The Cloned Identity (2 page)

Chapter 2

We made our way to the garage and I asked Joe to drive so I could read through the file. Joe informed me when he turned into the road where Miss Wood lived. I stopped reading and looked at the houses.

It was a nice, quiet tree-lined road. The houses looked about fifty years old, built in blocks of four with a narrow gap between each block. The end houses in each block looked bigger because they had a bow window. The front gardens all looked neat and looked after, but boring in their similarity. Noting that there was no room for garages, I asked Joe if there was a rear service road. He said there was.

He pulled up outside number 48, which was the last house before a junction. As I got out of the car I could see the only difference between this and the other houses was the official tape across the front gate and the six-foot-six blue garden gnome wearing size-12 boots standing in the front garden. He rushed over to the gate and held the tape up for us.

“Lost your fishing rod?” I asked.

“Pardon, sir?” he said, looking puzzled.

I grinned at him as I walked past.

“I wonder how long he will take to work that out,” I said quietly to myself.

“Sorry, sir – I didn't quite catch that,” said Joe behind me.

“Oh, nothing, Joe – just thinking out loud.”

I stopped about halfway down the path and looked up at the house. The green and white paintwork was in poor repair, but I could see that the windows and the curtains were clean. I looked at the front door. Despite the faded green paintwork, the brass letter box and the red tiles in the small porch looked freshly polished. I noted that the path to the side of the house led to a gate set in a dark creosoted, trellis-topped fence – the way to the back garden, I presumed. We carried on up to the front door, which I could see was ajar. I could see from the powder smudges where the forensic boys had been.

Using one finger, I pushed open the door and stepped into a narrow hallway. I could see it was clean, despite the darkness.

“There's a front room, back room and kitchen down here; three bedrooms and bathroom upstairs,” Joe volunteered.

Without looking at him, I nodded in response.

I stood with my back to the front door. The stairs were on my right, the doors to the two reception rooms were on my left and the kitchen straight ahead. The hall was decorated with a faded flower-patterned wallpaper, which fitted in neatly between the picture rail and skirting board, both of which had been stained or varnished in some bygone age. I looked up the stairs, the narrow flimsy-looking stair carpet clamped into position by dark, heavy stair rods. The only thing missing from this time warp was the ticking of a clock.

“Upstairs, was it?”

“Yes, boss – front bedroom,” answered Joe.

We made our way upstairs, the wood creaking in protest at our combined weight.

The small landing was lighter than the hall downstairs. Someone had painted the doors, skirting board and picture rails white. I could see from the way the paint had peeled here and there that the painter had slapped the paint straight on top of the varnish. Here and there were traces of forensic powder.

“That door there, boss.” Joe pointed to the second door on my right.

Using my finger, I pushed the door open and stepped into a sad-looking room. Although the curtains were pulled right back, it was still dark. All the furniture was old-fashioned dark oak. There was nothing in the room to reflect the light. The room felt silent and lifeless. It seemed as though any sign of life in this room would be absorbed by the dark and lost for ever. I walked over to the bay window and confronted the heavy-looking dressing table. I looked at my reflection in the oval mirror, the image tarnished by the damage caused by age and damp to the mirror backing. I toyed with a chrome-handled brush-and-comb set resting in a glass tray, and reflected that my mother had a similar set on her dressing table, yet I had never seen her using it. I picked up the brush, and realised how unyielding it was. The head was heavy; the handle by comparison was slender and light. It had obviously been designed from the aesthetic rather than the practical point of view. Sighing, I carefully replaced the brush and turned round. The bed was between me and Joe. I looked it over – dark-wood headboard and footboard; the naked mattress looked old and lumpy. The room had a cell-like atmosphere – not a prison cell, but a monk's or nun's cell. It wasn't a happy room; it was a room for a purpose. I couldn't imagine it had ever heard the sound of laughter or the cries of pleasure of a couple loving. The floor was covered in cold, dark lino, although there was a dull rectangle by the side of the bed where I assumed a rug must have been before it was spirited away along with the bedding by Mel and her crew. They would caress it with modern technology into giving up any secrets it might hold.

I looked up at Joe. “A very sad house, Joe – more like a shrine than part of someone's life.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Right,” I said, breaking the silence, “let's go and see your mate.”

We left the house, pulling the front door closed. I told the PC to make sure it was all locked up before he left; and I nearly asked if he had worked out about the fishing rod, but thought better of it.

It took only about ten minutes to get to the vicarage. The church was a simple barn-like building. It had no tower or steeple – just a pile of red bricks. We pulled into the small gravelled car park, and from there I followed Joe through a gap in the dense, manicured hedge. The gravel path was wide enough for us to walk side by side. The vicarage was built of the same red bricks as the church; the windows were leaded, as if to add an air of respectability to the blandness of the walls. The end of the path was blocked by two steps, which led up to a shallow porch and a wide, wooden front door furnished with heavy, black wrought-iron fittings (apart from the doorbell, which was of highly polished brass).

Joe gave the bell some exercise and we waited. We couldn't wait on the top step as it wasn't wide enough. I wondered if it had been made like that so visitors had to wait on the lower step so that when the door opened they would be looking up at the vicar, to make sure they knew who was boss – just a thought.

The door suddenly swung open and the vicar stood there, tall and well built, with whitish wavy hair, brown eyes and thick lips. He was wearing a grey suit and glasses. I absorbed his details automatically as I asked if he was the Reverend Wright. Thereon he asked who we were. We identified ourselves and flashed our cards, and he said he was indeed the Reverend Wright. He apologised for his abruptness, saying that we looked just like a couple of book salesmen.

“Please do come in,” he said, standing back.

We entered a hall which was completely the opposite of the one we had just left: it was light, wide and untidy, but homely. The vicar closed the front door and asked us to follow him.

He led us into what must have been his study, which made me very conscious of my limited knowledge of religion. I had always thought there was only one book on religion and that was the Bible, but here we had wall-to-wall religious books crammed into solid wooden bookcases. The vicar made his way to his desk – and what a desk! It looked as though it must weigh a couple of tons. It was huge and covered in polished leather. He asked if we would like to sit down, pointing to the two handsome leather chairs in front of the desk. He waited until we were seated before he sat down. It was very evident as soon as he sat down that there had been some arranging, as we were clearly lower than he was – not much, but just enough to give him the advantage.

I explained to the vicar that we were investigating the attack on Miss Wood, and he asked if we had any news.

“It really is a dreadful business – quite shocking. Not the sort of thing you expect round here.”

“Yes, Joe – Sergeant Gibson – said you were upset.”

“Upset! My good man, when a friend – a dear, dear lady who wouldn't hurt a fly – is violated in her own home, I think I have a right to be upset, don't you?”

I looked at him for a few seconds, then said, “Reverend, I take it you know Miss Wood quite well?”

“Yes, of course. She was just as much a personal friend as a willing helper.”

I nodded. “Well, be assured we will do everything we can to solve this case as quickly as possible. I myself was recalled from holiday. I can understand the distress this has caused you, but it would be helpful if we could ask you some questions – get some idea of Miss Wood's background.”

“Yes, of course I must do all I can to help; we all must.”

“Is it all right if Sergeant Gibson here makes some notes?”

He nodded.

“Can you tell us if Miss Wood had any male friends or enemies?”

“Enemies? Are you mad? Susan was a saint – everyone liked her.”

“Not quite everyone,” I said.

He glared at me and said, “No, I suppose not.”

“So you don't know anyone who might wish her any harm?”

He shook his head.

“What about men friends?”

Again he shook his head.

“Has she mentioned that anyone had been pestering or bothering her lately – nuisance phone calls, that sort of thing?”

“No, not that I can recall,” he answered.

“So when was the last time you saw her?”

“That would be yesterday, around lunchtime. She called in to tell me she would be coming round this morning with Mrs Thomas.”

“How did she seem to you?”

“She was smiling, happy – just as she always was.”

“Going back to this morning, can you tell me exactly what happened?” I sat back in my chair.

“As I've said, I was expecting her to come round about eight thirty. She was always prompt. I waited until about ten to nine; then I tried to phone her. But there was no answer, so I decided to pop round – it's only round the corner. When I got there, the place was swarming with police – it gave me quite a fright – and the sergeant here,” he scowled at Joe, “wouldn't let me in or tell me what was going on.”

“That's standard procedure,” said Joe, butting in. “If you had said who you were—”

“But I told you who I was!” The vicar was now interrupting Joe.

“No, sir, I don't think you did,” replied Joe.

I thought I'd better intervene before it developed into a full-scale row: “What did you do then?” I asked.

The vicar turned towards me and gave me a look of disapproval, as though irritated by my calling him to order. “Why – why, I came back here and finished the proofs of the church magazine. That was why Miss Wood and Mrs Thomas were coming round: they were suppose to be helping me. As it was, I was lucky I finished before the deadline. I then took them straight down to Kay's in the High Street. On my return I phoned the police station and met with the same response as I'd had from the Sergeant here.” He again glared at Joe, who shifted uneasily in his seat. “So I phoned my Bishop and told him how I had been treated; then a little later he phoned me back and told me he had found out what had happened. I really couldn't believe it. How could such a thing happen right here on my own doorstep? Whatever next!”

“There's nothing else you can think of?” I asked.

“No, I think that's about everything.”

“Well, if anything else springs to mind, perhaps you can call me?” I passed over one of my cards, and he took it, looked at it, then put it on his desk. “Well, thank you for your time. We won't take any more of your time.”

We all stood up. I started to turn towards the door and stopped.

“I am sorry for the way you have been treated, but, as this case is so unusual for this area, the officers involved were probably overzealous.”

He acknowledged my apology with a nod.

The three of us made our way back to the front door without speaking further. Joe and I stepped outside and I quickly turned back to face the vicar, who was about to close the door.

“Oh, by the way, Miss Wood – she is still in a coma, but her condition is stable. I just thought you might want to know.”

He gave me a look which made me think that if he had been into black magic I would have been stoking the fires below.

I turned away before he could slam the door. Joe and I were a good couple of yards away before I heard the door close with a thud.

“That was a bit cruel, boss.”

“A bit cruel, Joe? Did you notice all the sorrow and concern, yet he never once asked how she was – a bit strange, don't you think?”

“Unless he had just been on to the hospital and already knew.”

“No, Joe, I don't think so; I think he would have mentioned it.”

We covered the rest of the distance back to the car in silence.

On our way back to the station I said to Joe, “What did you make of the vicar?”

“Nothing really, boss. I am not a churchgoer myself, so I've never had much to do with vicars. I mean, they seem to do a good job – no harm in them, I suppose.”

“Well, I didn't like him, Joe – not one little bit. Has he been here a long time?”

“No, about four years according to the Thomas woman. I couldn't stop her talking. I think she gave me the complete local history going back twenty years. She did say she preferred the previous vicar. Apparently he was married with a family and he fitted in much better.”

“So this one is not married, then?”

“No, that's right, which makes it awkward.”

“Awkward? How?” I asked.

“Well, according to the Thomas woman they had got used to dealing with the vicar's wife; this chap sees everything from a man's point of view, so it leads to a bit of friction and gossip.”

“Gossip? What about?” I asked.

“You name it. Apparently, there has been talk among the women that he paid too much attention to Miss Wood.”

“Jealous were they?” I asked.