Читать книгу So He Takes the Dog - Jonathan Buckley - Страница 7

The post-mortem established that Henry was not as old as had been thought, probably nearer fifty than sixty, and that he’d been under the sand for a couple of weeks or thereabouts, before the sea scooped him out to lie in the open air, where he’d remained for a day or so before the arrival of Milo. It was also discovered that he had died because someone had inserted a knife into his chest cavity. Examination of his clothing revealed two small slits in the outer T-shirt; in the layer underneath there were two matching slits, and so on, all the way through to the flesh. Decomposition and wildlife activity had made a mess of the flesh itself, but not enough to eradicate wholly the two wounds, which had been inflicted by a thin-bladed weapon held in the attacker’s right hand. One blow had pierced the heart; the other struck a rib, chipping the bone. No signs of defence injuries were discovered on the remnants of his hands, so the attack seemed to have been sudden and brief.

Henry slept on the beach near Straight Point, or in the grass above the cliffs, but most often under the bushes of The Maer, so that’s where we searched for his belongings, though nobody could be sure what belongings there were to find, other than the sleeping bag: the superfluous swimming trunks might have been discarded long ago and it was possible that every item of Henry’s clothing was on his back when he was found. For a whole day a squad combed The Maer in the quest for Henry’s estate, while another squad worked out from the crime scene, looking for a weapon. The next day we began to trawl the whole beach. Come nightfall we’d gathered a few dozen bottles and cans, a couple of camping gas cylinders, three paperbacks, half a deckchair, a syringe, enough driftwood to build a replica of the Golden Hind, and a backpack containing one lady’s hairbrush, one condom (unused), twenty-four pence in loose change and a substantial quantity of sand. And no weapon.

At this stage of a homicide enquiry we should have been talking to the victim’s family, talking to his friends, establishing the patterns of his behaviour, his habits and routines and so on. In this case, however, we were a few hundred yards behind the starting line, because we didn’t yet know the man’s full name. No identification was found on the body, so we had no route to the next of kin, and there were no known friends to interview. We knew something of the pattern of his days – sleep, go for a walk, sleep – but that was the lot. So George Whittam decides to call in the press.

Within the hour Ronnie Houghton arrives at the incident room. For the past couple of years, after a decade in telesales and advertising freesheets, Ronnie has been reporting on the misdemeanours of our district’s druggies, shoplifters, joyriders and after-hours brawlers. He’s thirty or thereabouts but as eager as a twenty-year-old, and just as naïve. One day, he knows, he’s going to get the story that will bring him the big-money transfer to London and a national byline. Eyes twitching at the thought that this might be the big one, Ronnie absorbs the facts, or the selection of facts that George has judged it useful to broadcast at this point. When the battery of his tape recorder goes flat, one minute into the briefing, Ronnie switches to shorthand, scribbling as though he’s taking dictation from God Almighty. A minute later it’s over. Half a page of notes and that’s it. ‘OK. OK,’ says Ronnie, trying not to show his disappointment, perusing his scrawl. ‘OK. I’ve got all that. Got a picture?’ he asks, but of course we haven’t got a picture – that’s one reason he’s here. SHOCK DEATH OF LOCAL CHARACTER is Ronnie’s headline. ‘We’re appealing to the public for information. If anyone out there has a recent picture of Henry, we’d like them to pass it on to us,’ says Detective Chief Inspector Whittan (sic).

That’s on the Saturday, and the next day the Reverend Beal makes his contribution. Gas heaters beside the altar supply a dash of warm colour but no heat that’s perceptible to the congregation. The windows are trickling and the air has a taste like fog. Today, therefore, only the hardcore are in attendance, packed for warmth into the front four pews, except for young Michael Trethowen, also known as Mystic Mike, who’s occupying his traditional berth nearer the back, swaddled in the customary brown duffel coat. Beal moves things along as briskly as is decent, but he takes his time with the sermon. There must be a heater up in the pulpit. It’s a head-numbingly tedious recital on the theme of the new year, the hopes thereof, the challenges thereof, the responsibilities thereof, et cetera, et cetera. Towards the end of his oration he mentions the dreadful event. His voice drops to a hush of compassion, his face is the face of a man bruised by the sufferings of the world. He urges us to take to heart the lessons of Henry’s lonely life and lonely death, to think about what his death tells us about our society, to keep the poor man and his family (wherever they may be) in our thoughts, to pray that the killer be apprehended soon. All nod solemnly, thinking: ‘Amen to the last bit anyway.’ Alice, however, doesn’t nod when told to think of Henry, even though she’s had Henry in her thoughts for longer than any of them. She simply closes her eyes and meshes her fingers on her lap, and it’s as if she’s no longer listening to Beal but instead is in touch with the soul of Henry, or calling for him silently. Her face has no expression that you could describe. It’s perfectly still and beautiful, and distant, and almost frightening. It’s like looking at the face of a praying woman on a tomb from centuries ago.

Business concluded, the Reverend Beal takes up his station outside the door for the leave-taking. Shuffling his feet on the gravel, he shakes hands with them all, has a few words for everyone, and they in turn have a few words for him.

‘Lovely sermon.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And how is your daughter?’

‘Fine, thank you.’ A halo of breath hangs around his head. ‘Keep moving,’ he’s thinking. ‘Thank you and keep moving.’ It’s like prize-giving day without the prizes. But he singles out Alice for a lingering clasp and meaningful eyes, as if she has an understanding that the rest of them lack, or perhaps it’s just because she’s the wife of a man who, he suspects, hasn’t yet found a lodging for Christ in his heart. ‘A ghastly business. Ghastly,’ he says, with a three-second look of pity. Alice bows her head and says nothing.