The Winds of Change (3 page)

Brian Macalvie, divisional commander with the Devon and Cornwall police, stood with his hands in his coat pockets. Standing about were some two dozen crime scene and forensics people from Launceston police headquarters and Macalvie’s people from Exeter. Brian Macalvie, motionless and silent, had been looking down at the dead woman for a good two minutes (‘which you wouldn’t think was a long time,’ one of his forensics team had saidto a friend over a pint at the local, ‘but you just try it sometime; it’s an eternity, is what it is’).

No one standing right near Macalvie, then, was any more animated than the corpse. No one was allowed to touch anything until Macalvie was good and done. This irritated the doctor who’d been called to the scene (local and not indoctrinated to the divisional commander’s odd ways). He had made a move toward the body and had been roughly pulled back by his coat sleeve by the chief crime scene officer, Gilly Thwaite.

‘For God’s sakes,’ said the uninitiated doctor, ‘it’s a murder scene, not a funeral. I’ve got appointments.’

The others, nine or ten, squinched their eyes as if over an onslaught of headache or sun and stared at the slate-gray sky as Macalvie turned to the doctor. He was a general practitioner from Launceston, but adequate (everyone but Macalvie assumed) at least to do a preliminary examination in order to sign a death certificate. The Launceston M.D. whom Macalvie liked was unavailable.

‘Let’s at least turn her over,’ said the doctor. Then added, acerbically, ‘I think she’s done on this side.’

Gilly Thwaite made a noise in her throat. From here and there came a choked kind of laughter. Macalvie was not a fan of gallows humor.

Macalvie nodded to Gilly. ‘Go ahead.’ Gilly set up her camera, got evidence bags ready, started taking pictures.

In the ‘lovely silence’ (as he often called it, when there was some) Macalvie returned his gaze to the body. The woman appeared to be in early middle age. But appearances are deceptive and she could have been younger or older. He put her in her late thirties on one end of the age spectrum, early fifties on the other. That was a very wide divergence and it made him wonder. She was quite plain, her face free of makeup, at least as far as he could tell.

There might have been a little foundation or powder. But no eye makeup. Her hair was mushroom colored, dull, cut in a straight bob that would fall, were she upright, to just below her ears. Her suit was the color of her hair. It was well worn and not especially fashionable, perhaps a classic cut, undated, a rough tweed. Macalvie looked for another fifteen seconds and then turned to the doctor. ‘All yours.’ As the doctor grunted and stepped into the enclosure, Macalvie said, ‘And incidentally, for her, it really is a funeral.’

He then turned from the stone enclosure to look back at the big house that belonged to the Scott family, what was left of them. Macalvie remembered Declan Scott, the only one of them living there now. Declan Scott was a man who’d had enough trouble in his life: three years ago his four-year-old daughter had vanished. His wife had died not long after.

Macalvie knew Declan Scott.

The man really didn’t need a body in his garden.

4

When Jury got to New Scotland Yard the next morning, he called Brendan, rather ashamed of himself that he hadn’t done it the day before. He knew at least that it hadn’t been indifference.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ Wiggins was giving his mug of tea a thoughtful stir. Jury had declined tea, and in Wiggins’s book, that pointed to something truly dire.

‘I’ve been better.’ Jury half smiled as he punched in Brendan’s number.

‘You got a call from Dr. Nancy and one from a DI Blakeley. Over in West Central. Isn’t he part of the pedophilia unit?’

‘Right.’ Jury slumped in his chair.

‘You look kind of pale.’ Wiggins would call up every anodyne he could muster. Of late he was into herbs and crystals, of which there were myriad combinations. (Rue that’s for - What had Shakespeare said? Remembrance, maybe?) Depression, Jury was sure.

A girl answered and it was unnerving that he couldn’t identify the voice. Which daughter was it? They were no longer girls, either, but young women. One of them was the mother of that baby who’d been handed over to grandmother Sarah. Christine? No. Christabel. Lavish names his cousin had picked. ‘Is this Christabel?’

‘No. Jasmine. Chris ain’t here.’ Thick Geordie accent.

‘It’s really your dad I’d like to speak to.’

‘Whyn’t you say?’ She turned away and called for Brendan.
 

‘Yeah?’ said Brendan.

Tired of it all already. No, more defeated by it. ‘It’s Richard, Brendan. I’m so sorry. What can I do?’

‘God, man, but I’m glad you called. I’m knackered.’ Relief spilled over into tears. His words came muffled. ‘You’re coming to the funeral, right?’

‘Of course. Saturday, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah. It’s a bit longer than I’d like, but my brother’s just getting out of hospital and he’ll want to come, so we’re waiting an extra day or two. Could I ask a favor of you, man?’

‘You can. Anything.’

‘If you could just float me a wee loan-?’

‘Sure I can. I intended to take on some of the expenses anyway. So it’s not a loan; it’s me paying my share. She was the only relation I had left, you know. You shouldn’t have to bear the whole expense of the funeral.’

Wiggins (Jury saw) was listening avidly. ‘Thanks,’ said Brendan. ‘Thanks.’

‘How much do you need?’

‘Well ... I was thinking maybe two hundred?’

The man would need more than that. ‘Are you sure that’s enough?’

‘Yeah. Should be.’

‘Doesn’t sound like enough for funeral expenses. You know the way they are - ‘ Jury would just send more.

Brendan said, ‘Yeah. I dunno. Another thing - I’m worried about Dickie. This manager where he works - this punter’s giving him a hard time, as much as accused him of thievin’.’

Dickie was the child Sarah had had late, that’s all he remembered about him. ‘What’s Dickie say about that?’

‘Not much. But I’m afraid this guy’s got it in for him.’ A sigh.

‘Kids. Especially that age. He just doesn’t know where he’s headed.’

Who does?

‘You know teenagers; they’re hard to get to.’

‘I know they don’t think like adults, but why should they?’

‘Right. See, you know this; you understand this. Listen: the service is to be at three P.M. Saturday. I’ll see you before if you can get up here from London.’

‘Okay, Brendan.’ Jury said good-bye and rang off. He felt somehow defeated again. He rooted around for an envelope and found one. Then he paused. ‘Hell, I forgot to get the street address - ‘

‘I’ve got it right here.’ Wiggins twirled the Rolodex.

That’s how much you’ve kept in touch, mate. Here’s someone who’s a perfect stranger to your relations and even he has the address. You don’t. ‘Brilliant, Wiggins.’

‘It’s the funeral, is it?’

Jury nodded. ‘As you said, on Saturday.’

Wiggins nodded too, looking sorrowful. ‘I know how it feels. It’s like your life being put on hold.’

It’s more like the caller just hung up, Jury thought. ‘Did we get forensics on the little girl?’

‘Yeah.’ Wiggins passed over the report.

Jury looked at it. It confirmed what Dr. Nancy had said at the scene. There hadn’t been twelve feet between the shooter and the victim. The angle of the shot was down.

‘You’d expect that. She was only five. Small.’ Wiggins raised his hand, holding a gun of air. ‘Almost anybody would be taller than the child.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Jury pulled over a yellow pad and took a small metal ruler from the drawer of his desk. Using the criminalist’s numbers, he drew a line from 0 to 12. Then he drew another line for the trajectory. He came up with the same diagram (not that he’d expected otherwise) and started moving the gun closer: nine feet, six feet. The tattooing of the skin would be slighter the farther away. He looked at the morgue shots. Hard to say. The exit wound was larger; probably struck bone and took it along. He thought about the trajectory. He picked up the phone and called Phyllis Nancy.

‘She was sexually abused, Richard. Of course she was just too small for penetration, but there’s still a lot of inflammation. But God only knows somebody tried. Five years old. Who’d do that? And it happened more than once. Who’d do that?’ lt sounded as if the words themselves were weeping.

‘I don’t know, Phyllis. But I’m going to find out.’

Detective Inspector Johnny Blakeley headed up the pedophilia unit, but he himself was a one-man war. He found it difficult to hang about while proper procedure was put into place. He had had two near-career-ending inquiries, one because he’d roughed up a suspect and the other because he’d gone in without a search warrant. His dedication to his job was disputed by no one.

Jury remembered the five-minute answer to a question he had put to Blakeley about a case. You didn’t ask Johnny a question about pedophiles and expect brevity. And if you walked away, Johnny would still be talking.

‘These freaks really believe they’re the normal ones and we’re the abnormal. They declare their love for their little sweethearts as fervently as any Romeo. They go on and on and on representing themselves as the vanguard of enlightened love. They’re educated, cultured. If once more I get referred to Socrates and his students, I’ll drink the fucking hemlock myself. They’re all so bloody self-referential it kills me.’ The telephone got slammed against the wall. At least, that’s what it sounded like to Jury on the other end.

The phone at West Central was snatched up as if a hand had been hovering for hours just waiting; ‘Blakeley.’

‘Johnny. Richard Jury here. You called me?’

‘I did. This unidentified child, the little girl shot in Hester Street. I can’t ID her but I bet a year’s salary - no bet worth winning, clearly - I know where she came from.’

‘Go on.’ Jury yanked the yellow pad around.

‘There’s a house in that street that’s been operating for years as a haunt for pedophiles. The woman who takes care of the kids, meaning, makes sure they don’t escape - is a piece of work named Irene Murchison. You remember I was, ah, hauled over by the inspectorate on the warrant charge? Well, that’s where it happened. Murchison has as many as ten little girls - I know this from the street - ‘

(Meaning, Johnny’s snitches - he paid them a bundle, that was the word out.)

‘I tried until her solicitor slapped me with a harassment suit, which I acknowledged for a few weeks and then went back to harassing. Which got me in some trouble. Anyway, this little girl; you haven’t ID’d her, have you?’

‘No. I’ve got people working the missing children list. We might get lucky.’

‘It’d be nice, but good luck in this case seems to be out for lunch. Don’t get your hopes up.’

‘What makes you so sure about this house?’

‘Well, for one thing, the comings and goings. The men don’t live there. I stopped down the street several times and took pictures. Some days only a single client. I’m sure that’s what they’re called instead of sicko creeps. Some days one, some days six or seven. In and out, in and out. That’s for one thing. The other thing is a man named Viktor Baumann. He’s a sick creep, but he’s a rich, well-connected creep, a silky bastard. He’s a pedophile. The thing is Baumann has enough money to keep God knows how many plates in the air.’

‘And this is one of the plates?’

‘Absolutely. These men are prominent businessmen. What the hell are they doing in North London in that house?’

‘But wouldn’t that amount to probable cause?’

‘Nope. The Murchison woman is a coin collector. So are her customers. They come to buy-sell-trade. She does have a collection.’

‘You had someone pose as a visiting businessman and a collector?’

‘He didn’t get to first base. She knew something was wrong; Baumann hadn’t vetted my guy. There must be a sign they make, a password or something.’

‘Tell me about Viktor Baumann.’

‘He’s a big noise in finance in the City, that’s in addition to being a piece of filth. But I can’t touch him. There’s no evidence he actually controls this Murchison operation. But there’s another layer in all of this. In Cornwall, three years ago it happened: Baumann’s daughter, his daughter by his ex-wife, went missing. Kidnapped was what the local police thought at first, naturally. But there was never any ransom demand. There were several possible explanations, the most popular of which was that Baumann himself abducted her. Or had her taken, that is. He doesn’t do his own dirty work. The DCI who headed up this case put Baumann down as a prime suspect. The other possibilities were that some sociopath or sexual pervert grabbed her. But they couldn’t get to first base with that, either. Then there’s the possibility it was a deranged woman who’d lost a child and was pining for another one. None of these possibilities bore fruit. The kid’s still missing. She was only four.’

‘Payback? Isn’t that possible? A parent whose child this Baumann abused wanting revenge?’

‘Possible. But if Devon and Cornwall police couldn’t find anything, how could a citizen?’

‘I don’t know. Different resources, maybe. Why is Baumann their chief suspect?’