The Restless Dead

23

‘Palm strike.’

Lundy paused to blow his nose. It was late afternoon, the sun breaking out fitfully from behind dark clouds. The DI sat in the passenger seat of my car, still looking a little drowsy from his endoscopy. I’d called him to brief him on the day’s findings, forgetting he’d told me he was due to have it today. I’d begun outlining what I’d found when he’d apologetically told me he was still at the hospital and couldn’t talk freely. He’d been given a sedative for the procedure and told not to drive for the rest of the day, he said. His wife, who was supposed to be picking him up, had been delayed collecting their granddaughter from an after-school class.

The hospital was close to the mortuary, and I’d done as much as I was going to for the day. The cleaned bones of the barbed wire victim had been rinsed and left to dry. I’d taken a preliminary look at the most significant of them, especially those with fractures or damage, but I’d decided against carrying on with the reassembly until the morning. Lack of sleep and the events of the previous night were beginning to catch up with me. It was better to leave it until I was rested than miss anything through a lapse of concentration.

So I told Lundy I’d drive him home. I was glad of the company, and the distraction. I hadn’t heard anything from Rachel. I’d tried calling her again but she still wasn’t picking up. I didn’t want to crowd her, knowing she’d have enough to deal with in the aftermath of Stacey Coker’s murder. Even so, her silence was preying on my mind.

Lundy looked tired when I picked him up outside the hospital entrance. When I asked how it had gone he’d just said, ‘Oh, fine,’ with the air of someone not wanting to talk about it. Instead he’d asked if I’d found out anything else from the remains.

He’d perked up noticeably when I told him about the vomer, and explained how only either a very precise or a very lucky blow could have caused an injury like that.

‘Palm strike?’ I queried.

‘It’s the sort of thing you pick up if you’re taught hand-to-hand combat or some types of martial arts. Instead of breaking your fingers punching someone, you ram the heel of your hand into their face.’ He raised his own hand to demonstrate: palm thrust out, fingers curled back in a vague claw shape. ‘Nasty, but if you want to stop someone getting frisky it’ll do the job. An ex-para showed me when I was in the TA, along with a few other dirty tricks.’

‘You were in the Territorial Army?’

He chuckled. ‘There was less of me back then. You want the third exit at the roundabout.’

Lundy had assured me I wouldn’t need the satnav. He didn’t live far out of my way, but traffic was heavy.

‘So a palm strike could cause an injury like that?’ I asked once I’d negotiated the roundabout.

‘Theoretically, but I’ve never come across it myself. You’re sure someone didn’t just stave it in with a club or something?’

I couldn’t say for sure what the dead man had been hit with, but I doubted it was a weapon of any sort. Although the damage to the lower face made it hard to be certain, anything hard-edged like a brick or hammer would have been more likely to leave depression fractures bearing its shape.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Then if we’re talking bare hands, a palm strike sounds most likely,’ Lundy said. ‘But you’d have to hit someone bloody hard, and at exactly the right angle to manage that. Ordinarily, you’re more likely to wind up with a bloody nose or broken front teeth.’

‘This did more than break his teeth. It looks like the jawbone immediately below his nose actually caved in,’ I told him, slowing as a lorry pulled into my lane without indicating. ‘A lot of the bone from there is missing, and what’s left looks spongier than it should.’

‘Spongier?’

‘It was full of tiny holes, like cinder toffee. Could be a genetic bone defect, or perhaps he’d had some sort of infection in it. Either way, something weakened the structure enough for a palm strike — assuming that’s what it was — to make it collapse and push the vomer up into his brain.’

Lundy nodded thoughtfully. ‘So we’re looking at that as probable cause of death?’

I’d discussed that with Frears, without reaching any conclusion. ‘Hard to say. It’s not a survivable injury, but it doesn’t mean that’s what actually killed him. If I’m right about the fractures, the fall would have been fatal by itself. My guess is the blow to the face came first, followed by the fall, because there’d be no point hitting anyone if they had those sorts of injuries. But I can’t tell you how much time there was between one and the other.’

‘At least it means he was dead or unconscious before someone ground half his face off,’ Lundy said with a grimace. ‘Still, you can see the thinking behind it. You kill someone in a fight, accidentally or otherwise, so you camouflage the evidence behind other injuries. Try to make the death look like a run-in with a boat and destroy any identifying features in one go. Then tangle the body in barbed wire and sink it in a deep section of the Backwaters, hoping if it is found that it’ll look like an accident.’

‘It was never going to work,’ I said. ‘Not once the body was given a proper examination.’

‘No, but you’ve got to hand it to them for trying. Next left here.’

I took the turning he’d indicated. We were into a residential area now, pleasant semi-detached houses with cherry trees lining the grass verges. The pink blossom gave the street a celebratory look, like the setting for a wedding.

Lundy was stroking his moustache, a sign I’d come to recognize meant he was thinking. ‘What else have you been able to find out?’

‘Not much. He was tall, an inch or two over six foot, and between thirty and forty years old. But that’s as much as I can say for now.’

‘Any thoughts on how long the body had been in the water?’

‘Probably several months, but without knowing if it was drifting or submerged on the barbed wire the whole time that’s not much more than a guess.’

‘For the sake of argument let’s assume it was on the barbed wire. How long would you say then?’

I thought for a while before answering. ‘Bearing in mind it’s been winter and then a cold spring, somewhere between six and eight months.’

Lundy nodded. ‘Emma Derby went missing just under seven months ago.’

That fact hadn’t escaped me.

‘Any luck tracing her ex-boyfriend?’ I asked, knowing where this was leading.

‘Not yet. I put someone on to it but then I had to go and have that bloody tube shoved down my throat. I haven’t even had chance to look at this photograph of the motorbike you told me about.’

‘But you’re thinking Villiers might have killed Mark Chapel as well as Emma Derby.’

‘I’m thinking the stars certainly seem to be aligning that way. Obviously, if Chapel turns out to be alive we’re back at square one. But adding Emma Derby’s old boyfriend into the mix could explain a few things. I can’t see Villiers reacting well to having a rival, so you’ve got a potential motive for murder right there. And a palm strike’s the sort of thing he could have picked up from his military background. You don’t have to like playing at soldiers to remember what you’ve been taught.’

He pointed at a house on the other side of the road.

‘This is us. You can pull in by the driveway.’

I drew up to the kerb. Keeping the indicator on, I left the engine running, ready to set off again. The scent of cherry blossom and wet grass drifted into the car when Lundy opened the door, but he didn’t get out.

‘Thanks for the lift. You want to come in for a cuppa? My wife isn’t back yet so I can break out my stash of biscuits without getting shouted at.’

‘No thanks. I’d better get off.’

I didn’t want to intrude into the policeman’s home life, and I thought his wife would want to hear about his hospital visit when she came home. But Lundy stayed where he was.

‘Actually, I’d appreciate it if you did.’ Behind the glasses, the blue eyes were candid. ‘There’s something else I want to have a word about.’

The house wasn’t what I’d expected. It was a post-war semi that had been renovated and extended. The front garden had been turned into a Mediterranean-style patio, while inside was bright and modern, with comfortable but contemporary furniture. I sat in a small conservatory while Lundy busied himself making tea in the adjacent kitchen. He’d waved away my offer of help.

‘They only told me not to drive. I can still operate a kettle.’

He seemed in no hurry to get whatever he had to say off his chest, so I let him get round to it in his own time.

‘How did Coker take the news?’ I asked as he poured boiling water into two mugs.

‘As you’d imagine. I went round to his house to break it to him last night.’ He shook his head. ‘Doesn’t bear thinking about what he’s going to be feeling today.’

No wonder Lundy was looking tired. It must have been nearly dawn by the time he got home. ‘Does he have any other family?’

‘A son in the army. He was overseas but he’s back in the UK now. I dare say he’ll get leave after this.’

I was glad Coker had someone. It wouldn’t make it any easier, but it was better than being alone.

‘What about Edgar?’

Lundy grimaced, bringing over the tea and a packet of chocolate biscuits. ‘It’s hard to get much sense out of him. There’s going to have to be a full psychiatric assessment, but from what we can gather you were right about him being in the road. Stacey Coker must have swerved to avoid him — the tyre marks show it was a sudden manoeuvre — and cracked her head when the car went in the creek. We’re fairly certain Holloway pulled her out and took her back to his house, but things get a bit confused after that.’

‘Confused how?’

He spooned sugar into his tea. ‘There’s a question over why he’d rescue and take her back to his house if he was going to kill her.

That could have been his intention all along, but it doesn’t seem likely that he was capable of that sort of planning. So then you’re left with the idea that he started off trying to help, maybe getting her mixed up in his mind with his own missing daughter, maybe not. Then once he got her back home and saw how helpless she was, he got carried away.’

‘Is that what you think?’

He pursed his mouth to take a sip of hot tea. ‘It’s possible.’

‘But?’

‘There are a few things that don’t add up. Did Frears tell you there’s no sign that she was sexually assaulted?’ He dabbed his moustache and set his mug down. ‘Well, that was surprise number one. When you find a young woman who’s been strangled and stripped from the waist down, it generally means one thing. And even if Holloway didn’t assault her, we should have found some evidence from when he undressed her. But we didn’t.’

That surprised me as much as the lack of assault. ‘Nothing at all?’

‘Not below the waist. There were Edgar’s hairs on her sweater, and his fingerprints were on her watch, probably from either pulling her from the car or carrying her afterwards. But that’s all. Even though her jeans had been unfastened rather than torn off there weren’t any prints on the fastener or zip. And the gold chain she wore round her throat had been bunched up and twisted when she was strangled, but there wasn’t even a partial fingerprint on it.’

‘He could have worn gloves,’ I said, although I doubted that it would even have occurred to Edgar to cover his tracks.

‘The only gloves we’ve found were in his pockets, and they were a manky pair of mittens covered in bird muck. If he’d worn those there’d be traces all over her.’

An unpleasant feeling was uncoiling in my gut. ‘So how do you explain it?’

‘I don’t. Not yet. And then there’s the bruising on her throat. Have you seen the size of Holloway’s hands? They’re bony, but big. Like shovels.’ Lundy held up his own hand, which was thick and stubby. ‘His fingers are half as long again as mine, but the bruises we’ve found don’t have anything like that sort of span. OK, that sort of thing is open to interpretation, maybe he bunched up his hands or something. But the measurements suggest she was strangled by someone with much smaller hands than his.’

Someone wearing gloves. The feeling in my gut was growing stronger. ‘What would anyone else be doing at Edgar’s house? And why kill an injured girl?’

‘Beats me.’ Lundy absently took a biscuit from the packet and dunked it in his tea. ‘But if someone was there, chances were they wouldn’t have been expecting to find Stacey Coker. Must’ve given them a nasty shock, seeing her. And, more to the point, if she was conscious she’d have seen them.’

I thought it through, examining the theory from different angles. They all pointed the same way.

‘You think Leo Villiers killed her? So she wouldn’t tell anyone?’

Lundy finished the biscuit and brushed the crumbs from his moustache. ‘Honestly? I don’t know. It seems like we’re starting to lay a lot of crimes at the door of a man we thought was dead a few days ago. But if we’re right and he is still alive, then he’s far and away the likeliest suspect. The notion of a third party killing Stacey Coker to keep her quiet makes more sense than Holloway pulling an injured girl from a car, carrying her all the way home and then strangling her. Or taking off her clothes without molesting her or leaving any traces of himself. That just doesn’t sit right with me.’

Me neither. ‘So the fact she’d been partially stripped…’

‘Window dressing.’ His tone was hard. ‘Someone killed her and then staged it to send us haring off in the wrong direction. Same as they did with the body on the barbed wire, making it look like it had been hit by a boat.’

Lundy’s scenario had an awful plausibility about it. Stripping Stacey Coker made it look as though her murder was sexually motivated. And Edgar was the perfect scapegoat. Not only had he already been under suspicion for his own daughter’s disappearance decades earlier, he lacked the capacity to explain and perhaps even comprehend what had really happened. We’d assumed that when Rachel and I found him he was running from what he’d done. But if he’d returned home to find the girl he’d rescued dead and half naked, he could just as easily have been running from what he’d found.

Even so, there were still elements that didn’t fit. I could believe that Leo Villiers might have faked his own death after murdering Emma Derby, perhaps even killed her ex-boyfriend as well. From there it wasn’t a big leap to suppose that he’d also murdered Stacey Coker so she couldn’t tell anyone he was still alive. That still left one unanswered question.

‘What would Leo Villiers be doing at Edgar Holloway’s house?’ I asked.

Lundy offered me the packet of chocolate biscuits, helping himself to another when I declined. Evidently his throat wasn’t bothering him too much after his procedure. ‘Good question. When we were searching the place we found a shotgun cartridge at the back of one of the cupboards. Bismuth-tin number five birdshot, same size and brand we found in Villiers’ house. Looked as though it might have rolled out of a box and got stuck in a crack.’

‘Just one cartridge?’

‘Just one. No fingerprints on it, and no sign of any shotgun either. But the dust in the cupboard was disturbed, as though something fairly big had been moved from there recently. We’re still searching the rest of the place. There’re still some floorboards to take up and we’ve barely even started in the garden. If there was a shotgun, though, I doubt it was Holloway’s.’

I thought about the ramshackle house, with its unlocked front door and nothing inside but cages of sick and injured animals. ‘So Villiers was using it as… what? Some sort of safe house?’

‘More likely somewhere he could hide things he didn’t want anyone else knowing about. There’s no sign that anyone except Holloway was living there, and no one in their right mind could stand the stink anyway. Christ knows how even Holloway managed to get by as long as he did. He wasn’t getting any help from social services and the house didn’t even have any power. There was an oil-fired generator but it hadn’t been run for Christ knows how long. And what did he do for food?’

‘He could have foraged.’ There was no shortage of eels and shellfish, and I knew from Rachel that sea vegetables grew in the saltmarsh. Edgar would know the Backwaters better than anyone, and if he’d once been a naturalist he’d know what was edible and what wasn’t.

‘He could, but he’d find lean pickings during winter,’ Lundy said. ‘How’d he survive all this time? The doctor who checked him out said he was suffering from malnutrition, but didn’t think it was long term. Plus we found empty food tins scattered about his house, so where did they come from?’

I was still berating myself for not realizing Edgar was malnourished. I’d seen how thin he was; I should have noticed the signs. ‘Why would Villiers take him food?’

‘Seems out of character, I know, but Holloway’s not likely to have gone shopping for himself. Maybe Villiers took Edgar a few cans to keep him happy while he used his house to stash things like the shotgun. Ideal place when you think about it. Middle of nowhere, nobody to see you come and go, and nobody living there who’s likely to make a fuss.’

That much made sense. And it would explain why Villiers had gone into the house while Stacey Coker was there. Lundy finished his biscuit and washed it down with a drink of tea.

‘Of course, there’s one thing wrong with that theory,’ he said, setting down his cup. ‘Why would someone like Leo Villiers even know Holloway existed, let alone know where he lived? Wealthy man like that, access to serious money and resources, what’s he doing grubbing about in some recluse’s hovel? Come to that, why is he still here? Why hasn’t he left the country or buggered off somewhere miles away, where he wouldn’t be recognized?’

‘I don’t know. Why?’

‘I haven’t a bloody clue.’ Lundy took another chocolate biscuit and snapped it in half. ‘It wasn’t a rhetorical question, I’ve really no idea. And that niggles me. Makes me think we’re coming at this from the wrong direction. You know those optical tricks, where things are arranged to look a certain way from a specific angle? It’s all about perspective, and I can’t shake the feeling that ours is wrong. We’re looking at this the wrong way.’

He’d continued breaking the biscuit as he spoke, absently snapping it into smaller pieces he let drop on to the plate. His manner had changed, and I found myself growing suddenly wary.

‘Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?’ I asked.

He smiled and put the remaining pieces of biscuit down. ‘Sort of,’ he said, wiping his fingers. ‘I’m poking more holes in my own theory, but it occurred to me the one body we still haven’t found is Emma Derby’s. She’s at the centre of all this, so if it is her ex-boyfriend’s body we found on the barbed wire, how come we didn’t find hers there as well?’

That had been bothering me too. I had a bad idea I knew where this was leading. ‘If there’d been two bodies there we’d have known right away it wasn’t a boating accident. And we don’t know for sure the one we found was Mark Chapel’s.’

‘True,’ he conceded. ‘But if it does turn out to be him it’s going to raise awkward questions for some people. Leo Villiers might be the main suspect at the moment, but that doesn’t mean there can’t be others. The fact is, if Emma Derby’s former boyfriend turns up dead we’re going to have to take another look at her husband.’

‘I thought you said Trask had an alibi? Didn’t you clear him yourselves?’

‘We did, and he does. But just because he’s in the clear for his wife doesn’t mean he is for her boyfriend as well. Not this one, anyway. At the very least we’re going to have to interview him all over again. His son too, probably.’

Christ. As if the tensions in Creek House weren’t bad enough. ‘Why are you telling me?’

Lundy looked at me reprovingly over his glasses. ‘I’m not daft. I know you’re friendly with Rachel Derby.’

‘I’m not going to compromise the inquiry, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘Calm down, I’m not saying that. Good luck to you. I’ve got a lot of time for her. She could have stayed in Australia instead of coming over here to help a family she barely knew. Not many people would step up like she has.’

‘Then what are you saying?’ I asked, less heatedly.

‘Just that it’s one thing getting involved with a victim’s family. A suspect’s is something else. I’m not saying Trask is one yet, but that could change pretty quickly if it turns out to be Mark Chapel’s body in the mortuary.’ Lundy regarded me over the top of his glasses. ‘If that happens you’re going to find yourself with a potential conflict of interest. For the family’s sake as well as your own, you might want to think about maintaining a bit of distance until this blows over. At the very least you need to find alternative lodgings. Staying at a property owned by a potential suspect… I don’t have to tell you how that could look.’

He didn’t. Much as I hated to admit it, Lundy was right. I felt angry, but more at myself for not seeing this coming.

‘It’s too late for me to find anywhere else tonight, but I’ll go back to London tomorrow,’ I said, a bitter taste in my mouth.

The drive to the mortuary would take longer, but there wasn’t much left for me to do there anyway. I couldn’t pretend there was a good reason for me to stay in the Backwaters any more. Not because of the case, anyway.

Lundy nodded, embarrassed now he’d spelled out the situation. It was a relief for both of us when we heard someone opening the front door.

‘Sounds like them.’ He straightened, hurriedly popping a last piece of biscuit into his mouth. He gave me a wink. ‘Don’t tell my wife.’

He was twisting the packet shut when the kitchen door opened and a small whirlwind burst in.

‘Granddad, Gran says I can—’

The little girl broke off when she saw me. Lundy’s face had split into a huge smile. ‘There she is! How’s my big girl?’

His granddaughter smiled but cast glances at me, suddenly shy. She had a pretty elfin face under a wild tangle of hair. Still beaming, Lundy picked her up and planted a kiss on her cheek before plonking her down on his knee.

‘Kelly, this is Dr Hunter. He works with Granddad. Aren’t you going to say hello?’

The girl lolled her head against him, looking at me from under long eyelashes. ‘Hello.’

‘She’s not normally this quiet,’ Lundy said, giving her a squeeze. The police officer had been replaced by a doting grandfather. ‘We normally have to hand out earplugs.’

‘Make the most,’ his wife said, bustling in with a rain-spattered coat and shopping bags. She was an attractive woman, with short blond hair and a no-nonsense attitude. ‘God, this weather! Sun one minute and rain the next. And they’re forecasting storms tomorrow. You must be Dr Hunter?’

She gave me a smile as she took off her damp coat. ‘David,’ I said, getting to my feet to help with the shopping bags. Lundy had done the same, one burly arm still holding his granddaughter. His wife waved us both away.

‘Thanks, I can manage. I’m Sandra. Pleased to meet you.’

‘Dr Hunter came in for a cuppa after bringing me from the hospital,’ Lundy told her, sitting down again.

‘I expect he ate all the chocolate biscuits, as well,’ she said, raising an eyebrow at the packet on the table.

Lundy looked affronted. ‘Well, it seemed rude to stop him.’

‘See what I have to put up with?’ His wife’s smile didn’t hide her concern as she spoke again to her husband. ‘How did it go?’

‘Oh, fine.’

She gave a nod, and I knew the subject was closed until they were alone. ‘Are you going to stay and eat with us, David? You’d be very welcome,’ she asked, unpacking the bags.

‘Thanks, but I was just about to leave.’ I should get out of their way, and I needed time to think anyway. I turned to Lundy. ‘Thanks for the tea. And the biscuits.’

‘You’re welcome. Just try not to eat them all next time.’ He stood up, mock-groaning as he set his granddaughter down. ‘The rate you’re growing I’m not going to be able to lift you for much longer. You help your gran while I see Dr Hunter out.’

‘He said his name was David!’

‘He’s a grown-up, he’s allowed more than one.’ Lundy came out with me into the hallway. He still seemed uncomfortable after our earlier conversation. He jangled the change in his pocket. ‘You OK?’

‘Fine.’ I shrugged. ‘Don’t worry, there won’t be a conflict of interest.’

‘Glad to hear it. Anyway, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’

I felt tired and depressed as I drove back to the boathouse. I was already beginning to wonder if I’d done the right thing by committing myself to going back to London, but staying at the boathouse any longer would put me in an untenable position. I couldn’t tell Rachel about any of the new developments, and yet keeping them from her felt as bad as lying.

But I couldn’t just leave without giving her a reason. Or was I flattering myself that she’d really care? She’d got more to worry about than a man she’d only known for a few days.

There was something else bothering me as well. Lundy had said that Rachel could have stayed in Australia, that she didn’t have to come over to help out the Trasks. Yet she’d told me she’d already been in the country for a friend’s wedding when her sister went missing. I turned that over in my mind, not liking where it led.

Lundy didn’t know Rachel was here when her sister disappeared.

I knew it didn’t necessarily mean anything, that the DI might simply have forgotten. Or got his wires crossed, because the police would have checked her out along with the rest of the family as a matter of course.

Wouldn’t they?

I flinched as the sudden trill of my phone jarred me from my thoughts. My stomach knotted when I saw Rachel’s number on the display. I pulled over to the side of the road, earning an irate blare of the horn from the car behind as it shot past. Rain blustered against the windscreen as I looked down at the phone, letting it ring again before I answered.

‘Can you talk?’ Rachel sounded anxious, and I immediately forgot everything else.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing… I don’t know. Look, can you come over?’ She lowered her voice, as though not wanting to be overheard. ‘I’ve found something.’