Requiem Mass (28 page)

The sun was nearing the sea as the pair of them set off for
a walk across the long beach. Other families were still around, enjoying the last real heat of the day but for the two of them the sea, shimmering like a gauze scarf into which the sealing wax sun was slowly melting, was there for them alone. Christopher occasionally let go of his father’s hand and dared the molten waves, running back shrieking, breathless and elated to hug his father’s knees. Fenwick alone, or with his son by his side, felt truly happy for the first time in many months.

On their way back to the cottage Fenwick bought a local paper, the first he had purchased during the holiday, and promptly set it to one side as he agreed to join the children in a final game before bed. The next day, over an excellent malt before dinner, he read the bitty local stories and felt his perspective on life restored. Not all could be wrong with the world when a feature on mischievous moorland ponies still made the front page. Sadly, a harsher reality lay in other stories.

A man in his early twenties had been arrested after threatening a publican with a knife; the ex-serviceman had become drunk and offensive and had waved ‘a knife somehow retained from his service days’ at the landlord. There was a lurid and detailed description of the weapon, complete with photograph of a similar blade. Despite his relaxed holiday mood, Fenwick’s mind automatically logged the similarity to Katherine Johnstone’s supposed murder weapon, still unrecovered. As he went to turn the page his attention was attracted by a single column entry in the bottom corner.

Mrs Trudi Swithin – Correction

The Editor would like to point out that a reference to Mrs Trudi Swithin, in connection with last week’s article on the woman’s body found in Dyle Copse, was by no means meant to imply that the body found was that of Mrs Swithin, who went missing some months ago. Detective Inspector Churt of Dorset CID has emphasised that he is still pursuing nationwide enquiries in order to ascertain
the identity of the dead woman. We apologise to Mrs Swithen’s family for any upset or distress the reference may have caused. Story, page 3.

Inside, the paper repeated the key facts concerning the discovery of the remains of a woman in a remote copse in the north of the county. The pathologist had estimated her age at thirty to forty and, from the quality and extent of dental work, she had been wealthy enough to afford private treatment. She had also had at least one child. Police were searching local and national missing persons registers but so far had not identified the woman.

Fenwick reached Cooper in minutes and the sergeant called him back within half an hour to confirm that details of Deborah Fearnside, as well as those of other missing women in the county, had been sent and would be cross-checked in due course but as yet they had heard nothing. The divisional CID in Dorset were prioritising the matching, starting with the records of local women and gradually moving out. It would be some time before they reached West Sussex.

Fenwick’s next call was to Churt. Initially the local DI was hostile, resenting the clumsy intrusion of a holidaying officer on his patch, but he agreed to meet over a pint later that evening, and after he had heard the details of the Fearnside case, he agreed to raise her name to the top of the list for the following day.

‘How was this woman you’ve found killed?’

‘It’s still pretty tentative – you know Paths, until all the tests are done they won’t commit – but our local boy is prepared to say her throat was cut. With some blade, too, given the marks on her spine.’

The hairs on Fenwick’s arms rose and the back of his neck prickled. Adrenalin hit his stomach, souring the beer and whisky; his heart raced. He knew this was Deborah Fearnside and he knew why the two local articles held his attention. Absently he thanked Ben Churt, confirming that he would call the following day. In his mind he could hear again Pendlebury’s narrative over the body of Katherine Johnstone.

Fenwick was becoming convinced that the killer was a military man. The planning and execution of Johnstone’s killing suggested training and a disciplined, practical mind. Had it not been for a few drops of blood and his obsessive insistence on full SOCO treatment at her house, they could still have been pursuing a fictitious sex attacker.

If this second body was Deborah Fearnside’s that meant her abduction and all the stages leading to it had also been a carefully orchestrated con. Either that, or she was an unfortunate random victim but the coincidences were too great for that. Anyway, why hide the body so far from home?

None of the team’s painstaking work trying to trace the modelling catalogue company had yielded any information. There wasn’t even an echo of their existence beyond a run-down address of convenience. He contemplated the idea of calling Cooper immediately to start him working on the military theory but paused with his hand on the receiver. Better to wait until the following day and call with certainty.

The indulgent summer weather broke the next day. Soft West Country rains fell in continuous sheets from sunrise. Fenwick, impatient, irascible, was up before dawn and already pacing the small cottage like a bear in a pen when the rest of the family awoke. He suggested to his mother that she take the children to a local dinosaur museum but not even the lure of prehistoric monsters would persuade Bess and Chris to leave their father’s side.

In the end Fenwick played a distracted, but determinedly good-natured, game of Monopoly until the telephone rang just before lunch. It was Churt.

‘Fenwick, they’ve completed the preliminary check. It looks as if our lady
is
your Deborah Fearnside.’

Fenwick stared into middle distance. Through the gap of the partly closed door he could see from Park Lane round to the Angel Islington, with his son’s silver racing car firmly placed on the Old Kent Road. As he watched, a small hand moved the piece out of view, leaving the board bare.

He had expected elation. Instead he felt immense, heavy sadness and a real pain in his heart. She had been a beautiful and adoring mother; now she was dead. Her children would always be motherless, much as his were. Even if another woman came along, for Fearnside or himself, she would never replace their mother. The pain slowly changed to flat, unyielding anger. For his own wife there had been no tangible villain, no personification of evil, just a debilitating, degrading disease. Now there could be a legitimate focus for his fury, a way to expiate the hatred and the guilt. Nothing was going to stand between him and her killer.

He became aware of Churt’s voice in his ear.

‘Fenwick, are you still there? I said, do you want to come over? I’ll give you directions. It’ll be a while before the pathologist finishes – I’d have lunch first if I were you.’

‘I’ll come over now. I can wait.’

The Fearnside case was reopened officially as a murder investigation that day. Fenwick was given his extra men and Cooper put them to work at once. When Fenwick returned to the incident room he found the sergeant and Nightingale industriously reviewing and sorting files for a move back to the station, anything to take their mind off breaking the news to Fearnside. Fenwick had insisted they wait for his return. He felt he had to do it.

‘Boss? You’re back a day early. Did you have a good time?’ Fenwick blinked hard at a question that seemed to come at him out of time.

‘Yes. Yes, very good. The children loved it, until the weather broke yesterday. They were happy to come home.’ His impatience to get on was palpable. ‘Where are the extra resources? Why aren’t they here?’

‘Four started today, I’ve got them working. The rest arrive tomorrow morning, from HQ. The station can hardly cope but we’re moving the incident room back to Division, as you asked. This isn’t a good base any more, particularly in the middle of school holidays. By the way, there’s been another major riot on the coast – we’re going to have to fight to keep the extra
men. All leave’s cancelled as it is.’

Fenwick grunted a reply. Reopening a three-month-old murder investigation in the middle of summer came high up a masochist’s wish list. He needed to keep the team active, both to stop them being poached back and to maintain some semblance of morale.

‘I’ve decided to try television again, a reconstruction of her last trip; and the
Evening Standard
are usually very helpful if there’s a London connection. Has anyone interviewed Leslie Smith again? Her name was coming up too often for it to be pure coincidence.’

Nightingale answered: ‘I did last month but now she’s on holiday in Turkey with the family, sir, for three weeks. Went two days ago. We’re trying to trace her but no one’s quite sure where she is. The local travel agents didn’t book it.’

‘Keep on it. I’m sure there’s still more to come there.’

‘Nightingale established a definite link to the two women, at school.’

‘She claims not to have been one of the “Famous Foursome” – I think that’s what they called them back in the fifth form, sir.’ Nightingale consulted her notes. ‘In addition to the dead woman, the others in the group were Octavia Anderson and a girl called Carol Truman.’

‘Truman. Have we interviewed her yet? The name rings a bell but I don’t know why.’

‘Can’t trace her, sir. The family emigrated to Australia. I’ve put in a routine request for information but there’s nothing on her. I’ve got a list of nearly fifty other Trumans. I could try them.’

‘Yes, do – it’s essential we find all the group members.’

Cooper shifted uncomfortably on a school chair inadequate for the task of supporting his considerable frame. ‘Is it right, sir, to make this our main line of inquiry? I mean, all we’ve got is the school connection. It could just be a coincidence.’ Unconsciously he held his breath, waiting for the cutting tirade. It did not come.

‘Of course, I haven’t told you. That’s my oversight. Sorry. It
looks as if both women were killed in the same way, potentially the same weapon. I’m getting forensics to check. Luckily, there are definite slicing marks on Deborah Fearnside’s spine. We had the same with Kate. Dorset have also agreed to allow Pendlebury to look at Fearnside’s body; we’ll have the report in a couple of days. Now, I suggest you two stop gassing and start working. Dig out the interviews with Anderson, would you? While you two are occupied, I’ll try and talk to her again. She’s been inconsistent to the point of lying about her friendship with the dead women. I’m going to find out why.’

Miss Anderson’s maid politely informed Fenwick that Madame was in Montpellier and would be there for another week. He contemplated interviewing her by phone but decided against it. The woman was too much of a performer; he would need to see her face to face, try to surprise her.

In the meantime, the press conference on the discovery of Deborah Fearnside’s body,
Evening Standard
feature and reconstruction took up most of his time. Fenwick pondered more than once the gradual slide of modern crime investigation from detection to media relations but decided on balance that the benefits outweighed the cost and inconvenience. As it was the silly season for news, the discovery of the body of an attractive young mother months after her disappearance, gained considerable column inches. Fenwick deliberately kept the potential link between the two murders secret. Fortunately, the two were so different that no one made the connection.

The publicity this time generated a reasonable level of response with two definite leads. One call came in from a Mr Stanisopolous, a Greek restaurateur, another from a freelance photographer.

Mr Stanisopolous, small, energetic, moustachioed, was adamant he had seen Mrs Fearnside at Victoria
and
had seen her with a man. He was a remarkably confident and observant witness. He was sure that the lady he had tried to help outside Victoria Station had been Deborah Fearnside. Why? Because she had been beautiful. She had reminded him of Marilyn Monroe.

He was sure a man had been there to meet her, by arrangement certainly. He had addressed her by name and escorted her to his car. Had they met before? He could not say, perhaps not, she had not seemed to recognise him.

His description of the man was less detailed. He had been tall, dark, he thought, but the chauffeur’s cap and tinted glasses had concealed much of his features. He recalled that the man had had a ‘military feel’ about him. He should know; he had worked in his father’s restaurant in Athens in the seventies and it was second nature to him to spot an army man. It could just have been the driver’s uniform and cap, yes, and the short hair, but there had been something else too, his walk, his authority. Anyway, the woman had gone with him happily enough.

The car? He was more vague about the car than the woman. Well, it was expensive; looked good and new; black paintwork. He could not remember the make, perhaps a Mercedes saloon, or a BMW? Not British for sure – it had more style! Cooper closed the door with relief after two hours on a beaming, fulfilled Stanisopolous, delighted to have been of so much help to the authorities in his adopted country.

The photographer, by contrast, was potentially a poor witness. He sat, sweating profusely, twisting yellowed fingers and eyeing the no smoking sign on the wall with despair. For someone who was supposed to make a living observing and recording detail, he was hopeless. He turned up late, reluctant, obviously regretting his lapse into good citizenship and the stupidity of having given his real name and address.

Gradually, Fenwick and Cooper focused the hazy detail. It had been a one-off contract, arranged by phone, paid by post. No, he had long since cashed the postal order and hadn’t thought it an odd way to pay – it was as good as cash in hand. He had never met a representative from the catalogue.

‘Wasn’t that unusual?’

‘No, not really, happens all the time.’ The man squirmed.

He could not recall whether it was a man or woman he had spoken to, nor what had happened to the film and proofs. It had been a well-paid, average assignment.

‘For which you never met the client, got paid in cash and made no enquiries as to why your services were required? Come on!’