Rreginald Hill: A Killing kindness

'Yes, I know,' said Pascoe impatiently.

'There she was,' said Greenall. 'It had to be planned. She was standing where the buses that come through the estate turn. There was no one else there. I said hello. She was annoyed, I could see. She told me she'd been having her hair done after work quite near the bank, had come out, just missed her bus, knew there wouldn't be another for twenty-five minutes, so thought that she'd be better off taking the ten-minute walk here and catching the estate bus. But it had just pulled off as she arrived. There wouldn't be another of those for at least half an hour. There was all kinds of shopping she had to do in the town centre. I gathered that on Thursdays a lot of the big shops stay open till eight o'clock, but it was now quarter to seven. So I offered her a lift. I explained it meant walking back to the Aero Club, but we could still get there and be in the town centre before the next bus arrived. She said OK and off we set.

'She chattered away. She was having a proper wedding, she said. That was one of the places she wanted to go this evening. She'd made up her mind about her wedding gown and she was going to put the money down. There were other things to get, too. She didn't want a long engagement, she said. There would be too much aggro at home from her father. He didn't understand.

'I understood,' said Greenall. 'Suddenly she stopped and looked up and said. "Are those your gliders? Aren't they beautiful? Like huge birds. It must be lovely to fly, but I don't think my Tommy would fancy it. It's all cars with him." That was when I took her throat. She fell backwards, hardly resisting, just staring at me in surprise. I thought she must have died very quickly, but when I let her go, suddenly she jerked and twisted, more a convulsion than anything. We were right at the edge of the river bank, and next thing she was over and in. At the very same moment I heard voices. Children. I knew we were close to the encampment and guessed it would be the gypsy kids. I hated to leave her, but there was nothing else to do. She was deep under the water. I turned and went on my way.'

'You must have expected an outcry immediately,' said Pascoe.

'I suppose so. I never really thought about it,' said Greenall. 'I just got back to the Club, went on as normal. And when I read in the Evening Post the next day about the girl being found in the canal, I was puzzled but somehow not surprised. And I was worried in case people wouldn't understand. So I phoned the paper again.'

'I meant to ask, why did you phone the first time?'

'Just to explain in a way,' said Greenall. 'Just so that it would be understood that these killings weren't meaningless. It seemed important.'

'And Hamlet?'

'It seemed apt. It just came to mind.'

'Why not just go to see the reporters, talk to them, tell your story?' wondered Pascoe ingenuously.

'But that would have meant giving myself up!' exclaimed Greenall. 'I wasn't ready for that.'

'No,' said Pascoe. 'You were quite determined not to be caught. As Pauline Stanhope could testify. If she were alive.'

'Yes,' said Greenall. 'Yes. Her. And the man, Wildgoose; it happened so quickly… both of them… a pilot's trained to make quick decisions you see… but afterwards time isn't so quick.. . not when you think…’

Now his narration once more lost its complacent, reasonable rhythm. Now once more the hesitation and uncertainties became apparent. Pottle had been right. It was here he felt the guilt, here where he had killed to protect himself rather than, as his delusion asserted, to protect the girls. His justification was the immediacy of the need. He had seen the transcript of the seance tape, read in the paper that the medium was Madame Rashid at the Charter Park Fair, driven there instantly with no plan, gone into the tent, asked Pauline if she were Madame Rashid, punched her in the belly and killed her. Now self-preservation had at last made him cunning. Seeing the B ACK S OON sign, he had put it on the chair and pushed it through the flap before removing and putting on the gypsy skirt, shawl and headscarf.

'You also laid the girl out like the others. And made a phone-call,' observed Pascoe.

'Yes, I thought it might confuse things… and I felt I should say something… I wasn't happy… and then it turned out she wasn't the woman at all… Christ. I felt ill.'

'But you didn't try to do anything about the real Madame Rashid after that, did you?' queried Pascoe.

Greenall shook his head almost indignantly.

'I couldn't… not plan it… not cold-bloodedly…'

Dalziel's going to love this, thought Pascoe.

Greenall recovered some of his composure to talk about Andrea Valentine whom he had overheard boasting to her friends at the disco that as soon as Wildgoose got rid of his wife, he was going to marry her.

'Did you follow them back to Danby Row?' asked Pascoe.

'No. I cleared up here and then went later. I had no plan, you understand. Just to look.'

'How did you know where to go?'

'I rang for their taxi,' said Greenall. 'Wildgoose gave me the address.'

That simple. No wonder he felt that he was merely an instrument of some benevolent and protective force. His path must have seemed to be smoothed out before him all the way.

He had driven by the house, round the block, spotted the back lane, found the rear entrance to number 73 and stepped inside just in time to meet Wildgoose coming out. The man had grabbed him. Brokenly, Greenall disclaimed any wish to hurt him.

'But he saw my face… it was dark but not that dark… I could see he recognized me… so I had to… again…'

Distressed though he was by this unlooked-for killing, it did not deter him from his main purpose. He went up to the house. There was still a light on in the kitchen. He tapped at the back door. 'Who's there?' asked the girl but was so sure that it must be Wildgoose returning for some reason that a muttered 'It's me,' had her turning the key.

'And then you killed her,' said Pascoe. 'But why? I mean she couldn't be going to get married, could she? Not when you'd just killed the man she was going to marry!'

Greenall hid his face in his hands.

'Don't you think I haven't thought of that?' he said. 'Even as she died, I thought of it. But I had to kill the man, you see. He knew me. I had to kill him.'

He spoke pleadingly as if seeking approval, or absolution. Pascoe was very willing to give him whatever he sought as long as he got his signature at the bottom of every page of the statement he was scribbling.

'Yes, I see that,' he said. 'I quite see that.'

'Do you? Do you really?' asked Greenall.

'I do,' assured Pascoe. 'I really do. Then you took the body to your car?'

The maniac's luck had held. No one had interrupted him. The idea of burying Wildgoose in the rose field of the Garden Centre had seemed like a triumph of logical thinking. He had driven past it from time to time since his wife's death and observed that it was no longer open. It was ideal.

'I didn't want him found. I thought he might get blamed, you see. It was going wrong. There was too much killing, too much unnecessary killing. I thought if you were looking for Wildgoose I might get a bit of peace and quiet to do some thinking in.'

Pascoe regarded the small, slight man who returned his gaze trustingly and hopefully.

'I think we might arrange that, sir,' he said gently. 'What I would like you to do now is…'

There was a perfunctory tap at the door and it burst open to reveal Sergeant Wield.

'Mr Pascoe,' he began.

'Later,' said Pascoe trying to combine the casual and the imperious in his tone.

'I'm sorry, sir, but…'

'I said later, Sergeant!' snapped Pascoe, abandoning his attempt at the casual.

But Wield stood his ground. 'We tried to ring, sir, but there was no answer,' he said. 'It's your wife.'