Puppet for a Corpse Page 22

  “With Ben?”

  “Yes. In the early hours of the morning, when you were snoring your head off.”

  “I wasn’t!”

  “All right, calm down, I was teasing. Anyway, I forgot to tell you, but Ben woke up in the night wanting to go to the lavatory. When I put him back to bed he said he wanted to play another game—little monkey, wasn’t he, trying to wring the last ounce of concession out of being unwell. But he was still very hot and I thought he’d get off to sleep again more quickly if I agreed. We played ‘Spot the Deliberate Mistake’.”

  “Yes, he’s very good at that, isn’t he?”

  “I know. Well, he was asleep before we’d finished but I decided I’d wait a few more minutes to make sure he’d gone off properly. I dared not move in case I disturbed him so I just sat there, staring down at this puzzle with all this stuff about the Pettifer case and Mrs Markham floating around in my mind—and suddenly, simultaneously it seemed, I thought, Deliberate Mistake and My God, that’s what’s been happening to me—meaning the manipulation, of course. And that was it. The whole thing just fell together. Suddenly I saw it all—the deliberate mis-spelling of the name, the reason why Pettifer had gone on pretending ignorance of his wife’s infidelity, the way he’d planned his revenge—everything, that is, but the reason why he had chosen to die. For that, I had to wait until next morning. But even before I heard about his illness I was convinced I’d hit on the truth, however incredible it might seem.” Thanet laughed. “You should have seen Mike’s face when he finally worked it out for himself. He thought I’d finally flipped.”

  “You say ‘worked it out for himself’, but did he really?”

  “Well, as I said, I did have to give him a gentle push from time to time, when he stopped. But he got there, in the end. That’s why …”

  “All right, I know. That’s why you felt such a fool, etcetera, etcetera. But the fact is, darling, I doubt if he would have, without your help.”

  “But …”

  “No, listen. You yourself gave the reason why. Even when he’d reached the correct conclusion, he couldn’t believe that it was true. I think that it’s because he can’t yet think beyond the likely that he has never yet solved a major case before you. He’s got some kind of internal barrier in his brain which prevents him from going down paths which subconsciously he can see are going to lead to unacceptable conclusions. Whereas you tend to let your mind run free … Why are you staring at me like that?”

  A slow smile spread across Thanet’s face. “You know, you could well be right.”

  “Well don’t sound so surprised! I’m not a complete moron, you know. How condescending can you get!”

  Thanet mimed contrition.

  “Why are you making funny faces, Daddy?” It was Bridget, watching him with interest.

  “Mummy made a joke,” Thanet said, with a teasing glance at Joan.

  “Come and see our castle.” Bridget tugged at his hand.

  Reluctantly Thanet rose, helped Joan up. Dutifully they admired the children’s creation.

  “Make me a sand-car now, Daddy,” Ben said. “Big enough for me to sit in?”

  “Me too, Daddy, me too,” Bridget chimed in.

  “Sounds a long job,” said Thanet. “Mummy and I have been sitting down so long we want to stretch our legs. A little walk, first, then we’ll make your cars.”

  Bridget and Ben raced away, wheeling and curving across the wide, empty expanse of sand. Thanet and Joan followed more sedately, holding hands.

  “You know, I feel sorry for Mrs Pettifer,” Joan said at last. “For you the case is over now, finished, but for her … well, I don’t suppose it ever will be.”

  “That’s one of the depressing things about serious crimes, the long-term effect they have on the innocent people connected with them.”

  “You’d call her innocent?”

  Thanet shrugged. “Innocent or not, she’s going to have to pay in her own way, I think.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Mike and I couldn’t agree on this. He thought she ought to have been told—about the baby, about what her husband tried to do to her.”

  “But why?”

  “I think he thought that she was getting off too lightly, that she ought to be brought to a realisation of her responsibility in the matter.”

  “But you disagreed.”

  “Yes. For one thing, it’s outside my brief. I see myself as an instrument of justice, not a dispenser of it. And then, as I said, I think she will pay in the end. For one thing I think she was genuinely shaken to find out how much she cared for her husband and she’s going to have to come to terms with her regrets that her attitude to him wasn’t different while he was still alive, as well as the sense of loss I think she’s genuinely feeling. And, although at the moment she’s relieved to find that there was a genuine reason for his suicide and feels absolved of any personal guilt, sooner or later she’s going to see it rather differently. She’s going to realise that what must really have tipped the balance for him was that, knowing how she felt about sickness, he simply couldn’t face the prospect of eventually becoming an object of repulsion to her. And I’d guess that at that point she’s bound to begin to feel a measure of guilt. Perhaps she’ll go on feeling it for the rest of her life. I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m overestimating the strength of her feeling for him, her degree of sensitivity, the power of her conscience. But I don’t think so.”

  Bridget and Ben were racing back towards them.

  “Can we go back now, Daddy? Can we make the cars?”

  “Race you!” he challenged.

  They all set off at a run, Thanet and Joan deliberately holding back, allowing the children a sense of victory.

  Thanet picked up a spade. “I can’t do both at once, though, can I? Perhaps …?” He raised his eyebrows at Joan, who had flopped down upon the sand, puffing.

  She pulled a face. “And I thought I was going to have a lazy day.”

  But he could see that she didn’t really mind.

  “Come on then,” she said, getting to her feet. “Daddy’s biggest, so he can help Ben, who’s smallest. And you and I will work together, Sprig.”

  Enough of the dead, thought Thanet. Life is for the living.

  Sand went scudding in all directions as they set to work with a will.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Inspector Thanet Mysteries

  1

  The news that a young girl is missing is likely to penetrate the armour of the most hard-bitten policeman, and Thanet was anything but that. The telephone receiver was suddenly slippery in his hand.

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘And how long missing?’

  ‘Since Friday morning.’ Lineham’s voice was heavy with pessimism.

  ‘Friday morning! But that’s nearly three days ago! What the hell were the parents thinking of, not to have reported it till now?’

  ‘It’s a bit complicated, sir. The father says …’

  ‘Save it. I’ll be in as soon as I can.’

  Thanet glanced down at his stained knees, grubby shorts and grimy hands. He would have to make time for a quick shower. Taking the stairs two at a time he wondered why he was bothering to hurry. If the parents hadn’t reported the disappearance for three days …

  There could be a good reason, of course. They could have believed her to be spending the holiday weekend with a friend. She might even have gone off of her own free will. Fifteen was an especially vulnerable age, a peak time for traumatic rows at home … Nevertheless he was showered and dressed in less than ten minutes, slowing his pace only to peep in at Bridget and Ben, sound asleep with the bedclothes thrown back against the stifling warmth of one of the hottest Spring Bank Holiday Mondays on record.

  Over the weekend all England had sweated and sweltered in the unseasonable heat. Motorists had taken to the road in record numbers, the sea exerting on them a magnetic pull which they wer
e powerless to resist. As temperature and humidity soared hundreds of thousands of families had fretted and fumed away their precious holiday hours in traffic jams, trapped in their little metal boxes.

  Thanet had had more sense. He and his mother-in-law had decided to pack the children into the car and spend the half-term holiday at her cottage in the country, trying to restore the garden to some sort of order. It wasn’t the way Thanet would have chosen to spend one of his rare long weekends off, but he had felt that it was the least he could do. For the last two years, while Joan had been away at college completing her training as a Probation Officer, Mrs Bolton had been looking after the children and running the house for Thanet. Very few women, he felt, would have been prepared to give up home and freedom as she had, and he still felt grateful to her for the sacrifice. In just under three weeks Joan would be home for good, thank God, and it was time to start thinking of ways to help his mother-in-law to take up the reins of her own life again. The cottage was only ten miles away from Sturrenden, the busy country town in Kent where Thanet lived and worked, and after the weekend Mrs Bolton and the children could stay on for the remainder of the week’s holiday while Thanet drove in daily to the office. But now it looked as though his time off was about to be curtailed.

  He hurried out to the tiny, brick-paved terrace behind the house where the mingled scents of lilac and orange blossom, overlaid by the pungent odour of broom, hung heavy in the gathering dusk. Not a leaf stirred. The air was as suffocatingly hot and humid as if the entire garden were encased in a plastic dome.

  Margaret Bolton was sitting limply in a deck chair, eyes closed, empty glass dangling from one hand. In repose she looked almost young again, the lines around eyes and mouth smoothed away, the fading light kind to the grey in the fair, curly hair so like her daughter’s. For a fleeting moment it almost seemed to Thanet that he was looking at Joan herself twenty years hence, and briefly the sense of mortality ever-present in his working life spilled over into his private world, laying a cold hand upon his heart. He experienced a sudden and intense longing for Joan’s warm, living presence. Then Mrs Bolton opened her eyes, blinked at the transformation in his appearance, and normality was re-established.

  ‘Work?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  She made to rise. ‘I’ll make you a sandwich.’

  ‘No.’ Gently, he pushed her back. ‘I’ll pick up something later. I’m not hungry anyway, it’s too hot. Let me get you another drink before I go.’

  ‘I don’t want one, thank you. Honestly.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘I hope you’re not too tired to feel fit for work.’

  ‘Not at all. It’s been a pleasant change, to do something physical.’ And it was true, he didn’t feel in the least bit tired, despite the nagging ache in that troublesome back of his. A quarter of an hour ago he’d felt as exhausted as his mother-in-law now looked, but the adrenalin coursing through his veins since Lineham’s call had miraculously restored him. He was impatient to be gone.

  In a few moments he was on his way, winding along through country lanes adrift with the white froth of Queen Anne’s lace and heady with the sweet, green scent of early summer. Already he had relinquished the tranquillity of the cottage, the sleeping children, and was keyed up to meet the challenge ahead.

  Detective Sergeant Lineham was waiting for him in the reception area and hurried forward to give him a précis of the facts.

  Thanet listened intently. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In interview room three. PC Dennison is with him.’

  ‘What did you say his name was?’

  ‘Pritchard.’

  As they entered the room Thanet experienced a fleeting reaction of surprise at the embarrassment on the young constable’s face before understanding the reason for it: Mr Pritchard was kneeling on the floor, elbows on the seat of one of the chairs, forehead resting on clenched hands.

  He was praying.

  Thanet and Lineham exchanged a quick glance of uncomfortable astonishment. Never, in all his years in the force, could Thanet remember such a situation arising before. No wonder PC Dennison had been nonplussed. Dismissing the constable with a smile and a nod Thanet advanced into the room.

  Clearly, Pritchard hadn’t heard them arrive. The intensity of his concentration was such that it seemed to emanate from him in waves, etching upon Thanet’s mind a black and white image of near-photographic clarity: dark suit, shiny across the seat, with black mourning band stitched around one sleeve; white shirt, black hair divided by the white line of a centre parting so straight that it might have been drawn by a ruler.

  Thanet hesitated. It seemed almost blasphemous to trespass upon such pious concentration. Then, telling himself that even at this late stage further delay could be a threat to the girl’s safety, he laid one hand gently on Pritchard’s shoulder and softly spoke his name.

  Pritchard’s eyelids snapped open in shock and he twisted his head to look up at Thanet. His eyes were very dark, almost as black as his hair and full of an agonised resignation. Slowly, he stood up, unfolding his long, thin body with the jerky, uncoordinated movements of a marionette.

  Thanet found himself apologising. ‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Pritchard, but we have to talk.’ He introduced himself.

  Pritchard hesitated. ‘I’ve been wondering if I was too precipitate. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come.’

  Thanet frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking it over. I’m afraid I panicked. I should have had more faith.’

  ‘Faith?’

  ‘We are all in God’s hands, Inspector. And we have to trust in Him. I can’t really believe that He would have let anything bad happen to Charity … I’m sorry to have wasted your time.’ He gave a curious little half-bow and began to move towards the door.

  Thanet couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘Mr Pritchard. Please … Wait a moment.’

  Pritchard paused and, with one hand on the door-knob, half-turned, eyebrows raised in polite enquiry.

  Thanet moved a little closer to him. ‘Let me make sure I understand you. You mean, you don’t want us to make any attempt to find your daughter?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ve realised where she must be?’

  Pritchard shook his head. ‘No. But I do believe that where-ever she is, she must be safe in God’s care.’

  It was incredible. The man really was prepared to let the matter rest there. Some might find such faith moving; Thanet, well-versed in man’s inhumanity to man, thought it foolhardy to the point of insanity. Deliberately, he kept his voice low, his tone reasonable. ‘Then don’t you think it might be sensible to try to find her? Let’s just sit down for a moment and discuss the matter.’

  ‘There’s nothing to discuss. I told you, God is sure to be watching over her.’

  He was opening the door now and with a flash of combined inspiration and desperation Thanet said softly, ‘Even God has to work sometimes through a human agency, Mr Pritchard. Are you perhaps in danger of overlooking the possibility that He might have sent you here, to us?’

  Pritchard hesitated. The dark eyes clouded and then bored into Thanet’s as if trying to test the validity of his suggestion.

  Thanet waited. The little room was stifling and he was conscious of the prick of sweat down his back and under his armpits.

  Pritchard closed his eyes and remained motionless. A minute passed, then two. Thanet and Lineham exchanged anxious glances. Outside in the corridor there was a brief buzz of conversation, then a door closed, cutting it off. As if this were a signal, Pritchard relaxed a little, sighed, opened his eyes.

  ‘You could be right, I suppose.’ But still he hesitated a moment longer before moving back to the table. ‘Very well,’ he said. And sat down.

  Relieved, Thanet slipped off his jacket and hung it over the back of his chair before seating himself. He glanced at Lineham. The sergeant was ready. Careful now, Thanet told himself. This one will have to be handled with k
id gloves.

  ‘Sergeant Lineham here has given me the facts, very briefly, but I’d be grateful if you could go over them again for me in a little more detail.’ Then, as Pritchard hesitated, ‘As I understand it, your daughter was supposed to be spending the weekend in Dorset, with a friend.’

  ‘Yes. They were going to one of the Jerusalem Holiday Homes. They were supposed to leave on Friday morning and get back tonight. They’ve been there before together, at Easter, and it all went off very smoothly, so there was no reason to think it wouldn’t this time.’

  ‘Let’s take it a step at a time. What time did Charity leave the house on Friday morning?’

  ‘About nine thirty, according to my wife. I was at work by then, of course.’

  Little by little the tangled tale was unravelled. Charity and her friend Veronica Hodges had planned to go to Dorset by train, catching the ten twenty-three to Victoria. Charity was to call at Veronica’s house to pick her up on the way to the station. She found, however, that Veronica was unfit to travel, having woken up that morning with a high temperature.

  ‘Didn’t Mrs Hodges try to contact you, to let you know Veronica wouldn’t be able to go?’