The Pure in Heart (32 page)

‘And in winter almost
none, so somebody knew he wouldn’t be disturbed and the child might never be found.’

‘Thinking aloud, Simon?’

Serrailler looked down at the body, so exposed under the glaring light. He felt near to tears. He thought of his niece Hannah, a child of similar age, sweet-fleshed and overflowing with zest and energy – with life.

‘Let me know if you come up with anything else,’ he said, and turned
away from the slab.

‘I won’t. I’m pretty well done now. I’m happy with a fractured skull from a fall on to the back of the head.’

‘Doesn’t make it easier.’

‘Sorry, not my problem,’ Nimmo said cheerfully.

Simon went up to the fourth floor of the hospital and one of the League of Friends snack bars. He was hungry. The mortuary had never interfered with his appetite. Perhaps it was one tiny gene
inherited from that long line of doctors. He bought coffee and a cheese roll. ‘Over to you,’ the pathologist had said but, for the moment, it was not of the small body he had just seen, or even of David Angus and some possible link between the two that he thought. It was of Martha. The last time he had been in Bevham General it had been to see her, after his return from Venice. He thought back
to it. She had lain still and pale, attached to so many tubes and machines. He had drawn her. He had looked at the sketches only last night and to him they were death masks, even though she had not been dead. His feelings about her now were a confusion of simple grief, a measure of relief, sadness that he would not sit with and talk
to her ever again – and something else. Deep under all of this
something niggled at him, some vague doubt or uncertainty or anxiety. He could not define it, could not place it, but it was there, like a faint echo or a question, a strand of unfinished business.

Someone dropped a piece of china and it shattered, someone else had a coughing fit at another table and was given a hasty glass of water. A wheelchair squeaked on the floor. A bell rang. Life.

He
drained his cup and walked quickly out to the next job. Sorrel Drive. Marilyn Angus. Somewhere in the depths of this building her husband’s body lay in a mortuary drawer. Somewhere, David Angus’s body lay.

His phone rang as he went across the car park.

‘Guv?’

‘What’s happening?’

Nathan sounded odd – apologetic? Embarrassed?

‘Sorry … only … you’d better come in.’

‘I was on my way to see Mrs
Angus.’

‘Yeah, I know … only, maybe you’d better come back in here first, OK?’

‘
This is Simon Serrailler. I’m not here. Please leave me a message. Thanks
.’

‘You never are there, are you? Not for me. Or maybe you are and you are listening and not picking up … Simon? If you’re there please just pick up the phone, darling … OK, well, whether you’re there or not, I need to talk to you sometime.
I miss you so
much. I can’t bear this. I don’t understand it. What went wrong with us? Darling Simon, please, please call me. All my love.’

‘We got a call,’ Nathan said. He had an expression which Simon could not fathom. He had closed the door of Simon’s room and stood with his back to it. ‘Member of the public. Came in about half an hour ago.’

‘And?’

‘Bloke says he saw a car up near Gardale
about the time we want … says he was up near Hylam Peak, in the car park. He reckons –’

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘Guv …’

‘It was mine. He saw my car parked up there.’

‘Yeah … it does check out with your number, only I said –’

‘Bloody hell, I’d forgotten.’

But he remembered now. Lying in the turf with the sun chasing across the Peak and the sheep bleating. And then the helicopter shadowing the sun
and the sheep fleeing madly up the hill. He knew now that the helicopter belonged to the American millionaire who had bought Seaton Vaux.

‘There was a motorcyclist. He gave me a lift back to my car.’

‘Right.’

Simon sat down at his desk. ‘Can you get us some coffee? We need this sorted.’

‘Guv.’

‘Don’t bother to go across the road, canteen stuff will do. And get the details of that call.’

He sat quite still after Nathan had gone out, eyes closed, hands behind his head, piecing the afternoon together, remembering every detail of his walk. Martha. He had gone after seeing her in the hospital and fearing that it would be the last time. He had wanted to walk things out of his system and needed to be on his own.

Nathan came back and set down the plastic beaker of canteen coffee. Simon
had already opened a file on his laptop.

‘I’m writing this down as a formal report. I’ve got the date and the time. I parked in the public car park and walked across the Peak towards Gardale. I was going down into the ravine but there was a downpour – it would have been too risky. I was making my way back when a motorbike appeared out of the deluge and he picked me up and dropped me back at my
car. I saw no one else … there wasn’t another car in the park, no other walkers that I came upon.’

‘It ain’t a problem, guv, you know that, just I thought you ought to know right away.’

‘Thanks. You were right.’ Simon took a swig of the powdery coffee. ‘I don’t know whether not getting down into the ravine was a good thing or not now. I might have seen something. Pity.’

‘No way of telling,
is there?’

‘Nope. Anything else come in?’

‘Half the bloody county calling in since that local radio appeal … all a load of nothing.’

‘And no missing girl?’

‘No. They’re searching HOLMES but there ain’t nothing yet. It’s like it was someone’s cat. People don’t bother to report them missing.’

‘Oh I don’t know. When I was in my first uniform job we had a woman who used to report her cat missing
every other week … then it turned up and she reported it found … then it went AWOL again …’

‘Gawd. What was wrong with her?’

‘Lonely,’ Simon said.

‘Nah, she fancied you, guv.’

‘That too.’

‘You seen Mrs Angus?’

‘I was on my way there.’

‘Sorry. Only …’

‘Oh get out, get out, Nathan, stop apologising.’

‘Guv.’

Simon turned to the laptop screen and began to type what he had called a report
but which felt like a statement.

Forty minutes later he had finished and dropped a copy on to Nathan’s desk. He also emailed it, with a note of explanation, to Paula Devenish. As he was doing so he checked his messages.

‘
Darling. I can’t stop thinking about you
…’

Delete. He banged the key, closed the machine and headed out.

‘Do I have to let you in?’

Marilyn Angus held the front door only slightly ajar and stared out at Simon. He had expected her to be carelessly dressed, unmade-up, distracted, as she had been the last time he had come to the house but today she wore lipstick and a silver necklace over a cashmere jumper; nothing might have happened were she not peering out at him with such a hostile
and unwelcoming expression from a crack in the door.

‘I would like to have a word if I may.’

She hesitated. Two days before she had asked the FLO to leave, refusing to discuss the subject, simply telling Kate that she must go.

Abruptly, she opened the door and walked away. Simon followed her into the kitchen. She stood with her back to him. She was indeed smartly dressed but there was something
that troubled him about her, an air of unreality, as though she were not fully in touch with what had happened.

He hesitated, then sat down. Marilyn stared at him as if he were from a species she simply did not
recognise, but then picked up the kettle from beside the sink and began to fill it. Her hands shook.

‘I am concerned that you felt unable to have the family liaison officer with you any
longer. If there was a problem I do need to know.’

‘Kate? No. I liked Kate.’

‘You’re under no obligation to have an FLO with you, as you know, but if you’re here alone …’

‘I’m not. Lucy is here.’

‘Lucy is twelve.’

‘We are perfectly all right. The full inquest into Alan’s death will be held at a later date, by the way. The first was opened and adjourned.’ She spoke as if she were discussing
one of her clients or a case she had read about in the paper.

‘Yes. I’m sorry – it’s distressing when these things are dragged out.’

‘What do you think about what my husband did? What’s your view of it?’

‘I was extremely sorry – it …’

‘It was cowardly. Wasn’t it? Easy to do.’

‘I doubt that, you know.’

‘A few minutes of unpleasantness maybe … but then escape. He’s out of it, isn’t he? And
what do I do? My husband is dead and my son is missing. I have to look after Lucy. But that is difficult in itself. She doesn’t speak. She locks the door of her room. She goes off alone, she doesn’t talk to anyone at school. When it was just David it was bad enough but now her father has killed himself she’s lost to me completely. I have no idea what to do.’

‘I think you should see someone …
talk to someone. With Lucy. She needs you and you have to find a way of reaching her.’

‘Some counsellor?’

‘You could talk to your GP first … it’s Chris Deerbon, isn’t it? I saw him here. He would be able to advise about the best person for you to see.’

‘I’m sure he would.’

The electric kettle was pouring steam. Marilyn seemed not to know that it was there so Simon got up. He switched it off,
and began to open cupboards, found mugs and a jar of coffee, got milk out of the fridge. She stood watching.

‘Where is Lucy now, at school?’

‘I expect so.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘I thought David was at school for the whole of that day, didn’t I?’

‘Do you take your daughter to her school?’

‘She goes on the bus. A gang of her friends call for her.’

‘And they came this morning as usual?’

‘I expect
so.’

Simon set the coffee things out on the table.

‘I don’t know how you like to drink it.’

Marilyn stared but made no move.

‘I’m worried about you being here alone in the day and with just Lucy at night. Is there anyone who could come to be with you? I understand you prefer not to have an FLO but is there a friend or a relative who could come?’

‘No.’

‘No one?’

‘I don’t want anyone. Why
would they want to be with me?’

‘It’s your need I’m worried about.’

‘Oh, as to that … I need my husband. I need my son. I need my life to be as it was before the days when one disappeared and the other killed himself. I need what no one can give to me. How would having someone else sleeping in the spare room help those needs?’

He had no answer for her.

‘I don’t suppose you have any information
for me, have you?’

‘I’m sorry …’

‘Well, there you are then.’

She pulled out a chair and sat down heavily. Simon moved the mug of coffee towards her. She had been told about the discovery of the girl’s body in the grave at Gardale by Kate Marshall, who had called at the house specially. Kate had reported that Marilyn had seemed undisturbed by the news, as if it could have nothing to do with
her. ‘She asked why I was telling her this. It wasn’t David’s body, so it meant nothing to her. The thing is, guv, I had a feeling her reaction would have been the same if I’d told her it was David. She’s like someone in a trance.’

Simon stayed to finish his coffee. He could think of nothing to say and felt that even if he had Marilyn would not take it in. The house oppressed
him. She seemed
scarcely aware that he was leaving, but sat on at the kitchen table, the coffee untouched in front of her.

In the car the DCI rang in to the station. Kate Marshall was out but Sally Cairns was the inspector on duty. She was the right person.

‘I’m worried about Mrs Angus.’

‘She won’t have an FLO back, she was adamant. We can’t make her, as you know.’

‘I know. But I’m unhappy about her being
on her own with just the daughter. She’s not in a fit state to look after her.’

‘I could get someone from CSU to go round. Social services would be a bit heavy, don’t you think?’

‘Yes. I don’t want to frighten her or to put her back up. She’s in shock, not irresponsible and Lucy is twelve, not a toddler. But Sorrel Drive isn’t very neighbourly. Too damned posh – lawyers and so on.’

‘Trouble
is we’re pretty stretched. There’s been a serious pile-up on the bypass – two coaches have crashed, seven dead so far. The driver of one was drunk and managed to get out and run for it and he hasn’t been caught yet. Plus there’s been a knife fight in the underpass leading from the Eric Anderson … drug dealing down there again and some PE teacher went to try and sort things out himself.’

Simon
groaned. He knew what it was like for the relief when everything came in at once. ‘Is that all?’

‘No, a young man has been found in a ditch. Badly beaten up. Someone you had in here the other day for questioning.’

Andy Gunton. ‘Who’s dealing?’

‘Nathan’s gone to BG.’

‘Fine. Thanks anyway, Sally.’

‘If I had another body you could have it – though come to that I could do with one myself.’

Simon smiled. Inspector Sally Cairns was the wrong side of thirteen stone. Her dressings-down, which could reduce the toughest cops to jelly, were the stuff of legend.

Simon turned the car round and headed out to Cat’s village by the roundabout route, but even so got caught in the traffic blocks caused by the pile-up and a slow tail heading back towards Bevham.

It was after three when he reached
the farmhouse. He let himself in by the back door. The kitchen was empty and quiet. Mephisto was sitting in the lozenge of sunlight falling on to the wide window sill.

Serrailler helped himself to the ingredients for a sandwich, made a mug of tea and slumped on to the sofa. At once, the events of the morning fell away and the peace and warmth of the kitchen, the atmosphere of the whole house,
soothed him into a state of deep relaxation. For half an hour he would forget the Angus case, forget the body of the child in the ravine, forget …