Wings over the Watcher (12 page)

“It must be someone else.”

“There is only one other potential area in her life with any possibility,” she said. “It has to be someone from the Readers’ Group. I need a list.”

“You going up the library?”

She nodded.

“I’ll come with you.”

They walked companionably up Stockwell Street. “Mike,” Joanna asked hesitantly. “You know all this business about Beattie trying to look more attractive – and everything else?”

“Yep.” He was striding ahead.

“What does it tell you, as a man?”

Korpanski stopped, turned and started laughing. “Oh it’s the old one, isn’t it? You know – woman finds man, wants to keep him. Gives them a bit of a spurt on, you know?”

“We are talking romance then. I’m not just imagining it.”

“Well – she told you as much.”

“I know.”

“So why are you doubting it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

But she did. And now she could put her finger right on it. It was the dizzy excitement. The almost maniacal joy with which Beattie had told her about her future. Her lover. There had been something…something not quite real about it. It had been more like when she, Joanna, had been a fourteen-year old leggy teenager with braces on her teeth and she had fancied the captain of the school rugby team. She had dreamed and imagined every single time he looked at her it had been with adoration, with love. Yet when she had finally plucked up courage to speak to him he had stared at her and said. Oh mortifyingly he had said, “Do I know you?”

It had been the adoration of a stranger.

Or was she simply jealous? Having watched her own joy evaporate in front of her eyes, was she now infected with
with the green-eyed monster herself, like Frances, envious of another’s simple happiness?

Possibly. Possibly. It is all possible.

There were a few different staff on at the library today.

And they were happy to give her a list of the people who belonged to the Readers’ Group.

It was to be an afternoon of telephoning.

With some success. Many of the people who had belonged to the Readers’ Group were retired. And on a fine Monday afternoon many of them were digging the garden. Joanna and Mike ticked their way down the list.

And were left with half a dozen names.

She glanced across at Mike. “I suppose there is one theory we should consider.”

“Suicide,” he said without looking up. “In a few words,” he said, “no reason, no note and you know as well as I do it’s hard to hide your own body. They almost always turn up – and quickly.”

It was almost six. If you ring people at seven, most are at home. Back from their work.

“Mike,” she said. “You go home. I’ll hang on a bit here.” She indicated a mountain of paperwork connected with the other myriad of cases they were supposed to be concentrating on. The trouble with this was it might lead somewhere. It might lead nowhere. But police time was being spent on it when there was plenty of work to be doing.

“You sure?”

“Go and play footie with your lad,” she said. “Or take them all out to a country pub for a drink and a meal.”

Why was she doing this, in her situation, painting this idyllic portrait of idealised family life. In all probability Korpanski would go home, have a few beers, go up the gym, bawl out his wife, argue with his son and daughter.

She looked up to see him eyeing her with that look of concern she hated so much.

“Don’t get married to the job, Jo,” he said softly. “It would be a bloody waste.”

And then he was gone through the door before she could think of a witty answer.

Maybe she never would.

And then, quite simply, the body was found.

Many people must have walked, driven, ridden past Beatrice Pennington’s body. Within inches. If they had breathed in the unmistakable scent of decay they had probably assumed the same as Joanna had on her peaceful cycle ride – that an animal had died and its body was slowly decomposing. If they thought anything at all.

But one hiker, a bank manager from Leek, was interested in the badger population. He had been involved in badger watching years ago when a student at Endon High School and had never lost fascination for the creatures.

So when he smelt the scent of decaying flesh he wondered whether a badger had met an unfortunate end. Curious, he pulled away the undergrowth and peered into the thick branches of hawthorn.

And saw a naked foot.

A human foot is unmistakable. It looks like no part of any other animal.

Although he recognised what it was he stared at it for long moments, feeling sick but still curious. Then slowly he backed away, sat on the opposite verge and, just as slowly, pulled a mobile phone from his rucksack.

And dialled 999.

“Police,” he said. Then he was sick.

Within ten minutes two police cars arrived. And in the first them sat Joanna Piercy and Korpanski, together with four other officers.

Joanna’s heart sank as she stared down at the partially clothed body. Beatrice Pennington lay on her side, one arm outstretched. Her legs were bare, the skirt of her dress pulled down modestly over her knees, the bodice hardly disarranged. Joanna touched the cold cheek. She’d been
dead for days. Probably the entire week since she had vanished. So now the next priority was to preserve all the evidence, seal off the scene. And wait for the police surgeon.

He was brisk, efficient and swift. “When was she last seen?” he asked once Joanna had explained that she knew who it was. “Last Wednesday morning.”

“She almost certainly died later on the same day,” he said.

“And was her body left here soon after her death?”

“I can’t tell how long the body’s been here,” he said. “We’ll know more both when we move the body so can look at the vegetation beneath it and when we look at signs of hypostasis.”

Joanna dropped her gaze to the crumpled body. So no holiday, foreign or native. No elopement with a secret lover. No need for a passport or the Ann Summers underwear. Beatrice had simply been murdered. It was almost an anticlimax.

“Manual strangulation,” said the police surgeon, a young GP from Leek. New on the job. He indicated an area of dark bruising on the front of Beatrice’s neck, either side of her windpipe.

Strangely, there is often room for relief in a case like this. Joanna’s apparent inertia would have made no difference to Beatrice Pennington’s life or death. She had not died because Joanna had failed to instigate a full police investigation. By the time Joanna had learned of her disappearance she was already dead.

Joanna glanced around, at the thick hedge, the quiet road and the cunning way the body had been concealed in long grass, at the base of a thick hawthorn hedge which would not now be touched until autumn. It had been no mere chance that she had been hidden here. It was lonely and remote. Only local people would have used such a hiding place.

But – although it was a clever hiding place it was also quite stupid. There was opportunity for a wealth of trace
forensic evidence. In the soft verge there were a few tyre tracks and some nice, sticky mud. Above Beatrice’s body were the spiny branches of hawthorn, reaching out to gather evidence – hair, material, fibres and pieces of skin. And cling on to them. In yet another way it was a good forensic scene because there was so little sign of human visitation. Few people came here ergo
any
evidence was potentially of significance. It was not like the back of a Liverpool taxi, a rich scene, full of false trails and red herrings.

Also this was a remote spot. It was conceivable that
someone
had noticed a solitary car in such an isolated area.

Already she was mentally rubbing her hands together. Killers imagine that a remote area is a good place to leave a body; somewhere where they will not be evident. This is not true. Better to bury your signs in a mountain of evidence than out here where each cell can be discovered and identified.

She rang the coroner.

He kept his comments to a minimum. The post-mortem and the police investigation would all be orchestrated by him. But for now he merely had to be kept informed.

Beatrice’s body was put in a heavy-duty, dark grey plastic bag with a zip up the side and loaded into the black police van for transportation to the mortuary. Joanna contacted the crimes scenes officers and then rang Colclough.

“I’m afraid we’ve found our missing woman,” she said without preamble.

“Oh?”

“It looks as though she’s been strangled.”

“Oh, dear.” Said with a wealth of meaning and a hint of grief too. “That
is
bad.”

“The SOCO team is on its way. We’re moving the body now. I suppose I’d better go and tell Mr Pennington that his wife’s no longer missing.”

There was a momentary silence between the two police. Most people know that in cases of murder forty per cent of
the time it is the partner who is to blame. The police make jokes about this. “Put your hand on the collar of the chief mourner,” they jest, “and you’ve a forty per cent chance of being right.”

But there is a very ugly side to this. Think about this. How insensitive it can appear. A grieving man, such as Arthur Pennington? To be
interrogated
about the death of his own wife? It is even worse when it is a child who is missing. Particularly when people will talk and gossip. And there is no shortage of clichés to support their suspicions. How mud sticks, No smoke without fire. And so on…

“Kid gloves, Piercy.”

Inevitably in the car, alone with Korpanski they both voiced the same question. “Did he do it?”

Mike hadn’t even started up the engine. Joanna moistened her lips, shook her head, turned to look at him and shrugged. “I don’t know, Mike.” Then, “He could have. It’s not impossible.”

“Why?”

“Well – that’s obvious. The old story. He found out about her secret lover. It wouldn’t be the first time a husband lost his rag for that and committed murder. It could have been like that. Come on, Korpanski. Start the engine. Let’s at least get down there.”

So when they drove up to the neat house on the estate they sat and considered it for a minute or two.

It is silly this, to imagine that you can recognise the house of a murderer. Killers live in all sorts of places. Condemned flats, millionaire’s mansions, council houses and yes, neat and tidy homes just like this. Because people who are, by nature orderly, dislike having that order upset.

It was June. The sky was predominantly blue, with a few woolly clouds bouncing around. The scene was bright – almost surreal, the green, the white, the blue. The grass was perfectly clipped and short and looked more like Astro-turf than living, breathing vegetation. No weeds sprung through
it. The weeping cherry tree in the dead centre of the lawn was the right size, in perfect harmony with its surroundings. The flowers borders too were orderly. Lobelias, salvias and alyssums planted in red white and blue rotation.

The house itself was in good order. Nothing needed doing to it. The paintwork was brilliant white. The bricks were neat and red. The windows were polished and set in hardwood frames. As Joanna watched she saw a pale face swipe across the downstairs window.

Their arrival had been noted. She and Korpanski left the safety of the car and covered the four paces to the front door threading passed a dark green Ford Focus and behind it a red VW. Arthur Pennington pulled the door open before they’d had a chance to knock.

He said nothing initially but stared, first at Joanna then at Korpanski. She eyed him too – and read nothing there.

Still without speaking Pennington jerked his head back towards the inside and they followed him through.

Whatever her suspicions Joanna felt she must go through the motions – at the very least.

“I’m sorry, Mr Pennington.”

A flash of panic lit his face before he said, very carefully, “You’ve found her, haven’t you?”

There was a clatter of dishes from the kitchen.

Someone was washing up.

“Is someone else here?”

Pennington looked impatient. “Only a neighbour,” he said. “She’d come to cook me a meal.”

How swiftly the vultures fly in.

“I am sorry, Mr Pennington. You are right. We
have
found your wife.”

He blinked. “You wouldn’t believe me,” he said softly. “You thought I was being… You thought I was worrying. Dreaming it all up. But I knew.”

He knew
what
exactly?

Joanna felt she must get this one in first. “She was already dead when I learned of her disappearance,” she said – very
clearly. There was to be no room for misunderstanding. “There was
nothing
I could have done whatever action I might have taken.”

“Where did you find her?”

“Her body had been hidden, (it is a kinder word than dumped), under a hedge.”

The clattering in the kitchen had stopped. The kindly neighbour was eavesdropping.

Joanna anticipated the next question correctly.

“How did she die?”

“A post-mortem will be carried out later on today.”

“I said, how did she die?”

“We think she was strangled. We’ll know more – later.”

“Can I see her?”

“We’ll drive you down there now, if you like.”

He stood up. “I’ll just…”

He stumbled towards the door. Joanna met Korpanski’s eyes and again read in there the same question that she was asking him.
Guilty? Or not?

Neither had an answer.

“Kerry.”

A woman poked her head round the corner. “Arthur?”

She looked accusingly at the two police.

“They’ve found her, Kerry. Someone’s…”

And interestingly in the neighbour’s blue eyes they read the very same question. She was very slightly unnerved.

“Oh, Arthur,” she said quickly. “I am so very sorry.”

“I’ve to go down now and identify her.”

She didn’t offer to accompany him but pressed her lips together.

“Oh, I am sorry,” she said again. “But I’d best be going now. Sean’ll wonder where I am.”

Sean? Husband? Son?

“I’ll come over and see you later on.”

Pennington managed a martyred smile. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

He was quiet in the car. Joanna sat on the back seat next to
him, with a part-view of Korpanski’s cynical eyes in the rear-view mirror. She may as well prepare the new widower for what would inevitably come next. “Mr Pennington.”

He put his hand over hers in a slightly creepy, intrusive way. “Arthur. Please.”

“Arthur.” He had not realised this would not do at all.
He
was the chief suspect.

“Your wife’s death will be the subject of a full police investigation. We will spare nothing to discover the truth.”

“Well – she’s been killed, hasn’t she?” Pennington’s hand lay back on the seat, still uncomfortably close. “It’s a murder investigation now, isn’t it?” There was a touch of a sneer in his voice.

“Exactly.”

Korpanski was still eyeing her in the rear-view mirror.

There was a brief, awkward silence before Joanna continued. “We’re going to need you to be more specific about your movements on last Wednesday morning. About the last time that you saw your wife.”

Arthur Pennington swivelled his scrawny neck around very slowly to stare at her. “You surely are not suggesting that I was, in any way, involved?”
Did he not know the ugly facts about murder?

Joanna sucked in a deep breath. “We will explore every single avenue, Mr Pennington. This will be a major investigation and we take it very seriously.”

“I see.” He turned, ever so slightly, away from her.

It was a long and difficult drive to the mortuary. The traffic was heavy and there was a diversion from the A53 at Stockton Brook. Pennington was now silent and Joanna not in the mood for chitchat. Pennington would have to be asked all the awkward and difficult questions in a police interview room, and the entire episode recorded onto audio cassette. Anything he said in the back of the car, witnessed only by the two senior investigating officers, would be classed as hearsay and inadmissible.

She preferred her facts on the record. And well documented.

Korpanski had warned the mortuary assistant in advance that they were on their way so Beatrice was neatly laid out and covered very decently with a purple cloth. They would perform the post-mortem later on this afternoon. Pennington stepped towards her and Joanna lifted the sheet from her face.

She got her confirmation of identity. “Oh, my Beatrice,” Pennington said. “What have they done to you?”

Joanna tucked the words away in the back of her mind. They seemed strange.

What have they done to you? They? There was nothing here to suggest there had been more than one killer. So why had he used the plural?

“Just for the record,” she said.

“Oh yes,” Pennington answered, understanding quickly. “It’s my wife all right.”

Joanna waited until they were outside the mortuary before making a polite request that Arthur accompany them to the police station. And from the blank look in his brown eyes she knew that he was still unaware of how police minds work in such a situation.

There were formalities to be gone through, obvious questions to be asked, the answers to be recorded.

“When did you last see your wife?”

“Around half eight on Wednesday morning. I was just setting off for work.”

“At what time did you arrive at work?”