A shape higher up the garden, stretching away.
“A torch! Get me…”
He had been standing closer than she’d realized and the sudden beam of light made her jump.
Oh, God! Oh, Christ! Oh, Christ! Oh, God!
Mary Sheppard was wearing nothing above her waist, a halfslip, coffee or beige, below. The other shoe stuck up from the ground, holding stubbornly to the toes of a foot that angled too sharply aside. One arm bent out sideways, the other reached in a curve above her head as though she had been trying to swim to safety. Dark lines like ribbons drawn through her hair.
“Get through to the station. Tell Jim Peel to come out here. I’ll ring my DI.”
“Sure you’re…?”
“Do it.”
Resnick was dreaming about a child playing with dolls: it was not a pleasant dream. The first sound of the telephone woke him with relief. Ten-past four. Dizzy jumped soundlessly down from somewhere above Resnick’s head, instantly hungry.
“Hello?”
“Sir, it’s DC Kellogg. Sorry to disturb you, but I think you’d better come out…”
As he listened, Resnick pushed his fingers into Dizzy’s short fur, the cat walking and turning so that the length of his body could be stroked without Resnick’s arm having to move.
“Fifteen minutes,” Resnick said, standing, setting down the phone. Dizzy’s high, crooked tail slipped around the door before him.
He arrived in twelve. One flap of his shirt hung down below a gray pullover and a sleeve of his jacket was bunched up beneath his herringbone overcoat. He wore a dark brown scarf but was bareheaded.
The ambulance had pulled in close to the line of parked cars and a police car sat in the center of the street, blue light flashing, blocking traffic. A few lights had been switched on in the adjacent houses.
Resnick nodded to the constable at the front door and went inside. Lynn Kellogg was standing in the living room, in the semi-darkness. That was not where he had to go. Jim Peel was talking with one of the ambulance men in the back room, a second man had the kettle on and was making tea. Out in the garden, Mary Sheppard’s body had been covered over with plastic, a couple of coats.
Resnick reached out a hand and Peel, who had followed him, gave him a torch. First one coat and then the other, top then bottom. He guessed at the temperature. Thirty-odd degrees? The ground was hard beneath his feet in ridges. Earlier that evening it had rained and this would have been mud. A rough circle of it crowned the heel of the dead woman’s shoe.
The upstretched arm, the fingers that were like marble.
Resnick guessed that by now they would be quite stiff, solid.
He did not need to touch them and so he did not.
He turned and looked at the tall DC, who blinked at him before angling his head away. Resnick switched off the torch and passed it back. The police surgeon was taking off his gloves in the kitchen, watching the ambulance man pour boiling water over several tea bags.
“Why’s it always the middle of the night, Charlie?”
Resnick shrugged and Parkinson eased the gloves into the side pockets of his Barbour.
“Can we get some light fixed up out there?”
“On its way, sir,” said Jim Peel. “Being organized.”
The surgeon nodded and accepted a mug of tea. From an inside pocket he took a small leather-covered flask. “No point in catching my death,” he said, unscrewing the top and tipping a shot of brandy into the tea.
“Sir?”
Resnick spooned two sugars into the offered cup and carried it through to the front of the house. Lynn Kellogg had moved across the room to be close to the window, as if she had considered opening the curtains but decided against it.
“Here,” Resnick said quietly.
At first he thought she wasn’t going to turn around. When she did, he held out the cup and she took it automatically in both hands.
“How you feeling?”
She didn’t answer, watching the surface of the tea, lightly rocking towards the rim of the cup.
“Lynn?”
The cup fell through her fingers and before she could fall also, Resnick had hold of her, the side of her face squashed up against his chest. The fingers of one hand were pressing hard into the corner of Resnick’s mouth. In that light her hair looked no longer brown but black. Resnick thought about the woman lying under those coats in the cold of the garden; thought of Parkinson’s stethoscope, the gilt edges of his bifocals, the rolled gold of the propelling pencil with which he would make his notes.
The strange sound that vibrated through him was Lynn Kellogg’s breathing. The tip of her little finger was hooked over the edge of his lower lip.
DC Peel appeared for a moment in the doorway and went away again.
Only when the breathing had begun to steady, did Resnick say, “You okay?”
She leaned her head back and then to one side, eyes closed and then open. Suddenly embarrassed, she pulled her hand back from Resnick’s face.
“I’m sorry, sir, I…”
“Best sit down.”
“No, I…”
He led her to the nearest chair. Called for somebody to bring two more teas. Lot of sugar in one. When he pulled back the curtains it was still dark, the soft gray darkness that seeks to swallow you up. Back along the street, the police car still leaked blue light.
“Charlie,” Parkinson spoke from the hallway. “A word?”
The pathologist’s report would have to confirm it, but cause of death appeared to be numerous blows with a heavy instrument to the skull. There were also signs of bruising on the neck, around the windpipe and immediately below the jaw. Bruising to the tummy area and above the hips.
“How many?” Resnick asked.
“Sorry?”
“How many is numerous?”
Parkinson pursed his lips. “Ten or twelve, I’d say. It’s hard to be exact. I expect you’ll get a better idea later on.”
Resnick thanked him and turned back into the room where Lynn Kellogg was sipping her tea, staring at the bundle of toys in the corner of the room.
“You didn’t ask?” said Parkinson.
Resnick’s head swung back.
“Somewhere between midnight and one.”
Resnick nodded and went on into the room. The scene-of-crime team was just arriving outside; one or two neighbors were standing on the pavement in dressing gowns and slippers.
“There are two kids,” Lynn said.
Resnick had to bend low in order to hear her.
“Boy and a girl.”
“Where?”
“At her mother’s. The dead…at her mother’s. It was her that called in.”
“I see.”
“Worried that something had happened…” The voice choked and Resnick thought she was going to go again, but she caught herself and continued. “She was worried her daughter hadn’t come to fetch the children. I went out to see her. Promised I’d call round, check; she gave me a spare key.”
Resnick took the cup from her hand and set it down on the carpet. “Will they be all right with her, d’you think? The kids.”
Lynn wiped a hand across her face. “I don’t know. She’s…there’s something wrong with her, arthritis, I don’t know. I don’t think she could cope for long.”
Especially not, Resnick thought, after someone has told her about this.
“All right,” Resnick said, straightening. He rested a hand lightly on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “I’ll sort something out.”
Slowly, she turned her face towards his.
“Before, sir, I’m sorry. I…”
“Is that boyfriend of yours at home?”
“I expect so. I…”
“Give him a ring. He could come out and fetch you.”
Resnick was surprised to see Lynn Kellogg’s face break into a smile.
“What’s up?”
“I’d have to ride on the crossbar.”
Resnick smiled too. “I’ll get someone to give you a lift.”