“Right. Good. Let’s all—”
The policeman Simmons had ordered to search looker’s car appeared at the detective’s side carefully carrying an object in one hand, a large handkerchief preventing contact between it and his palm and curled fingers. I moved even closer for a better look, peering over Coates’s left shoulder.
It was Sadler who spoke to the PC, who seemed reluctant to interrupt his superiors.
“Uh, small chopper, Sir. I suppose you’d call it a hatchet.”
“You found it in the Hillman?” Simmons leaned forward with great interest.
“Yes, Sir. Under the driver’s seat.”
Moker’s mutilation tool. I’d forgotten all about it. Oh thank God he didn’t bring it with him into the house…
“I told him to search Moker’s car when we got here,” Simmons said to both the commander and the chief superintendent.
The loud wail of an ambulance; we hadn’t noticed its approach. The sound cut out as its driver waited for a policeman to hold back the blue and white tape that had already been strung across the street at both ends.
Our attention returned to the nasty little weapon in the constable’s hand.
“Didn’t have to break into the vehicle, Sir,” the young policeman said to no particular sir, displaying the hatchet proudly. “It was unlocked and it didn’t take long to find this. Lots of blood on it, even the handle. Newish and old stains. Looks as if it’s never been cleaned.”
Simmons grinned broadly and, although now I couldn’t see his face from behind, I’m sure Coates was grinning too. Sadler allowed himself only a small smile.
“Well done, constable,” the commander said to the young policeman (What was he? Twelve years old? His head was too small for his helmet). “Extremely well done.” (Spoken like a leader of men.) “Bag it and give it to forensics when they turn up. What’s your name?”
“PC Kempton, Sir.”
“Once you’ve passed it over to the bods, carry on with the search of the vehicle, see what else you can find. And get someone to help you, I want two men on the job.”
“Already taken care of, Sir,” Simmons put in quickly, but not defensively. “The other man’s continuing the search as we speak.”
Commander Newman gave a satisfied nod of his head.
“Sir!” the young policeman said smartly and took his leave. He marched off towards a patrol car, no doubt to collect a plastic bag big enough to hold his prize.
Simmons, and probably Coates too, were still grinning.
“Well I think the hatchet, together with those knitting needles you found in Moker’s flat, ties it all up rather neatly,” commented Sadler as if in praise of his two detectives.
“Except for this other man lying here,” said Commander Newman to spoil the fun. “What did you say his name was?”
“Presswell,” Coates quickly told him. “Sydney Presswell. We think he might have got in a tussle with Moker. Syd— Presswell was probably trying to save Guinane from Moker and they crashed through the window and over the balcony.”
“We’ll know more if Guinane is up there,” Simmons said helpfully. “He might be hurt, maybe unconscious.”
“Then we’d better find out,” said Newman, slapping the gloves into the palm of his hand again like a punctuation mark to the detectives’ report.
I’d almost lost interest by now. The facts were clear as far as I was concerned and I didn’t need to know any more. They’d find Ollie semi-conscious in our old office and no doubt he’d fill in the details for the police when he was able to. He would tell them about Sydney’s foolhardy confession—Sydney thought he was talking to a man who would be dead in a matter of moments—and they’d check out our devious bloody bean counter—yeah, I really did think of him like that now, although I hadn’t before—and discover all the little discrepancies in the accounts which foxy old Sydney wouldn’t be around to explain away, and they’d delve into his background thoroughly, find out about his debts, his gambling, his alimony payments to two high-maintenance ex-wives, a third one coming up. The drugs. They might—no, they would search his home after Oliver had spoken to them—and find his stash. Or maybe one of his exes would rat on him for revenge—it’s impossible for a wife not to know her husband is doing drugs. Of course, all that wouldn’t necessarily make him a killer, but he’d lose all credibility as a fine upstanding man. They’d dig even deeper and would come up with something, I was sure about that.
Ollie? He wasn’t guilty of the crime of murder, but he was guilty of other things where I was concerned. I could never forgive him but, hey, suddenly I didn’t care as much. I seemed to be moving away from emotional things like anger tonight. Oddly, I couldn’t even hate Sydney for cheating and murdering me; I just thought he was a very sick man. God, I even felt pity for Moker.
Imagine remembering your mother’s rejection at your own birth! Followed by rejection for the rest of your life! Born to be reviled or spurned by the ignorant few—few, but still too many!—driven crazy by your own disfigurement (It seemed that if anger was slipping off the board, then compassion appeared to be growing stronger.) I felt sorry for the poor, poor guy who had tried to kill Andrea and Primrose, sorry for someone who’d already murdered four other people, used them, then chopped three of the bodies to pieces, and it beat me, I couldn’t understand why. Probably because I’d had glimpses of his life literally from the inside, experienced his sorrow and pain. But then, I’d also felt his excitement and sick joy for those terrible things he’d done. I’d felt the lingering shadows of his black soul—the whole of which had repelled those good souls who had sunk into his foulness in a vain attempt to influence the man. There was nothing worthy there, only wretched darkness and cruel malevolence. Could evil ever be absolute? Nothing there to glimmer in the umbra? I’d never thought so before, but now I wasn’t so sure. Maybe Moker’s soul would have been evil whatever the state of his body.
Anyway. Time to move on. Nothing left for me to hear, I had the answer I’d sought. Have to return home, see for myself if Prim and Andrea were okay. My wife—who’d deceived me. My daughter—who wasn’t truly mine. Oh Hell—!
What did it really matter? I still loved them both. Yeah, even Andrea. Our marriage may have been a lie, but there’d been good times, great times. (Maybe love was growing stronger too, moving in to fill those gaps from where the negative vibes were absconding.) And nothing ever—ever—would diminish my love for Primrose. No, that couldn’t change.
So. Time to go.
I started to drift away down the street, oblivious to the rain and the bustling uniformed figures around me. Started to drift away, but something stopped me, something said among the small group I’d been eavesdropping on. Something said by Coates.
“She should’ve stuck to knitting scarves,” Coates had said.
Commander Newman, who had taken a couple of strides towards the gtp entrance with Chief Superintendent Sadler by his side, stopped short and turned round to Coates and Simmons. The two detectives were following so close behind they almost bumped into the senior officers.
I turned to look at Coates as well.
“What did you say?” the commander demanded, his expression severe. Sadler looked puzzled as he took in the detective constable.
“What did you say, man?” Newman glared at Coates with steely eyes.
“Er, we found a whole pile of badly knitted scarves when we searched the flat. Long ones, all dark. A few balls of wool and more knitting needles. She must have had an obsession for needles.”
Sadler cut in. “What the bloody Hell are you talking about Coates? Who’s this she?”
“Her, Sir.” Coates looked confused as he pointed back at the dark shapes lying in the street “Moker.”
“Moker?” It was Newman again, his eyebrows arched, but his jaw set firm. “Do you mean to tell us that Moker—” now he was pointing at the bodies, “—Moker,” he repeated, “is—was—a woman?”
“Uh, yes, Sir.” The detective constable was distinctly uncomfortable. “I thought you knew. Alexandra Moker. That was the full name on the electoral roll and driving licence. We found tampons in her bathroom but not much other woman’s stuff though.”
I was stunned. I stood rigid, light rain falling through me. Moker had been a woman. It was unbelievable. Did it make any difference? Yeah, it did to me. Somehow it made the misery she’d had to bear all her life even more
