No More Dying Then

Chapter 9

Monkey Matthews had been born during the First War in the East End of London and had been educated for the most part in Borstal institutions. His marriage at the age of twenty to a Kingsmarkham girl had brought him to her home town where he had lived - when not in jail - with his wife in her parents’ house. Violence was foreign to him, but only perhaps because he was a coward, not from principle. He stole mostly. He stole from private houses, from his own wife and her aged parents and from those few people who were foolish enough to employ him.

The second war absorbed him into the Army, where he stole stores, officers’ uniforms and small electrical equipment. He went to Germany with the army of occupation; he became an expert in the black market and, on his return home, was probably Kingsmarkham’s first spiv. Patiently, his wife took him back each time he came out of prison.

In spite of his looks, he was attractive to women. He met Ruby Branch in Kingsmarkham magistrates’ court as she was leaving it after being put on probation and he entering between two policemen. They didn’t, of course, speak. But Monkey sought her out when he was free again and became a frequent visitor to her house in Charteris Road, Stowerton, especially when Mr. Branch was on night work. He suggested to her that the wasn’t getting the most out of her job at the underwear factory and soon, on his advice, she was clocking out most Fridays wearing three bras, six slips and six suspender belts under her dress An ardent lover, Monkey was waiting for her when she came back from Holloway.

Since those days Wexford had put Monkey away for shop-breaking, larceny as a servant, attempting to blow up one of Ruby’s rivals with a home-made bomb, and stealing by finding. Monkey was nearly as old as Wexford, but there was as much life left in him as in the chief inspector, although he smoked sixty cigarettes a day, had no legitimate means of support and, since his wife had finally thrown him out, no fixed abode.

Returning to his office, Wexford wondered about him. Monkey could never be free for long without getting into trouble. Busy as he was, Wexford decided to do the checking he had resolved on outside the newsagent’s.

His notion that Monkey had been in Walton was soon confirmed. He had been released in September. The conviction had been for receiving, knowing it to have been stolen, so huge a quantity of tights, nylon briefs, body stockings and other frippery which, had it ever been sold, would surely have supplied the entire female teenage population of Liverpool for months to come.

Shaking his head, but smiling rather wryly, Wexford dismissed Monkey from his mind and concentrated on the pile of reports that awaited his attention. He had read through three of them when Sergeant Martin came in.

“No one turned up, of course?” he said, looking up.

“I’m afraid not, sir. We separated, according to instructions. It’s out of the question we could have been spotted, the forest’s so thick there. The only person to come along the road was the receptionist at the Cheriton Forest Hotel. No one came down the ride. We stayed there till ten.”

“I knew it would be a dead loss,” said Wexford.

Burden shared his chief’s antipathy to Ivor and Rosalind Swan but he found it impossible to view them with Wexford’s cynicism. They had something, those two, the special relationship of two people who love each other almost exclusively and who mean their love to survive until death parts them. Would he ever again find a love like that for himself? Or was to have it once all that any man could expect, knowing that few ever found it at all? Rosalind Swan had lost her only child in a hideous way but she could bear that loss without too much pain while she had her husband. He felt that she would have sacrificed a dozen children to keep Swan. How had Stella fitted into this honeymoon life? Had either or both of them felt her a hindrance, a shadowy and undesired third?

Wexford had been questioning them for half an hour and Mrs. Swan looked tired and pale, but she seemed to feel the enormity of her husband’s interrogation more keenly than its cause. “Ivor loved Stella,” she kept saying, “and Stella loved him.”

“Come, Mr. Swan,” Wexford said, ignoring this, “you must often since then have thought about that ride of yours and yet you can’t name to me a single person, apart from Mr. Blain, who might have seen you.”

“I haven’t thought about it much,” Swan said, holding his wife’s hand closely in both his own. “I wanted to forget it. Anyway, I do remember people, only not what they looked like or their car numbers. Why should I go about taking car numbers? I didn’t know I’d have to give anyone an alibi.”

“I’ll get you a drink, my love.” She took as much trouble over it as another woman might over the preparation of her baby’s feed. The glass was polished on a table napkin, Gudrun was sent for the ice. “There. Have I put too much soda in?”

“You’re good to me, Rozzy. I ought to be looking after you.”

Burden saw her grow pink with pleasure. She lifted Swan’s hand and kissed it as if there was no one there to see. “We’ll go away somewhere,” she said. “We’ll go away tomorrow and forget all this beastliness.”

The little scene which had brought a pang of envy to Burden’s heart had no softening effect on Wexford. “I’d rather you didn’t go anywhere until we’ve got a much clearer picture of this case,” he said. “Besides, there will be an inquest which you must attend and, presumably,” he added with stiff sarcasm, “a funeral.”

“An inquest?” Swan looked aghast.

“Naturally. What did you expect?”

“An inquest,” Swan said again. “Will I have to attend it?”

Wexford shrugged impatiently. “That’s a matter for the coroner, but I should say, yes, certainly you will.”

“Drink up your drink, my love. It won’t be so bad if we’re together, will it?”

“There’s a mother for you!” Wexford exploded.

Burden said nothing for a moment. He was wondering if most of the ideas he held on mother love were perhaps fallacious. Until now be had supposed that to a woman the death of her child would be an insupportable grief. But maybe it wouldn’t. People were very resilient. They recovered fast from tragedy, especially when they had someone to love, especially when they were young. Rosalind Swan had her husband. Whom would Gemma Lawrence have when she was fetched away to view a body in a mortuary?

It was three days since he had seen her, but hardly an hour had passed without his thinking of her. He relived that kiss and each time he experienced it again in retrospect he felt a shivering thrill of excitement. Telling himself to stop dwelling on it and on her was useless, and there was no question for him of out of sight, out of mind. She was almost more vivid to him in her absence than her presence, her body softer and fuller, her hair more thick and brilliant, her childlike sweetness sweeter. But while he kept away he felt that he was safe. Time would dull the memory if only he had the strength to stay away.

In the back of the car Wexford’s probing eyes were on him. He had to say something.

"What about the father, Rivers?” he managed at last. “You must have got on to him way back in February.”

“We did. Immediately after the divorce he married again and his airline sent him to San Francisco. We did more than get on to him. We checked him very closely. There was always the chance that he had popped over and smuggled the child into the States.”

“What, just like that? Hopped on a plane, grabbed her and flown off again? He can’t be a rich man.”

“Of course he isn’t,” Wexford retorted, “but he could have done it just as easily as if he were a millionaire with a private aircraft. Don’t forget he works for an airline and like any of their employees travel at only a small surcharge. The same applies within reason to any dependent he might take with him. Also he’d have access to any aircraft, provided there was a vacant seat. Gatwick’s only about thirty miles from here, Mike. If he had found out the girl’s movements, fiddled a passport and a ticket, he could have done it all right.”

“Only he didn’t.”

“No, he didn’t. He was at work in San Francisco all day on February the twenty-fifth. Naturally, he came over when he was told Stella had disappeared and, no doubt, he’ll be over again now.”

Detailed reports from forensics had come in during Wexford’s absence. They confirmed Crocker’s diagnosis and, for all the expertise of those who had compiled them, added little to it. Eight months had elapsed since the child’s death, but the conclusion was that she had died from manual pressure on her throat and mouth. Her mildewed and tattered clothes afforded no clues and neither did the slab which had covered the cistern.

More phone calls had come in from people who claimed to have seen John, to have seen Stella alive and well in September, to have seen them alive and well and together. A woman holidaying in the Isle of Mull wrote to say a girl answering Stella’s description had spoken to her on a beach and asked to be shown the road to Tobermory. The little boy with her had fair hair and the girl said his name was John.

“I wish they wouldn’t waste our time,” said Wexford, knowing it would have to be followed up, picking up the next envelope “What’s this, then? Another communication from our rabbit-keeper, I think.”

Wexford read, “I warned you not to wait for me. Did you think I would not know what was in your minds? I know everything. Your men are not very skilful at hiding. John was disappointed at not going home on Monday. He cried all night. I will return him only to his mother. She must be waiting alone on Friday at twelve noon at the same place. Remember what I did to Stella Rivers and do not try any more tricks. I am sending a copy of this letter to John’s mother.”

“She won’t see it, that’s one blessing. Martin’s collecting all her mail unopened. If we don’t catch this joker before Friday we’ll have to dress one of the policewomen up in a red wig.”

The idea of this travesty of Gemma waiting for a boy who wouldn’t come made Burden feel rather sick. “I don’t like that bit about Stella Rivers,” he muttered.

“Doesn’t mean a thing. He’s just read the papers, that’s all. My God, don’t say you’re going to fall for his line. He’s just a hoaxer. Here’s Martin now with Mrs. Lawrence’s mail. I’ll take those, thank you, Sergeant. Ah, here’s our joker’s effusion in duplicate.”

Burden couldn’t stop himself. “How is she?” he said quickly.

“Mrs. Lawrence, sir? She was a bit the worse for wear.”

Blood came into Burden’s cheeks. “What d’you mean, worse for wear?”

“Well, she’d been drinking, sir.” Martin hesitated, letting his face show as much exasperation as he dared. The inspector’s eyes were cold, his face set, a prudish blush on his cheeks. Why did he always have to be so darned straitlaced? Surely a bit of sorrow drowning was permitted in a woman as mad with anxiety as Mrs. Lawrence? “You can understand it. I mean to say . . .”

“I often wonder what you do mean to say, Martin,” Burden snapped. “Believe me, it’s not clear from your words.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“I suppose she’s got someone with her?” Wexford raised his eyes from the letter and its copy which he had been perusing.

“The friend didn’t turn up,” said Martin. “Apparently, she took offence because the Met had been on to her, asking if she or some boyfriend of hers had seen John lately. I gather they weren’t too tactful, sir. The boyfriend’s got a record and he’s out of work. This girl who was coming to stay with Mrs. Lawrence teaches at drama school and acts a bit. She said that if it got about, the police questioning her, it wouldn’t do her any good in her profession. I did offer to fetch a neighbour to be with Mrs. Lawrence but she wouldn’t have any. Shall I pop back and . . . ?”

“Pop anywhere as long as you get out of here!”

“Break it up,” said Wexford mildly. “Thank you, Sergeant.” He turned to Burden when Martin had gone. “You’ve been in a state, Mike, ever since we left Hall Farm. Why bite his head off? What’s he done?”

If Burden had realised how haggard his own face was, how it mirrored all his pain and his turbulent feelings, he wouldn’t have lifted it numbly to stare at the chief inspector. Thoughtfully, Wexford returned his gaze, but for a moment neither man spoke. Why don’t you get yourself a woman? Wexford was thinking. D’you want to drive yourself into a nervous collapse? He couldn’t say those things aloud, not to Mike Burden.

"I’m going out,” Burden muttered. “See if they need any help searching the forest.”

Wexford let him go. He shook his head gloomily. Burden knew as well as he did that they had completed their search of Cheriton Forest on Monday afternoon.