The Burden of Doubt (4 page)

Swift left a short silence and then said, ‘Your house is now a crime scene, Professor Patel. We shall need to have it sealed off for a time whilst the forensics team gather evidence.’

Patel nodded in numb acceptance.

‘Is there anywhere else you can stay?’

‘Yes,’ Patel said after consideration. ‘I have the keys to my neighbours’ house. They’ve just gone away for a month’s holiday in New Zealand and asked if we—’ He stopped, his face stabbed with pain. ‘If I would keep an eye on it for them. I’m sure they won’t mind if I stayed there for a short time. It would only be for sleeping; I shall spend most of my time at work. That’s the only way I can see of getting through …’ His head sank down towards his chest.

Swift clicked his pen closed and got up. ‘We’ll leave things there, sir,’ he said, going on to offer the services of a family liaison officer if Patel so wished, even though he guessed that the doctor would decline. Which was the case. And done with a degree of sadness and dignity which both officers could only admire.

‘What do you think, sir?’ Laura had cajoled beakers of coffee from the machine and brought them into Swift’s office. Feeling peckish she took a banana and a Mars bar from the plastic box
she had filled at the canteen earlier. She knew she should choose the healthy banana, but it had been a long hard day, and chocolate was what she needed. ‘You had the good doctor worried when you pushed him on the enemy scenario,’ she said, peeling back the Mars bar’s shiny brown wrapping. ‘He knows a lot more than he’s telling us.’

‘Agreed. So what is it he knows that he doesn’t want to tell us? That his wife had enemies in the family? Or maybe at work? I’d guess that being a hospital consultant could involve getting on the wrong side of a number of patients for starters, that’s before you start considering the rivalries and jealousies within the staff structure.’ Swift took a sip of his coffee and made a little grimace of distaste.

‘Or that she’d been playing away and Patel had a massive grudge?’ Laura offered, her mind suddenly veering away once more to her impulsive exploits with Saul the night before. But at least she wasn’t an adulterer; or not knowingly so at least. Her heart gave a rabbit’s foot thump as it occurred to her that Saul might be married. The issue had never been broached; he’d always struck her as a man with no ties.

‘Fair enough.’ Swift picked up his beaker and then laid it down again. ‘It was interesting that he didn’t try to provide himself an alibi. In fact, he didn’t even ask us when she died. And he didn’t appear to respond any differently to our questions about what he did after he’d left the conference than he did with the questions about what happened before he left the house.’

‘Which is, of course, what we’d most like to know.’

‘He must be tough,’ Swift said, ‘climbing Inglelborough on a day like this.’

‘Or indeed, any day at all,’ Laura responded with grimace, being a girl who believed in the car rather than the feet as a means of getting from one point to another. ‘And I’ll bet you don’t get many folks who could provide an alibi up there.’

‘Any more than you would regarding the time he left the house earlier,’ Swift mused. ‘It’s not overlooked by either of the
neighbours
’ windows. Which doesn’t really matter, because our
present time frame for the time of death isn’t precise enough for us to be able to eliminate him, even if he was seen leaving the house.’

Laura stretched, sensing that their discussion and the long day’s work was coming to a close. She wondered what she had in the fridge for supper. And the thought prompted her to remember that when she had left her flat, Saul had still been there. She sent up a fervent prayer that he would be nowhere in sight when she eventually arrived back. Not tonight, not ever again. ‘So, what next?’ she asked her boss.

‘We do the usual,’ he said. ‘House to house. Talk to the nearest and dearest. Talk to the work colleagues. Find any witnesses. Set up a fingertip search for the murder weapon. Wait for what forensics can tell us. Find out who regularly visited the household, follow them up. The old story: trace, investigate, eliminate.’

Laura popped the final piece of Mars bar into her mouth, and looked doubtfully at the banana. Boring old footwork, she thought. She reminded herself of her Mini out there in the car park and permitted herself an inner smile.

A few miles from the elegance and comfort of Moira Farrell’s house in upper class suburbia, Shaun Busfield, twenty-four years old, pale and lanky with the look and demeanour of an agitated rodent, left the pub and made his way down the main road with jagged, stamping steps. The colours in the sky were lime and slate-grey, the pavements greasy black. Cars dazzled him with their piercing white headlights and rusty red tail lights. Outside the fish shop there was the smell of burning fat and a scattering of congealing chips which made his stomach heave. A sobbing girl broke away from her boyfriend and jumped on a waiting bus. The boyfriend sprang forward and banged on the closing door, ‘Ay! Michelle! Come back ’ere you dozy cow!’

Muttering to himself Shaun turned into the estate. It had been built in the fifties on the edge of a wood. There wasn’t very much wood left now, just intersecting rows of ugly concrete-rendered
semis lining the broad streets. The houses near the main road had neat little gardens and bright windows with ornaments showing through the net curtains: a china dog, a vase with plastic flowers. As he went further into the maze of roads the windows of the houses were dark and stained with oily grime. Bare, feeble light bulbs hung from the ceilings. The low walls were cracked and crumbling and the gardens were full of junk and rubble and wire. What a hell hole.

Shaun felt the bile rise up his gullet. He leaned over a wall and threw up the contents of the last four hours’ drinking and the meat pie that he had eaten at teatime. He trudged on, wiping the dribble from his lips. With the vomiting the alcohol seemed to have rushed out of his brain, its anesthetizing properties all deserting him.

The memories came sliding back. He didn’t want to remember. And he didn’t want to think about his gran dying before he’d been able to tell her he was sorry for all the bad times, all the mean things he’d said and done. ‘Oh, Gran. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,’ he sobbed.

He walked up the path to the back door. He’d had a go at knocking the two front windows into one big window. But somehow it hadn’t worked. He couldn’t get the surround right, and the white PVC frame was still perched inside chipped and crumbling brick, letting the wind sigh through.

He could hear the TV blaring out in the living-room; some trashy late night film. Tina couldn’t get enough of them: love stories, thrillers, westerns. She’d watch any old rubbish they put on. ‘Ay, get a move on, I’m freezing out here,’ he shouted, staring moodily at the thin yellow curtains and trying to make out what was going on behind them. He banged on the glass with clenched knuckles, then pulled back; if he kept on going like this the whole blooming pane might fall out.

The front door opened and Tina poked her head out and peered through the gloom. ‘Is that you, Shaun?’

‘Who do you bloody think it is?’ He stamped inside and followed her into the living-room. She was wearing a short pink dressing-gown and high-heeled navy court shoes with fluffy
yellow socks underneath. There had been a time when the sight of all that would have charged him up with longing. But tonight, there was something about those socks that sent a wave of anger through him. He pushed it away; anger was dangerous – terrifying, if you let it loose.

He threw himself on the green velvet settee which stood against the wall, an overflowing ashtray and several stained mugs balanced on one of its arms. ‘Make me a cup o’ tea,’ he told Tina.

She pouted, hesitated, then clopped across to the sideboard and switched on the kettle which was sitting there.

As Shaun stretched out the ashtray slid to the floor scattering stubs and ash. ‘Why don’t you ever clear up this rat-hole?’ he demanded of Tina.

‘Why don’t
you
ever finish doing up the kitchen?’ she snapped back, flinging a tea bag into a mug. ‘I hate living like this.’

‘Do you think
I
like it?’ he demanded, anger lapping inside in fresh red waves. Steady, boy, steady.

‘It wasn’t me that pulled everything to bits,’ she whined, sloshing not quite boiling water over the tea bag.

He raised his hand, jabbing a vicious finger in the air. ‘Ay! Just watch it, girl!’

Tina flinched but wouldn’t be stared down. ‘You ever lay a hand on me again, and I’m out of here,’ she said, her eyes flaring with defiance and fear.

‘Oh, come on! It was only the once.’

‘Once too many.’

‘Ah, shut it, Tina. You’re doing my head in.’

‘Your gran was longing for you to get this place and hers sorted,’ Tina said, dumping the hot mug on the arm of the settee. ‘But, oh no, you wouldn’t be bothered to stir yourself. And now it’s too late.’

Shaun felt the turn of a knife and his eyes flooded with tears. His heart felt as if it would burst, he wanted his gran so much. He felt as if he was on his own for eternity: he would just drift forever on a grey endless sea. He jerked upright, then dropped to his knees and curled his body into a ball. ‘Oh Gran, if only you
hadn’t gone and died,’ he exclaimed, burying his head in the crook of his arms and weeping like a distressed toddler.

Tina looked on in bewilderment, having never seen him shed a single tear before.

The press conference was packed. On the raised platform a technician checked the microphones. TV cameras were in evidence and the press group were testing their tape recorders. Those who still favoured spiral-bound notebooks had their ballpoint pens ready for the off. A reporter from Sky News was talking earnestly with the press and public relations officer. A BBC Radio reporter was waiting her turn. The atmosphere was tense and anticipatory; the cold-blooded murder of a prominent member of the medical profession had attracted national attention.

There was a hush as the Deputy Chief Constable of West Yorkshire led the panel on to the platform and took the central seat behind the long table covered with a blue cloth. Damian Finch took the place on his right, smart in a sombre slate-grey suit, with flashes of pale-blue collar and cuffs. Swift sat on the DCC’s left, his face calm and neutral. Going through his mind was the ongoing network of the investigation: Doug gathering information on people who regularly visited the victim’s home, Laura talking with Moira Farrell’s mother, the uniform foot-soldiers knocking on neighbours’ doors in the hope of finding a witness, and searching for the murder weapon, the SOCO team working to find clues at the death scene, forensics analysing what had been found so far.

It was now more than twenty-four hours since Moira Farrell’s death, and the investigation didn’t really seem to have kicked off. Outside winter was proceeding: the sky as brooding and sulky as
a disgruntled adolescent, the precipitation coming down from the clouds unable to make up its mind whether it wanted to be rain, sleet or snow.

The deputy chief constable started the proceedings by telling the audience how shocked and distressed everyone present would be at the death of a woman so respected in her valuable work as a doctor and her contribution in the local community. She was a woman who had given her life and considerable abilities to the care of others, a woman who had been brutally cut down in the prime of her life by an evil and pitiless attacker; murdered in her own home whilst she was alone and defenceless. The police would maintain a grim and unflagging determination to catch and bring her killer to justice.

He turned to Swift and introduced him as the senior investigating officer who would be directing the hour-by-hour grind of the murder enquiry.

The first question rang out almost before the deputy chief constable had finished his brief speech.

‘How was Mrs Farrell killed?’ The questioner was a middle-aged man, thick set and bulldog-like.

Swift leaned forward. ‘We can’t give you that information until we’re in possession of the results of the post-mortem.’

‘Is it true that Mrs Farrell was the subject of a sex attack?’ Bulldog knew his job. Lob in a question based on simple guesswork and with any luck you could stir up an uproar which might just lead to the dropping of a little gem.

‘Any such rumours are purely speculation,’ Swift said.

‘OK, but this killing is sounding a bit like one we had last year in the area. A middle-aged woman stabbed in the living-room of her home by an intruder. Do you think there’s a connection?’

‘I can’t comment on that at this stage.’

‘If there is a similarity, will you be liaising with the team who worked on that death?’ Bulldog wasn’t for letting go.

Swift would not be drawn. ‘If we find any connection, we will, of course, make contact with the team conducting that investigation.’

‘That investigation has been a bit of a damp squib, hasn’t it?
One or two arrested, but no one charged. It doesn’t give the local people much confidence …’ Bulldog buttoned his lip, his point made.

Swift gave an internal sigh. He knew the Bulldog would be slipping a few broadsides into his article, drawing attention to the disappointing performance of the police in a similar murder investigation to the one recently committed. ‘I think we need to concentrate on the death of Moira Farrell,’ he said. His glance moved away from Bulldog and swept the audience. ‘Can we move on please?’

A woman reporter wearing a bright red jacket, put her hand up.

‘Any suspects yet, Chief Inspector Swift?

‘Not as yet.’

‘Any leads?’

‘We’re exploring all the relevant avenues.’ Swift was aware of sounding like a pre-programmed robot.

‘Motive?’ Red jacket was beginning to look a little smug.

Swift imagined her tapping out an article subtly castigating his team for not coming up with very much during the precious twenty-four, so-called golden hours, of a murder investigation. ‘We don’t yet have a specific motive.’

There were further attempts to discover details of the killer’s
modus operandi,
the inevitable demands to know how soon a suspect might be named. Unruffled and firm, Swift parried each one.

And then a young woman on the second row jumped up to speak. She was tiny, wearing battered biker’s leathers, her short black hair sticking out in all directions. ‘Dr Farrell worked in the gynaecology department at the hospital, didn’t she? I’ve heard that there’ve been some difficulties in that section. Staff at each other’s throats, daggers drawn.’

Swift felt a tingle of instinct run down his spine. The listening audience drew in a collective breath of tension. ‘And your question is?’ He levelled a steady gaze at the woman. She looked no more than a girl, hardly out of her teens.

‘No question, Chief Inspector. Just a thought to kick-start your 38 investigation.’

The audience was emitting a bumblebee buzz. All eyes were now on the girl, who sat down, her cat-like features mainly unreadable, although Swift sensed a manipulative gleam of triumph in her eyes.

‘Rather than indulging in what is simply speculation,’ he responded, ‘I’d like to remind all of you present that we shall be appealing to the general public to help us by coming forward to talk to us if they saw anyone outside Dr Farrell’s house in the early hours of yesterday morning, between five-thirty and around six o’clock. This was a sudden and vicious attack on a defenceless woman. The killer is dangerous, so if any members of this group, or anyone else hearing this appeal have any information, however insignificant it might seem, we would invite them to contact us. We will, naturally, promise complete confidentiality.’

Judging it time to wind things up he glanced at the deputy chief constable, who instantly took the hint, rising to his feet. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Ladies. Thank you all for your time.’

Watching Swift advance across the car-park, Doug fired the engine of his car and gave it a couple of short revs. He waited for his boss to climb in. ‘How did it go, sir?’

Swift shut the door with a firm thud, his face giving nothing away.

Not too brilliant then, Doug decided.

Swift pulled at the seat belt and clicked it in place. ‘The usual,’ he said evenly. ‘Mostly routine damp squibs, but there was a bit of a firecracker at the end.’ He gave Doug a brief account of the spiky-haired newshound. ‘She’s just joined
The Yorkshire Echo
. Her comments could be pure fancy, and I’m guessing she’s simply wanting to make a name for herself and get noticed.’

Doug grinned. ‘Still, if someone chooses to throw us a juicy bone, we might as well go and have a chew on it.’

‘It’ll have to wait its turn,’ Swift said. ‘First on the list is the post mortem.’ Regrettably, he added to himself.

Sylvia Farrell, the widow of Moira’s father, lived in a square stone house standing on the eastern fringes of the town of Ilkley. The
entrance door was painted dark blue, its centrally placed brass lion’s head knocker polished to the colour of silver.

In response to Laura’s two short raps, the door was opened by a woman in late middle age dressed in a plain black skirt and a pale-blue sweater. She had the thick white hair of people who have turned grey in early middle age, and whose hair has now lost all its pigment. It was rolled into an immaculate French pleat in the style worn by film stars in the 1960s. Around her neck was a single string of pearls, illuminating the woman’s face and
highlighting
her chiselled bone structure. Laura showed her ID. ‘Mrs Farrell?’

‘Yes, I’m Mrs Farrell. I’ve been expecting that someone from your department might come today.’ She was perfectly polite, yet her voice managed to convey a hint of disapproval. ‘Would you come this way please, Constable?’

The Lady of the Manor dispensing largesse to the lowly serfs, Laura thought, pulling a little face at the woman’s departing back. And, oh, what a very straight back.

The drawing-room was large and square, painted in a soft sea green, and furnished in a conventionally elegant style which Laura surmised would have been favoured by comfortably wealthy people around thirty years ago: linen covers on the sofas, gleaming walnut tables, oil paintings showing country landscapes, looped curtains framing the tall windows through which a glimpse of the River Wharfe could be seen beyond the long garden, its shifting waters the colour of a grey pearl. A huge vase filled with deep pink stargazer lilies stood on top of the grand piano in one corner of the room, scenting the air with their pungent sweetness.

A small slender woman in her mid twenties was sitting at the keyboard, picking out a soft, mournful melody with the fingers of her right hand. She turned as Sylvia Farrell announced Laura’s presence. As her head tilted, her long straight black hair fell across her shoulders like a ripple of silk. Her delicate, clean-cut features carried an air of shock and quiet despair. ‘Jayne Arnold,’ she told Laura, getting up from the piano stool and offering her hand. ‘I’m so pleased you’ve come. All this sitting and waiting is horrible. It
makes you feel so helpless.’ She released Laura’s hand and seated herself on a sofa close to the fireplace.

Mrs Farrell instantly joined her, crossing her legs and neatly folding her skirt before placing a hand lightly on that of the younger woman. ‘Jayne is my daughter,’ she told Laura.

Laura began the interview by murmuring respectful
condolences
.

‘How can I help you, Constable Ferguson?’ Mrs Farrell asked abruptly, barely giving the constable time to finish her short speech.

Looking at the mother and daughter duo, sitting so formal and upright on their grand sofa, Laura felt rather like a hopeful job candidate in front of the selection panel. She reminded herself that her boss Ed Swift would have no truck whatsoever with such concerns. And neither should she.

‘Were you were aware of anything troubling Moira in recent weeks, Mrs Farrell?’ she asked, getting straight to the point, even though coming face to face with others’ grief never ceased to trouble her. And the questions she needed to ask seemed worryingly intrusive.

‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t know,’ Mrs Farrell said. ‘Moira and I weren’t very close, I’m afraid. Well – not since she married Rajesh.’

She glanced across to her daughter, who gave her a gently sorrowful look in response, suggesting her complete agreement with her mother’s implied dissatisfaction with Rajesh Patel.

‘It wasn’t that her father and I had anything against Rajesh,’ Sylvia Farrell went on. ‘But after they were married, Anthony and I seemed to see Moira rather less than we did before. And sadly Anthony died three years afterwards.’

‘I see,’ Laura said, injecting a touch of sympathy into her voice. ‘How long had Moira been married, Mrs Farrell?’

‘Seven years.’ As she spoke, Sylvia Farrell’s was face was set and stern rather than sad. ‘They were married around the same time Anthony and I were.’

She raised her head, as though staring into a lost past. Jayne reached out and touched her arm for a brief moment.

‘So you are Moira’s stepmother?’ Laura said, enlightenment dawning. She turned her attention to Jayne.

‘I’m Moira’s stepsister,’ Jayne explained, before Laura had time to ask the question. ‘My mother has been widowed twice. Her first husband, my father, died when he was only thirty-eight.’

‘How I dislike that term stepmother,’ Sylvia commented, her tone suggesting a degree of exasperation at being faced with such irrelevancies at a time of deep crisis.

‘I’m sure Moira never thought of you as the kind of stepmother portrayed in fairy-tales,’ Jayne said soothingly.

‘Moira was dedicated to her work,’ Sylvia Farrell said, steering the conversation away from delicate issues. ‘Highly committed. Although I believe nowadays it’s called being a workaholic.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘Rajesh is rather the same. In fact, Anthony and I sometimes wondered how much time they could have spent together.’

‘And they had no children?’ Laura asked gently.

‘No,’ Mrs Farrell said curtly.

Laura had an uncomfortable feeling that Mrs Farrell was silently adding that it was just as well. So, what was the problem, she wondered? Had Sylvia and her late husband thought a child would get short shrift with workaholic parents?

‘Actually the issue of children had caused Moira a great deal of sadness,’ Mrs Farrell offered spontaneously. She paused, considering her next words. ‘She and Rajesh very much wanted children, and Moira had in fact become pregnant more than once. But each time she had had a miscarriage. It caused a great deal of sadness for them.’

‘Poor Moira,’ Jayne said. ‘It must have been hell losing those babies.’

‘Yes,’ Sylvia said pointedly, ‘I’ve been through it myself.’ Her eyes were suddenly pink with mounting tears.

Jayne squeezed her mother’s hand. ‘You’ve got me, darling.’

Sylvia looked gratefully at her daughter. ‘Poor, poor Moira!’ she exclaimed bowing her head and appearing suddenly overcome with the gloom and sadness of the situation.

‘Did Moira have any other sisters or brothers?’ Laura asked.

‘Moira has a brother who practises medicine in the States,’ Jayne said, continuing her role of facilitator in this difficult interview. ‘My mother has contacted him and told him of Moira’s death. He and his wife will be flying over for the funeral. At such time as the body is released to us.’

‘I see.’ Laura left a small pause of respect.

Jayne reached for her mother’s hand. ‘We’ll get through this, Mummy,’ she said gently. ‘And you know I’ll always be here for you.’