The English Boys (13 page)

Nineteen

Gordon Murray was meticulous
about shelving books in his study at home, always collecting those he had pulled for reference during the week, jotting pertinent notes, and then putting them back where they belonged. He didn't think of himself as compulsive; naturally tidy people, he believed, observed systems of behavior that led to productive thought and actions. He wanted his books where he could find them at all times, and on Saturdays, each was returned to its proper place. The maid, Josefine, had carte blanche to clean every room in the house apart from this one. He even dusted it himself. The shelves, which ran from floor to ceiling along two walls, held books he had accumulated since childhood: dog-eared copies of Stevenson and Kipling; novels he had loved during his years at university, the Iris Murdochs and Evelyn Waughs and Virginia Woolfs; the sonnets and poetry he had chosen when he was first working in London and spent rainy afternoons in musty shops purchasing volumes to round out his literary education. The library his uncle had left to him was substantial, though culled for the best and most interesting books, like those on fly fishing on the River Test; it was something he had never done, but he kept the book in case the opportunity ever arose. The other, less interesting ones were given to charity to make room for his growing collection. All of Ingrid's books were kept on two shelves. She hadn't had many, being a woman who preferred magazines, and he always wished there had been more.

The desk in his study had belonged to his Uncle Roger: an impressive William V mahogany writing table that he considered the best piece of furniture in the house. His uncle had rarely used it, and the chair he had left behind was an ordinary sort, which Ingrid had replaced early on with a tufted green leather chair with a high back and wide arms. Murray had been distressed at the expense, not unwilling to use the rickety chair of his uncle's, but over time, that chair at that desk had become his favorite spot in the world. A few months after buying it for him, Ingrid had purchased a small chintz armchair and tucked it in a corner with a lamp so they could read together. There were always piles of magazines that she had strewn on the floor beside it, which would probably be there still if the housekeeper hadn't removed them while she was in hospital at the end. That incident had caused a row, and the woman was fired in a rare moment of anger on his part, Josefine replacing her a few weeks later. He remained ashamed of the episode. It was unlike him to become so irate, but losing Ingrid had caused reactions within him that he had never expected.

On the desk was a blotter; one of Roger's inkwells, made of etched glass and sitting on a silver tray tarnished from no longer being polished; a datebook nearly devoid of dates; and a Dundee marmalade jar he had confiscated from the pantry years before to use as a pen cup. As usual, there were files on the desk, this time of suspects from the Burke case. He planned to look them over after dinner.

His mobile rang, and he plucked it from his pocket to answer it.

“Inspector Murray? This is Peter Flanagan. I'm a Fingerprint Lab tech from Forensics.”

Murray hadn't worked with Flanagan much, but knew his reputation. He was one of the younger, highly talented men that the Metropolitan Police were currently recruiting.

“I hope you have something for me.”

“I've been on the team doing DNA analysis for the Burke case.
We've found a problem and hopefully corrected it, sir. A sample taken at the scene wasn't properly stored with the rest of the evidence in the case.”

“What sort of sample?”

“There were two hairs taken from the wedding gown that did not belong to Miss Burke. Both were long, almost white female hair.”

Murray did a mental calculation of the women he had interviewed. There was Carey Burke, the bride's sister, and three young female guests: Natalie Swindon, Marianne Gaines, and Sarah Williams, the woman who had argued with Richardson before the ceremony.

“Can you give me a description, please?”

“Color: dyed blonde, peroxide, approximately fourteen inches long.”

Natalie Swindon was the only match among that group.

“Can you give me anything more specific?”

“Whenever hair has been chemically treated—dyed—with peroxide, it makes it almost impossible to get a positive DNA match. Peroxide degrades the DNA in hair, especially after washing or exposure to water. A good shampoo and all DNA is stripped from the hair fibers.”

“So you can't make any positive identification.”

“I'm afraid not. Also we have to take into account the way it was collected and stored, along with the age of the sample. Hair DNA is highly vulnerable to external forces like high temperatures such as a hair dryer, or any cleaning agents or corrosive substances. Given all this, all we can go by is the physical appearance at this point.”

“Thank you, Flanagan. That's still useful information. I appreciate the call.”

Murray walked over to his desk and sat down in his green chair, digging through the files to look through them again. None of the young women present seemed as though they would have been friends with Tamsyn Burke. Natalie Swindon and Marianne Gaines were from Llandudno and had known Tamsyn in school. She had met Sarah Williamson in London a few months before her death. He browsed through the records and notations he had received from Rachel Quinn, one of the clerks on his floor.

For a moment, he allowed himself to think of Miss Quinn, who had worked in his department for at least fifteen years and was someone he relied on for informational support in addition to Ennis. Although there were a number of capable people working with him, he had a tendency to depend on as few of them as possible. Miss Quinn was discreet, efficient, and self-effacing, all qualities he admired. She was around forty, a slender woman with a penchant for thin cardigans and whose dark hair was always pulled back. Lately, he had noticed her cardigans, due entirely, he was certain, to their understated but attractive jewel tones. She wore a dark pair of glasses when typing or peering through the files, but removed them whenever she spoke so that she could look one in the eye. Her shoes were always attractive but of a medium-height heel, sensible enough to stand in all day but high enough to be flirtatious, if she was so inclined. To his satisfaction, she was not. She wore no rings and only occasionally a pendant around her neck. She was more elegant than many of the women who worked there, but so unobtrusive a human being that unless one worked beside her, one wouldn't even know she was there. She was steady and reliable, and he wondered if she were lonely too. He tried to put it out of his mind. This was not the time to think of himself, when there was a case demanding his attention.

Taking his reading glasses from his pocket, he looked at the name on the first file: Marianne Gaines. Marianne came from an ordinary working-class family. Her father drove a lorry; her mother was a hairdresser at a shop called
Colour Me Red
. Richard and Elise Gaines had four children, of whom Marianne was the eldest. She had worked at various jobs as soon as she was old enough to earn a living, until she had been convinced by Natalie Swindon to come and work with her.

Natalie, whose parents owned Swindon's Flowers and Ephemera, was an only child who worked in her family's business. Marianne had joined the company four years ago. According to both of their statements, the two were inseparable. They worked together, spent Friday nights with a series of harmless young men, and went to mass on Sundays. They each told the police that they had not spoken to Tamsyn since she'd left Wales until two months ago, when Tamsyn had contacted them out of the blue and asked them to be bridesmaids. Why had she asked them? And even more troubling, why had they accepted? To get a free trip to London? To go to the biggest society wedding of the year? Or was there something more calculated behind their attendance? In all likelihood, they were jealous of Tamsyn Burke. She had come from the same middle-class childhood as Swindon and Gaines, gone to the same schools, and only had a minor acting career until she was discovered by Hugh Ashley-Hunt and Sir John Hodges. She had gotten a decent salary for her role in
Under the Greenwood Tree
, not to mention the fame of appearing on the big screen with two of the hottest young stars in the British film industry. And not least, she was marrying one of the most eligible bachelors in England, a man with looks, wealth, and power. Jealousy was a common motive for murder. Women were just as devious as men, Murray knew; perhaps more so. These girls, in spite of how bland and innocent they seemed, would have to be interrogated further.

Sarah Williams, who was neither bland nor innocent, was not to be discounted either. According to her file, she had left her home in Bristol at the earliest opportunity, living in a decrepit flat in Hackney for several years until she was able to afford to share a nicer one with two friends. Her work history was sketchy. There was some modeling, a little secretarial work, and periods of living off the gifts of generous older men. A complaint had once been lodged against her for trashing a man's house after being spurned. He had dropped the charges in order to hide his indiscretion from his wife, but Murray knew the girl was capable of retaliation when provoked. Her life appeared to consist of sitting in bars most evenings, allowing men to buy her drinks and who knew what else. In this manner, Sarah Williams had met Tamsyn Burke and become a peripheral element in her world.

Murray was still not certain how the girl had become close enough to Tamsyn to be invited to her wedding. Likewise, it seemed as if the two bridesmaids had been plucked out of thin air. With the exception of the Hodges, Daniel Richardson, and Hugh and his family, there was no record of the victim seeing or speaking to any of the guests or the bridesmaids at her wedding for months or even years.

Murray put down the pencil and stared out of the window. Would the girl have simply invited everyone she knew to fill the pews at Westminster Abbey, regardless of how she felt about them or how little she knew them? If so, why? Was she trying to impress the Ashley-Hunts, who would have no trouble filling seats on the groom's side with well-known and important guests? He believed in Occam's Razor: the simplest explanation was most likely true. Still, questions troubled him. If she'd reached back to the people from her past whom she thought she could trust, it had been a deadly mistake. Whoever killed Tamsyn Burke had killed her deliberately at that place and at that time, not the day before or the day after. The person chose to kill this girl minutes before she was to walk down the aisle on her father's arm.

To what possible end? he wondered. To prevent her from marrying Hugh Ashley-Hunt? Or perhaps because she had thwarted someone else's romance or plans for marriage? Had the killer chosen that day and that hour because he or she wanted to kill Tamsyn Burke at the most hurtful moment possible? Or was she killed then because the murderer wanted it merely to appear to be a vengeful killing?

He stood, closing the file on his desk. He needed fresh air. Shutting the door behind him, he went downstairs, through the kitchen, and out onto the terrace. He looked over the garden, where he would have been planting a new rosebush if time had permitted.

Overhead, the sky was dark, but it had not yet begun to rain. The breeze had picked up, but the clouds hung above them, as stationary as if they had been pasted onto the sky.

Lonely.
The word hung over him like a fog. On impulse, he took his mobile from his pocket and dialed Ennis's number. It was Saturday afternoon, and he made it a habit not to bother his sergeant on the weekend unless there was a break in whatever case they were working on at the time. However, his junior officer didn't appear in the least surprised when he answered the call.

“I'm sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to know if you remember which of the young women at the wedding were found leaning over Tamsyn Burke's body.”

“Her sister, Carey Burke, and Marianne Gaines both leaned over the body after the attack. Of course, her parents were there, as well as Hugh Ashley-Hunt and Daniel Richardson.”

“Not Natalie Swindon?”

“Not according to her statement, or anyone else's taken at the scene.”

Which meant, Murray thought, Swindon had spoken with Tamsyn earlier. He would have to find out precisely when.

“First thing Monday, I'd like to have you meet with Miss Swindon. I'll prepare some questions for you. Oh, and Ennis, I wonder if you would mind doing me a favor.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Well, it's rather of a personal nature.”

There was no hesitation on the line. “What can I do, sir?”

“I want a dog, Ennis.”

“A dog? What sort of dog?”

“I don't know. Something not too large or messy.”

There was a pause. He could almost hear the sergeant's mind cogs turning. “I may know of something, boss, but I'll have to make a call first.”

“Of course, this is your weekend. You mustn't trouble yourself right away.”

“It's no problem. My girlfriend's sister's dog had a litter a couple of months ago. I'll see what I can find out and ring you soon.”

“Thank you.”

It was only afterward that Murray realized he hadn't asked any pertinent questions, such as what sort of pups they were. Instantly he regretted his request. He would wait until Ennis called later and tell him he'd changed his mind.

For now, he went inside and poured a drink to go with the meat pie and chips he had purchased the night before at a takeaway. He unwrapped the brown paper packet and set the pie on a dish. He suddenly remembered the holiday he was scheduled to take the following week, a guided tour of the Lake District. He wasn't fond of tours, with the shabby coaches, the mechanical-sounding guides, and the thought of sitting in cramped quarters for days at a time with perfect strangers, but he had faithfully taken a holiday each year, a deathbed promise to Ingrid. Of course, he had seen through her thinly veiled attempt at putting him in the way of other women, but even Ingrid would have laughed at the thought of him wooing one of these serious-minded pensioners with their PVC totes emblazoned with photos of Blenheim or Woburn Abbey and their arms full of brochures. He was not looking for a wife, but he was able, for small periods of time, to enjoy the beauty of a Cornish port or a visit to a cheese factory in Somerset or a tour of the Horse Center in Norfolk. On Monday, he would cancel the trip, but he would also check his calendar for the best time to reschedule. She had been right. It was good for him.