The Flesh Tailor (29 page)

‘No. It’s routine stuff. Hernias, varicose veins, that sort of thing.’

Paul noticed Fiona’s eyes flicker nervously as Trish Walton began to wander off down the passage. He saw her disappear into
one of the side rooms, emerging after a few moments with a fixed smile on her face.

At that moment a man appeared. He was small with grizzled hair and a heavily lined face. He might have been in his sixties
or maybe even older and he was wearing surgeon’s scrubs and an angry expression. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

‘If I can have your name, sir?’ said Paul with infuriating politeness.

‘This is Mr Powell,’ said Fiona quickly. ‘He uses our facilities here for his private patients.’ She turned to the surgeon.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Powell, but these policemen are here with a search warrant.’

Powell cleared his throat. ‘I take it this is connected with the death of James Dalcott?’

‘Not exactly, sir,’ said Paul, wondering how much he should give away. ‘Certain serious allegations have been made. A witness
saw what they thought was a dead body being taken from these premises and there’s been no report of any death to the Coroner.’

Powell smiled with his mouth but not with his eyes. ‘I assure you, Detective Constable, that there have been no deaths here.
When did this so-called witness see this imaginary body?’

‘A week ago, sir.’ Paul was starting to feel a little less sure of himself now.

‘This is ridiculous. May I ask who made these allegations?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, sir. If we can just have a look around …’

‘I don’t suppose I can stop you. But I insist that you don’t disturb my patients.’

‘We’d like to ask them some questions,’ Trish said firmly.

‘That’s impossible. They’re recovering from surgery and the last thing they need is an interrogation,’ Powell snapped. ‘Besides,
very few of them speak English so you’ll be wasting your time.’

As he turned on his heels and stalked off, Paul caught Trish’s eye. They had a job to do.

‘Perhaps we can start off in the office,’ said Trish. ‘All your records are on the computer, I presume?’

‘Our computers are down at the moment,’ said Fiona.

The words ‘how convenient’ popped unbidden into Paul’s head but he said nothing. Fiona’s statement had sounded casual but
the way she was clenching her hands told him that she was probably lying.

They began to walk round the hospital wing, a little unsure of what they were looking for. Paul guessed that if there had
been a death here, any evidence would have been disposed of long ago.

Powell had been telling the truth when he’d said that few of the patients spoke English and when Paul and
Trish tried to communicate they were answered by nervous stares and shakes of the head.

‘We’d like a word with Dr Welman now,’ he said to Fiona when they’d drawn a blank. ‘And then maybe the drugs trials.’

‘Very well. Dr Shallech’s on duty this afternoon. I’m sure she’ll be glad to answer your questions.’

‘A lot of Mr Powell’s patients seem to be from abroad,’ said Trish.

‘He has a lot of overseas patients,’ Fiona answered tersely before leading them down another series of brightly lit corridors
towards Dr Welman’s office.

After a brief knock Fiona opened the office door. Paul, who was standing at her shoulder, saw the doctor look up and caught
the momentary panic in the man’s eyes. When they entered the room Paul saw that he was leaning over an electric shredder,
feeding documents into its hungry jaws.

‘I’d be grateful if you stopped that, sir,’ said Paul with all the authority he could muster.

But Welman fed another sheet into the machine before he stood up, a satisfied smile on his face. ‘Just getting rid of some
old papers,’ he said calmly. ‘Nothing important.’

Paul knew from the self-satisfied expression on Welmans’ face that, if there had been any evidence of Carl Utley’s claims
about the Podingham Clinic, it had now been shredded into tiny pieces.

The search proved inconclusive but as they left Paul looked back. The man who’d been introduced to them as Mr Powell was standing
in the main hallway with Fiona Verdun. He had grabbed her by the arm and his face was close to hers. Paul couldn’t hear what
they were
saying but he didn’t have to because the body language said it all.

Gorfleet Farm was a full half mile from Tailors Court but, in the countryside, that counted as next door. The farmhouse was
four-square Victorian with a jumble of outbuildings filled with machinery and winter feed. As Rachel climbed out of the driver’s
seat she could hear cattle lowing plaintively in one of the outbuildings and the faint aroma of slurry made her wrinkle her
nose. This was a working farm just like Little Barton and as Rachel strode towards the house the familiarity of the surroundings
made her feel a little more relaxed.

A pair of border collies came rushing across the wet cobbles to greet her, tails wagging furiously. She bent to stroke them,
murmuring words of endearment, then suddenly they dashed towards the house.

Nigel Haynes had emerged from the front door with the dogs at his heels, the collar of his well-worn waxed jacket turned up
against the weather. She saw him hesitate when he saw her. Then he walked towards her, a shy smile of greeting on his face.

‘How are you, Rachel?’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve not seen you for a long time.’

‘I’ve been … I’ve been rather busy.’ She straightened her back. Down to business. ‘I’m here about those bodies that were found
at Tailors Court.’

‘Do you know how old they are yet?’ His eyes met hers and she saw that they were green flecked with brown, something she’d
forgotten till that moment.

She looked away, focusing her gaze on the dogs who were sitting obediently by their master’s side. ‘We’re still
working on that one,’ she answered, trying to sound efficient. ‘But we think one of the skeletons might be fairly recent –
say fifty or sixty years old.’

Nigel Haynes stood silent for a few moments. ‘Old Mrs Jannings was always a bit odd but I’d never have had her down as a serial
killer.’

‘We don’t really know what happened yet. I was hoping your grandmother could help us. How is she?

‘Almost back to her usual self. She had a water infection and it made her confused. At one point we feared it was Alzheimer’s.
She kept calling me John – that’s my granddad – and talking about evacuees. The War’s been on her mind a lot.’

‘I wonder if that’s because she heard about the skeleton?’

‘She might have overheard mum and dad talking about it.’

Rachel thought she could see uncertainty in Nigel’s eyes. Perhaps he was finding the encounter as uncomfortable as she was.

But then he spoke. ‘It is good to see you again, Rachel.’

‘And you,’ she heard herself saying automatically, unsure whether she actually meant it.

‘How’s life in the police? Detective Sergeant … that’s quite impressive.’

‘It’s a dogsbody really. But it’s … interesting.’

‘I’m sure. I’d better take you to see Gran. That’s what you’ve come for, after all.’

Nigel took off his mud-caked green Wellingtons and led her through a hallway lit by an unexpectedly ornate chandelier into
the small homely parlour where his grandmother was enthroned on a high armchair. There was a
half-empty mug of tea on the tripod table by her side and she appeared to be flicking through a copy of
The People’s Friend
. She was a plump woman with fluffy white hair and a determined mouth. When Rachel and Nigel entered, she looked up, alert
to the new visitor.

‘You’re Rachel, aren’t you? Stella’s girl? Our Nigel said you were coming. Come along in, lass. Sit yourself down.’

Rachel did as she was told. Somehow she’d expected Mary still to be bedridden but, with the aid of strong antibiotics, she
seemed to be back to her old sharp self.

‘We were worried about you, Gran,’ Nigel said, taking the old woman’s parchment hand.

‘Thought I was going gaga, they did.’ Mary giggled like a schoolgirl and Rachel suddenly caught a glimpse of the high-spirited
land girl; the girl Esther Jannings had described as being ‘no better than she ought to be’.

‘It’ll take more than a few germs to get rid of me,’ said the old lady defiantly. ‘Now go and put the kettle on. Get Rachel
here a nice cup of tea.’

She gave the young man an obvious wink and Rachel had an uneasy feeling that the Haynes clan were reading a hidden meaning
into her visit. Nigel was still single and, as far as they knew, so was she.

Rachel looked up and gave Nigel a shy smile. Time and shame had marred her memory of him but now he seemed thoughtful and
attractive in a solid sort of way. She only hoped that he had forgotten the toe-curling embarrassments of the past.

‘You know I joined the police, Mrs Haynes,’ she said as soon as he’d left the room. ‘I’m a detective now.’

‘Stella’s very proud, so I hear.’

Rachel forced out a smile. Her mother had never told
her that she was proud of her police career. On the contrary, Rachel had always had a nagging feeling that she rather disapproved
of her only daughter doing something so potentially dangerous and Mary’s remark came as a surprise.

She gathered her thoughts. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to ask you some questions.’

Mary’s bright blue eyes lit up. ‘I never thought I’d be helping the police with their enquiries at my age.’

‘Now, Gran, don’t you go making any confessions without a solicitor present.’

Rachel looked up. Nigel was standing in the doorway and she saw a concern in his eyes which belied his jocular tone. He was
being protective of the old lady and she found herself liking him for it.

‘You want to ask me about Tailors Court, is that right?’

‘It would really help us if you could remember, Mrs Haynes. When you were staying at Tailors Court during the war, there were
some evacuees.’

‘Oh aye. I remember the vaccies. Mrs Jannings wasn’t too pleased about having a load of kids landed on her but those days
you didn’t have much choice. You had to do your bit.’

‘Do you remember the children?’

‘Oh, let me think. There were three girls I think. Belle, Mabel and …’

‘Pat?’

‘That’s right. Pat. You’ve been doing your homework.’

‘Any boys?’

‘Now Mrs Jannings didn’t like boys much but there was one. A lad called Charlie who I always thought was a bit strange. I
heard he’d been in some dreadful air raid and
seen his family killed but people didn’t talk much about things like that in those days. All swept under the carpet it was.’

‘What do you remember about him?’

‘He was a funny little thing. He was Belle’s cousin, you know, but there didn’t seem to be much family feeling there.’

‘What about the others?’

‘Pat and Mabel were OK. Pat didn’t come till a bit later but they used to go round together … cut Belle out. Not that I can
blame them. That Belle was a spiteful little minx. Sly, if you know what I mean. Do you know, Rachel, the older I get, the
more I remember about when I was young – sometimes it seems more real than what happened last week.’ Another giggle.

‘You’ve heard about the child’s skeleton found at Tailors Court?’

‘Our Brenda mentioned something. I thought all those bones were old. I thought some archaeologist had dug ’em up.’

‘There was one skeleton that wasn’t with the others. It was a little boy, aged around nine or ten. He had a filling in his
teeth and he was buried with what we think was a wooden car.’

Mary’s hand went to her mouth and she sat for a while in silence. Rachel knew better than to interrupt her contemplations.

‘The little lad, Charlie. He just upped and vanished one day. I remember my John was a bit worried and he said we’d better
look for him. But before we had a chance Belle told us he’d gone to another billet a few miles away so we never thought any
more about it. It happened sometimes,
kids changing billets. It was a bit of a relief when she told me, to be honest.’

‘A relief ?’

‘Well, around the time Charlie went my John found a knife with blood all over it. And he saw him with blood all over his hands.’

‘Saw who?’

‘Now he was one I never fancied meeting on a dark night. They said he was all right but I had my doubts. He might have recovered
physically from Dunkirk, but I thought Esther was daft taking him on and, if you ask me, it was lucky for her that he was
killed when he was.’

‘So John saw Miles Jannings with blood on his hands?’

When Mary nodded, Rachel felt a little thrill of triumph.

Transcript of recording made by Mrs Mabel Cleary (née Fallon) – Home Counties Library Service Living History Project: Reminiscences
of a wartime evacuee.

I went to Otto’s house for tea once and met Mr Hilton, the man the Kramers were staying with. He was a retired schoolmaster
and he looked like a mad professor in a film with his wild white hair and his bow tie. He gave us squash and biscuits and
took us into rooms with more books than our public library back home.

He got one of the books down and read it to us. It was all about Tailors Court and how there’d been a murder there. In the
olden days a doctor called Simon Garchard had snatched the bodies from the churchyard and then he’d murdered a maid and chopped
up her body. He got hanged but Mr Hilton said he shouldn’t have been. I said why not if he’d been a murderer but Mr Hilton
just winked at
me and touched the side of his nose. Then he said something about things not being as they seemed. I don’t know what he meant
but after hearing that story I didn’t sleep for days. I told Belle, hoping she’d be scared, but she said it didn’t bother
her and maybe the ghost of Simon Garchard would get me and slit me open.

She said Miles had shown her and Charlie the room where it happened. Then one day she dared me to go into the room. But I
never told anyone about it. Not even Otto.

When Paul and Trish reported their findings at the Podingham Clinic Gerry felt disappointed. No solid evidence of anything
untoward had been found but they still had a dead woman in the mortuary and, even though Colin insisted that she’d died of
natural causes, there was still the question of the pen marks on the skin – and Carl Utley was willing to swear on a stack
of Bibles that he’d seen a corpse being removed from the clinic.