The Burden of Doubt (3 page)

‘A sharing of information, is how the guv put it,’ Doug told Laura as they settled down for an indefinite wait.

‘Hmm.’ Laura contemplated the grim task of breaking the news of Moira Farrell’s death to her husband. ‘He probably knows far more about the death than we do,’ she commented. ‘What are the statistics on men killing their wives?’

‘Not exactly cheering,’ Doug said. ‘In which case he’s not very likely to turn up, is he?’

Further calls to the conference venue at which Professor Patel had registered indicated that he had not yet been located in the conference area. It seemed that he must have left quite soon after the lectures started as no one had seen him leave, but no one had noticed his presence either.

‘Things are not looking good for Professor Patel,’ Finch commented, swinging into the incident room and watching as Swift began to pin up photographs of the crime scene on the whiteboard. Several other officers assigned to the case were standing around in groups, chatting and occasionally glancing towards the whiteboard.

‘No,’ Swift agreed. ‘And he’s got his mobile switched off.’

‘Anything interesting on her phone?’

Moira Farrell’s mobile phone had been found on a table close to the body. It had been bagged up in preparation for being sent for
analysis. But at this moment it was on Swift’s desk, and switched on to receive calls.

‘Most of the calls were from Patel telling her he was just setting off from work, that he’d be home soon. Very brief, not at all emotional.’

‘And outgoing calls?’

‘Very few. Patel’s mobile number came up of course. And in the last week there were three calls to another line. We’re checking on that.’

‘She might have made more use of the landline.’

Swift wondered if Finch truly believed he wouldn’t have been able to think of that himself. He stared thoughtfully at the whiteboard. ‘We’re checking on that. And we’re bringing in her computer.’

‘And we mustn’t forget that some people still communicate face to face. Or even by letter,’ the superintendent commented, whilst reflecting on his wife and his married daughter whose cell phones spent a good deal of time clamped to their ears.

Swift tapped a pencil against one of the photographs, pointing to the pool of blood which had surrounded the dead woman’s body. ‘SOCOs thought there was just a chance we could get an image from marks found on the edge of the blood spill.’

Finch squeezed his eyelids together in an attempt to see more detail. ‘It looks like a long shot to me, but while we’re waiting for forensics it would be worth drawing up a list of regular visitors to the Farrell house and then setting up a shoe search.’

Swift nodded, noting that Finch was showing all the signs of a senior officer who had no qualms about telling grandmothers how to suck eggs.

‘Good old police foot slog,’ Finch concluded turning on his heel, and Swift had the impression his boss was pleased to have seen the last of the days when he himself would be out on the streets wearing out his shoe leather.

The hours went by and it got to 5.30 in the afternoon. Swift was once again in Damian Finch’s office, giving him a disappointingly unfruitful update, and Doug was phoning his wife
telling her that he was probably not going to get home in time for supper.

On Swift’s desk Moira Farrell’s mobile remained stubbornly silent.

Around the time Swift had been talking with Tanya Blake at the crime scene, Rajesh Patel was setting out to walk up Ingleborough, one of the three most well-climbed peaks in West Yorkshire. He parked his car in the village of Ingleton, killed the engine, then shrugged off the jacket of his suit and laid it on the back seat. From the boot he took out the waterproof and
wind-proof
clothing he always kept stored there, and pulled them on over his work clothes. Having exchanged his black lace-up brogues for sturdy walking boots, he called in at the local mini-market and purchased a cheese and tomato sandwich, a hefty slab of dark fruit cake wrapped in cellophane and a bottle of mineral water. He placed the items in the small canvas rucksack he had used for years when hill walking. Ensuring that his phone was switched off he tossed it into the glove compartment and shut the door with smart click.

The weather forecast indicated that the snow falling some miles to the east was steadily moving westwards. There was a possibility it might turn to rain as the temperature hovered uncertainly around the freezing point.

Rain or snow, it didn’t worry Patel. He had done the Ingleborough walk countless times before. He knew all the routes and pitfalls of the climb, just as he knew his own capabilities and stamina.

The steady, rhythmic tramp of walking and the slow, deep breathing required to make the ascent began to calm his earlier
agitation. He regretted having left the conference like some truanting adolescent; slipping away without offering any reasons or farewells. There had been no doubt in his mind: he had known as soon as he had endured the first round of reunions with medical colleagues from all over the UK that he hadn’t the stamina to face any further social encounters.

Recalling the news Moira had broken the night before had jarred his nerves and sent him off balance. The simple fact of having been forced into an emotional encounter with raised voices and ugly facial grimaces had distressed him. He was a contained man who prided himself on his self-control, who indeed relied on it to get him through the difficulties that even the most ordered life is strewn with.

His palms still prickled with sweat each time he re-ran the dismal scene. He told himself that the best cure was to keep the images as far from the front of his mind as possible. To this end, as he walked, he began to recite passages from Dryden and Milton. When he exhausted those he could move on to Shakespeare. In his youth, at his local grammar school, he had been highly praised for the quality of his voice, his clear enunciation and his exceptional interpretive ability when reading aloud from the great texts of English literature. He had sometimes thought with longing of embarking on a career in the acting profession. But both his parents were successful doctors and, as he had been their only son there had never been any question as to which profession he would choose.

The sky lowered as he walked on. At the summit he turned his back to the prevailing wind and sat down on a rock, opening his rucksack and taking out the refreshments he had carried with him. A group of hardy sheep regarded him with interest, moving cautiously closer.

‘You will have something all in good time,’ he told them, knowing that Yorkshire sheep were partial to a slice of rich fruit cake. The thought made him smile. The first time he had done so in many hours.

As he made his descent big soft snowflakes began to fall, sticking to his face and lying on his shoulders and chest. By the
time he reached his car a thin blanket of snow had rounded its contours and blunted the pointed tips of the roofs of the houses in Ingleton village.

As the light faded, the now rapidly falling snow drove against the windscreen with dizzying ferocity. Patel slowed his speed to a steady forty-five. He wondered whether to stop and phone Moira once again, warn her that he might be a little later than he had previously thought. He drove on. Moira would appreciate that driving conditions were difficult, would anticipate some delay. She had always been a balanced, practical woman. He gripped the wheel more tightly. Thoughts of his wife prompted him to run through the scenes of the previous evening once again, making him cringe with regret at the way things had run out of control.

His face became fixed and grim as he blanked out memories of Moira and concentrated on steering a steady course through the onslaught of rushing white flakes. As he turned off the main road into the interconnecting avenues of big stone houses which fanned out from the river, under the shelter of Ilkley Moor he schooled himself to be calm.

It was at that moment when he saw the white vans parked near his gate, the lights and figures in the driveway, the loops of tape protecting the house and proclaiming that it was now the province of the police.

A tall, gaunt man with auburn hair came forward as he drew the car to a halt. Glancing into the man’s solemn face Patel froze into stillness. He pressed the button to depress the window. ‘What is the matter?’ he asked, surprised to hear his voice emerge quite naturally, as though nothing was amiss, when in his heart he knew that desperate news was rolling towards him like a great unstoppable boulder.

He heard the man introducing himself and then asking if he was Professor Patel the husband of Moira Farrell. And even then he was able to speak quite naturally, confirming his identity, restating his original question.

‘I think it would be better if you came into the house and sat down,’ the man said.

Patel did not move. In his mind’s eye he saw a scene of terrible carnage: rage and violence and blood. Sprays and daubs and rivers of blood. ‘Please, just tell me what I need to know.’

‘Professor Patel, I’m sorry, but the body of your wife was found this morning in the sitting-room of your house.’

Patel heard the words, allowed them to perpetrate his consciousness, and knew that from this moment he would never experience complete happiness again. He felt a need to cut through his internal confusion, to inject an element of rationality into this incredible situation. ‘Might I see your identification?’ he asked the solemn-faced man. After a few moments he said, ‘I think you are right, Chief Inspector Swift. I should come inside and sit down. But not here. Not yet. I’m happy to speak to you at your station if that would be convenient. Or wherever else you suggest.’

The chief inspector took him to a squad car and got into the back with him, while the uniform officer at the wheel waited impassively for instructions, then fired the engine.

‘How did my wife die?’ Patel asked the chief inspector.

‘We believe she was attacked. She was stabbed in the neck.’

A long pause. ‘She was murdered,’ Patel exclaimed in soft tones, finding it necessary to say out loud those dreadful words, not to shy away from any of the grief and shock which were attacking his nerves and his viscera, sending stabs of agony through to his brain.

‘We believe so.’ The chief inspector gave a respectful inclination of his head. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss, sir.’

‘Where is she now – in the mortuary?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who will perform the autopsy?’

‘Dr Tanya Blake.’

‘Ah, yes. I know her work. She’s a competent young doctor.’ He stared out of the window, realizing that all that had been private between him and Moira would soon be out in the open, in the police files, in the press. In the public domain. ‘I’d like to be quiet for a few moments,’ he said to the solemn-faced detective. ‘But when we get to the station I shall be happy to answer any of the questions you need to ask me.’

A strange calm had settled over him. He closed his eyes and allowed an image of Moira to fill his mind: Moira alive, Moira strong and decisive and capable. He almost wished he could feel more, but his emotional system seemed to have shut down. He guessed the police would think him a cold fish. Many others thought that, and over the years he had become weary of trying to make other people understand him.

Grief attacks the body and can shrink people both physically and mentally. When Swift and Laura Ferguson entered the interview-room where Professor Rajesh Patel was waiting, they saw a man with hunched shoulders, staring blankly at the wall, an untouched styrofoam beaker of tea sitting on the table in front of him. As Swift and Laura entered the room he placed his hands on the table as though preparing to stand up. The sleeve of his thick sweater caught the beaker and it toppled it on to its side, sending a wave of tan-coloured liquid rolling over the desk top. Patel reached for the beaker and righted it, looking in dismay at the spilled tea.

Laura offered reassurance. ‘Don’t worry, Professor Patel,’ she said, guessing that Patel was nervous about what was coming. ‘Shall we get you another cup of tea?’

Patel stared at her, then shook his head.

Swift sat down opposite the bereaved man, suspecting that Patel was not troubled by nerves about the forthcoming interrogation, rather desperately grappling with the shock of coming up against the sudden death of a loved one. He recalled his own responses to the news of his wife Kate’s death in a rail crash. The disbelief, the denial, the panic of wondering how life was to be gone through without her. He knew, too, that time did not necessarily heal, that for a while it simply rubbed at the wound. And that for some people, going on feeling the pain was the only way to keep the person alive in the memory.

Watching the mask of dignity and stoicism of Patel’s face, he had the strong impression that the man was deeply and genuinely affected by his wife’s death. Which did not, of course, rule out his having killed her.

‘Professor Patel,’ Swift said gently, ‘we believe you’re a professor at the Leeds Medical school. Is that correct?’

Patel raised his head a little. ‘That is correct. I divide my time between administration, research and some teaching.’

‘Were you in your office at the university this morning?’

‘No, I went to a conference in Sheffield.’ He levelled with Swift’s steady gaze. ‘But I expect you already know that. I would presume you’ve been making enquiries about me – and my whereabouts.’

‘Yes, we have. We know that you registered at the conference, but it appears that you left quite soon after that. We asked the conference staff to locate you on several occasions, but without any success.’

‘No, they wouldn’t have,’ Patel agreed, showing no signs of discomfiture. ‘Did you telephone to tell me … about Moira?’

Swift nodded. ‘We also rang your mobile, but it was switched off.’

‘Yes.’ Patel spread his fingers and stared down at them.

‘Professor Patel,’ Swift prompted, ‘what time did you leave the conference?’

‘Around a quarter to ten.’

‘And where did you go?’

‘I drove north up the M1, then took the M62 going west.’

‘And where then?’

‘I drove to the village of Ingleton. I parked my car in the village, and then I went … for a walk.’

‘You went for a walk,’ Laura echoed. ‘In this weather?’

Patel turned slowly to meet the constable’s gaze. ‘The snow hadn’t yet reached that part of the county.’

‘No. But the weather must still have been pretty unpleasant for a stroll. Where did you go?’ Laura asked.

‘I walked up Ingleborough.’

No easy walk, Swift thought, having climbed the same peak himself the previous autumn as part of a charity raising venture. He recalled feeling uncomfortably creaky around the joints the next day. He inclined forward a little. ‘What time did you leave your house this morning, sir?’ he asked.

‘About five-thirty,’ Patel answered, appearing in no way perturbed by the swerve in the line of questioning. ‘Or maybe nearer a quarter to six.’

‘Registration at the conference started at nine-fifteen,’ Swift pointed out. ‘Why did you set off so early?’

‘I anticipated the journey might be slowed down by the weather conditions,’ Patel said, ‘and there’s always the danger of traffic queues getting into Sheffield in the rush hour.’

‘And how was your wife when you left, sir?’ Laura asked gently.

‘She was still in bed. She—’ Here he stopped, closing his eyes.

‘She what, sir?’ Laura injected a touch of pressure into her voice.

‘She said she hoped I’d have a good day.’

‘And she was fit and well when you left her?’

Patel paused for a moment. ‘Yes. Yes, she was.’ He dipped his head and fell silent. ‘I didn’t kill her,’ he added, his tone weary rather than challenging. ‘And indeed, I’m very willing to offer any help I can give you in proving that. For instance providing a sample of my blood or a DNA swab to help your investigation.’

Laura glanced at her boss, wanting to know if she should dig deeper, but Swift shook his head.

‘I’ve just one more question, sir,’ he said, ‘and then we’ll leave you in peace. Do you know of anyone who would want to harm your wife?’

The delay stretched on. A nerve vibrated at the side of Professor Patel’s mouth. ‘I can think of no one who would want to kill her,’ he said eventually.

‘Did she have any enemies?’ Swift followed up, his glance intent.

Patel sat back in his chair and sighed, his gaze falling blankly on the wall behind his questioners’ heads.

Swift kept a constant watch on the Professor’s face, wishing he had the means to access the tangle of thoughts which were passing through the bereaved man’s mind.

‘Everyone has foes, Chief Inspector,’ Patel said, rallying from his torpor.

‘Does that mean you can think of someone who would have a serious grudge against your wife?’ Laura followed up.

‘No, it doesn’t,’ Patel said with a degree of sharpness. ‘Not the kind of grudge that would make someone commit a murder.’

Laura glanced once again at her boss. He made a small negative gesture.

‘Does Sylvia Farrell know?’ Patel asked. ‘Do I have to tell her?’ The reluctance was patently clear.

‘She’s already been informed, sir.’ Swift was watching the widower closely.

Patel nodded. ‘I’ll contact Moira’s colleagues at the hospital,’ he offered, ‘although I suppose that will hardly be necessary, given that her body is already there.’ A spasm of pain twisted his face.