Black Dog. Stephen Booth
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that’s the best bit, eh, Harry?’
‘Oh aye,’ said Harry. ‘That’s the best bit. When they do all their enquiring, they’ll turn up all sorts. They’re bound to find out about those buggers at the Mount. The Vernons.’
‘Maybe when they do …’
‘… they won’t be so bothered about finding out who put the cat among their pigeons.’
‘Maybe,’ said Harry, ‘they’d even give him a medal.’
The youths at the other end of the pub turned in astonishment to stare at the three old men in the corner. For once, the laughter of the old men was even louder and more unnatural than their own.
Helen stood with her grandmother on the doorstep of the cottage, watching the lights of the Renault disappear past the bend by the church. The night was clear and still quite warm, and the stars glowed in a dark-blue blanket of sky. Only the streetlamps here and there and the security lights outside the Coach House and the Old Vicarage created areas that seemed truly dark.
‘It was nice to see Sergeant Cooper’s son, wasn’t it? He’s made a nice-looking young man.’
‘Yes, Grandma.’
‘Ben, is it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘He’s the one you used to bring round to the house after school sometimes, isn’t he, Helen?’
‘Only once or twice, Grandma. And that was years ago.’
‘I remember, though. I remember how you looked at him. And then you told me one day that you were going to marry him when you grew up. I remember that.’
‘All little girls get crushes like that. I don’t even know him now.’
‘I suppose so. But he has nice eyes. Dark brown.’
They turned back into the house. Helen noticed that Gwen was reluctant even to look into the kitchen, let alone go near the door, although the police had long since taken away the bloodstained trainer and the pages of the Buxton Advertiser with it.
‘They’ll be up at the Mount now,’ said Helen. ‘I don’t envy them the job. They have to tell Mr and Mrs Vernon what they’ve found.’
Her grandmother looked at the clock, fiddled with her cardigan, folded and unfolded a small piece of pink tissue from her sleeve.
‘One of them will have to go and identify the body, you know. I suppose he’ll be the one who does it. But it will hit her hard, Charlotte Vernon. Don’t you think so, Grandma?’
Gwen shook her head, and Helen saw a small tear gather at the corner of one eye, brightening for a moment the dry skin of her cheek.
‘I know I should do,’ said Gwen. ‘I know I should feel sorry for them, but I don’t. I can’t help it, Helen.’
Helen sat on the side of her grandmother’s chair and put her arm around her thin shoulders.
‘It’s all right, Grandma. It’s understandable. There’s no need to upset yourself. What if I make some hot chocolate, then there might be something you can watch on TV until Granddad comes back.’
Gwen nodded and sniffed, and found another piece of tissue that was still intact to wipe her nose. Helen patted her shoulder and began to move towards the kitchen until her grandmother’s voice stopped her. It sounded harsh and full of fear, and trembling on the edge of despair.
‘What’s going to happen to Harry?’ she said. ‘Oh dear God, what will they do to Harry?’
The mortuary assistant drew back the plastic sheet from the face with care. The relatives should never be allowed to see the injuries on the body, unless it was absolutely necessary. In this case, the face was bad enough, although it had been cleaned up as far as possible in the time they had been given. The maggots had been scooped away and bottled, the eyes cleaned and closed, the dried blood scraped off for testing. With the hair pushed back, the injuries to the side of the head were not readily visible.
‘Yes,’ said Graham Vernon, without hesitation.
‘You are identifying the remains as those of your daughter, Laura Vernon, sir?’ asked DCI Tailby.
‘Yes. That’s what I said, isn’t it?’
‘Thank you very much, sir.’
‘Is that it?’
‘It’s a necessary formality which allows the other procedures to get under way.’
The assistant was already drawing the sheet back over Laura’s face, returning her to the anonymity of the recently dead, until the postmortem examination could be completed.
‘Does one of your procedures involve catching my daughter’s murderer, by any chance, Chief Inspector?’ said Vernon, without taking his eyes from the body.
There was no need for Tailby to have been present in person when Graham Vernon identified his daughter’s body, but he saw it as a valuable chance to observe the reactions of relatives. He watched Vernon now as the man stepped away from the sheeted mound that had been his daughter. He saw his eyes linger with that familiar horrid fascination on the loose ridges and hollows of green plastic that concealed the dead girl’s face. Vernon’s hands moved constantly, touching his face and his mouth, smoothing his jacket, rubbing their soft fingers together in a series of involuntary gestures that could mean nervousness or barely concealed distress. His face told its own story.
Many parents and bereaved spouses had told Tailby that at this point their minds still refused to accept the reality of death. They would imagine their loved one sitting up suddenly and laughing at the joke, the sheet falling away from features restored to life and health. Was Graham Vernon thinking this now? Did he still see and hear a living Laura? And, if so, what was she telling him that made him look so afraid?
There was a fine line to tread in these cases. The family of a victim had to be treated with care and consideration. Yet ninety per cent of murders were ‘domestics’, in which a family member or close friend was responsible. Tailby was no longer moved by the various symptoms of distress displayed by relatives. It was a necessary ability in the job he did, this hardening of the emotions. Sometimes, though, he was forced to acknowledge that it had weakened him as a person; it was a long time since he had been able to form a close relationship.
‘You appreciate that we will need to talk to you and your wife again, sir,’ he said, when Vernon finally turned away.
‘There isn’t anything else I can tell you that I haven’t already.’
‘We need to know as much about Laura’s background as we can. We need to interview all her friends and associates again. We need to identify any links that we haven’t yet discovered. We need to trace her movements on the day she was killed. There’s a lot to be done.’
‘Just find Lee Sherratt!’ snapped Vernon. ‘That’s all you need to do, Chief Inspector.’
‘Enquiries are being made in that respect, sir.’
‘And what does that mean, for God’s sake?’
The two men walked out through the double doors into the corridor, attempting to leave behind the stink of antiseptic. Their footsteps echoed on a tiled floor as Tailby lengthened his stride to keep up with Vernon, who seemed to want to get away as quickly as possible.
‘We’ll find the boy, of course, sir. In time. I remain hopeful.’
Vernon stopped suddenly, so that Tailby couldn’t avoid bumping into him. They ended up almost eye to eye, though the detective was several inches taller. Vernon stared upwards with a ferocious