Shaping the Ripples (7 page)

He smiled at this, but his eyes remained cold. “You seem very defensive about all of this. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to add something to the statement you’ve made? One way or another the truth will come out eventually.”

“I am telling you the truth,” I insisted. “If I seem defensive it’s because I don’t like the implications behind your questions.”

“Well, I’m very sorry about that,” he responded insincerely, “but at the moment, I have a few problems with the story that you’re telling me; some inconsistencies if you like.”

He let that hang in the silence for a few moments and then continued. “For example, perhaps you could explain to me why the only fingerprints on this mysterious note of yours are your own? Maybe Mrs. Carter wore gloves while she was writing it to you?”

I thought about this revelation for a few moments and then shrugged. “No, I’m as puzzled by that as you are. It doesn’t seem very likely that she did put on gloves to write to me. But the fact remains that the letter was in my pigeon hole on Saturday morning.”

“So you keep saying,” DI Palmer commented. “But you have no idea why it was so important for you to go and see her, no explanation for how the note was delivered, and no-one appears to have touched the note, other than yourself. You must be able to see why I find your story so far-fetched.”

I didn’t bother to respond to this, and just stared back at him.

“Well, never mind,” he continued, “perhaps we could try and remove another difficulty. You say that you have been a patient of Jennifer Carter’s for around two and a half years. Would you like to tell me exactly what problem she was helping you with?”

“I don’t see that that’s any of your business,” I replied evenly.

“Then perhaps you can at least tell me if she was helping you to make good progress with your problem.” DI Palmer put deliberate emphasis on the last word.

I thought for a moment, and then said, “I suppose we were making some progress.”

He interrupted before I could continue, “But not as much as you were hoping. Perhaps you were angry and frustrated – felt that she’d let you down?”

“No, it wasn’t like that,” I tried to explain. “If I ever got frustrated it was with myself. I never saw Jennifer as anything other than helpful and supportive.”

“But you saw her every month. And she made notes on your
problem
each time you met?”

“Yes,” I agreed, not really sure what he was leading up to with this question.

DI Palmer smiled slyly. “Then perhaps you can explain why in the documents we found at Mrs. Carter’s house, there was no sign of a file with your name on.”

I stared back at him, stunned. “I don’t … , that doesn’t make any sense. She did have a file on me, she was making notes in it the last time we met.”

“So I’m to assume that out of all the files that she had, the killer decided yours would make the best bedtime reading, am I?” He shook his head. “No, I think we can come up with a much more plausible answer. In fact, I’ve got two theories of my own that I’d like to try out on you. The first is that you’ve been lying all along and that you never have been a patient of Mrs. Carter. Possibly the two of you were having an affair, which explains how she got into this building, and you made up the patient story to excuse your presence in her house. How do you like that theory, Mr. Bailey?”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “I was her patient, and we didn’t have any other sort of relationship,” I began, and then an idea occurred to me. “You can check her appointments book – that will have my name in and a record of our meetings.”

Michael Palmer stared back at me challengingly, “A very convenient defence, especially as Jennifer Carter’s appointment book is missing along with your alleged file.”

He continued, “You’re not doing a very good job of convincing me. Perhaps you’ll prefer my second theory. Let’s accept that you are a patient of Mrs. Carter. Then there would be a file about you, and the most likely explanation for its disappearance is that there are things in it that you wouldn’t want anyone else to read. Maybe things about a propensity to violence, for example, or notes that would show that you were due to be at the house on Friday evening. How do you like that explanation?”

I tried to get a grip of my thoughts. “It’s ingenious, but it’s completely wrong. The last time I saw Jennifer alive was on Wednesday morning, and I did not take my file away from her house.”

DI Palmer pulled a face of disbelief. “You see, the problem I have with your story, is that it makes you such a central character. Either Jennifer Carter brought a note to you as almost the last thing she did before she was killed, or by your account the note came from someone who wanted you to find her body. This person went to the trouble of leaving the door unfastened to make it easy for you and, just for good measure, took your file away with them.”

“I agree it sounds unlikely,” I began, “but I can only tell you the truth of what happened.”

“It’s not unlikely,” he countered, “it’s impossible. Whoever killed Jennifer Carter was in a frenzy. The pathologist is certain that her lips were sliced off when she was still alive. Someone wanted her to suffer before she died, and enjoyed watching it. That doesn’t fit with your idea that they did it to play games with you.”

“What do you think of the mutilation?” he asked suddenly. “What was the point?”

“I have no idea” I said, taken aback by the sudden change of direction. “I can’t imagine why anyone would cut off another person’s lips.”

“And tongue,” he prompted.

“I’m sorry?”

He looked at me with a smile. “You’re very good,” he said at last. “As I suspect you already know, the killer cut out her tongue as well.”

I felt sick with the horror of the information he had given me. “I don’t know what’s going on,” I managed, “but I didn’t have anything to do with her death.”

“Shall I tell you what I think really happened,” DI Palmer offered more quietly. “I think you really were one of her patients. You went to see her on Friday night but something she said to you drove you into a killing rage. You killed her, and took your file and her appointment book so there was no evidence you had been there. You left the door unlocked, and on Saturday you wrote the phoney note to give you an excuse for being there.”

“Why would I take the chance of going back there?” I asked, trying to think of some way to make him understand that he was getting this completely wrong.

“I don’t know,” he replied impatiently. “Maybe you’re so sick you needed to be at the centre of it all. Or maybe you thought it would give you an excuse for any fingerprints or trace evidence that we find which prove that you were there.” His voice became more inviting, “Look, Jack, I’m sure that however it happened you didn’t mean to do it. Just tell me the truth and we can get you all the help you need.”

“I have been telling you the truth.” I said, almost shouting at him with frustration.

His eyes filled with anger, and he leant forwards so our faces were just inches apart. “OK, have it your way for now. But just you remember that I know what you really are. I’m not going to rest until I’ve made you pay. Understand?”

He stood up, and stalked out of the door, slamming it as he went out. I stayed where I was, totally shaken by our meeting. The truth was, I couldn’t think of anyone with a grudge against me so deep that they would want to embroil me in a murder investigation. And how could anyone hate Jennifer so much as to kill her so savagely? I didn’t like Michael Palmer, but I could see how he’d jumped to the conclusion he had. I sensed that he wasn’t going to give up easily.

Chapter Eight

Jennifer’s funeral was set for the following Thursday at the York Cemetery. The days leading up to it were uneventful and damp, and the day itself dawned dark and oppressive.

The cemetery is only about a mile from my home, outside the city walls to the south-west. I decided that despite the rain I would walk there, to give me a chance to sort my head out on the way back to work. The route took me over the river, which was noticeably swollen but thankfully well short of the levels that in recent years has plagued the city with floods. I walked past the castle and then out of the city through the old gate at Fishergate Bar. It could have just been my sombre mood, but the pavements seemed unusually quiet, with even the two primary schools I passed lacking the usual buzz of children shouting and laughing.

The small chapel sits in the very heart of the cemetery, and I walked up the winding path flanked by the rows of grave markers and marble headstones. There were already a good number of people there as I approached, huddled together in the entranceway for some shelter, as they awaited the arrival of the hearse. I managed to squeeze my way through and into the chapel, and took a seat near the back.

A few people had bagged their places early and were sitting in the small pews. I glanced around, struck by a sense of being watched. Across the aisle, in the very back pew, Michael Palmer was staring coolly at me, his face expressionless. Slightly unnerved, I broke eye contact, and looked at the candles and purple covered table at the front of the room.

Before long, there was the sound from outside of car doors being closed, and more people filed into the chapel. It was obviously going to be a tight squeeze to fit everybody in, and I moved further and further along the pew until finally I was pressed against the side wall, next to a rather large woman in a damp fur coat. Through the speakers attached to the back wall, a taped version of “The Lord’s my Shepherd” began to play, and everybody stood up.

Leading the procession was a small, fat man in clerical robes. He was bald, and well past retirement age. As he intoned the words to start the service, the light reflected off his bald head.

“Death, where is thy sting? Grave, where is thy glory?”

As summoned by his question, the rest of the procession came into view. First, Jennifer’s coffin, on the shoulders of four dark suited men, and then her family. Immediately behind the coffin was a distinguished looking grey haired man, being supported on either side by two women, both of whom bore a striking resemblance to Jennifer. Even if I hadn’t recognised them from the photograph in Jennifer’s consulting room, I couldn’t have had any doubt that these were her daughters and husband. The “sting of death” showed very plainly on their pale, drawn faces.

Behind them came two men escorting small children, and then the rest of the family and close friends. They all filtered into the pews at the front and the service began. The old priest said a few words about how we were there to celebrate Jennifer’s life and to see if any hope could be found in what was such a horrific and senseless end to her life.

I have no family left alive, so I’ve sat through quite a few funeral services in my time. When you’re a close relative, it really just washes over you while you’re lost in your own thoughts. All you get is a vague sense (hopefully) of a few comforting words and something nice being said about the person you are grieving for. Being slightly more detached in this case, I was able to pay more attention and take more in.

There were lots of prayers, all trying to speak of a hope that this sorry gathering did not really signify the end of the existence of Jennifer Carter, but a transition to eternal life. Some of the words were inspiring, others banal. We mumbled our way through a couple of hymns – inevitably “The Day Thou Gavest Lord has ended” and “Abide with me”. The only time I could ever remember the last being sung with gusto was at the start of a Cup Final; when I doubt many of those singing so vigorously had a clue what the song was about. And then we had the address.

The old priest started by saying that he had never met Jennifer, but was relying on the memories and reflections of those who were closest to her. It was hardly the most encouraging start, but he went on to speak of the legacy she left behind. He touched on the people she had helped through her work, on the love she had shown, and the great legacy of her daughters. Then he fell silent for a moment,

“So we have to face the question – why? Why is someone who gave so much to others, who had so much life ahead of her, killed in such an awful way? If there is a God why does He allow such things to happen?”

He fixed his attention on Jennifer’s family, and his voice softened.

“I can’t give you an answer to that question. Maybe when the person who committed this awful crime is brought to justice you will get some answers about what drove them to do it – but that still won’t be enough. There isn’t an answer to why things like this happen. The only thing I can say with certainty is that when people see tragedy as proof that there is no God, they’ve got it the wrong way round. It’s because there is a God that there is always hope – even on a dreadful day like today.”

The rest of the service seemed to pass fairly quickly, and a reprise of the taped version of the 23rd Psalm signalled that it was time to stand and head out to the graveside.

The vicar lead the coffin and Jennifer’s family out first, and all the rest of us joined on the back. As we began to pick our way between gravestones and down the hill, Michael Palmer fell into step beside me. He didn’t speak, but I felt as if I was being challenged to react to his presence.

“Do you always come to the funerals of murder victims?” I eventually asked, speaking in a low voice so that we wouldn’t be overheard by those in front of us.

“Not always,” he replied “just when I want to see who else is attending it. You’d be amazed how often the killer is compelled to turn up to revel in the misery they’ve caused. It’s very predictable and unimaginative really.”

He had a remarkable knack of getting under my skin with just a few words.

“So you’re seeing my presence here as an admission of my guilt are you?” I hissed incredulously.

“You’re the one who brought it up,” he murmured calmly. “I’m sure you’d tell me that as you were allegedly one of her clients, and are the one who discovered her body, it’s perfectly natural for you to have come here.”

The conversation was abruptly cut off as we arrived at the side of an open grave. We stood in silence as a few more prayers were said, still trying to speak of love and hope, in defiance of the forlorn scene that we presented at the graveside. At the words “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust” Jennifer’s coffin was lowered into the deep narrow hole, and the ceremony was over.