None the Wiser, page 18
He turned away from the retreating figure and focused on the watercolours that adorned the entrance hallway and staircase.
Stepping closer, he recognised Gillian’s light touch with a brush – she and Debbie had shared the same talent for painting, with Debbie preferring the bold strokes of oil over watercolour.
‘What are you doing here?’
He spun around at Gillian’s voice.
The pathologist dried her hands on a towel as she advanced towards him, her face contorted with ill-disguised anger.
Instinctively, he raised his hands. ‘I only want five minutes of your time.’
‘Couldn’t it wait until the morning?’
He felt the last of his patience draining from him. ‘It could, but given what I’ve discovered could have a derogatory impact on your future career and reputation, I thought it might be better to have this conversation in private.’
She stopped dead. ‘What did you say?’
‘You heard me. Now, can we talk as civilised people or do you want to wait until you hear from your boss after my DI phones him in the morning with a formal complaint?’
She slapped the towel over the stair bannister and glared at him, her jaw working. After a moment, she took a deep breath and gestured towards the back of the house. ‘Come through to the study.’
‘Thank you.’
‘This had better be good,’ she said, as she brushed past him.
Mark trailed after her, biting back his rising anger. He had to remain professional, had to stay calm in order to seek Gillian’s consensus with his theory. Despite their differences, he still respected her intellect, and it was to this he knew he’d have to appeal.
Gillian reached out automatically for a switch to the left as she pushed open the door, a series of spotlights illuminating her workspace. She gestured to one of two chairs next to a well-used desk strewn with paperwork, then turned and leaned against the teak surface and appraised him.
‘That curry is going to be ready in fifteen minutes, so start talking.’
In reply, Mark reached inside his jacket and removed the documentation he’d brought from the incident room, then handed her the photographs.
She raised an eyebrow as she took them, her brow furrowing further while she cast her eyes over the images. ‘These are the ones I sent to DI Kennedy with my report for the two murdered priests. I’m presuming the others were taken by one of Jasper’s team?’
‘They were.’
‘What’s your point?’ she said, thrusting them back towards him.
He ignored the photographs and watched her face. ‘Your reports missed something.’
‘What?’
‘Take another look. Tell me what you see.’
She huffed in response, but to her credit sifted through the images once more. As the last photograph passed through her fingers, she shook her head and raised her eyes to his.
‘Nothing I haven’t seen before.’
He rose from his seat, reached behind her, and plucked up a magnifying glass from her desk, one he knew she’d inherited from her father. ‘Use this.’
‘Is this some sort of game, Mark? Because I really don’t have time. I—’
‘Shut up and look again. With this.’
Danger flashed in her eyes as she snatched the magnifying glass from him.
One, two, three photographs passed through her hands as she peered at the details, her practised eyes running over the images of the two dead priests whose post mortems she’d conducted within days of each other.
He didn’t blame her – wouldn’t blame her – for her incredulousness, but he did want her acknowledgement that he was right, and that she would help him.
He held his breath and waited.
The skin beneath her right eye twitched, and he exhaled some of the tension that had held him in thrall.
‘Oh my God.’ Her head jerked up, as confusion filled her eyes.
‘Do you see it?’
In response, she strode across to an old dining table she used as a working space, swept a series of reports to one side, and spread out the photographs across the surface. Resting her hands on the table, she peered over her shoulder at him.
‘Come over here.’
Mark pushed himself out of the chair and joined her. ‘What do you think?’
‘I-I don’t know what to say.’ Her voice shook. ‘How did I miss this?’
A wave of pity swept over him, and he sighed. ‘You’re overworked, understaffed, and under pressure.’
‘Don’t make excuses for me, Mark.’ She ran a hand through her hair, tipped her head back and blinked. ‘All right. What’s going through your mind? Do you want my resignation?’
‘What?’
Her eyes met his, a steely gaze that didn’t falter. ‘Is that why you’re here? To give me the bad news personally?’
‘What sort of person do you take me for, Gillian?’ Mark turned away and gestured at the photographs, his voice softening. ‘That’s the last thing I’d do. No, I need your help. This mark on their cheeks, it’s tiny isn’t it? Any ideas what could’ve made it?’
Gillian picked up a close-up of Seamus Carter’s face, tracing her thumb over the man’s cheek. ‘When I saw this on our first victim, I thought he’d simply scratched the skin with a jagged thumbnail, or caught it while shaving. It’s subtle compared to the bruises and scratches we attributed to his murder, see?’
‘Is that why it didn’t give you much cause for concern?’
She swallowed, then nodded. ‘Yes. It didn’t fit in with his other injuries because it’s not deep – this red mark isn’t as indented in the skin, which led me to believe it wasn’t anything to do with the attack.’
She replaced the photograph while Mark selected an image taken at a similar angle of Philip Baxter’s face. As he held it up, she wrung her hands. ‘Shit, Mark. This is bad. This is really bad. I could lose everything over this.’
Mark paused, the photograph in his hand. It was the first time he’d ever heard Gillian sound scared.
She stared at the other images scattered across the table, her expression blank, her face pale under the artificial lighting.
‘Gill? I meant what I said. I’m not going to tell anyone. I just want to stop the person who’s been doing this, okay?’
‘Everything all right in there?’
Mark jumped at the sound of Alistair’s voice, and they both turned as the door opened.
Alistair peered around the frame, and cleared his throat. ‘What did you want to do about dinner, Gill? Do you need me to do anything?’
Mark held his breath in the pause that followed, then Gillian spoke.
‘Take it off the heat, darling. Just give it a stir now and again to make sure it doesn’t stick. I can reheat it when we’re done here. I’ll make fresh rice. The dogs can have the overcooked rice for their breakfast tomorrow.’
‘Oh. Okay. Will do.’
Her eyes met Mark’s as Alistair retreated, her composure returning. ‘Right. Where were we?’
He said nothing, staring at her hands.
‘Mark?’
Mark held up the photograph to his line of sight, then looked at the pathologist’s hands once more.
‘Do you remove your rings when you’re working, Gill?’
‘What?’ She peered down, splaying her fingers. ‘Of course. The stone in my engagement ring tends to catch on the gloves otherwise, and I can’t risk them tearing. I – oh.’
Mark snatched up her hand and ran his thumb over the stone. ‘Does it turn on your finger easily?’
‘Yes.’ She twisted the ring around and turned her palm upwards.
He raised her hand so that it rested against his cheek, and pressed the stone against the skin as hard as he could.
When he released Gillian, her eyebrows shot upwards in realisation.
‘It’s not a man who’s killing them, is it?’ she said. ‘It’s a woman. Even wearing gloves, the ring she was wearing pierced their skin. But, even if I had left my rings on, I would’ve noticed. I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.’
‘This isn’t a mistake.’ He paused. ‘This looks like a message.’
Mark moved to the table, casting his eyes across the sequence of images they’d laid out as the pieces began to drop into place.
‘Can you take another look at the bodies in the morning? See if we’re right?’
‘Of course. What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to have another word with Robert Argyle as soon as the ward opens for visitors in the morning. See if he recalls anything that might help us now that we know what we’re looking for.’
Chapter Forty-One
Jan fought down a sense of shock as she listened to Turpin describe his conversation with Gillian Appleworth to DI Kennedy in a hurriedly arranged meeting the next morning.
He had phoned Jan while she was thrusting lunchboxes at the twins and trying to ascertain whether Luke had actually completed his homework on time. She’d answered with an exasperated “What?” before his words had silenced her.
Now here she was, third coffee of the morning in her grip, the twins dispatched to school thanks to their dad, and her trying to take down notes as her DS churned out his update as rapidly as machine-gun fire.
Where previously she’d sensed a reluctance in him to voice his opinions too much within the confines of the incident room, as if he were cognisant of being the new face on the team, he now strode in front of Kennedy’s desk, gesticulating enthusiastically as he described what he’d been working on while the rest of them had been sleeping.
At least he had the decency to look out of breath when he’d finished, although whether that was due to excitement or lack of oxygen was anyone’s guess.
Finally, nearly a full five minutes after Turpin had completed his précis of events, the DI dropped his pen to the desk, removed his glasses and folded his hands over the photographs spread across the blotter in front of him.
‘And Gillian concurs with your assessment of these images?’
‘Absolutely, guv. She’s currently over at the morgue conducting a further examination of both of our victims and assures me she’ll phone through with her findings later this morning. Those findings should corroborate our theory.’
‘Your theory, Mark.’
Jan caught the twinkle in Kennedy’s eye.
‘All right,’ the DI continued. He gathered the photographs together and handed them back to Turpin. ‘We’ll run it side by side with the current investigation. I agree, it’s an angle that has to be explored properly. We’ll bring the rest of the team up to speed in this morning’s briefing.’
‘Thanks, guv.’
Turpin led the way out of the office back into the incident room, and Jan waited until they’d reached their desks.
‘What did Gillian say when you spoke to her last night?’ she said. ‘She couldn’t have been very impressed.’
He shrugged, and placed the photographs in a manila folder before shoving it into a tray next to his phone charger. ‘Pretty shocked, once I’d had the chance to explain.’
‘Must’ve felt good to knock her down a peg or two after what she’s been like to you.’
As soon as the words passed her lips, she knew she’d read him wrong.
Disappointment clouded his features, and he gave a slight shrug, a sadness emanating from him.
‘Not at all,’ he said. He waited until she’d pulled out a chair. ‘She was horrified. Despite what she says about me, we were close once. We used to have a laugh together.’
‘What happened?’
‘She took umbrage at the fact Debbie and I split up, that’s all. But whereas Debbie has managed to move on, Gillian’s never forgiven me. She’s a good pathologist though. Knows her stuff.’
‘So why didn’t she spot this?’
He looked away. ‘We all make mistakes.’
Something in his words made Jan realise he wasn’t going to share anything further with her and she decided not to press the point.
As she hurriedly checked her emails, she ignored the steady stream of team members entering the incident room and instead glanced across the computer screens to where Turpin sat, his brow furrowed as he worked.
Colour rose in her cheeks as she recalled the way in which Appleworth had spoken to him on their first day working together at the Upper Benham crime scene. She squared her shoulders and tried to concentrate on her emails, not sure that she’d be so forgiving in the same circumstances.
They had a potential breakthrough in their investigation though, one which hadn’t been considered previously. Any recriminations about Gillian’s mistakes – perceived or otherwise – could come later.
‘Gather around.’
Kennedy’s voice boomed across to where she sat, and Jan grabbed her notebook and pen before joining her colleagues for the briefing.
After collating updates from the detectives leading each group of investigators, he gestured to Turpin and explained the reasons for the additional angle of enquiry that would now take place.
A collective murmur filled the room at the news, and Jan noticed a few sideways glances at her colleague.
No doubt a few others shared her view about the pathologist, but to their credit no-one made any wisecracks and the briefing was concluded shortly after.
Kennedy gestured for Turpin to wait while the other team members moved back to their desks, and waved Jan over.
‘You’ve probably already thought of it, but can you two go and speak to Robert Argyle this morning? See if he can recall anything that might support this theory of yours.’
‘I had the distinct impression he wasn’t telling us everything,’ said Turpin.
Jan nodded. ‘He’s right. I was going over his witness statements again this morning and something doesn’t gel about what he said regarding knowing the other two victims.’
‘Agreed,’ said Kennedy. ‘Let me know what you find out.’
Chapter Forty-Two
Mark held out his arm to stop Jan in her tracks as they finished climbing the stairs and entered the hospital wing.
‘What?’
‘Do you mind if I lead this one?’
‘Why? What are you thinking?’
He ran a hand over his head, then guided her out of the way of a hospital orderly pushing a wheelchair-bound elderly woman.
The woman smiled at them as she and her aide passed, then Mark lowered his voice.
‘He’s a bloke, who’s used to living on his own. I’ve been wondering if he’s simply too embarrassed to want to say too much in front of a woman.’
Jan opened her mouth to protest, then closed it. ‘Shit, maybe you’re right. I hadn’t thought of that. Okay – how do you want to do this?’
‘We’ll start together. If I think he’s stalling or withholding information, I’ll give you a signal. Wait outside when I do, and give me a couple of minutes.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘Thanks.’ He smiled. ‘Some detectives wouldn’t like the idea of being left out of the loop.’
‘Some detectives need to get their heads out of their arses, then. I want to catch the bastard who’s doing this as much as you.’
‘Love your work, West.’
She grinned. ‘Lead the way.’
He spun on his heel and headed towards the nurses’ station at the end of the corridor, flicked open his warrant card and introduced themselves to the ward sister.
‘Back again?’ she said good-naturedly. ‘Just in time, too. Visiting hours are up in half an hour.’
‘How’s he doing?’ said Jan.
‘Healing nicely. And he’s so polite – I wish all our patients were like that.’
‘Okay to go in and see him?’
‘Of course. You know where he is?’
‘We do, thanks,’ said Mark.
‘Don’t wear him out.’
Mark threw a wave over his shoulder and moved towards Argyle’s room.
A uniformed officer climbed sleepily to his feet as they approached, easing out the cricks in his back muscles with a rueful smile.
‘Bloody visitor chairs,’ he said. ‘They don’t like you to get too comfortable around here, that’s for sure.’
‘Any problems?’ said Jan.
‘None whatsoever. Had a reporter sniffing around yesterday, but DC McClellan removed Argyle’s name from the whiteboard at the nurse’s station and on the door here yesterday, so he hasn’t been disturbed. By the time we’d finished speaking with the reporter he was contemplating a new career anyway.’
He chuckled, the encounter evidently breaking up the monotony of the task at hand.
‘No other visitors?’ said Mark.
‘No. Sad, isn’t it? I mean the bloke spends all his life looking out for others, and none of them have bothered to drop by. There’ve been a few cards and some flowers, but that’s it.’ He shrugged. ‘There haven’t even been any visitors from his lot – you know, the church.’
Mark said nothing, but wondered whether Argyle’s colleagues were ignoring him from embarrassment or a growing alarm at the murders and a fear of exposing a deeper problem within the organisation – that of an ex-communicated priest about to be released from prison, and a killer determined to level his or her own sense of justice against others in the Church for their years of silence about how much of his abuses went unreported.
Instead, he waved the uniformed officer back to his seat. ‘We won’t be in there long. Do you want us to fetch you a coffee or anything?’
‘No – I’m fine, thanks. I’ve only got another hour or so before my shift change anyway.’
Mark crossed the floor and rapped his knuckles on the door, then pushed it open without waiting for a response.
Robert Argyle sat propped against two pillows, his thin sandy hair freshly washed but doing little to offset the vicious purple and yellow bruises that clustered around his nose and jawline.
