Interviews were now also being entered into the PCU’s system via a new application developed by Dan Banbury called WECS (Witness Evidence Correlation Software), and the pattern of the night’s events was recreated in a single spreadsheet of insane complexity.
When Longbright stared at the list of names, the times they arrived, who they knew, when they entered and left the lounge, their relationships to their hosts and to each other, all she saw was a data grid that detailed everything and explained nothing. The problem with traditional witness statements was that they sometimes obscured important facts, but WECS just seemed to make her job harder.
She wanted to know something far more fundamentaclass="underline" who among these people could kill a child? Who could act with such violence towards one so innocent, and then return moments later to make small talk at a party? Clearly, it was possible; many killers described a sense of blankness descending upon them, removing their ability to feel any kind of remorse. But she and the other members of staff had met these people and noticed nothing untoward.
“John, do you think actors lie more easily than people in other professions?” she asked.
“I don’t know enough about them to judge, but I wouldn’t think so.” May looked up from his notes. “Arthur’s your best bet for a question like that. You’d be better off looking for the distinct emotional characteristics common to homicides. Dissociative states of mind, stress snaps from long-gestating problems. Killers supposedly undergo something called an ‘aura phase’. Their senses become heightened, skin becomes more sensitive, they experience sights and sounds more vividly. You might discreetly check our suspects for the appearance of such a state.”
“I suppose it’s possible the perpetrator doesn’t even remember what happened.”
“True. It could help explain the anomalies Arthur pointed up.”
“Why would somebody strike in such a public place? It seems to be inviting extra risk.”
“About a third of all killers strike in public. And they often become very depressed after they’ve acted, but we can’t monitor all our suspects all of the time – the system isn’t built for it.”
More confused than ever, Longbright went back to work. She was still inputting everyone’s movements when the call came in a few minutes later. She rose and left the room.
Bryant was poring over a huge old book entitled Folk Myths & Legends of England. On top of this were a limited edition of Calthrop’s Punch and Judy, published by Dulau & Co Ltd, and a slipcased original playscript, Punch & Judy, edited by Rose Fyleman for Methuen.
“I’ve got some bad news for you, Arthur,” said Longbright. “Do you know someone called Anna Marquand?”
“John and I had tea with her yesterday,” said Bryant without looking up. His unlit pipe was clenched between his teeth, a sure sign he was concentrating. “She’s the editor of my memoirs. I’m thinking of bringing her into the Unit in some capacity. Why?”
“She’s dead.”
Bryant stopped what he was doing. “What do you mean? How?”
“Her mother just called. She found the PCU’s phone number in her daughter’s jacket. Apparently Anna Marquand got home last night, was going to make herself a toasted cheese sandwich, cut up the bread and passed out in the kitchen. Her mother was in the other room with the TV up loud and didn’t hear anything. Fifteen minutes later she found her on the floor, blue in the face. The medics reckon it might have been some virulent form of blood poisoning, perhaps tetanus. She died in the ambulance.”
“Blood poisoning?”
“Bacteria in the bloodstream.”
“For God’s sake, Janice, I know what it is. How did it get there?”
“The mother says she nicked herself with the bread knife.”
“Is that all? Seems very sudden. Are they sure?”
“It’s not as uncommon as you’d think. I had a cousin who died in exactly the same way.”
“But Anna – what a terrible waste.” Bryant looked genuinely horrified – not a common sight.
“That’s not all. The mother, Rose Marquand, reckons there was something odd about it. Her daughter was attacked on the way home by some local hooleys, kids from a criminal family. They snatched her mobile on the front doorstep, not for the first time either. She’d been having a running battle with them for a couple of years. Rose says her daughter was terrified and couldn’t calm down after. She thinks maybe her heart gave out and the doctor misdiagnosed.”
“Frightened to death? Sounds unlikely.”
“I suppose that’s what she’s implying. She didn’t want to talk to the local constabulary, says they were aware of the problems Anna had been having but never did anything about them. Mrs Marquand didn’t know who else to call, but Anna had talked about you.”
“Where did they take her? St Thomas’s?”
“I believe so. Want me to talk to the doctor?”
“Good idea. But let me ring the mother first.”
With a heavy heart, Bryant made the call. As much as Rose Marquand was upset about losing her only daughter, it seemed to him that she was more fearful for her own future. Anna had been caring for her mother since her father died.
Bryant explained that he would be sending Longbright to visit her. Perhaps his detective sergeant would be able to help in ways that the Met had no time for. Something about Anna had penetrated his heart; clever, shy and somehow lost, she had not been able to find her place in life, and now that confused existence had ended. If she had been bullied by a local gang, he needed to see the wrong put right.
He had an ulterior motive in offering his detective sergeant’s services; Longbright was to reassure Rose that she would be looked after, but he also asked her to collect the notes Anna had excised from his memoir. They were, after all, of a sensitive nature and, as Anna had indicated, their publication was banned by the Official Secrets Act. If the local service visitors came in to assess Rose, Bryant didn’t want them stumbling across incendiary material.
He sat back in his cracked green leather chair and rubbed his red eyes. He hadn’t been sleeping well lately. The excitement of moving the Unit into new premises had worn off as soon as he realized they would face the usual uphill battle against budgets and bureaucracy to keep the place alive. An infanticide; it would probably not turn out to be much of an investigation, but it would keep them ticking over until something meatier came along. The case wouldn’t have turned up at all if it hadn’t been for Gail Strong’s ministerial connection.
Bryant wiped his filthy computer screen and tried to understand Banbury’s WECS spreadsheet. He was annoyed with himself; it should have been obvious who was responsible for the child’s death. He felt sure that the matter would be wrapped up in a day or two. The crime was bound to have been committed by someone close to the baby or his mother – domestic investigations, even those that took place among the wealthy, were usually the easiest to solve.
The Mr Punch element intrigued him, though.
He could afford to indulge himself and study it from a more esoteric angle, safe in the knowledge that it would all have blown over in a day or two.
And yet. The lurid rictus of Mr Punch grimaced out at him from its hand-coloured plate in mockery, daring him to find a darker solution, and a shadow passed across his soul. The puppet on the floor had the laughing face of someone who knew they had killed and could get away with it.
If they were capable of taking the life of an innocent child and hiding the crime in plain sight, what else might they have the confidence to do?