“Jesus Christ, Charlie! Where were you?”
“When was he found?” Resnick asked, scarcely breaking his stride.
“An hour since.”
“What was he doing here?”
“Walking his dogs. They’re back there in one of the cars.”
Millington was there, Divine, Reg Cossall, gray-haired, hands deep in the topcoat he seemed to wear whatever the weather; other officers, in uniform and without. Resnick pushed one of the flaps of plastic aside with an arm and ducked inside. The police surgeon turned his head towards Resnick and then away. Whatever had been used to batter Bill Aston’s head and face had been heavy and hard and wielded with frequency and great force. Beneath a coagulation of blood and hair and bone, it seemed as if the top of his skull had been stove in completely. Lower down, more bone, sharp-edged, splintered through the skin. The globe of one eye, iris and retina, lay, barely attached, among the bloodied pulp of what had been Bill Aston’s cheek.
Resnick had to will himself to stay there, bent over, as long as it took. There were mud and grass stains thick on the dead man’s clothes, sports jacket and gray trousers, striped shirt. A smear of earth thick on the fleshy palm of his right hand. One of the nails, the finger end, deeply split. One of his shoes was missing, something the vibrant yellow of dog shit, sticking to the heel of his woollen navy sock.
“Time of death?” Resnick asked.
Parkinson removed his spectacles, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Between four to six hours ago. Around one o’clock.”
Resnick nodded and swung out of the tent to where Skelton stood smoking a cigarette. “All right,” Resnick said, “what do we know?”
The superintendent waited until they were up on the road, the houses opposite-mock-Tudor, mock-Gothic, mock-something-at the end of their deep gardens, mostly dark. Skelton lit a fresh cigarette from the nub end of the last.
“This youth found the body around three a.m. He’d been sleeping rough, down by that bandstand, other side of the memorial gardens. Woke up, started to wander, keeping out the cold. That was when he heard the dogs, barking and whining. Followed the sound to the body, so he says.”
“Called it in?”
A shake of Skelton’s head. “Not straight away. Panicked. Ran off. While later-says he’s not sure how long, half an hour, maybe more-he went back. Took another look. That was when he phoned.” For a moment, Skelton turned his head, down towards the river, the splash of birds disturbing the water. “The two lads who arrived first, uniform patrol, they had no idea who he was. It was only after the ambulance had arrived, one of the paramedics found his wallet, kicked it up from the grass. About the only thing left in it, his warrant card. That was when all hell broke loose.”
“The youth who found him …”
“At the station now. Being questioned. First reports, seems straight enough.”
“And Aston’s wife?”
Again, Skelton shook his head. “Would you want her to see him first like this?”
Cold air slithered down into Resnick’s lungs like a wave; he could already see Margaret Aston’s slow-collapsing face, the lance of pain that stripped across her eyes.
“She’s not reported him missing? Made inquiries, anything?”
For a second, Skelton’s eyes were closed. “Not as far as we know.” And then, “You know her, Charlie, don’t you? Socially, I mean.”
“Not well. Not for a long time.”
Skelton nodded; not well was better than not at all. “There’ll be an incident room set up at the station, Charlie. Whoever it was, we’ll get him.”
“Yes.” It was almost fully light now to the east. Resnick sighed and began to walk back in the direction of the bridge.
“Charlie?”
“Yes?”
“You talked with him, didn’t you? Aston. About the inquiry? That kid Snape’s death.”
Resnick nodded. “Just last night.”
“There wasn’t anything he said … Nothing he said about it that might lead you to believe, well, that it had anything to do with this?”
“No. Nothing. But …”
“But?”
Resnick recalled the almost glib ease with which Aston had seemed to be accepting the social services’ version of Nicky Snape’s death; had there been anything murky going on, Aston didn’t seem to have been aware of it-unless something had come to light between his conversation with him in the pub and the attack. “No,” Resnick said. “Not as far as I know.”
Skelton released a slow breath of relief. “Mugging, then. Out on his own, late at night, someone saw their chance.”
“Yes,” Resnick said. “Likely that’s how it was. We’ll see.”
Resnick stood with his back half towards the front door as the next-door neighbor eased his BMW out of the drive and onto the road. Birds were making a racket in the trees. The lock clicked open and as the door swung inwards, Resnick turned.
“Bill, I swear you’d forget your head if it wasn’t screwed on, never mind our keys …” Seeing Resnick, only half recognizing him, she faltered into silence.
“Hello, Margaret.” He made a move, unthreatening, towards her.
“Bill, I thought he’d gone out early. With the dogs. To … to …” But she had been a policeman’s wife long enough to know this moment, to have rehearsed it often enough in the long flat hours before dawn.
“Margaret, why don’t you let me come inside?” Stubby, short, pink dressing gown tied round her, curlers in her hair, she stood her ground, challenging him for the truth.
“Margaret, I’m sorry …”
She opened her mouth to scream, drowning out his words.
“… he’s dead.”
Resnick caught hold of her and held her close, muffling her screams against his chest. Three minutes, more. When he was able, he shuffled her far enough into the hallway to push the door shut at his back. It smelled of lavender in there, strong, like soap on his fingers, the palms of his hands. His shirt was damp with Margaret Aston’s tears.
“Tell … tell me what happened.”
“Why don’t we go and make …?”
Her voice was shrill and angry. “I don’t want …! I want to know.”
Resnick took her arm, his hand steady beneath her elbow. “All right, but let’s at least sit down.”
The living room was at the rear of the house, fussy with tasteful ornaments and family photographs; the curtains, had they been fully drawn, would have revealed French windows and beyond those some eighty feet of flower beds and tidy shrubs, well-groomed lawn. As it was, they sat in facing chairs in the shadowy half-light, Margaret’s face angled towards the other armchair, empty by the span of fireside, the one in which, Resnick guessed, her husband would more usually have sat.
He told her such details as were known, restricting the description of Aston’s injuries to a minimum. She listened, straining towards him, head angled slightly to one side, her hands in her lap never still.
“Bill,” she said, when Resnick had finished. “Poor Bill. Whatever has he ever done to deserve this?”
“Nothing, Margaret. Nothing.”
She was on her feet. “I want to see him.”
“Later, Margaret. Why not let it wait?” Gently, he led her back to the chair. On his feet, he went to the windows and let light into the room.
“When you came to the door,” Resnick asked, “just now. You thought it was Bill, back from walking the dogs?”
“Yes?
“But when this happened, as far as we can tell, it was near the middle of the night. One or two.”
He waited while she assimilated this.
“Yes, he … Sometimes he couldn’t sleep. Not right away. So he’d go out again, a walk, anything rather than lie there. He hated that; there was nothing he disliked more. And this past couple of years it had got worse, much worse. That was why we moved, he moved across the hall; separate rooms, you see. That way, if Bill was troubled with his insomnia, he wouldn’t feel guilty about waking me.” She plucked at the hem of her dressing gown, some end of cotton she alone could see. “Not that I ever minded. Not …” And she was lost to tears again, flapping Resnick away when he came near.