John Harvey - Off Minor

Thirty minutes later, neither of the Shepperds had moved, the paper rested, folded and unread, between them; Stephen’s eyes were either closed or focused on his hands, thick ridges of hard skin at the corners of the palms, the ends of the fingers. All that Joan did was stare at him.

Divine sighed from time to time; shifted his weight from one foot to another, amused himself with scenarios of what would happen to a man like Shepperd if he ended up in prison.

“The carpet in the front room,” Resnick said, “when was it laid?”

“Some time last summer,” Stephen said.

“September,” said his wife.

“And the old one?”

“What about it?”

“What happened to it?”

“Do you mean, to make us replace it?”

“If you like.”

Stephen coughed and fidgeted on his chair, three people watching him and he didn’t want to look any of them in the face.

“I was working on the brakes,” he said. “The Metro.”

“In the living room?”

“I didn’t want all the fuss of carrying things down stairs.”

“He didn’t want to get filthy oil over his precious tools,” said Joan. “He got it all over the carpet instead.”

“It was unfortunate,” Stephen said.

“It was a horrible mess. Ruined the carpet, the rug, everything.”

“We’d been talking about getting a new carpet for ages,” said Stephen.

“What was that about a rug?” Resnick asked. “There was a rug as well as a carpet?

Joan nodded. “Stephen’s right, the old carpet was worn and thin; we bought the rug a year or so ago to help cover it up, make it look more respectable.”

“What color was the carpet?” Resnick asked.

“Oh. blue. But it had faded, you know. A sort of grayish blue.”

“And the rug?”

“Tartan. I wouldn’t know which one, it may not have been a real tartan at all, of course, but that kind of a pattern.” Resnick was on the point of asking her which colors predominated, when she added: “Not dark at all, green and red.”

“What did you do with them?” Resnick asked. “The carpet and the rug?”

“Took them to the tip,” Stephen said.

“Which one?”

“The nearest, Dunkirk.”

“Not easy, moving a carpet for a room that size.”

“Tied on top of the car,” Stephen explained.

“After you’d refitted the brakes, I hope,” Resnick smiled, causing Divine to snigger into the back of his hand.

“And the rug?” Resnick asked. “Did you fasten that to the roof as well?”

Stephen shook his head. “I put that in the boot.”

The clothes that Stephen Shepperd wore for running were in the linen basket in the bathroom, waiting to be washed, a dark blue track suit with red and white piping round the collar, St. Michael label inside. A white singlet, white socks with reinforced soles. A pair of Reebok running shoes, earth and ash in the grooves, rested alongside his other shoes at the bottom of the wardrobe. All were bagged and labeled carefully.

Diptak found the camera at the front of Shepperd’s shirt drawer, a small single lens reflex, Olympus AF-10, the kind that can easily be carried in the pocket, held in the palm of a hand.

In the cupboard on Joan Shepperd’s side of the bed, Lynn found a bottle with printed label, a child-proof top, Diazepam, 10 mg. Inside, there seemed to be twenty or so remaining. On the opposite side, she found the photograph of Joan Shepperd’s class, the last afternoon of the summer term, thirty-plus children gathered around her in the playground, Joan looking round and maternal, smiling at the camera; sitting at the front, crosslegged and squinting a little into the sun, unmistakably, Gloria Summers.

DC Hansen’s white coveralls were smeared with black, he was already on his second pair of gloves. Pay special attention to the boot, the message had come out, and paying special attention to the boot was what he was doing.

For fuck’s sake, Divine was thinking, how long are they going to sit there like something out of the wax museum? Not as much as a pillocking piece of toast, a cup of tea!

Millington had left Naylor to mark out the boards near the fireplace where there was some slight discoloring, as if maybe, just maybe, something had seeped through the carpet and its underlay. How recent, it was impossible for the naked eye to tell. Forensic, when they arrived, would be able to form a better idea.

Now the sergeant had joined Resnick in the cellar, moving around the workbench, the shiny woodworking tools with care.

“Put this lot on show,” Millington marveled. “Bugger must spend more time cleaning them than he does putting them to use.”

Resnick recalled the fastidious manner in which the pathologist had set his spectacles back in place. A severe fracture at the rear of the skull, acute extradural and subdural hematoma. Almost certainly a blow. “Tag them,” Resnick said. “Every one.”

While the sergeant was doing that, Resnick began working through the bank of narrow drawers: brass-headed screws, six different sizes of nails, drill bits, squares of sandpaper from coarse to ultra-fine. It was between these that Resnick found the photographs. Squeezing back his breath he laid them out on the worktop, like a deck of cards.

“Bloody Christ!” Millington gasped.

Resnick said nothing.

There were twenty-seven pictures, postcard size. Many of them were slightly blurred, unfocused; either the subject had moved or they had been taken with a less than steady hand. Most, but not all, had been shot in open space, some kind of a park with swings. Young girls in jeans or swimming costumes, bare-chested, wearing only shorts; girls waving back at the camera, laughing, dancing, turning somersaults. There was one photograph, too dark to decipher clearly, which seemed to have been taken in a corridor, another, in which the flash had come into play, inside a school classroom. The last four that Resnick had set out were in a swimming pool and in the final one of these a skinny girl with visible ribs stood at the edge, fingers pressing her nose closed, the instant before jumping in.

At first sight, Gloria Summers was in none of these, but Emily, Emily Morrison, there she was at the center of a group here, towards the rear of another there; kicking her legs high on the swing with her mouth open wide in a shout of terror and delight; turning as if at the sound of a voice she recognized, pale movement of her face, dark widening eyes.

Resnick placed the photographs, one over another, into a careful pile and slid them into a plastic evidence bag, which he then put in the inside pocket of his jacket, together with his wallet.

“Finish up here,” he said to Millington, already heading for the stairs.

Lynn Kellogg met him in the hall, the class photograph in her hand. Resnick glanced at it and nodded. “Stay behind and question Mrs. Shepperd,” he said. “Keep Diptak with you.”

Divine moved aside in the kitchen doorway to let him through. Resnick stepped around Joan Shepperd and rested his hand, not lightly, on her husband’s shoulder.

“Stephen Shepperd, I am arresting you in connection with the murder of Gloria Summers and the suspected murder of Emily Morrison. You do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you do say may be given in evidence.”

Shepperd’s body, which had gone tense under Resnick’s grip, slowly relaxed as his breathing grew harsher and the tears began to slide down his face. Less than an arm’s length away from him, Joan Shepperd’s face curdled with contempt.

“I thought you might have lent a hand today, Jack,” Skelton’s wife said, “today of all days.”

Skelton nodded glumly. Tomorrow was actually the day of all days, his father-in-law’s birthday, his eighty-first; today was simply the day you chased round like blue-arsed flies getting things prepared. The old man was due to arrive that afternoon, the 5.27 from Coventry; the year before, his eightieth, Leeds had been Saturday afternoon visitors, and both Skelton’s wife and father-in-law had been forced to take refuge in the ladies’ toilet while soccer supporters waged a pitched battle up and down the platforms.