Thorn (18 page)

It was now ten o'clock, an hour when most people might be expected to be about their lawful occasions, and he reached for the phone and dialled Interflora. Flowers might not be original, but they were an honourable tradition on these occasions. He thought out an appropriate note to go with the flowers, and dictated it to the helpful florist.

‘Thank you for a memorable evening, Thalia' – would she guess at the irony that had guided his pen on that, and smile the curving cat smile? ‘May we meet again soon? My work commitments are cluttering up the next few days, but I will try to telephone you towards the weekend. Dan.'

He asked for it to be read back, gave his credit card number, and rang off, wondering if florists ever questioned the stories that lay behind messages accompanying flower deliveries. There was surely a huge potential for blackmail in floristry. Perhaps they all had to sign a Florists' Official Secrets Act.

But he felt better for having sent the flowers and the note, because honour had been satisfied on both sides, and without insincerity.

P
erversely it was Imogen's defiant threat to cry ‘rape' that convinced Leo.

He stared down at her and felt the fear raying out from her mind, but he felt the determination as well. He thought again that she knew something she was not admitting to. And she's no more mad than I am, thought Leo suddenly. Or if she is, it's time I retired from psychiatry.

After a moment, he said softly, ‘You're blackmailing me.'

Her head came up and she stared at him. ‘Yes. If you don't help me, I'll swear you tried to rape me. I really will.' She held his gaze and Leo's conviction that she was sane strengthened. ‘Well?' said Imogen. ‘Will you do it?'

Beneath the hardness, Leo caught a flicker of something frightened and something vulnerable, but something that was fiercely sure of itself. He thought quickly. It was impossible to leave her here while he went for help, and it was equally impossible to get hold of any kind of medication to subdue her. Physical force was unthinkable; Leo did not stop to examine why. In any case, she seemed quite calm and sensible.

He said, slowly, ‘You're very sure about this, aren't you?'

Those words that Quincy had overheard, repeated in Quincy's immature voice but still conveying a deep, deep hatred . . . ‘
She's not dead, Edmund . . . The bitch who would have let her daughter supplant you is buried alive
. . .' My mother is buried alive, thought Imogen. And Thalia is somehow responsible. None of it could be spoken. She simply said, ‘Yes, I'm very sure.'

Leo thought quickly. If I stick my neck out on this one, will I be branded as a greater charlatan than I already am? Oh, what the hell. He said abruptly, ‘All right. Come with me. There's a phone box outside the cemetery.'

‘A phone box?'

‘The first thing to do is ring the coroner,' said Leo. ‘It's lucky for you I know him.' He looked down at her. ‘If we're going to do it at all, we've got to do it properly, Imogen. Even I can't go digging up a grave in the middle of the night. You'd better be prepared for a bit of company.'

The coroner, whose name was Frisby, took some persuading. In the end, Leo, who was reasonably familiar with the law on exhumations, put forward the most unanswerable argument of all. Disturbance of the grave, he said into the phone. There was clear evidence that something was wrong. He stopped, as if fearful of being overheard, and when Frisby spoke again his voice had sharpened. ‘Disturbance?'

Leo looked at Imogen, who was listening closely. I'm risking a hell of a lot for you, Imogen. I don't give a damn what you accuse me of, but I'm going out on a very thin limb indeed here.

He said into the phone, ‘Yes, disturbance. No, I can't be more specific. All right then, I won't be more specific. Will you come out right away? Can you set it up for us to take a look at once?'

‘Oh, blast you, Leo, why do you have to get mixed up in these freakish things?' said the annoyed voice on the other end of the line. ‘Yes, all right, I will set it up. You know perfectly well that I'll have to. No, it's all right, I can do it, but you'll have to give me about half an hour. Say three-quarters to be on the safe side. Listen, while you're waiting, get on to the local police. Ask for Inspector Mackenzie if he's available, and mention my name. That'll save us a bit of time. Do you know who the undertaker was? No, of course you can't be expected to . . . No, it's all right, I'll ring the cemetery manager from here. He'll know.'

Frisby arrived more or less at the same time as the cemetery manager; Frisby was resigned and the cemetery manager was irritable. The small brick building that comprised the office was unlocked, and heaters were switched on. Somebody set a kettle to boil for instant coffee.

The cemetery manager telephoned the rector, and Leo, watching Imogen and only half listening, heard phrases like ‘faculty from the diocese' and ‘Home Office licence'. My God, he thought suddenly, I'm going to look the worst fool in Christendom if I've misjudged this. Yes, but I'd rather look a fool than risk ignoring it and finding out afterwards that Imogen was right and the rest of us were wrong. But I don't think that's going to happen; I think she is right, I think she's found something out, and because of it she knows her mother was alive when they buried her yesterday. Nearly thirty-six hours ago. And if I am made to look a fool at the end of it, it won't be the first time. He did not much mind whether he looked a fool anyway.

Dr John Shilling was in a pitiable condition. He sat docilely enough in the car speeding from Hampstead police station to the cemetery, but Inspector Mackenzie, who sat next to him and who had not been best pleased at being dragged out of bed at midnight on a cold November morning, saw how his hands were restless and how twitchy he was.

The entire thing was enough to make anyone twitchy, of course; it was as bizarre a tale as Mackenzie had ever encountered. You came across odd things in life – fifteen years in the police and ten of those in the Met taught you that – but on balance he had yet to come across anything odder than this. He did not believe it, but the call had apparently come from a medical gentleman and therefore could not be ignored. It would not have been ignored whoever it had come from but the inspector was bound to say that on an occasion like this you'd take a bit more notice of a doctor than of anyone else.

It was unfortunate that there had been some delay before setting out, but it had been unavoidable. Several people had had to be traced and routed out, and it had all taken time. Mr Frisby, who was the coroner, was apparently on his way to the cemetery with the necessary authority, but there had been Huxtable the undertaker, who would be needed for identification of the coffin, and also Dr Shilling who was the family GP. Huxtable had been reached easily enough, and after a slight altercation had agreed to meet Mackenzie and Frisby at the cemetery, but Dr Shilling, instead of behaving like a normal GP who should be accustomed to being woken in the middle of the night, had apparently gone to pieces and would not believe what was being suggested. In the end Mackenzie had solved the matter by simply driving out to Shilling's house and collecting him.

The inspector thought it sad and rather shaming to see someone in John Shilling's state. The man's eyes were bloodshot and his face was grey. He did not look as if he had slept for several nights, and there was a frowsty smell about him. It was the smell Mackenzie associated with alcoholics; their breath became tainted with stale alcohol in the way that habitual garlic-eaters' breath became tainted with garlic, and they either forgot or could not be bothered to wash and put on clean clothes. He was familiar with it, but he still thought it sad, and he thought it particularly sad to see a medical man in that condition, although it would be his guess that Shilling had only just got going on that particular path. But if Dr Sterne was right, John Shilling might well be setting off on an even worse journey than alcoholism.

Inspector Mackenzie had automatically cursed at being summarily hauled out on what would almost certainly prove to be a wild goose chase, but as they approached the cemetery he felt a chill hand close about his guts. Wild goose chase or not, this was going to be nasty. He noticed that it was coming on to rain.

PC Porling was standing guard outside the cemetery gates, and quite right too. They did not want anyone to get hold of this story before they knew what was what, and before they had worked out what they were going to say about it. They most emphatically did not want the press getting hold of it. Mackenzie had a lively mind and it conjured up with ease the kind of headlines that might splash the pages of tomorrow morning's papers.

He slowed the car and wound down the window. ‘Anyone else here yet, Porling?'

‘Mr Frisby's here, sir, and also the cemetery manager, along with Mr Huxtable, the undertaker.'

‘Quite a party. Is there someone else who can stand guard here, Porling? Right, then you'd better go along to the grave and wait for us there.'

‘Yes, sir,' said PC Porling stolidly.

‘Good man.'

Frisby was waiting in the porch of the small brick office on the outskirts of the cemetery itself. He had the air of one who has crammed a sweater and jacket over his pyjamas, and the cemetery manager, whom Mackenzie knew by sight, was with him, looking irritable. Mackenzie did not blame him. He said, ‘Good evening, gentlemen. Sorry you've been called out. Nasty situation this, but it couldn't be ignored. It's probably just a mare's nest.'

‘I very much hope so,' said the cemetery manager frostily.

Frisby said, ‘If it had been anyone other than Leo Sterne who rang me, I think it probably would have been ignored, Inspector.'

Mackenzie supposed that there was a bit of the old-boy network at work here, or possibly the Masonic brotherhood. He said, ‘Where's Huxtable? Oh, there you are, sir. Good of you to come out so quickly.'

Huxtable, who was thin and dour, said something about waiting for first light. ‘Usual, you know.'

‘I know, but I don't think we dare wait in this case,' said Frisby. ‘If there's been disturbance to the grave . . .'

‘Quite.' Mackenzie thought the use of the word ‘disturbance' had a chill ring to it. He said, ‘Has anyone told the rector what's afoot? Oh, you have. Good. Is he coming out? Ah. Well, I can't say I altogether blame him. We'd better go into the office first.'

Imogen had accepted a mug of coffee and was huddling over it in the office, cupping the mug between her hands as if to draw warmth and strength and comfort from it. Warmth and light and food, thought Leo, sitting in the other chair, watching her. Three of man's most basic needs. She's a bit withdrawn. Is she panicking at what she's set in motion? Did she expect all this? Coroners and emergency Home Office licences and people dragged out of bed in the middle of the night? She's certainly not retracting anything. She's being reasonable and logical. She believes this is what has to be done, and she's staying with it. Good for you, Imogen.

The entrance of Inspector Mackenzie and Dr Shilling, with Huxtable and Frisby behind them lent an even deeper note of unreality to the situation. They're actors assembling for a play, thought Leo, and his heart gave a lurch of panic at what was ahead.

Subdued introductions were made, and there was a discreet request that Dr Sterne accompany them to the grave. They want help with the digging, thought Leo, and although he had more or less expected this he felt his heart begin to thump erratically again. But he said at once, ‘Yes, certainly I'll come with you. But Imogen must stay here. In fact she ought really to be given a sedative.'

‘Dr Shilling is her GP.' Mackenzie gestured to the blotch-faced man at his side.

Leo frowned. ‘Dear God preserve us.' John Shilling was shaking so badly now that he looked very nearly palsied. Leo looked him up and down, and then said dismissively, ‘This man couldn't prescribe an aspirin. I'll take responsibility for Imogen tonight.' And then, impatiently, ‘Shall we get on with it? I don't imagine any of us wants to delay this. Is everything all right in your department, Frisby?'

‘It is. Mr Huxtable and I have conferred. We don't like it,' said Frisby. ‘Well, you know that. But we agree to your request.'

‘Because of who you are,' said Huxtable frostily.

‘Because you found evidence of disturbance,' said Frisby softly, casting a wary glance at Imogen.

Leo nodded brusquely and turned back to Imogen. When he spoke again, Mackenzie and Frisby both looked up, startled at the change in his voice. ‘Imogen, you will stay here,' said Leo, not particularly quietly but with an unmistakable undercurrent of authority. ‘You understand that? You must stay here, and we'll be back with you very quickly indeed. Everything is all right.' He glanced round. ‘One of you had better stay with her.' His glance fell on the cemetery manager. ‘It had better be you,' he said. ‘I'm sorry, I don't know your name.'

‘Arthur Williams.'

‘Well, Arthur Williams, you stay here with Imogen. She's all right, but call me at once if she isn't. You understand? At once.'

Arrogant, thought Inspector Mackenzie. I daresay it works well enough with his patients, however, particularly the females, although it doesn't look as if this one's reacting too well. Unusual looking girl. ‘Better leave us to decide who does what, if you please, Dr Sterne,' he said with an edge to his voice.

‘Then bloody get on with it.'

Frisby said, ‘We are getting on with it, Leo. We'll need Mr Huxtable to identify the coffin, and we'll need Dr Shilling as the doctor concerned in the actual death. Well, I'm sorry about it, Doctor. Yes, I know how you must feel, but it's unavoidable.'

‘That does in fact leave Mr Williams to stay here,' put in Mackenzie. ‘Is that all right with you, Mr Williams?'