Authors: Marjorie Eccles
Killing a Unicorn (5 page)
He seemed unaware of her tension and answered her
question calmly enough. âHe's set it up for early tomorrow morning, first thing. He's off on a lecture tour or some other jolly abroad, Barbados or wherever the international forensic pathologists are gathering for their fun, but he's decided to fit it in before he goes, he's anxious to know the result. Interested enough to change his flight reservation for a later one.' He brooded on this for a while. âWhatever the result, I'll lay money it's going to shake the gentry up there at the Big House out of their bloody complacency.' He spoke in sneering capitals. The chip on his shoulder â working-class boy pulled up by his own bootstraps â was almost visible.
question calmly enough. âHe's set it up for early tomorrow morning, first thing. He's off on a lecture tour or some other jolly abroad, Barbados or wherever the international forensic pathologists are gathering for their fun, but he's decided to fit it in before he goes, he's anxious to know the result. Interested enough to change his flight reservation for a later one.' He brooded on this for a while. âWhatever the result, I'll lay money it's going to shake the gentry up there at the Big House out of their bloody complacency.' He spoke in sneering capitals. The chip on his shoulder â working-class boy pulled up by his own bootstraps â was almost visible.
âYou could've put it to them less brutally.' She knew he hardly realized how boorish he was being, sometimes. âAnd we don't know for sure, not yet, Dave.'
âIf Doc Anderson and Logie both think so, that's good enough for me.'
The sharp-eyed police doctor, Anderson, first on the scene, had voiced his doubts about whether Bibi Morgan's death was, in fact, due to drowning, and when Logie, the pathologist, had been called in, they had together formed the opinion she must have been dead before she entered the water â although, cautious Scot that Logie was, he was not prepared to commit himself until he'd examined her under proper conditions, since there were no immediately obvious signs of deliberately applied violence to the body. The stream that ran through the grounds at Membery was swift, it ran downhill and the bed was full of sharp-cornered flints, which would have accounted for the many cuts and bruises the body had sustained and could have obscured the real cause of death. Rivers and streams, of course, were the ideal way of getting rid of forensic evidence, washing away blood and contact traces and, with luck, removing it from the actual spot where the crime had occurred. Which, if Logie's initial opinion was proved correct, implied somebody who knew what they were doing â somebody with nous enough to appreciate that fact, or even a professional. The bonus in this case, mused
Crouch, mulling it over and speaking his thoughts aloud, was that the corpse couldn't have travelled any appreciable distance, so there was reason to believe there might still be signs of any scuffle that had taken place at the spot where she'd been tipped, or pushed, in â if, indeed, she had been. Anyone seeking to obliterate such signs completely was on to a hiding to nothing â there'd be something, trampled grass, broken plants, even damage to the bank itself.
Crouch, mulling it over and speaking his thoughts aloud, was that the corpse couldn't have travelled any appreciable distance, so there was reason to believe there might still be signs of any scuffle that had taken place at the spot where she'd been tipped, or pushed, in â if, indeed, she had been. Anyone seeking to obliterate such signs completely was on to a hiding to nothing â there'd be something, trampled grass, broken plants, even damage to the bank itself.
âI'll have a team out there first light. That walking stick, for one thing â I want it, though it won't be anywhere near the water, I'm bloody sure. No killer's going to be stupid enough to lead us right to the spot where she was done in.'
âIsn't it more likely she did just fall into the pool and drown?'
âIf she did, she wouldn't have had all those scratches, darlin',' he answered witheringly. âShe was tumbled down that stream, take it from me. And I'll lay my pension she didn't drown. You know me. I've a nose for this sort of thing. I can smell it a mile off.'
Construct a theory and then find facts to buttress it, more like, thought Kate, and if you can't find evidence, manufacture it. Dave Crouch's biggest failing. He'd always walked on the windy side of what was permissible, relishing the danger, enjoying the rush of adrenalin, the buzz it gave him, and wasn't going to change, even now. That was something she'd learned to accept, if not condone. She sighed and said, âEven Logie won't commit himself a hundred per cent, yet. What makes you so certain it's murder?'
If it is, nothing would please you more, she thought. I know that, because I know how much it would mean to you. How much you need an important case to soothe your wounded self-esteem and raise your standing. But, remembering the bereaved people they'd just left behind â and oh God, there was a child, wasn't there? â she knew
not even Crouch would wish that. âYou don't half like to think of yourself as a bastard, Dave Crouch.'
not even Crouch would wish that. âYou don't half like to think of yourself as a bastard, Dave Crouch.'
He grinned as if she'd paid him a compliment. âDon't underestimate me. I don't only think it, Katie darlin', I am one. It's a special gift I have.'
She said nothing more. It was always the best way. Keep him happy if you didn't want a row. Then he surprised her by saying, suddenly serious, âIt stinks, Kate. Not just to me. Old Logie wouldn't be interrupting his hols if he didn't think there was something fishy. It was no fall, I'm sure of that. Think about it. There she is, unsteady on her feet, says she's going out for some air, and goes to find it by walking by the side of the stream, of all places. It ain't easy, that path, not even with two good legs and in bright sunlight. It's narrow, and slippery, and broken away in places â and as for that so-called track down by the waterfall, it's like the north face of the bloody Eiger. Dangerous at any time, I should think, and it's darkish under the trees even in broad daylight. At that time, with the sun going down, it must have been pretty murky, to say the least.'
âWhy d'you think she did go down there, then?'
âTo meet someone? If she was deliberately killed, it's a stretch to think it was mere chance that the killer just happened to be around.'
It was frustrating, but there was nothing to be gained by mounting a search in the dark, even in the moonlight. Nor, until the post-mortem proved that she hadn't died by accident, was there any justification for commandeering the resources necessary.
âSleep on it, that's the only thing to do.' He put a thick, hairy hand on her knee and gave her his special leer. âWhat's for supper, darlin'?'
It took all he had to drive carefully, to keep well within the speed limit, suppressing every instinct that urged him to put his foot down, roar up the motorway and to hell with the consequences. But innate caution warned Chip not to do it. The last thing he needed was to be stopped by the police, and his new, silver Lexus coupé was inclined to attract notice at the best of times. In his monkey suit, no doubt still reeking of wine and brandy fumes, he'd be fair game for any gung-ho traffic police waiting to pounce with a breathalyser. He wouldn't stand a cat in hell's chance of getting away with it. The truth was, he shouldn't be driving at all, though the unexpected sound of the telephone, shrilling through the empty flat as he opened the door, his mother's voice when he answered, and the unbelievable news she'd given him, had immediately shocked him into a sense of stone-cold sobriety.
Twenty minutes earlier, he'd been feeling mellow and expansive after a leisurely dinner at one of the City livery halls. The wine had been as good as it always was, and he'd sunk a fair amount, secure in the knowledge that he'd be taking a taxi back to the flat, where he was to stay the night. It had been an agreeable evening, one way and another. Chip was a clubbable man and happy in the company of other like-minded men, networking â or furthering his own ends â whichever mode of expression you chose. Tonight had had the added attraction of being a ladies' evening. He'd found himself seated next to the Master's wife, a middle-aged woman of few words, and
he'd politely done his duty by her, keeping up a pleasant, platitudinous conversation when necessary and in between turning with relief to the witty and attractive woman, a financial analyst, on his other side. She'd made him laugh with some rather scandalous stories about people they both knew, and there had been more than a hint of flirtation in the exchanges. Their eyes had met over the rim of the loving cup as it was customarily passed around. Holding it by its two handles while she drank, he'd sensed a promise that this wouldn't be their last meeting.
he'd politely done his duty by her, keeping up a pleasant, platitudinous conversation when necessary and in between turning with relief to the witty and attractive woman, a financial analyst, on his other side. She'd made him laugh with some rather scandalous stories about people they both knew, and there had been more than a hint of flirtation in the exchanges. Their eyes had met over the rim of the loving cup as it was customarily passed around. Holding it by its two handles while she drank, he'd sensed a promise that this wouldn't be their last meeting.
The curve of the motorway, on a slight rise, stretched out in front of him, the flare path of yellow sodium lights signalled the intersection, and his turn-off ahead. A myriad insects whirled in his headlights, their mashed bodies and tiny specks of blood and body fluids blurring the windscreen. He switched on the washers and a smell of the detergent Bibi had disliked so much filled the car, mingling with the scent of soft leather and new carpets.
She would have been here with him tonight if it hadn't been for her broken ankle. She'd taken to accompanying him to this type of function more and more lately, encouraging him to think â why not, after all? A woman like her and a man like him â they were meant to make a go of it, she was beginning to see that, at last. Too late now, too bloody late. He slammed his fist on the steering wheel.
Disbelief at what he'd been told had been followed by anger. What the hell had she been doing, clambering down the waterfall path, with her still-wonky ankle? If she'd wanted to visit Fran at The Watersplash, Humphrey would have driven her down with pleasure. But Humphrey, he remembered, was away, visiting his daughter in Cornwall. Even so, someone would have taken her down.
A worm of suspicion began to burrow insidiously into his consciousness: that perhaps it hadn't been an accident.
No, she wouldn't!
He tried to believe himself, but no one knew better than
he that yes, she could, thinking back to the time when it had very nearly happened. He'd been proud of himself then, how he'd risen to the occasion and coped, taking her and young Jasie away from everything that had gone on and installing them at Membery. Using patience with her, moreover, not something that came to him naturally or easily, so that gradually, she'd become a woman no longer so terrified that she'd seen suicide as the only way out. He'd persuaded himself that she'd put her past behind her. She and her child had been accepted, without question, into the bosom of his gregarious family. She'd lost her fear and rediscovered her confidence. She'd even managed to start working again, albeit in what he considered a menial capacity, a job which he'd been hoping he could soon persuade her to change for something more appropriate. They'd all rubbed along together quite happily. But now he wondered uneasily how much of that was true, how much he'd been deceiving himself.
he that yes, she could, thinking back to the time when it had very nearly happened. He'd been proud of himself then, how he'd risen to the occasion and coped, taking her and young Jasie away from everything that had gone on and installing them at Membery. Using patience with her, moreover, not something that came to him naturally or easily, so that gradually, she'd become a woman no longer so terrified that she'd seen suicide as the only way out. He'd persuaded himself that she'd put her past behind her. She and her child had been accepted, without question, into the bosom of his gregarious family. She'd lost her fear and rediscovered her confidence. She'd even managed to start working again, albeit in what he considered a menial capacity, a job which he'd been hoping he could soon persuade her to change for something more appropriate. They'd all rubbed along together quite happily. But now he wondered uneasily how much of that was true, how much he'd been deceiving himself.
Chip wasn't a deep-thinking or introspective man, he took things and people pretty much as they came, but the doubts had started, and wouldn't go away. When he'd brought her to Membery, he'd promised her no questions would be asked, and as far as he knew, none had been. He'd warned everyone that she'd had a rotten time and couldn't bear to talk about it, had asked that her privacy be respected. No one had bothered her, not even Alyssa, who was notorious for asking the things other people wanted to know but hadn't the brass neck to ask. Nor had he himself probed, beyond what he already knew. He'd agreed, albeit reluctantly, to a no-strings relationship. Bloody lucky for him he had, as it turned out. If he'd had to rely on Bibi these last two years, well ⦠Enough said.
Together with Jasie, the three of them had occupied the several converted rooms in a wing of the house, formerly the servants' quarters, which Chip had moved into some years before. For all its discomforts, he'd never been able to envisage living anywhere else but Membery, his family home: at the same time, he couldn't live continually under
his mother's all-seeing eye. The set of rooms had been ideal when Bibi came to live with him. Better so. Away from prying eyes, save him embarrassment.
his mother's all-seeing eye. The set of rooms had been ideal when Bibi came to live with him. Better so. Away from prying eyes, save him embarrassment.
Jasie. They hadn't told him yet, Alyssa had said. Poor little sod, lying peacefully asleep, unaware of what the next day would bring. Panic gripped Chip at the thought of having to be the one to tell the child his mother was dead. Must it be him? A woman would be bound to do it better. Alyssa? On reflection, no. His mother's brand of sympathy wasn't the sort calculated to help in this situation. She'd overwhelm the boy with tears, terrify him with her own sorrow. Although she would certainly be a comfort later, letting him cry in her arms, she wouldn't do at all to break the news. Jane? Stalwart Jane, to whom they'd all taken their troubles, as children, and beyond. You never got a shoulder to cry on, that was for sure, yet somehow you went away feeling better. Perhaps sympathy wasn't always what was needed. This time, however, it was, in spades. No, then, not Jane. Which left only Fran â¦
He pulled himself together. Not Fran, either. It came down to himself, no getting away from it. The lessons taught at school, never to shirk unpleasantness, to face it like a man, were deeply ingrained. He saw there wasn't really any alternative but to tell Jasie, himself. He owed him that, at least. He was a first class little chap, he had guts. He'd bear up. Look how plucky he'd been when he'd had to have that cut in his wrist stitched, after tripping up with a lemonade bottle in his hand. Seven stitches, and never a tear. Physical courage was something Chip could recognize, understand and admire.
And then another unwelcome thought struck him. Acting the role of father-figure to a child whose mother was always there, in the background, was a totally different concept from having to assume sole parental responsibility, from now into the future. Yet there was no one else. His heart sank. Fond as he was of Jasie, he felt bowed down
with the weight of something he knew he couldn't begin to cope with.
with the weight of something he knew he couldn't begin to cope with.
His headlights picked out the sign for his turn-off. He peeled off at the slip road, negotiated the roundabout then reached for the music switch. Quadraphonic sound drifted from all corners of the car: his brother's latest recording, the deep, plangent notes from the Elgar cello concerto. Bibi must have put the cassette in, it wasn't at all Chip's music of choice, way above his head to be honest. More of a jazz man, himself. He dimly remembered Bibi reading out from the newspaper, when this particular recording came out, what some critic had written: âHow can anyone comment on any recording of this piece without failing to compare it with the Jacqueline du Pré version? Yet Jonathan Calvert manages to extract another dimension, blah, blah, blah â¦'
He'd almost forgotten old Jonners would be home when he arrived. He'd never been as close to Chip as Mark, piggy in the middle, had been to either of them, there was ten years in age and a whole cultural divide between them. He was fond of him, naturally, as family, as his kid brother - but cello playing as a career, good God! That was going too far by half for Chip, especially when he remembered the caterwauling they'd all had to endure when the young Jonathan was practising. You had to allow his success, though â music scholarship to Cambridge and now â amazing, really, how many people one knew who'd heard of him. Deep down, Chip was quite proud of the relationship, and not a little impressed, while trying not to stand in awe of his brother's achievements by remembering him as the snotty-nosed little sprog he'd once been. In actual fact, he was much prouder of the thing which had redeemed him for ever in his eyes, almost made him able to forgive Jonathan for the cello: that century he'd knocked up when batting for the school eleven in his last year.
All in all, though, he was glad to think he'd be there, at Membery. He wasn't Mark, but he could be relied upon to be supportive of Chip who had â so natural to him he
never thought about it, or even realized he had it â a sense of responsibility to those close to him: he'd done his best to act like a father to Jonathan after Conrad had died.
never thought about it, or even realized he had it â a sense of responsibility to those close to him: he'd done his best to act like a father to Jonathan after Conrad had died.
Yes, it would be good to have him there, Chip reflected. At least, he wasn't going to find himself the sole male in a house full of women, and that included Humphrey, if he was back.
Alyssa had murmured something horrified about the police requiring identification, an inquest. Another thing he'd have to face. Christ, this business could drag on for ever! While he had affairs waiting to be dealt with, things that couldn't be left to his subordinates â or rather, things that he wouldn't leave, wasn't prepared to chance, in particular one certain risky operation that was at a crucial stage. He was as sure as he could be that everything in that direction was sewn up as tight as a nun's knickers â all the same, he was uneasy, as he increasingly was when something like that was brewing.
And suddenly, without warning, he broke out into another of those cold sweats that had lately been coming over him, all his hidden doubts and fears coalescing and refusing to be ignored. All too often recently, usually in the wee small hours, it had occurred to him that he might not be cut out for this lark. Without doubt, he enjoyed the rewards that a bit of fancy footwork brought in, but he was dimly beginning to see that he wasn't made to live permanently on the edge, he didn't relish danger as some of his acquaintances obviously did, even though he put a good face on it, pretended he did, tried to speak the same language. But maybe it wasn't in him to feel truly easy while keeping a dozen irons in the fire all at once, trying to live as though his right hand didn't know what his left was doing. He would wake up trembling, in a mucksweat that he'd be found out, and exposed. He tried to tell himself there was no disgrace in what he was doing, half the Establishment was at it â the disgrace was in being found out, a cardinal sin that would never be forgiven.
Only the truth was, he was mortally afraid this last
eventuality might well be possible. He wasn't a nit-picker, never had been, the fine print was something you paid the lawyers to read for you, but all the same, there'd been too many times for comfort when he'd discovered in himself an alarming capacity for overlooking essential details, and a feeling that one day this would be his downfall.
eventuality might well be possible. He wasn't a nit-picker, never had been, the fine print was something you paid the lawyers to read for you, but all the same, there'd been too many times for comfort when he'd discovered in himself an alarming capacity for overlooking essential details, and a feeling that one day this would be his downfall.
Bloody fool, he told himself, able to be honest for once, shaken by the realization forced upon him that if the unthinkable could happen, if Bibi could die, just about anything was conceivable. Should've known himself better, realized he wasn't a natural risk-taker, even when Membery was at stake, the main reason he'd got himself into this hole. Well, it wasn't too late, even yet, he wasn't in so deep he couldn't dig himself out, he thought, the more sober side of his nature beginning to assert itself.
Try to be too clever and you got yourself right up the spout. âSailing a bit too close to the wind, aren't you, old lad?' Mark had commented only the other day, when he'd hinted that he could put him on to something big.
Damn Mark. He saw too much, always had. And why the hell did he have to be away now â of all times? They'd had wild times together when they were younger, though Mark had always seemed to stand one pace back, viewed events sardonically from the sidelines, so to speak, even when he was included. And then, after he'd met Fran, the laddish times had ceased altogether. All the same, without any doubt, Chip knew that Mark would instinctively know how to take charge of a situation like this. Clever bugger, he's always pipped me to the post, Chip reflected ruefully, without rancour. Except in one thing. And now, even that had been taken away from him.
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