The Darkness Within, page 7
‘I’m very sorry about what happened,’ Denning offered. ‘We’re doing all we can to find Frank’s killer. However, at the moment, we don’t have a motive for his murder. Anything you can tell me about him would be helpful.’
She offered a thin smile. ‘Frank was a good policeman. A good husband too. But the work always came first with him.’ There was a faraway look in her eyes as she spoke. Gavin Buckfield remained impassive. ‘I suppose you’ll know all about that,’ she added, looking over at Denning, ‘being with the police yourself.’
He thought about how the job had got in the way of his first marriage. Claire had expected him home at a sensible time, and assumed he could turn the job on and off like a tap whenever it suited. Luckily it was less of an issue with Sarah, who seemed to accept that work took priority over home life if you were to get anywhere in this world. But there were times even she found his job overbearing, though she’d never admit it.
‘Being a detective isn’t like a normal nine-to-five job,’ he agreed. ‘And it’s often our partners who bear the brunt of that.’
‘Do you think my dad’s murder had something to do with his job?’ Gavin asked. Denning detected an edginess about Gavin Buckfield. Not exactly hostility, more a kind of resentment that he was having to go through this. ‘He hadn’t been in the police for over twenty years,’ he added. ‘Why would someone go after him now?’
That was a good question, and one to which they were still struggling to find an answer. ‘At this stage, we can’t confirm if that’s definitely the case, but neither can we discount it as a possibility.’ Denning turned his attention to Sally. ‘I’m guessing Frank didn’t remarry after you divorced?’
She shook her head. ‘No. He took the divorce quite badly, to be honest with you. But by then it was impossible for us to carry on. After he retired and the children had left home, we just spent the whole time arguing. About trivial things mostly, but it starts to grind you down when it’s happening all the time.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Denning said, ‘I understand.’ He directed his next question at Gavin. ‘When did you last see your father?’
Gavin puffed out his cheeks, then blew the air through his mouth. ‘Not for a few years. We kept in touch a bit after he and Mum split up, but I’d moved to Manchester by then, so I wasn’t around much. By the time I moved back to London, Mum had remarried and Dad was pretty much off the scene.’
‘What about your other children, Mrs Batcheller? Would they have been in touch with Frank?’
He addressed the question to Sally, but it was Gavin who answered. ‘There’s only my sister, and she lives in France. They exchanged the odd Christmas card, but that was it.’ He glanced over at his mother, but wouldn’t make eye contact. ‘We were never very close to our dad. Not even when we were kids.’
‘Frank was always hands-off with the children when they were growing up,’ Sally explained. ‘He left all that to me. But he was a good husband,’ she repeated, as though reciting a mantra she’d learned at an early age. ‘And he was a good provider.’ She looked over at her son. ‘Neither you nor your sister ever went without.’
An awkward silence fell over the room like a pall.
‘The last time we spoke was about four years ago,’ Gavin said, once the silence was in danger of taking root. ‘He asked if he could borrow some money. A hundred quid.’ He glanced again at his mum, but she was looking at the floor, refusing to return his gaze. ‘I told him to sod off, or words to that effect. Whatever money we have I need for my own kids. He didn’t speak to me after that. Told me I was a selfish little prick.’ He was still looking at his mother, possibly hoping for a response, but her focus remained fixed on the floor.
‘Did he tell you what he wanted the money for?’ Denning asked.
‘He said he was behind with his rent. I expect he really wanted to piss it up the wall.’
Sally finally looked up at her son. ‘You never said anything.’
He ignored her and continued talking to Denning. ‘My dad was a piss-head. That’s the main reason I didn’t want to have much to do with him.’
‘That’s not true,’ Sally argued, but Denning could tell from the look on her face that she knew her son wasn’t lying. ‘Maybe he did like a drink now and again,’ she said. ‘Who doesn’t? It was a way of switching off from the job. A way of coping.’ She searched Denning’s face for a reaction, possibly hoping he would offer a nod or a smile that would support her claim. Denning just looked back at her, refusing to confirm what she wanted to hear. Yes, the job was stressful, like so many others. But not all police officers coped with it by drowning themselves and their careers in drink, contrary to many a popular cultural misconception.
‘It was more than that, Mum,’ Gavin insisted. ‘Dad always had a problem with the booze. He was pissed more often than he was sober when we was kids.’
Sally made a shushing motion with her hands.
‘Mrs Batcheller,’ Denning said calmly, ‘it’s important I get a clear picture of Frank’s life. Especially recently. It’s entirely possible his murder could have something to do with his private life. Maybe someone he owed money to, or had fallen out with. The more facts we have about him, the easier it will be to look in the right places to find our answers.’
‘He was a bully,’ Gavin said suddenly. He looked over at his mum. Sally was shaking her head, visibly denying what her son was saying. ‘Oh, come on, Mum. Be honest. He’s been out of your life for the past twenty years. You don’t have to defend him anymore. Dad was a bully and a cheat. There’s no point pretending otherwise.’
‘Be quiet, Gavin. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You were too young to understand.’ She looked at Denning. ‘He sees everything in black and white. Things are never that simple. Yes, we had our problems, but doesn’t everyone? He was a good husband,’ she repeated, but with less conviction than before. ‘He always tried his best to be a good husband and a good father. But the job…’ She shook her head again. ‘There were things he wouldn’t talk about. Things he wanted to keep from his wife and kids, and what’s wrong with that?’
Denning was beginning to see a different picture emerging of Buckfield, one that contradicted their initial understanding of the man: the distinguished and respected police officer seemed to have another side to his character. Taking what his ex-wife and son were saying, along with the corruption allegations, Buckfield was clearly a man whose private face was at odds with his public one.
‘There were plenty of things he wanted to keep from us, and it wasn’t just the booze,’ Gavin said. He looked at his mum who returned his gaze and gave another shake of her head, only more slowly this time, as though she was trying to make a point.
‘In what way?’ Denning asked. He was addressing Sally Batcheller, but the question was aimed at her son.
‘Let’s just say, he was a difficult man to live with,’ Gavin added. ‘And if you want to know the truth, he’s been out of our lives for so long now, we’re neither of us sad he’s dead.’
The silence returned, filling the room with its awkward bulk. Somewhere in the street outside, Denning could hear a dog barking.
He wasn’t going to get anything else for now, at least not while Sally was present. There was clearly only so much dirty laundry she was willing to wash in public. Whatever had really gone on in her first marriage, she wasn’t prepared to share it with a stranger.
‘I really am very sorry to have brought all this up again,’ Denning said. ‘We only want to find the person who killed Frank. Thanks for agreeing to do the formal identification; I know these things are never pleasant. Please get in touch if there’s anything else you can think of.’ He handed Gavin his card. ‘I’ll let you know as soon as his body can be released for the funeral.’
Gavin saw him out. Once they were in the hallway, he closed the living room door. ‘I shouldn’t have said all that in there, not in front of Mum. It’s just…’ He shook his head. ‘I hope you find my dad’s killer, I really do, but don’t expect either me or my mum to be at his funeral.’
As Denning headed back to his car, he reflected on Gavin Buckfield’s comments about his father. He wondered what his own legacy would be. He thought about a grown-up Jake spilling his bile about him years from now: a good detective, he might say, but a useless husband and father too perhaps.
He opened the car door and shuddered. That certainly wouldn’t be a generous assessment of him, but would it be an accurate one?
Chapter Fourteen
Later that morning, Denning pushed open the heavy glass door that led to the mortuary suite. He’d already been buzzed into the main building after giving his name to the voice on the other end of the intercom at the staff entrance. He walked along a whitewashed corridor until he reached the room he wanted.
Dr Baker was just finishing off the post-mortem. One of the mortuary assistants was helping him out of his gown. Denning tapped on the glass wall of the examination room and raised his hand to let Baker know he was there. Baker acknowledged Denning with a brief tip of his chin.
He looked to see if Sheila Gorton was there. It was usual for a member of the SOCO team to attend the post-mortem, but these days Gorton seemed happier delegating that particular pleasure to a junior officer. There were a couple of men standing near the door to the examination room, neither of whom Denning recognised, so it could have been one of them. They would prepare their own report, which would be sent on to Denning later that day.
Denning waited for Baker in his office at the end of another whitewashed corridor. The building was in the basement of a teaching hospital in West London, and little in the way of natural light managed to filter its way to the lower levels. He always wondered how the staff were able to work in these conditions. There must be times when they felt totally cut off from the outside world.
Baker’s office was small and furnished with a desk, a couple of filing cabinets, a couple of chairs and a bookcase. There was a small fridge in one corner with an old battered kettle on top along with a couple of chipped mugs, which probably wasn’t very hygienic for such a sterile environment. On the wall above the desk there was a calendar featuring pictures of different lighthouses around the UK. Denning wondered if Baker had a thing for lighthouses, or if the calendar had simply been a random gift from someone he knew.
‘DI Denning,’ Baker said, pushing open the office door with his foot. ‘Apologies for keeping you waiting. There was something I had to double check.’ He headed over to the fridge and removed a bottle of sparkling mineral water, unscrewed the top and took a lengthy swig. When he finished, he offered the bottle to Denning.
Denning shook his head. ‘Many thanks again for doing this as a priority. We really do need to pull all the stops out on this one. I’m sure you can appreciate the pressure we’re under.’
Baker guffawed and sat down at his desk. He was a heavy-set man in his early sixties, with a neat grey beard and an unruly head of hair.
‘Obviously you’ll have everything in the report as soon as I’ve had a chance to type it up.’ He gestured at a small Dictaphone that he’d just placed on his desk. ‘I’ll aim to have it completed this afternoon, but that depends on whether or not I’m sent another body to cut open.’ He gave another guffaw, and gently stroked his beard.
‘In the meantime,’ Denning said, ‘I’d appreciate the basic gist of what you found, just so we have some idea of what we’re dealing with.’
Baker nodded and continued stroking his beard. ‘Death was caused by sustained blood loss resulting from the severing of the carotid arteries, as you already know. I would say it was very precise, almost neat. This would suggest someone who was calm and collected when they committed the murder, rather than someone who was panicking. Time of death is something I’m always unwilling to be drawn on – pinpointing it to an exact second as you lot always want is beyond the skills of a mere quack like myself – but judging by the state of decomposition and rigor, I’d say he’s been dead for ten days. I’m afraid I can’t be any more precise than that.’
‘OK, that’s a help. At least we have a date to work backwards from.’
‘I can also confirm that the weapon of choice was a knife: serrated, and very sharp. Unfortunately the only DNA on the body was the victim’s.’
‘What about the tape over his mouth?’
‘Standard packing tape available from any stationer’s shop or DIY store. Again, no DNA traces on it, except for the victim’s.’ Baker stopped stroking his beard and scratched his ear. ‘The other thing to note is the high level of alcohol in his bloodstream.’
‘We know Buckfield was an alcoholic,’ Denning said.
‘It’s worse than that. His liver was damaged beyond repair. He would have needed a transplant sooner or later, and my money’s on sooner.’
‘You’re saying Buckfield was seriously ill?’
‘No. I’m saying he was dying.’
‘Dying?’
Baker stroked his beard again. ‘He had advanced and chronic cirrhosis. I’ve never seen scarring like it on a liver, at least not for a long time. I’d say he had six months. Maybe a year if he was lucky.’
Denning considered this. ‘Do you think he knew?’
Another guffaw. ‘Inspector Denning, I’m a pathologist, not a psychic. You could speak to his GP, or ask to see his medical records. But if I were to hazard a professional guess, then I would say it was very likely he knew something wasn’t right. His stomach was swollen, he would have been vomiting blood. Then there are symptoms like fatigue, loss of appetite. He would have been seriously ill, and getting worse.’
‘So what you’re saying is, if Buckfield hadn’t received a liver transplant, he would have died, and probably fairly soon?’
Baker nodded. ‘His chances of qualifying for a liver transplant would have been pretty slim too. According to official guidelines, anyone should be eligible for a transplant. But in reality, the younger and healthier you are, the more likely you are to get on the waiting list. His age, taken together with his general poor health and alcohol dependency, would have put him at the bottom of a very long queue.’ He nodded again. ‘I know, it’s unfair, but you have to appreciate the shortage of available donors out there, and how surgeons are forced to prioritise and make difficult choices. To put it bluntly, Buckfield wouldn’t have had a hope in hell.’
Denning thought about the significance of what Baker had just told him. Why kill a man who was already dying? Obviously the killer didn’t know. But did Buckfield? And was it in some way relevant to their investigation?
He thanked Baker and headed for the exit. He was almost back at his car when his phone rang: it was the hospital – David Cairns had regained consciousness.
Chapter Fifteen
‘DS Fisher?’
‘Speaking.’
‘This is Marcia Wilson. You left a message to phone you about Colin Meek.’
The phone call had caught her slightly unawares. Molly had been completely absorbed in something Denning had asked her to do, and had almost forgotten about her phone call to Meek’s probation officer earlier that morning.
‘I’m not sure what this is in connection with,’ Marcia continued, ‘and I don’t want to get him into any trouble.’ She paused, waiting for Molly to fill the space.
‘It’s nothing serious, Ms Wilson. I just need to speak to him about a minor matter. He isn’t in any trouble.’
Marcia Wilson sounded harassed, like this was one of many phone calls she would be making that day. The probation service had recently undergone privatisation and had seen a lot of staff leave their jobs, never to be replaced. Like the Met, there were fewer people doing more work.
‘I haven’t seen Colin for over a week,’ Marcia said. ‘We were supposed to have had a supervision meeting yesterday, but he failed to turn up for it, and hasn’t been answering his phone. I have left several messages asking him to call me back, but he hasn’t so far.’
‘Could something have happened to him?’ Molly asked.
‘It’s possible he simply forgot about the meeting yesterday,’ Marcia reassured her. ‘It does happen, especially when someone has just been released from prison – all that freedom and lack of routine takes a bit of getting used to.’
‘Do you have an address for him?’
‘Yes, but I don’t want him to think that I’ve reported him for failing to attend yesterday’s meeting.’
Molly reiterated that he wasn’t in any trouble. After some more prevarication and a token acknowledgement of client confidentiality, she gave Molly his address. Molly made a note of it. She would call round this evening after work, speak to him, then tell Mags that everything was OK. Then she could get on with the job she was paid to do.
‘Fancy a natter?’
Molly looked up to see Trudi standing by her desk. She flicked a glance at her watch. A coffee break would go down a treat right now. ‘You’ve twisted my arm.’
Although Molly had given up smoking, Trudi still claimed it was one of the few pleasures she had left in life, and often reminded Molly that they all had to die of something. Molly joined Trudi in the car park at the rear of the building, having first purchased something coffee-like from the machine near the entrance. She sipped the acrid liquid while Trudi puffed on a B&H.
‘You still up for a bevvy one night?’
‘Definitely.’ She waited while Trudi took another puff. ‘Sorry about last night. I just couldn’t get out of it.’
She hated lying to Trudi, but she didn’t have the energy to go into the whole tortuous story of Mags and her wild claims right now.
