In the Light of Madness (7 page)

Hunter rang the doorbell a couple of times before a shadow moved towards them through the bubble-glass panel. Judith Wright opened the door, reeking of alcohol.

“You brought my Des home?”

Hunter introduced himself and reminded her of Wednesday before saying it was her they had come to see. Judith passed a derogatory glance in Wednesday’s direction and then stood back to let them in. Wednesday noted that she did not ask if they had found her son.

They followed Judith into the kitchen where an open bottle of cheap German white wine stood on the table next to a mug with a chipped rim. Judith picked it up and took a swig.

“We’re still looking for Darren and we wondered if you’d had any more thoughts about his possible whereabouts,” Hunter said.

Judith looked at him with a vacant stare.

“Perhaps without your husband around, you could speak more freely about your concerns,” said Wednesday, trying to appeal to Judith on a woman-to-woman level.

“Are you married?” Judith slurred.

“No, I’m not.”

“Well then, what d’you know about anything? I can speak freely in front of my Des. I’ve just got nothing to say to you.”

“You don’t seem overly concerned about your son’s welfare. Has he run away before?” continued Wednesday, undeterred.

“No he hasn’t. This isn’t some kind of shit-hole he hates, you know. You’re all the same, just because we ain’t educated like you, you think I’m a crap mum . . .” She stopped mid-flow to take another sip, visibly shaking as she did so.

“I’m sorry if we’ve given you that impression. We need to find out as much as we can about the background and home life of a possible runaway. Have you any family close by that he may have gone to?” Hunter spoke calmly, giving her constant eye contact.

“No. Now when are you bringing my Des back?”

Wednesday decided to pursue her preferred line of enquiry.

“Mrs Wright, please don’t take offence, but I’ve noticed some signs of violence around the house. Is your husband aggressive towards you?”

Judith laughed manically, lolling her head backwards so the fillings in her back teeth were displayed.

“For the police, you have very little idea about the goings on in life. No wonder you can’t find Darren.” Her eyes began watering with the mirth that had taken hold of her, and only after taking a sip of drink did she calm down.

“Are you saying, Mrs Wright,” said Hunter, “that the violence in this household stems from Darren?”

Wednesday and Hunter eyed one another as Judith let out another stream of cackling sounds. Wednesday could see that he was not amused, and for a man of a mere five-foot-seven, the power of his voice was imposing.

“Mrs Wright, I’m unaware of anything to laugh about. Your son is missing; his best friend has been murdered; your husband has been arrested and you are clearly drunk during the day. What may I ask is so funny?”

His words reverberated around the unkempt room, and for the first time during their visit, Judith Wright sat in shocked silence as his words penetrated her alcoholic smog.

“Now think hard if you will. Where was Darren going that night? Perhaps he left some clues you didn’t pick up on straight away.” Hunter’s stare brought a flush of colour to her insipid cheeks.

“He spends quite a lot of time at that Tom’s house, and sometimes they’re here, cooped up in Darren’s bedroom. Des thought it was a bit un-natural like. He wondered if they were queer. He could’ve been with Tom last night . . .” she faltered as the words finally reached her addled brain. “Hell, you think my Darren killed that lad don’t you?”

She became agitated and aggressive, forcing Hunter to rise from his chair, informing her that if she did not calm down, they would have to continue the interview at the station.

“We’re looking for Darren as we’re concerned about his welfare. We’re not hunting him as a potential murderer,” interjected Wednesday. “Was your husband ever violent towards Darren?”

“I keep telling you, I don’t know where Darren is. And no, my Des was never violent towards him. He may not amount to much, but he ain’t that bad.”

Real emotion appeared to be surfacing, and Wednesday felt a pang of pity for the woman and her sad dysfunctional life.

“What about drugs or alcohol? Where you aware of Darren using any substances?”

Judith’s gaze dropped to the floor, clasping her trembling hands in her lap.

“I know he’s partial to taking a few cans of beer each week from Des’s stash. I think he and Tom drank it in the woods. I don’t know about drugs.”

Hunter rolled his eyes. “Mrs Wright, how would you feel about doing an appeal on local TV for the safe return of your son?”

Wednesday gave him a sideways glance, wondering how they were going to dry her out enough to give a coherent interview.

“I’ll have to have my Des with me. I ain’t doing it alone.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll need to arrange it and then an officer will bring you to the station. DI Wednesday will tell you what it entails.” He finished speaking and rose to leave.

They left Judith clutching her mug of drink and staring at the floor. Her belligerent demeanour had diminished, and she looked a pitiful sight.

Wednesday followed Hunter down the path as he tripped over the same loose slab that Lennox previously had. Wednesday smiled to herself.

Des Wright had calmed down in the interview room. Damlish had got him a cup of tea, and Arlow was looking over the notes he had already taken when Des was highly agitated.

“Mr Wright, would it be fair to say you have a temper which you can’t always control.”

Des looked him directly in the eye. “And what if I have?”

“Well, your stepson is missing and we might be wondering whether you have anything to do with his disappearance. So, instead of seeing us as the enemy, clarify things for us.”

Des puffed out his chest as his jaw muscles pulsated rapidly.

“I keep telling you people that I don’t know where the little sod is. I don’t know and I don’t really care.” His voice sounded strained and his eyes crackled with fire.

Arlow straightened up in his chair. “Your words are telling us one thing, but your nonverbal is saying something else.”

“What the fuck is ‘nonverbal’?”

“Nonverbal communication is your body language. You seem nervous and it looks like you’re hiding something. You’re not telling us the truth. It would be better for you to come clean now, it would look better in court.”

Des Wright’s ability to remain calm expired. He stood up, grabbed hold of the table then tipped it up with such force that the officers barely had the time to get out of the way. Arlow pressed the panic button on the wall, and within seconds four more officers entered the room and had Des Wright on the floor in a control and restraint hold.

But Des Wright was strong, and as he undulated on the floor, the officers looked like they were riding a bucking bull. Hunter bounded into the room and bellowed out for order. Des’s aggression subsided as he remained on the floor panting and exhausted, but still angry.

“Mr Wright, you’re in serious trouble. Now sit down and calm down, otherwise you’ll be put into a cell until you do.” Hunter’s voice was full of power that transgressed Des’s fury and permeated every pore of his sweaty body.

He was hoisted up and shoved back down into his chair by two officers. Their hands remained clamped onto his shoulders in readiness for any further outburst.

“Now, Mr Wright, what exactly is going on here?” Hunter said.

“They won’t believe me; they won’t believe that I’ve got nothing to do with Darren being gone.”

“Maybe your demeanour is suspicious, Mr Wright. We are concerned for Darren’s welfare and perhaps the officers don’t think you are worried at all.”

Des let out a deep sigh, putting his hands on the table, palms up so they looked like slabs of fatty ham.

“I don’t know where he is. He uses the house like a hotel, comes in for food and then buggers off out. Judith is usually too drunk to notice and I don’t much care.” Des then looked Hunter square in the face. “You may think I’m an uncaring bastard and because of that I would harm him, but that’s not true. You’ve no proof so you can’t keep me here.”

Hunter knew he was right. They had no evidence to link him to the disappearance. Hunter felt frustrated, and the pressure from his boss was weighing on his shoulders. He decided to leave his detectives to finish the interview as he was running low on patience and ideas.

Marching back to his office, he demanded that Wednesday join him straight away.

“Right Wednesday, I want you and Lennox down at the forensic labs, we need leads and we need them fast. Des Wright isn’t letting up; he’s hiding something so we’ll have to keep an eye on him.”

“You want surveillance on him?”

“Maybe not around the clock, but a patrol car up and down his street enough times to unnerve him. He needs to know he’s not off the hook.”

Wednesday nodded then turned to leave; she really wanted to get home a bit earlier to see Scarlett.

“Oh and Wednesday,” he said as she was almost out the door. “Get some bloody leads. The press will castigate us if we don’t push on. And make sure the Wrights are ready for their TV appeal.”

She left his office knowing that access to her private life would be once again delayed. She strutted over to Lennox’s desk and found him stuffing a chunk of fruit cake in his mouth. She informed him of Hunter’s orders as he stood up and brushed crumbs from his trousers before descending into the bowels of the building.

Wednesday always found the descent into the laboratories and mortuary sinister, as the stench of death pervaded the corridor and every corner of every room. In her dreams she sometimes saw her own body on a gurney.

The sight of Edmond Carter in the mortuary always appeased her rising fears. His kindly smile made her feel alive instead of a body of evidence lying on a slab.

A laboratory assistant wheeled out the metal gurney with Tom’s body shrouded in a green sheet. As Edmond pulled back the sheet, she felt a shiver run down her spine; the sight of a young person in that situation was distressing.

“What have you got for us, Edmond?” she asked, willing him to have a bounty of leads for her to take to Hunter.

“Still early days, Detectives. Toxicology will still take a few more days. From the absence of markings around the neck, and the bizarre contusions on his upper torso, I’d say we’re looking at intense pressure being applied to his thorax.”

The stillness of Tom’s pale body, illuminated under the glowing, clinical lighting, made Wednesday’s own chest feel tight. Her deep sigh did not go unnoticed by Lennox, but Edmond was in full throttle and was busy focusing on the evidence before him.

“There are other obvious signs that go with asphyxia. His face is swollen, and you may notice how his head, neck, lips, and fingers are visibly blue, due to cyanosis.”

Wednesday watched Edmond’s hands as they lay on the dead flesh, rather like a butcher’s hand ready to carve up a carcass.

“And if you look closely, you can observe tiny petechiae in the whites of his eyes, on the outer eye-lids, and around the lips.”

“Petechiae?” queried Lennox.

“Ruptured blood vessels due to applied pressure to the area.”

Edmond then moved Tom’s arm and lifted it up.

“Now, we thought the lad didn’t resist. However, we found fibres under his fingernails and inside his nasal passages. I’ve sent them to be analysed. In his struggle, his front teeth made an imprinted contusion on the inside of his lips.”

“This is all fascinating, Edmond. But are there any clues as to the identity of the assailant. You said sexual assault wasn’t the motive?” interrupted Lennox, as he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“No signs. If there had been we may have retrieved some DNA to give us a lead.”