The Chemistry of Death (28 page)

He hesitated. I said nothing, giving him chance to convince himself. I heard him sigh. 'Hang on.'

The phone was muffled. I guessed he was moving out of earshot of whoever else was with him. When he came back on his voice was hushed.

'This is strictly confidential, all right?' I didn't bother answering. 'It's Ben Anders.'

I'd been prepared for it to be a name I recognized. But not that one.

'Dr Hunter? You there?' Mackenzie asked.

'Ben Anders?' I repeated, stunned.

'His car was seen near Jenny Hammond's in the early hours of the morning before she went missing.'

'And that's all?'

'No, that's not all,' he snapped. 'We found equipment for making traps in the back of it. Wire, wire cutters. Wood for stakes.'

'He's a nature reserve warden, he probably uses them at work.'

'So why was his car outside Jenny Hammond's house?'

I was still struggling to take this in. But my mind was starting to work now. 'Who saw it there?'

'I can't tell you that.'

'You had a tip-off, didn't you? An anonymous tip-off.'

'What makes you say that?' His voice had become suspicious.

'Because I know who made it,' I said, with sudden conviction. 'Carl Brenner. You remember I told you Ben thought he was poaching? They had a fight a few nights ago. Brenner lost.'

'That doesn't mean anything,' Mackenzie said, stubbornly.

'It means you should ask Brenner what he knows about this. I can't believe Ben's got anything to do with it.'

'Why not? Because he's a friend of yours?' Mackenzie was angry now.

'No, because I think he's been set up.'

'Oh, and you don't think that might have occurred to us? And before you ask, Brenner happens to have a solid alibi, which is more than your friend Anders has. Did you know he's an ex-boyfriend of Sally Palmer?'

The news wiped away anything I might have said.

'They had a relationship a few years ago,' Mackenzie continued. 'Just before you moved to the village, as a matter of fact.'

'I didn't know,' I said, dazed.

'Perhaps he forgot to mention it. And I bet he also forgot to mention he was arrested for sexually assaulting a woman fifteen years ago, didn't he?'

For the second time I was lost for words.

'We were already looking at him even before we got the tip-off. Amazingly enough, we're not complete idiots,' Mackenzie went on, remorselessly. 'Now, if you don't mind, I've got a busy morning.'

There was a click as he broke the connection. I hung up myself. I didn't know what to think. Ordinarily I would have sworn Ben was innocent. I was still convinced the anonymous tip-off had come from Brenner. The man was small-minded enough to want to settle the score with Ben any way he could, regardless of the consequences.

Still, what Mackenzie had said had shaken me. I'd no idea that Ben used to have a relationship with Sally, far less that he'd a history of assault. True, there was no reason why he should have told me, and probably every reason for him not to under the circumstances. Now, though, I couldn't help but question how well I knew him. The world is full of people who've insisted the person they know can't be a killer. For the first time I wondered if I was one of them.

But far more worrying was the possibility that the police were wasting precious time on the wrong man. All at once my mind was made up. I grabbed my car keys and ran out of the house. If Brenner had lied to incriminate Ben, he had to be made aware of the cost to Jenny of what he was doing. I needed to know one way or the other, and if necessary convince him to tell the truth. If not...

If not I didn't want to think about what would happen.

The sun was already hot as I drove through the village. There seemed more police and press than ever before. The journalists, photographers and sound engineers huddled around in disgruntled groups, frustrated in their attempts to interview the closed-mouthed locals. I couldn't bear to think they were here because of Jenny. As I passed the church I saw Scarsdale in the graveyard. On impulse I pulled over and got out. He was talking to Tom Mason, wagging a bony finger as he delivered his instructions to the gardener. When he saw me approaching he broke off, his face folding into planes of displeasure.

'Dr Hunter,' he said, coldly, by way of greeting.

'I need a favour,' I told him, bluntly.

He couldn't quite conceal a glimmer of satisfaction. 'A favour? Quite a novelty, your needing to ask me for anything.'

I let him have his moment. There was more at stake here than pride, his or mine. He made a show of looking at his watch.

'Whatever it is, it'll have to wait. I'm expecting a phone call. I'm due on air for a radio interview shortly.'

Any other time I might have been irritated by his tone of self-importance, but now I barely noticed. 'This is important.'

'Then you won't mind waiting, will you?' He cocked his head as the sound of a phone ringing came from an open door at the side of the church. 'You'll have to excuse me.'

I wanted to grab him by his dusty lapels and shake him. I was even tempted to walk away myself. But Scarsdale's presence might help if I was going to appeal to whatever passed for Brenner's better nature. After the previous night when I'd almost knocked him down, I doubted he'd listen to me if I went alone. So I said nothing and waited as Scarsdale hurried inside.

The sound of garden clippers gradually penetrated my preoccupation. I looked over to where Tom Mason was carefully trimming the grass around a flowerbed and doing his best to pretend he hadn't heard the exchange. Belatedly, it occurred to me that I hadn't even acknowledged him.

'Morning, Tom,' I said, trying to sound normal. I looked around for his grandfather. 'Where's George?'

'Still in bed.'

I hadn't even known he was ill. It was yet another sign of how I'd let the practice slip. 'His back again?'

He nodded. 'Few more days and he'll be fine, though.'

I felt a stab of guilt. Old George and his grandson were Henry's patients, but home visits were my responsibility. And the old gardener was such a fixture in Manham I should have noticed he wasn't around. How many other people had I let down lately? And was still letting down, because Henry would be taking this morning's surgery without me yet again.

But fear for Jenny overrode anything else. The need to do something -- anything -- started to bubble over as the pompous drone of Scarsdale's voice drifted through the open doorway. I felt light-headed with impatience. The sunlight in the churchyard seemed too bright, the air sweetly nauseous with scents. Something was tugging at my subconscious, but whatever it was vanished as I heard Scarsdale hang up. A moment later he emerged from the church office, looking self-righteously pleased with himself.

'Now, Dr Hunter. You were asking for a favour.'

'I'm going to see Carl Brenner. I want you to come with me.'

'Indeed? And why should I do that?'

'Because there's more chance that he'll listen to you.'

'About what?'

I glanced at the gardener, but he'd moved away, engrossed in his work.

'The police have arrested someone. I think they could be making a mistake because of something Carl Brenner told them.'

'This "mistake" wouldn't involve Ben Anders, by any chance?' My expression must have been answer enough. Scarsdale looked pleased with himself. 'I'm sorry to disappoint you, but it's hardly news. He was seen being taken away. You can hardly keep something like that quiet.'

'It doesn't matter who it is, I still think Brenner gave the police false information.'

'May I ask why?'

'He's got a grudge against Ben. It's a chance to get his own back.'

'But you don't know for certain, do you?' Scarsdale's mouth pursed censoriously. 'And Anders is a friend of yours, I believe.'

'If he's guilty he deserves everything he gets. But if not the police are wasting time on a dead end.'

'That's for them to decide, not the village doctor.'

I tried to stay calm. 'Please.'

'I'm sorry, Dr Hunter, but I don't think you appreciate what you're asking. You're talking about interfering in a police investigation.'

'I'm talking about saving someone's life!' I almost shouted. 'Please,' I repeated, more quietly. 'I'm not asking for me. A few days ago Jenny Hammond sat in your church while you spoke about the need to do something. She might still be alive, but she won't be for much longer. There isn't... I can't...'

My voice broke. Scarsdale was watching me. Unable to speak any more, I shook my head, started to walk away.

'What makes you think Carl Brenner will listen to me?'

I took a moment to recover before I turned back to him. 'You started the patrols. He's more likely to take notice of you than he is me.'

'This third victim,' he said, carefully. 'You know her?'

I just nodded. He considered me for a while. There was something in his eyes I hadn't seen before. It took me a moment to recognize it as compassion. Then it was gone, replaced by his habitual hauteur.

'Very well,' he said.

I hadn't been to the Brenner house before, but it was the sort of local landmark that was hard to miss. It was a mile or so outside the village, set down a dirt track that was potholed all summer and reduced to dirty puddles and mud the rest of the year. The fields around it had once been drained farmland but were now steadily returning to the wild again. At their epicentre, surrounded by junk and debris, sat the house. It was a tall, dilapidated building that didn't seem to have a straight line or a right angle about it. Extensions had been added over the years, ramshackle constructions that clung to the walls like leeches. The roof had been repaired with a corrugated metal sheet. Next to it, incongruously modern, was a huge satellite dish.

Scarsdale hadn't said a word during the brief journey. In the confined space of the car his musty, faintly sour odour was more noticeable. The Land Rover bumped over the rutted track towards the house. A dog came running up to us, barking furiously, but it kept its distance when we got out of the car. I banged on the front door, dislodging flakes of old paint. It was opened almost immediately by a worn-looking woman I recognized as Carl Brenner's mother.

She was painfully thin, with lank grey hair and pale skin, as if the life had been sucked out of her. She was a widow, and given the nature of the family she'd had to bring up alone, it probably had. Despite the heat she was wearing a hand-knitted cardigan over a faded dress. She plucked at it as she blinked at us, saying nothing.

'I'm Dr Hunter,' I told her. Scarsdale needed no introduction. 'Is Carl in?'

The question seemed to provoke no response. Just when I was about to repeat it she folded her arms across her chest.

'He's in bed.' She spoke quickly, her manner aggressive and nervous at the same time.

'We need to talk to him. It's important.'

'He doesn't like being woken up.'

Scarsdale stepped forward. 'It shouldn't take long, Mrs Brenner. But it is important we speak to him.'

I felt a touch of irritation at the way he'd asserted control, but it was short-lived. All that mattered was getting into the house.

Reluctantly, she moved back so we could enter. 'Wait in the kitchen. I'll get him.'

Scarsdale went into the house first. I followed him into the untidy hallway. It smelled of old furniture and fried food. The smell of grease intensified as we went into the kitchen. A small TV was playing in one corner. A teenage boy and girl bickered at the table in front of empty breakfast plates. Scott Brenner sat nearby, one foot bandaged and propped up on a low stool, watching the TV while he nursed a half-drunk cup of tea.

They fell silent and stared at us as we walked in. 'Morning, Scott,' I said awkwardly. I couldn't remember the names of his teenage brother and sister. For the first time I began to have second thoughts about what I was doing, conscious that I was coming into someone's home to accuse him of lying. But I closed my mind to any doubts. Right or wrong, this was something I had to do.

Silence descended. Scarsdale stood in the centre of the room, as unperturbed as a statue. The teenage boy and girl continued to stare at us. Scott looked down at his lap.

'How's the foot?' I asked, to break the moment.

'All right.' He looked down at it, shrugged. 'Bit sore.'

I could see that the bandage was filthy. 'When was the last time the dressing was changed?'

He was growing red. 'Dunno.'

'It has been changed, hasn't it?' He didn't answer. 'It was a bad wound, you shouldn't just leave it.'

'I can't get anywhere like this, can I?' he said, upset.

'We could have arranged for a nurse to visit. Or Carl could bring you to the surgery.'

A shutter came down in his face. 'He's too busy.'

Yes, I thought, I bet he is. But I'd nothing to be self-righteous about myself. This was another reminder of how out of touch I'd become with the practice. There was the sound of someone coming downstairs, then his mother came into the kitchen.

'Melissa, Sean, you two get on out,' she told the teenagers.

'Why?' the girl demanded.

'Because I said so! Go on!'

They slouched out, sulking. Their mother went to the sink and began running water into it.

'Is he coming down?' I asked.

'He will when he's ready.'

That seemed to be as far as she was prepared to go. The only sound was the slosh of water and clatter of cutlery and plates as she bad-temperedly began to wash a pile of dishes. I listened for any movement from upstairs, but there was nothing.

'So what do I do, then?' Scott asked, staring worriedly at his foot.

It was an effort to drag my mind back. I was conscious of Scarsdale watching me. Impatience warred for a moment with obligation, then I gave in.

'Let me have a look at it.'

The wound wasn't as bad as it could have been, for all the filth of the bandage. It was healing, and there was a good chance he'd regain full use of his foot. The stitches looked as though they'd been put in by a clumsy student nurse, but the edges of the wound were starting to knit cleanly together. I fetched my kit from the car and set about cleaning and redressing it. I was almost done when the heavy thump of footsteps announced Brenner's arrival.