Wexford 18 - Harm Done (40 page)

   “I know you haven’t walked into a door or fallen against the mantelpiece,” he said. She shook her head. It might have meant a denial or simply a dismissing of the subject. The little girl was holding a long strip of cloth, a piece of cotton material, one end of which she stuffed into her mouth, while staring at him with her mother’s flying-fox eyes.

   “I can’t talk about it in front of her,” Fay Devenish said. “And she’s here with us and I can’t send her away.”

   “You can at least tell me if she witnessed it.”

   Another nod. All the time that hand remained pressed against the damaged flesh, the half-closed eye.

   “Mrs. Devenish, I’ve said it before, DS Malahyde has said it, everyone would say it, you must no longer tolerate this treatment. You surely have tolerated it once too often. Next time you must come to us. You must.”

   Her heavy sigh seemed to raise and sink her whole body in a wave of suffering. “I wish I spoke another language so that we could talk in that. I wish I spoke French - well, proper French. Do you speak French?”

   He nodded his head.

   She made an effort, an effort that was both ridiculous and moving. “Il me cherchera et eligne tuera.”

   He understood that. Or he understood enough. Her husband would hunt for her and, when he had found her, kill her.

   Never had he felt so impotent and helpless. He imagined arresting Devenish, talking to him with his solicitor present and the man denying everything, Fay refusing to give evidence, coming up instead with one of her ready stories, the walking-into-a-wall one, the accident-prone one. At the same time he wished he understood the man’s raison d’etre, that he could begin to understand a philosophy of life that decreed a large, heavy man beat with his fists and his feet a small, vulnerable woman, for an unreal and manufactured cause. Because she couldn’t always maintain the standard of perfection he desired in her household, because she lost control over the behaviour of her children. It made no sense. It denied all human decency, kindness, and civilization. Of course Devenish was a sadist, and not one content with a masochist partner or one who merely pretended pain.

   But how would he, Wexford, feel if the man killed her? Wouldn’t he then look back with bitter regret that he had failed to do more?

   But do what?

   Make sure Karen kept up her visits to Woodland Lodge. Alert Hurt-Watch and its newly trained operatives to this classic situation in their midst. Make certain the Social Services were aware and attentive. Visit there himself whenever possible and whenever safe. Never forget her.

   Never let her disappear from his thoughts.

He and Dora went away on a fortnight’s holiday to Portugal in July. When he found that the travel agent Dora used had booked them on a Seaward Air flight to Lisbon, he felt a momentary dismay. But why on earth shouldn’t they fly with Seaward Air? Even if it meant putting money in Devenish’s pocket - which it did not - Fay and her children would benefit as much as the chief executive of the airline himself. Burden often said he allowed himself to become obsessive. Now he was over-emotional as well.

   At Gatwick, waiting for their flight to be called, he was nervous of seeing Devenish. It was unlikely, he knew. A man in Devenish’s position was hardly to be found wandering among the economy-class passengers or chatting to them about how they liked the service. The trouble was that if Devenish did appear and did see them, he would almost certainly invite them into some private room or sanctum of his own and produce drinks. He might even offer to upgrade their seats. Wexford would of course refuse, but the refusing would in itself be unpleasant. However, there was no sign of Devenish and they boarded the plane uneventfully.

   Estoril and Sintra were enjoyable, the sun shone but not too blisteringly, the food was good, the hotel comfortable, and they returned in the last weekend of July, rejuvenated and tanned. Wexford immediately phoned Burden to find out what had happened, what new developments had there been, and how, in general, were things.

   “We’ve got no one for Hennessy’s murder, if that’s what you mean,” said Burden.

   “That’s only partly what I mean. Anyway, if you had, it’d have been in the English papers, which I read every day like a good citizen.”

   “Vicky Cadbury will never come to trial. She’s dying. They say any more treatment would be useless and now it’s only a matter of administering morphine to kill the pain. Jerry Dover’s gone barking mad and been sectioned.”

   “I don’t suppose my raincoat has turned up?”

   “Not that I know of. Charlene Hebden denies knowing anything about it and says she’s never seen Donaldson in her life.”

   Wexford faced up to something much more important. He drew breath. “And Fay Devenish?”

   “Nothing new. Karen’s called on her while you were away. I gather she’s found out exactly how Devenish took revenge on Fay for attempting to get his child adopted. Karen will tell you herself. It’s not pleasant. Otherwise it’s snafu.”

   “Your picking up bad language from the Muriel Campdenites,” said Wexford, making an attempt to lighten the atmosphere and failing.

   He went back to work. The newly refurbished police station had a white and glaring look in the strong morning sunshine. The whole facade had been repainted and the windows renewed in new frames. He thought of Ted Hennessy who would never see it but might have admired it. Wexford remembered, from a conversation they had once had while on a case, the man’s fondness for modern, innovative architecture.

   Karen Malahyde had started her holiday, so whatever horrors she had to tell him would have to wait. Instead, he was obliged to face a mountain of papers relating to the arrests, offences committed, and damage caused by fourteen eco-warriors in the arable country between Flagford and Sayle. Burden came in and said he had just heard that Vicky Cadbury had lapsed into a coma from which she was not expected to emerge. He sat on the edge of Wexford’s desk and Wexford remarked on his suit, obviously new lightweight and in a fetching shade of dark caramel. His tie was caramel and black stripes. Wexford said it would be fifty pee to speak to Burden now and he was sorry he still hadn’t done anything about getting a mirror put up in here.

   The paperwork took till the next morning, till halfway through it. Vine was questioning Flay yet again, WPC Brodrick had been sent off to Muriel Campden where all the council’s recycling bins had taken to disappearing during the night and their contents of paper and card, bottles and cans, scattered on the triangular lawn, and Wexford was starting to think about lunch, when his phone rang for only the second time that morning.

   “There’s been a murder, sir,” said Vine. “It’s just come through. Up in Ploughman’s Lane. Woodland Lodge.”

   Afterward Wexford could have sworn that his heart had stopped. His heart stopped, his breath suspended and his voice lost. Time ceased.

   Vine said, “Are you still there, sir? Can you hear me?”

   Voices come back and time goes on. Healthy hearts miss no beats. It only seems as if they do. Wexford found a voice from somewhere in the depths of him, said, “I was afraid of this. Oh, God, I was afraid of it. Where’s her body? At the house?”

   “In the study, and it’s not Mrs. Devenish who’s dead, it’s her husband, it’s Stephen Devenish.”

The great trees were darker in color and their foliage heavier. They were like middle-aged people, handsome enough, vigorous and voluptuous, until set beside the flawless freshness of the young. The trees had no comparison to bear, for they were all growing old, all beginning to get tired, their leaves dry and browning the edges. Again, like aging humankind, they were fine when seen from a distance, less delectable in close-up.

   Wexford looked at the trees as he got out of his car and thought how the first time he had come up here interview the Devenishes they had been in green bud. Stephen Devenish would never see them turn brown and fall. He would see nothing ever again. Wexford believed it was wrong to feel satisfaction at anyone’s death, but except for the circumstances, he would have felt positive pleasure and gratitude at Devenish’s. Except for the circumstances. . .

   He would have given a lot to find out that she was somewhere else when her husband met his death, far far away out of reach and traveling distance. But Fay never went away. She was always here and she was here now. In the kitchen, according to Lynn Fancourt, who opened the front door to him and Burden. She was in her domain, the kitchen, sitting at the table, drinking tea.

   “Where is he?” Wexford asked, saying “he” because it seemed too soon after the death to say “it.”

   “In the study, sir. The scene-of-crimes team is there as well as the pathologist.”

   Photographs were being taken. Perry, the scene-of-crimes officer, was busy taking measurements, and the pathologist Sir Hilary Tremlett (elevated to the House of Lords in the resignation honors as Lord Tremlett of Savesbury) was squatting on the dark brown rug, studying the dead man’s wounds. He turned his head when Wexford came in but he didn’t get to his feet.

   “He’s been stabbed in the chest. There are three wounds, one of which was made when the knife passed clean through the heart. Another may have punctured a lung. You can take him away when you like and I’ll have a better look at him in the morgue. I don’t want to get blood on my shoes. They’re new.”

   The body lay half on the rug, half on the hardwood floor. It appeared as if Devenish, when attacked, had sunk to his knees, then tumbled over-backward. His handsome features were so white in death that they looked like the face on a marble bust. He was dressed as became a professional man leaving for the day’s work, in a dark gray suit of perfect cut, a pearl gray shirt, and a pink silk tie with a gray horizontal stripe. Or, rather, this was the appearance he must have presented when first dressed that morning. Now suit jacket and shirt were dark with blood and the pink tie spattered with it in a pattern like a bunch of roses.

   “I can’t be sure yet,” said Lord Tremlett, “but I’d say whoever did this was a lot shorter than he. Wouldn’t be difficult, though, he was a big chap.” Staring up at Wexford, Tremlett said as if height were a disadvantage, “Like you.”

   “When did he die?” Wexford asked.

   “I knew it! I was waiting for that. You want me to say, ‘At precisely twelve minutes past eight, give or take a second or two.’ That’s what you want, isn’t it? Well, I can’t. No one could. I can guess.”

   “Go on then, guess,” said Wexford, bored with the man’s posturing. “Break the rule of a lifetime.”

   Tremlett didn’t like that. “I didn’t get into their lordships’ House on guesswork but on my reputation for accuracy and thoroughness.”

   Some say with a hundred thousand pounds, said Wexford silently. “All right, when was it? Approximately.”

   “Approximately between seven-thirty and eight-thirty this morning. I hope you won’t twist my arm, I’d take a very dim view of anything like that, but if you did, I might say between seven-thirty and eight-fifteen.”

   Wexford left the room, went into the hall, and asked Barry Vine who had found the body.

   “She did, sir. She phoned us.”

   “When?”

   “Just after nine. She thought he’d gone to work and she went in there to clean the place.”

   “Where were the children?”

   “The boys had gone to school. It’s their last day of term. I suppose the little girl was with her.” Vine hesitated. “She says someone called on Devenish at eight this morning. Devenish let him in himself and took him into the study. She didn’t see him but she heard a man’s voice.”

   “Mrs. Devenish did?”

   “That’s right.”

   “She told you that?”

   “It was almost the first thing she said.”

   “I see. No sign of the weapon, I suppose?”

   “There was no knife in the study, sir. Plainly, a knife was used. There are knives in a block in the kitchen and no one’s touched them. That is, no one’s touched them since I got here. Lynn’s in the kitchen with Mrs. Devenish.”

   Wexford remembered the knife block. It and the cuckoo clock were to him symbols of that kitchen, and in a curious way symbols of Stephen Devenish too.

   “Right. I’ll go and see her now.”

   He found her where Vine said he would, said good morning to her and that this was a dreadful business, and motioned to Lynn to come out into the hail. There, with the living-room door shut, he asked her if the clothes Fay was wearing, a long button-through dress of white-spotted blue cotton and blue straw-soled espadrilles, were what she had on when she found her husband’s body.

   “I asked her, sir. She said they were.”

   “We’ll start a search of the house immediately.”

   He walked back to the kitchen. It was as immaculate and neat as before. Fay Devenish looked stunned - literally so, as if someone had given her a blow to the head and felled her. Perhaps Devenish had. She sat on one of the Windsor wheel-back chairs, pulled somewhat away from the table, bending forward, her head bowed, her knees and feet pressed close together. Her lank, pale brown hair hung across her cheeks. She looked up when he came in and he saw that her face was as white as if the blood had drained out of her rather than her husband.

   In similar circumstances, when a woman has lost a husband by murder, Wexford would have begun with condolences as a preamble to the questions he had to ask. Here, sympathy seemed inappropriate. “You found your husband’s body.”

   She lifted her head again and looked at him, straight in the eye. “Yes.” It was plainly all she wanted to say. She had nothing else to say, but she perhaps recognized that he would want more, much more, and she burst out in a hoarse, half-strangled voice, “I can’t believe it, you know. I find it quite unbelievable, it can’t be true. I was the one who’d die, I’d be killed, that’s what I thought . . .”

   Wexford’s own sentiments too, his own fears.

   “But Stephen’s dead. He’s been killed. I can’t believe it. I couldn’t when I - when I saw him. He was so big and strong and - and full of life; I still can’t believe it.”