Sophie Hannah_Spilling CID 04 (12 page)

‘So this is about Aidan Seed,’ said Simon angrily. He should have known. He looked at Kombothekra, who’d agreed with him no more than an hour ago: they ought to take Seed’s statement, make sure all bases were covered. Had Kombothekra broached the subject with the Snowman? He must have. It made perfect sense: Simon’s punishment was Nancy Beddoes, Kombothekra’s was having to participate in this excruciating scene.

‘It’s a shame, in a way,’ said Proust. ‘Mr Seed’s statement is one I’d have enjoyed reading. Pity we can’t get it just to entertain ourselves. “I do not intend to explain why I killed one Mary Trelease. I do not intend to inform the police of the date on which I killed Ms Trelease. I do not intend to offer details as to the nature of my relationship with Ms Trelease prior to my killing her . . .’

‘Sir, Simon and I both think . . .’

‘“I do NOT”’—Proust’s voice rose to a crescendo as he drowned out Kombothekra’s words—‘“have any comment to make regarding the claims made by DCs Christopher Gibbs and Simon Waterhouse that they, on the twenty-ninth of February 2008 and the first of March 2008 respectively, found Ms Trelease alive and well at her home, 15 Megson Crescent, Spilling, RY27 3BH, and were shown by Ms Trelease several items of identification that confirmed her identity as Mary Bernadette Trelease, aged forty . . .”’

‘If a situation being at all unusual prevents us from taking a statement, sir, we might as well all give up now,’ said Simon.
Cunning bastard.
Proust had to prove he’d memorised the relevant facts before dismissing them.

‘Tell me why we aren’t charging Mr Seed with wasting our time,’ the inspector snapped. So the good mood was finite after all. Even so, Simon was sure Proust had broken his record; usually the ice storm was much quicker in coming.

‘Trelease told Gibbs she didn’t know Seed, but he thought she was lying,’ said Kombothekra. ‘What if Seed beat her up, left her for dead, and now she’s too scared to tell us in case he does it again?’ It came out sounding awkward because they weren’t his words. He was quoting Simon, trying to make amends for Nancy Beddoes.

‘Did Ms Trelease look as if she’d recently been attacked? Any scars, bruises, cuts? Any sign of limited mobility, hospital notes lying around the house, wheelchairs parked on the front lawn?’

‘No, sir,’ said Simon.

‘We’ve been able to find no evidence—substantial or circumstantial—that Aidan Seed’s committed any crime,’ Kombothekra told Proust. ‘That’s if we leave aside the verbal evidence . . .’

‘Verbal evidence?’ the Snowman intoned flatly. ‘You mean lies?’

‘I spent most of last night going through our unsolveds, just in case anything from any of them chimed in with what Seed and Bussey had told us.’

‘Chimed in? Are you a bell-ringer, Sergeant?’

Kombothekra smiled in deference to Proust’s witticism. ‘I found nothing that might fit the bill, however wide a margin I allowed myself: no suspicious deaths where the victim’s name or appearance or address was in any way similar to Mary Trelease’s. Nothing. We’ve put all three names—Seed, Bussey and Trelease—into Visor, Sleuth, the PNC, NFLMS. None of them have got form.’

‘Yes, yes, Sergeant.’ Proust waved his hand dismissively. ‘And you failed to find mention of them in the cast list of Rawndesley Opera House’s production of
West Side Story
.’

‘Simon and I think that, all this notwithstanding, we ought to take a statement from Aidan Seed,’ said Kombothekra. Nervousness about the brave stand he imagined he was taking made his voice louder than it normally was.

‘Not only Seed,’ said Simon. ‘Bussey and Trelease too.’

‘If only we could amuse ourselves by doing as you suggest,’ said Proust with feigned wistfulness. ‘Had we but world enough and time. Imagine Mary Trelease’s statement: “On a date that a man I don’t know called Aidan Seed refuses to divulge, he did not murder me.”’ Proust banged his fist down on his desk. ‘What’s wrong with the pair of you? Did you share a beefburger of questionable origin in the mid-nineteen-eighties?’

‘No, sir.’ Kombothekra took a step back. The brave stand was over, then.

‘I’ve heard as much as I want to about Aidan Seed, and seen more than I want to of your pathetically expectant faces. I’m sorry Santa didn’t bring you both what you wanted, but there’s only so much tat you can force down one reasonable chimney. Are we clear?’ Proust stopped, red in the face.

Reasonable chimney? Was he talking about himself? The Snowman had trouble recognising his opinions as opinions, had for as long as Simon had known him. He regarded himself as the embodiment of universal truth. It wouldn’t for a moment have occurred to him, in constructing his metaphor, that he was closer to being a chimney than he was to being reasonable.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Kombothekra, who would probably have been bowing by now if Simon hadn’t been there.

‘Good. Now get out there and do your perishing jobs.’

Kombothekra made a run for it, no doubt assuming Simon was close behind. Once the sergeant had gone, Simon pushed the door shut.

‘You’re still here, Waterhouse.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Since you’ve gone to the trouble of securing this private moment for us, might I beg a favour? Would you mind asking Sergeant Kombothekra to address you as DC Waterhouse instead of Simon? I’ve asked him several times, but he persists in his use of first names. The other day he told me he’d prefer it if I called him Sam.’ Proust compressed his thin lips. ‘I said, “When two people are as close as you and I are,
Sam
, they invariably have pet names for one another. My pet name for you is Sergeant Kombothekra.” ’

‘You’re wrong about Aidan Seed,’ Simon told him. ‘I know no crime’s been committed yet, but Sergeant Zailer and I both think something’s going to happen. That’s why we need to take statements now. There are protection issues here—we can’t ignore our concerns. You read Gibbs’ notes: he said Mary Trelease looked scared when he first mentioned Seed. Sergeant Zailer was left in no doubt that Ruth Bussey was terrified of something, she wouldn’t say what.’

‘Yet she didn’t follow it up,’ said Proust impatiently.

‘Bussey left her coat behind. Sergeant Zailer found an article about herself in the pocket. It was from the local rag, dated 2006. It was about her . . . when she . . .’

‘Say it in plain English: Sergeant Zailer’s catastrophic error of yesteryear. Not to be confused with her more recent catastrophic error: agreeing to marry you, Waterhouse. Go on.’

‘Bussey had an article about it in her pocket. Once Sergeant Zailer saw that, and put it together with Bussey’s unlikely story that was full of gaps . . . well, she thought the whole thing was some sort of ploy.’ Simon knew this aspect of things would do nothing for his cause.

‘What?’ Proust frowned so hard, his forehead looked like an accordion.

‘She’s embarrassed about it now, sir, but she still gets really upset and paranoid at any mention of all that. She thought Ruth Bussey was some kind of investigative journalist, undercover—you know those programmes where they target someone they think ought to be sacked, and set traps for them? She thought she might end up on
Panorama
. . .’

‘No crime has been committed
yet
,’ Proust repeated slowly. ‘What’s that film?’

‘Pardon, sir?’

‘You know—it’s got that man in it. The scientologist with all the wives. What’s his name?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’ Simon didn’t watch films, couldn’t sit still long enough.

‘Age, Waterhouse—it’s a terrible thing. The man’s job, as I recall, was to foresee and prevent crimes that hadn’t yet taken place. The film was set in the future. Why do you think they didn’t opt for a contemporary setting?’

Simon swallowed a groan.
Can’t we skip this?

‘Could it be because there’s no technology, at present, for investigating crimes that have not yet been committed? Whereas if you set your film in the future, you can pretend all the necessary gubbins is in place. Your hero can watch handy trailers of forthcoming slayings . . .’

‘I take your point, sir.’

‘Good.’

‘Why wouldn’t Mary Trelease let Gibbs inside her house?’ Simon was getting desperate. ‘Why did she keep him on the doorstep and bring her ID outside? And even with me—she let me in, but she wasn’t happy about it. When I asked to see the front bedroom, the one where Seed said he’d killed her and left her body, she made it obvious she didn’t want me in there. What’s she got to hide?’

‘She let you in, didn’t she, however reluctantly? You found a large number of paintings in the front bedroom and not much else.’

‘Yes, but . . .’

‘Most people would rather not have the big boots of plod trampling all over their houses, especially over their irreplaceable works of art. No mystery there.’

One last stand, thought Simon. He took a deep breath. ‘Why did it take Ruth Bussey more than two months to come to us with her story, when Seed first told her he’d killed Mary Trelease on the thirteenth of December last year? Why did she have that article with her about Charl . . . about Sergeant Zailer? Why did she and Seed come forward entirely of their own accord, separately but on the same day, offering information while at the same time blatantly withholding information? And why don’t their accounts match? Bussey reckons Seed told her this killing happened years ago, but Seed gave Gibbs the impression that if he went to 15 Megson Crescent, he’d find a fresh body.’

‘Recently deceased, not fresh,’ Proust amended. ‘Don’t apply the same terminology to a corpse as you would to a fruit salad.’

‘You know what I mean, sir. You read what Trelease said to Gibbs: “Why do you keep asking me if I’m sure nobody’s hurt me? Who? Aidan Seed, this man you keep asking about? If you’re looking for a victim, you’re looking in the wrong place.” That suggests there’s a right place to look for Seed’s victims.’

‘Think about it, Waterhouse.’ Proust sounded almost kindly. ‘For Ms Trelease to assume Seed has hurt somebody somewhere is only natural. There’s a detective on her doorstep showing a keen interest in him, asking if she knows him and wanting to check she’s in one piece.’

‘Maybe she knows of another victim of Seed’s, somebody else he’s attacked or killed, even if he hasn’t touched
her
.’ Simon wiped the back of his neck with his hand. He was sweating. ‘What about the question Seed asked me: “The woman you met at 15 Megson Crescent—did you tell her what I’m saying I did?” Did you read that bit?’

‘I read all the bits. Top left to bottom right. I know how to read.’

‘According to Seed, Mary Trelease is dead—he killed her. What does he care what I told or didn’t tell a supposedly dead woman? Sir, if you met him . . . He’s like a man possessed. He was super-rational, as if by using logic he could persuade me. Kept saying, “If I start with the one thing I know beyond all doubt, which is that I killed Mary Trelease, then I infer that what you’re telling me about her being alive and unharmed can’t be true.” Read it!’ Simon picked up papers from Proust’s desk and dropped them again, looking for the notes he’d brought in with him. He couldn’t find them. He knew Seed’s words by heart, anyway.

‘ “The only other explanation is that I killed someone who later came back to life, and who’s the woman you met. Since I don’t believe in the supernatural, I can’t believe in that as a possibility.” Does any of that sound normal or natural to you?’ Simon demanded. ‘Someone’s going to get hurt, sir, if they haven’t already. I’ve got a really bad feeling about it.’

The Snowman sighed. ‘All right, Waterhouse. You set out to wear me down and you’ve succeeded. Take statements from the whole motley bunch if it makes you happy.’

Was Simon dreaming? Could it be that easy? Proust made a series of huffing noises and straightened the piles of paper on his desk. Watching him reconsider his position on an issue, however small, was like watching a super-tanker gearing up to change course.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Nancy Beddoes comes first, though.’ There was always going to be a catch. ‘Dull though it is, we have to give priority to the crimes we know exist.’ The inspector looked up. ‘Which means Aidan Seed et al. will have to wait until you’ve completed your grand tour of the UK and all two hundred and seventy-six statements are in.’

‘But, sir . . .’

‘But sir nothing. Do you own a road atlas?’ Proust reached into the pocket of the jacket that was draped over his chair and pulled out a ten-pound note. ‘Buy one.’ He threw the money at Simon. ‘It’s about time you learned that some maps go over the page.’

 

Ruth Bussey’s front door stood wide open. The black VW Passat—the one she’d made her escape in on Friday—wasn’t there, but there was a green Daewoo parked on a grass verge outside the lodge house, so someone was in. Aidan Seed?

Charlie moved out of the way as two jogging women appeared, chatting as they ran between the bollards at the park gates and up the path, past the lodge. With Ruth’s coat draped over her arm, Charlie walked towards the house. She’d been hoping to have another chat with Ruth, but perhaps it was better this way, since Charlie was also curious to meet Aidan, see what sort of man confesses to a murder that neither he nor anyone else has committed.

She’d got as far as the small porch when a tall, thin man wearing a yellow fluorescent jacket over a grey suit darted out of the house, nearly banging into her. He had a wispy beard, glasses with large lenses. Charlie thought he looked exactly as a goat would, if animals were people. There was a flare of recognition in his eyes when he saw her. ‘Oh,’ he said.

‘You know who I am?’ Stupid question. Who in Spilling didn’t know? It was a small town and Charlie was its most famous fuck-up.

‘I know that coat,’ he said, looking down at it to avoid meeting Charlie’s eye. ‘Ruth picked a bad time to lose it with the boiler packing in. It breaks down every three months on average, and Muggins here has to spend a day twiddling my thumbs, waiting for the engineers. Never be a landlord, that’d be my advice to you.’