Cold Sacrifice (6 page)

Henry Martin lived near the coast in a corner property on Beltinge Road, a street of large detached houses. Some had been divided into flats, while a few had been converted into nursing homes for the elderly. With cars parked on both sides, the road was still wide enough for two vehicles to pass. The detectives exchanged a grim look as Rob reached out and rang the bell. From the other side of the door they heard a faint clanging before the door was flung open by a middle-aged man. Tall and sturdy, white hair neatly combed above an unlined face, he carried himself with an air of confidence.

‘Henry Martin?’ Rob enquired.

‘What of it? Who wants to know?’

If he had dyed his hair, he could have been mistaken for a man twenty years younger than his actual age. Ian knew it was important not to be swayed by personal feelings, but the man’s antagonistic tone put his back up straight away.

Rob introduced himself and his colleague, displaying his warrant card as he spoke. Ian wished the inspector would address members of the public in the same brisk tone he adopted with colleagues, but there was nothing he could say. Rob was his superior officer, and in any case he could hardly accuse the inspector to his face of sounding like a dodgy salesman with his oily, patronising tone of voice.

‘What are you after?’ Henry asked.

He made no move to invite them in. His eyes narrowed with unwarranted hostility. With a flash of irritation, Ian was tempted to ask the man if he had lost anything recently, ‘like your wife?’ But he kept quiet and let Rob ask the questions.

‘Your wife’s name is Martha Martin?’

‘What of it?’ Henry craned his head forward, suddenly alert. ‘Has something happened? Has she been kicking up a fuss?’

He glared from the detective inspector to the detective sergeant and back again. Ian wanted to ask what he meant by that, but Rob pressed on, regardless. Ian did his best to study Henry’s face as he heard the news. If it was news to him.

‘I’m sorry to tell you your wife’s dead, Mr Martin.’

‘Dead? Martha? What are you talking about?’

‘I’m afraid it’s true. Now may we come in?’

Reluctantly Henry moved aside to allow them to enter the property. When he spoke, his tone was surly.

‘It’s not like I have any say in the matter, is it?’

He didn’t invite them in beyond the hall. The three of them stood awkwardly together at the foot of a wide staircase, while Rob explained that Martha had been murdered. Henry’s whole demeanour changed. He looked astonished. Then his bushy eyebrows gathered in a scowl, his lips pressed together as though he was struggling to keep his temper under control.

‘What happened?’ he asked heavily.

‘I’m very sorry to tell you that your wife was stabbed in the chest last night. It appears she died instantaneously, because there was no sign of any struggle.’

The man shook his white head. He looked baffled.

‘She was stabbed, you say?’

‘Yes.’

‘Stabbed in the chest, you said?’

‘Yes.’

‘Some bugger attacked her and she didn’t fight back? Typical. Always the martyr, was Martha.’

Ian knew that shock could be expressed in different ways, but even so he was taken aback by Henry’s response. He kept his feelings to himself, careful to maintain a blank expression. A crabby nature was no proof that a man had murdered his wife.

At a nod from his senior officer, Ian challenged Henry.

‘Didn’t you wonder what had happened to your wife when she didn’t come home last night?’

‘Yes… no. I thought she’d gone out… Oh my God, what am I going to say to Mark? The boy’ll be devastated.’

‘Unlike you,’ Ian thought, while aloud he said, ‘Your son?’

‘Yes.’

‘Would you like us to tell him?’

‘No, no! I’ll do it. I don’t need you to speak to my own son for me. But are you sure it’s her? How can you be sure it’s Martha?’

Rob answered. ‘The dental records are conclusive, Mr Martin. It’s your wife all right. I’m very sorry.’

‘Mark’ll be devastated,’ he repeated, glaring at them in desperation. ‘Martha worshipped the boy, and he was always so protective towards her. They were very close.’

Ian wondered if Henry had been close to his wife, and how close he had been to her at the time of her death.

H
ENRY SAT DOWN HEAVILY
on the sofa and stared morosely at Martha’s empty chair. They had given up any pretence that they were happy together years ago. It hadn’t taken either of them very long to realise their marriage was a mistake, but by then Martha had been pregnant. Even when she had lost the baby she had refused to consider a divorce. Her obstinacy had infuriated him, and rightly so. It wasn’t as though she was a Catholic, not any more. Even though he had pointed out that everyone got divorced these days, she had remained steadfast. In her eyes divorce was a sin, and that was the end of it. Weak-willed regarding just about everything else, on this one point she refused to budge. Now at last he was rid of her. He just hoped he had enough time left to enjoy his new freedom.

Footsteps crossed the hall. Mark was home. Henry heaved a sigh. How could he tell his son that his mother had been murdered? He hoped Mark would go out again, so he could postpone having to face him. But no such luck.

‘There you are, dad.’ Mark looked around. ‘Still no sign of mum?’

It was always the same. Mark had never cared for his father, he had only ever been interested in Martha.

‘Where’s mum?’ Mark repeated.

Henry shifted awkwardly in his chair. He couldn’t meet his son’s eye.

‘Your mother’s not here,’ he mumbled.

‘I can see that. Where is she?’

‘She isn’t coming home.’

‘What?’

‘I said she’s not coming home. Ever. We’re never going to see her again.’

Mark flopped down in an armchair and glanced towards the television.

‘She finally left you then?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Your mother’s dead.’

‘That’s a despicable thing to say,’ Mark retorted angrily. ‘Are you going to tell me where she’s gone, or do I have to wait for her to get in touch –’

‘I can’t tell you where she’s gone… maybe to that heaven she was always banging on about.’ Henry sat forward, staring in to Mark’s face. ‘Listen to me, son. Your mother’s dead. I don’t mean dead to me, I mean she’s dead. I’m sorry. The police came here and told me. She was stabbed in the park last night and she’s dead.’

He dropped his head in his hands. The finality of the words shocked him more than when he had first known his wife was dead. Martha hadn’t died accidentally. She hadn’t fallen ill, or been run over. A knife had pierced her chest and she had died, all alone, in the dark.

‘She was scared of the dark,’ he whispered wretchedly, ‘and she had lost her faith.’

He swallowed a sob, like a hiccup, overcome with guilt. In her dying moments, Martha hadn’t even had the comfort of believing she would go to heaven when she was dead. That was his fault. It must have been difficult to continue believing in a benevolent God throughout thirty-two years of marriage to a forceful atheist.

Mark was staring at his father, aghast. His eyes seemed to be bulging out of his pale face.

‘What do you mean she was stabbed?’ His eyes grew sharp with understanding. ‘Did you say the police were here?’

‘I just told you they were.’

‘But who was it killed her? Who? What happened? What did they say?’

‘They just told me she’d been stabbed. That was all they said.’

‘Didn’t you ask them who did it?’

‘What difference does it make now? Don’t worry, they’ll catch the sick bastard who did this.’

‘The sooner the better. Although I don’t suppose you care much, one way or the other,’ Mark muttered.

‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You weren’t exactly the loving husband, were you?’

‘Don’t say that.’

‘Come on, dad, we both know how you felt. You hated her. I expect you’re pleased she’s dead.’

Mark was crying, virtually incoherent in his grief.

Henry started up out of his chair, agitated by his son’s remark. If his own son was ready to accuse him of hating Martha enough to kill her, God only knew what the police might be thinking. They must already be aware that he stood to inherit a fortune from his wife. They hadn’t questioned him yet about his movements on Friday night, but it could only be a matter of time before they started on at him. Shock at what had happened had distracted him from thinking about possible consequences. He paced the room, fighting a growing sense of panic. He had to keep a clear head but it was difficult to concentrate with Mark blubbering.

‘Mark, you know we were both here at home last night?’

Mark didn’t answer. He kept his face hidden in his hands.

‘We need to be clear about that, just in case the police get it into their heads to ask us where we were on Friday evening, when your mother… when it happened.’

‘Why would anyone do that to her?’

Henry cleared his throat nervously. It was a tricky subject. He had to broach it without rousing suspicion.

‘In cases like this, it’s usually the husband who turns out to be responsible. But you know I had nothing to do with this terrible thing that’s happened.’

‘How do I know that?’

Henry scowled. He spoke slowly, emphasising every word so there could be no confusion.

‘We were both here on Friday evening, when it happened.’

Mark looked thoughtful.

‘I didn’t come home till about ten and then I went out to get something to eat,’ he said slowly. ‘I was out most of the evening.’

Henry sat down, trying to control his alarm.

‘It’s probably best not to mention that if the police ask –’

‘You want me to lie to the police?’

‘Yes… that is, no. No, of course not. On second thoughts, perhaps you should mention it in case something shows up on some CCTV camera, somewhere. But you could say you weren’t out of the house for long. Tell them you just nipped out to the chip shop.’

‘I was out most of the evening.’

Mark stared at his father for a moment, before he dropped his eyes. Henry wondered what he was thinking. Whatever it was, he wasn’t sure his son was going to help him.

A
S THEY REACHED THE
car, Ian glanced back and thought he noticed a curtain twitching upstairs in the Martins’ house. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked as though a figure was standing by the window, watching them.

‘I’m starving,’ Rob announced.

Hearing the inspector’s voice, Ian turned round. When he looked back at the house, the curtain was closed.

‘Let’s go and get some lunch,’ Rob continued briskly. ‘We can look into the Martins at the station and then come back here this evening to see if we can ferret out any more information on the spot, speak to neighbours and anyone else who’s around. What do you say?’

‘Lunch sounds good. It’s very generous of you to offer, but before we take this any further, I should warn you I’m married –’

‘Stop jawing and get in,’ Rob answered, with a rare smile. ‘It’s a working lunch for us.’

‘And there’s me thinking you were whisking me away to the bright lights of Margate for the weekend.’

There wasn’t anything new going on at the station. Ian grabbed a coffee and a roll in the canteen and went straight back to his desk, which was relatively quiet at lunchtime. Most of his colleagues were either working or in the canteen queuing for food, sitting around, eating and chatting. As he devoured a bacon roll, he scanned the background report on Martha. Originally from a small town in Southern Ireland, when she was two her mother had left Martha’s violent and abusive father and moved to England with the child. Martha had grown up in Portsmouth. Shortly after her mother died, she had married Henry, who was six years older than her. She had trained as a nurse, giving up her career on the birth of her only son. Ten years later she had inherited a substantial fortune on the death of her father and had bought a large house in Herne Bay.

Henry’s history was more erratic. He too had been brought up by a single mother, but he had lived in a rough high-rise block in South London. When Henry was thirteen his mother had died and he had been sent to a children’s home. No one was interested in fostering a surly thirteen-year-old boy and he had spent the remainder of his formative years in a succession of children’s homes. In his late twenties he had married Martha. It was his third marriage. His first wife had left him after a year, and he had married Martha when he was twenty-seven, only a few months after his second divorce was finalised. His work history was stable by comparison. He had been employed by the same company all his adult life.

Ian was finishing his lunch when Rob called him. Chucking his sandwich wrapper in the bin he hurried along the corridor to the detective inspector’s office, still clutching his coffee. He was pleased to see Polly was there and they all mulled over the case together, focusing on the victim’s husband. A gruff man, Ian thought Henry had received the news of his wife’s murder with an expression of irritation, rather than dismay. Rob agreed.

‘I think he’s the sort of man who doesn’t express emotion,’ Ian said. ‘Some men see it as a sign of weakness.’

‘Perhaps he was so upset, he just couldn’t say anything about it,’ Polly suggested.

‘There is another possibility,’ Rob said quietly.

‘Yes, he didn’t seem exactly grief stricken at the news. Do you think he wanted her dead?’

Rob considered before replying.

‘I’m not sure he was surprised to hear she’d been murdered. What was your impression of him?’

‘It’s difficult to say. He seemed to be holding something back, but that doesn’t mean he killed her.’

‘He could have been feeling guilty because he didn’t love his wife,’ Polly said.

Rob stood up.

‘Let’s go and chat to some of the neighbours, see what we can pick up.’

Ian gulped down the dregs of his coffee and jumped to his feet, eager to get going. On the way they agreed to split up, and visit the properties on either side of the Martins’ house simultaneously. It was important to gather as much information about Henry as they could. He was a possible suspect, partly because they felt there was something suspicious about him, but more significantly because statistically a woman’s husband was the most likely person to have murdered her.