should know that if you have the letter.’

‘I’m afraid we only have the envelope. The letter’s missing. Perhaps you could tell me what it said.’

There had been nothing remarkable in the letter, just confirmation of the engagement and good wishes. Octavia Anderson speculated for a few minutes on the fact of the missing correspondence but dismissed it lightly. Nothing she could tell Fenwick produced any insight as to why it was missing and she appeared genuinely unconcerned by its loss. She happily handed over handwriting and paper samples from her supply for comparison, smiling as Fenwick delicately placed them in thin plastic bags.

‘Two things before I leave you in peace, Miss Anderson. They may seem odd but we really are looking into everything.
Firstly, your writing – is it used in any publicity? Is there anyway in which someone seeing the envelope would know it was from you?’

‘Hardly. I rarely write letters and only to close friends. My signature has been used on programmes and such like but never my writing.

‘It’s very distinctive.’

‘A sign of very strict schooling as a young child. I had a fearsome teacher for writing and spelling. Believe it or not, I had mastered that script by the age of ten – and had the bruises to show for it! Early training like that never goes. Even when I was teased at senior school, I never changed.’

‘That brings me on to my second point. This may seem an odd question but did anything strange happen whilst you were at school together? Anything that might – however remotely – have a connection with Katherine Johnstone’s death?’

The warmth went from her face. Cool grey eyes looked straight into his without blinking.

‘You’re right. That is an odd question. I can think of nothing out of the ordinary at all. We were boringly conventional – we didn’t even smoke in secret because of the voice training. Now, Chief Inspector, if you have no more questions, I have another appointment shortly.’ He was being politely dismissed.

It was only as he was walking briskly back to Victoria that a new explanation for the missing letter hit him. Supposing it had suggested a meeting, a time, and that Katherine Johnstone had been killed whilst she waited for her appointment. It would explain why the letter could not be found. It would also make Octavia Anderson a prime suspect and he had not asked her where she had been last Thursday night. Another point for Cooper to check. 

CHAPTER TWENTY

Monday dawned slate grey and wet with a summer storm bringing a return of the unseasonably miserable weather. In homes all over Harlden, children whined over designer cereals, mothers snapped with little provocation at yet another day of damp washing, and policemen and -women donned wet-weather gear in preparation for whatever else the day would throw at them. Katherine Johnstone’s murder was still the main case. A few leads had come in as a result of local radio appeals, but they merely confirmed that a yellow-caped cyclist had been seen in Harlden and had disappeared into the town’s small multistorey car park. No one had seen him leave, no bike had been found abandoned. The common theory in the police team involved a car and a foldaway cycle. An even commoner theory was that the case was already growing cold. But there was still forensics. More reports on the envelope, the murder scene and response to a few detailed questions of Fenwick’s were due that day.

Cooper had been astounded to receive a call from Fenwick on Sunday evening instructing him to review the latest reports himself and to follow up on any necessary actions as Fenwick would be out mid-morning until lunchtime. The behaviour was reminiscent of the DCI’s withdrawal during his wife’s illness and when Cooper woke gritty-eyed from a disturbed night, he immediately took the gusting, heavy rain as a metaphor of failure for the case.

Fenwick did not wake to the morning; he had lain rigidly
awake all night, unable even to find a sleep of exhaustion. He had accepted his mother’s insistent demands to go with her to the doctor. As a father, he could do nothing less – as a policeman the decision ate into him like acid. There was no excuse for it professionally. He knew the case was in trouble, that the reports, due within hours, presented the last real chance for a lead to develop. And time mattered. The colder the trail the more difficult it would be for them to follow. There had been no breaks on the case. They were working steadily on routine, detailed policework in the hope that something would turn up. The search for the bike and murder weapon included local streams and rivers; they were checking back even further over known offenders’ reports in case there were any similarities, reviewing unsolved cases, completing and cross-checking the interviews with family and friends in the hope of a connection somewhere.

But his son was seriously ill. Throughout the interminable, rain-soaked night, Fenwick replayed in his mind the six blighted years of his marriage, tracing them to this point. He had been a confirmed bachelor when he had met, been overwhelmed by and married Monique, all within four months. His friends, father (then still alive) and mother had all doubted his wisdom but there was no contradicting the fundamental and wonderful love he had felt for the woman. She held him spellbound in a way none of his many previous girlfriends ever had. Half French, dark-haired, black-eyed, with pure white and rose skin, she held a concentration of sensuality in her tall slender body that he had become obsessed with.

He’d had no need for children, maintaining his characteristic self-sufficiency in all respects but his love for his beautiful young wife. But Monique had been fixated with the idea of motherhood, so desperate he had no power to resist. He had been sure, too, that she would be a wonderful mother, she had so much passion and love for life. She fell pregnant on their short honeymoon and Bess was born, traumatically eight months later by Caesarean. Monique plunged immediately into a deep depression which took over six months of careful treatment to cure. Twelve months later Christopher’s birth triggered a second,
worse attack from which she never fully recovered.

At first Fenwick had had faith – not in any God but in the love that he and Monique felt for one another. After the second birth though it became impossible to pretend that she was well and the reason for a complete silence about her side of the family was explained. Eventually she admitted that she came from a long line of sufferers from what she chose to call ‘
la méloncolie
’. Her own doctor in the UK was more grave.

All her abnormal behaviour was directed at herself, not the children, nor Andrew, whom she increasingly ignored. Her first suicide attempt was almost laughably pathetic. She put her head in the gas oven but forgot to turn on the tap, but Andrew had taken it seriously and they had made some progress towards normality until she became pregnant by accident for the third time and miscarried.

Her second suicide attempt, with razors in the bath, was almost successful, prevented only by an alert neighbour who spotted Bess crying incessantly in the garden and banging on the door to be let in. They had wanted to institutionalise her then but he had refused to give up on his wife. From that point, Fenwick put aside all pretence of work and spent his time at home on extended leave. His care increased, the medication increased, more and more specialists examined his wife but she had slipped further away every day.

He was at home for the third attempt. She had knotted together a number of his ties and created a noose which she attached to the ceiling light fitting that hung above the central well of the staircase in their two-storey house. He had been making porridge for his breakfast and a cup of tea to take up to his wife. He could remember vividly the sights and smells of the kitchen. Bess being good and eating Rice Krispies in her grown-up chair, Christopher playing his favourite breakfast time game of flicking crumbs into Bess’s bowl, the porridge burping like molten lava as it simmered.

He had just turned off the gas. The hiss of the jets disappeared, the children were both miraculously quiet at the same
moment so an unnatural silence had fallen on to the room. Into the silence had dropped a swishing sound, like a curtain being drawn, followed by a mucous gurgling and retching. His first thought had been that Monique had made it downstairs on her own and had been taken ill. So certain had he been that he’d run out of the kitchen and into the downstairs bathroom before his subconscious finally alerted him to what his eyes had seen but his mind had refused to accept.

He ran to the bottom of their stairs, his wife’s bare feet were kicking weakly in the air whilst her hands twitched. He wasted precious seconds trying to reach her and take the weight before realising she was too far from the ground. He ran, stumbling up the stairs, tripping on the loose rod on the corner step, falling heavily on his right knee in the process.

Afterwards, in the nightmares that came every night for weeks, he would remember the tiniest details. She was naked, not uncommon, she had started taking her clothes off at odd moments and walking round the house but she had shaved her legs and painted her toenails. She was wearing every piece of jewellery she owned – the earrings attached as ghastly pendants to dozens of assorted necklaces, her fingers encrusted with rings of all types. It was probably the necklaces that delayed her suffocation. The knot had slipped so that despite the drop, her neck hadn’t broken. He suspected that she must have let herself down gently as a jump over the height of their stairwell would have killed her instantly.

At the top of the stairs he used his umbrella to drag her body close and over the banister, but then it took her needlework shears to sever the noose. Her eyes were glassy and set but she was still warm and until moments before he had heard her struggling to breathe. His training took over immediately. He checked her carotid artery at the corner of her jaw – there was no pulse; her pupils were dilated and didn’t react; she wasn’t breathing. He started cardiac massage, pausing every five pumps to blow new air into her lungs. Time ceased to exist. At some point, shortly before he was about to deliver a sharp blow below her sternum, he checked her pulse again to find it
had returned. Then his life became a continuous cycle of resuscitation.

There were no sounds from the kitchen. The last thing he had shouted as he ran out was for the children to ‘stay there’. Neither of them had appeared on the stairs; they were used to obeying his strange instructions when their mother was out of bed. His mind went through a rapid routine to identify the nearest phone. It was downstairs in the hall; the mobile was in the car.

He checked his wife’s vital signs. Her eyes remained unfocused; she appeared not to breathe when he paused. He needed help. The nurse wasn’t due for another three-quarters of an hour – he could not go on that long.

‘Bess!’ Deep breath, blow out. ‘Bess, come here.’ Breathe, deep breath, don’t forget to keep the head tilted. His right arm started to cramp. ‘Bess!’ he almost sobbed in desperation but could not afford the breath.

‘Yes, Daddy?’ A little whisper crept up the stairs to him.

‘Bess, can you hear me?’

‘Yes. Can I come up?’

‘No! No, stay where you are but listen to me carefully.’ Breathe deeply, blow out, breathe again.

‘Yes? Daddy, I can’t hear you.’ Bess’s voice was a whimper. He could tell she wanted to come up, wanted a cuddle but he was afraid the sight of her mother would panic her.

‘Bess, be good. I need you to use the telephone for me.’ Breathe, blow out, pause, short breath, breathe, blow out.

‘I want you to pick it up and find the 9 – you know 9, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I know right up to one hundred now.’

Breathe, blow out, short breath, pause, breathe, blow out.

‘Good girl. You’re to pick up the handset, like when you talk to Nanny, and push the 9 three times – 999.’ Breathe, blow out, short breath, pause. ‘Can you do that?’