A Cure for Dying Read online

  This morning she could not see the animal.

  She held out a handful of oats for Traveller, the pockets of her jeans always had a deposit of oats in them, just as a fringe of horse hair decorated her sweater. Her mother usually started to sneeze as she served her breakfast. ‘Where’s Dobbin, boy?’

  Joanna gave Traveller an apple, took a dandy brush from her shoulder bag and began to groom him, looking around for Dobbin the while. She always carried equipment in her bag which was why it weighed so much. Her mother joked that she could kill someone with a blow from that bag. Inside, as well as the dandy brush and a curry comb, she always had a knife, and this one had a hoof pick attached as well. She liked to have a knife.

  Traveller chewed his apple. Good, it was a Cox’s Orange Pippin, his favourite sort. His taste buds were not subtle, but he had them. A memory for what he liked or disliked he certainly had.

  Joanna finished her grooming, a lick and spit today, but a thorough going over, hooves and all, at the weekend she promised. She considered giving him some exercise, she just about had time.

  She swung herself up onto him, bareback (which was strictly against the rules, but who was there to see?), and gripped his mane. At such times (and they happened more often than she would ever admit) it was her fantasy that she was riding in a circus. Sometimes she pretended he was a magic horse who could talk and fly, and sometimes that he was a polo pony she was training. Her father played polo and her mother watched it, suitably fortified with antihistamine against her allergy. Sometimes she dreamt about her pony, how they went riding, riding, riding. Exhausting dreams from which she did not wake refreshed. Now she turned Traveller’s head towards the river.

  Traveller made it quite clear he had no intention of going in that direction. He went the other way, he had no objection to doing a circle, but didn’t fancy the river.

  Joanna dropped from his back to find out why. She had a considerable respect for Traveller’s own brand of common sense and thought it worth checking.

  By the river, half in, half out, lay Dobbin. The water around the animal was red.

  The creature’s throat was cut and it had been partly disembowelled.

  Joanna stared, then stumbled away.

  At such a time, there was only one place, home. Her father, who

  was God, one had to admit it, would know what to do.

  She was unlocking her cycle, when she was stopped by the sight

  of her eight-year-old brother, red-faced with the exertion, riding

  up on his trike.

  ‘I’ve come to help with Traveller. You might have waited. He’s

  as much mine as yours.’

  ‘He’s not, he’s totally and absolutely mine, you don’t even like

  horses.’ Her response was automatic. Even in her present state it

  was necessary to defend her territory.

  ‘I’m going to see Traveller and say good morning. He’ll be glad

  to see me.’ Mark advanced towards the gate.

  Joanna got a firm grip on his collar. ‘ You’re not to go in the

  field. You mustn’t see.’

  As she moved, Mark caught sight of her blood-stained shirt.

  ‘Golly, you’ve done a murder.’

  It was at such moments that Joanna wished passionately she

  was an only child.

  Joanna’s father put the telephone down. ‘The police are going to send a car down there. Plus a vet in case the horse isn’t dead.’

  ‘It’s dead all right,’ said Joanna gloomily.

  ‘And they’ll want to talk to you.’

  ‘Me too?’ asked Mark eagerly. ‘I was there, you know.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so.’

  ‘I’d better not go to school, anyway. Just to be on the safe side.’

  ‘If they want you, they can talk to you at school,’ said his mother, giving a series of sneezes. ‘Joanna, remove those clothes and get washed.’

  Her husband turned to her. ‘I’ve got to get off. An important case today.’ He always had important cases, they paid for the charming house, the good schools, and the occasional game of polo. ‘I don’t think either of them should go to school today. It wasn’t nice what they saw.’ He had a more tender heart for his children than had his wife. It might be that he was too loving a father, especially to Joanna, but then he saw less of them. Except when he so desired, of course, and in his own way. ‘Honestly, Annabel, keep them home. I’ll ring at lunch time.’ He kissed her, catching her between sneezes. ‘That is, if the judge is reasonable.’ He usually entered this caveat.

  ‘Wasn’t the judge at Oxford with you?’

  ‘Yes. Mrs Justice Anstruther. Not exactly with me. She was my law tutor for a term.’ She had played a good game of polo for a woman, too. Got a blue. She was the reason he had taken up the game, although he had never told his wife this. She suspected already that they had occupied themselves with things other than law.

  ‘Well, tell her to be reasonable. We’ve got that parry at Ascot tonight.’

  He shrugged. One did not tell Mrs Justice Anstruther to be reasonable. Even as an undergraduate he had known that truth. She was reasonable, terrifyingly reasonable, but it was like a divine power one did not draw down on one’s head.

  He got into his small BMW car and headed for the motorway and the Law Courts. He would just have time to pop into chambers and see his clerk. He was always a little pressed for time.

  Joanna looked warily at her mother. A fiat delivered by her father did not necessarily hold the force of law once he had left the scene.

  But this morning her mother was tender. Anyone could see the child had had a shock. She gave her a hug, ignoring the fact that she would now probably have a patch of eczema on her arm.

  ‘Get washed and then you can choose your own breakfast.’

  ‘Me too?’ said Mark.

  The veterinary surgeon called in by the police delivered his verdict to Detective Sergeant Wimpey.

  ‘A sharp knife. Cut the throat. Not in one action but quickly enough so that the horse would collapse quickly. The other stuff,’ he paused delicately, ‘was done when the horse was down.’

  ‘Nasty.’

  ‘As you say. Not nice at all. Done by someone the horse knew I’d say. Or trusted.’ He shook his head. ‘Otherwise I doubt if the killer would have got up so close.’

  ‘And when? What’s the time factor?’

  ‘That’s always tricky to sum up quickly and, of course, you’ll get your own people on it, but offhand,’ he paused. ‘ Well, it’s hot weather, that makes a difference. Let’s say about thirty-six and more hours ago. Anyway, some time.’ You could smell it, too.

  ‘Any idea about who could have done it?’

  The vet shook his head. How could he have? His customers did not go in for that sort of exploit. This was police work.

  ‘You don’t think the kid did it?’

  The vet looked shocked.

  Sergeant Wimpey hunched his shoulders. Not a good day. One that started like this never ended well. He didn’t like horses, he was strictly a petrol and combustion engine man himself, but no one wanted to see an animal end like this one.

  And then there was the kid. She had a knife in her bag. And she had left bag and knife behind. He had them now, wrapped in plastic for forensic examination. Beneath the horse and on the river bank was a certain amount of debris, bits of paper, old tins, the odd bottle, all these would have to be collected and examined.

  Altogether he had a nasty bundle of problems on his plate. There was this little episode. There was a housewife from Datchet, just down the road, who had not come home all night and been reported missing that very morning, and in addition, there was this flasher, who might or might not be identical with the man who had attacked Miss Daniels. He had had a meeting with the Chief Superintendent the day before to get the details. She had a fine black eye. He doubted very much if he would get far on that one, it was too intangible, but he had to
try. He certainly had to try. Chief Superintendent Daniels was not one to play games with.

  As they parted, the vet said, ‘You don’t know much about horses, do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s a mare. I don’t know that it’s significant. But I thought I’d just mention it.’

  Joanna stood very straight and answered the Sergeant’s questions.

  They were all in the kitchen of the Gaynor house. Joanna, her mother and the boy. A policewoman sat in the corner of the room, a silent observer.

  It was a comfortable room, large and cheerful, with evidence of good food prepared and eaten. There was a roast chicken cooling under a wire mesh cover on a side table, with the makings of a salad. On another table stood a freshly baked cake awaiting its icing. Mrs Gaynor had been busy. She looked tense, though. Maybe she was one of those who worked out their anxieties with cooking.

  He looked at Joanna who answered him clearly.

  Yes, of course she knew Dobbin was a mare. She knew about horses. She called Dobbin that because it suited her.

  Her mother did not see the significance of this question. To be honest, neither did Sergeant Wimpey, but it had seemed necessary to ask it, somehow. Also, he was finding this questioning difficult. The thoughts he had of this child and the way she looked, fragile but battered, somehow, disturbed him. He could sense her extreme anxiety. He asked about the knife. He thought the mother looked startled. She did not like this line of questioning.

  Joanna made no bones about answering, but she did not look at her mother.

  Yes, she always had a knife in her bag.

  Sergeant Wimpey put his questions quietly, and methodically, observing her in as unobvious a fashion as possible. He did not want to worry her more than he had to.

  No, she had not taken it out to use that morning.

  No, she had no idea how blood could have got on to it.

  Whether it was horse blood or human, or from any other animal, was not at that moment established.

  Her answers were delivered in a monotone. It was like a kind of catalogue. He was puzzled and concerned about her without knowing why and he thought the woman detective, an experienced officer, felt the same.

  As they left, Mrs Gaynor said, ‘Somehow I get the impression she’s being accused of something. She only found the animal.’

  ‘I know that, Mrs Gaynor.’

  ‘As long as you do.’ She was alert, protective. Well, any mother would be.

  ‘I didn’t mean to imply anything else,’ he said mildly. ‘But she might know something.’

  ‘The knife means nothing. She always carries that knife.’

  ‘I’ll just need to get the blood tested.’

  ‘I don’t like there being blood on the knife any more than you do,’ said Mrs Gaynor irritably. ‘She may have dropped it without realising it.’

  ‘I should think that’s quite likely. Don’t worry, Mrs Gaynor and don’t let Joanna worry.’

  ‘It’s only an animal.’

  Whose death did not rate an inquiry? But she had not seen the horse and thus did not have the feeling he had of something badly wrong. It might have nothing to do with Joanna, yet he would like to be sure.

  ‘She’s had a bad shock.’ That much was certain. ‘Do her good to be with her friends. She has got some?’ Not quite the way to put it, but it popped out before he could stop it. The woman detective looked surprised.

  Mrs Gaynor, oddly enough, did not.

  ‘Of course, a lot at school.’ She added in a distracted way, ‘And then there are the pony girls.’

  ‘The pony girls?’

  ‘From the stable where Traveller goes in the bad weather. The girls work there. They give Joanna advice.’

  All comforts catered for, he thought, money no object. So what, if anything, was wrong?

  He remembered that Chief Superintendent Daniels had done special work on women and violence. He could ask her for advice. Unofficially, of course, but from all he had heard of her she would give it. Not a difficult woman to approach. He had a child himself, a boy. He would not like that boy to

  have the look he saw in Joanna’s eyes.

  Mark waved to him from the door. Nothing in that lad’s eyes

  except cheerful self-confidence. So what was different about Joanna?

  Charmian and Sergeant Wimpey had met on equal terms. He was a little nervous of her, but she liked him at once. He had promise. A good policeman and probably going to be a first-class detective. Only he wasn’t there yet. He had, she thought, a face like a wary Botticelli angel, one that had seen the world a bit, and worried over it.

  ‘We haven’t got very far on the man who attacked you. A man did go into Casualty in the Feltham Hospital complaining of a broken nose. He walked out, without treatment, before anyone could get a question in. He could be your man. And when we lay hands on him we might find out if he is, or is not, also the flasher.’ He added carefully, ‘And of course, he might be a completely innocent party.’

  ‘No one got his name or address?’

  ‘He did give a name, said he was called Roberts, but then when the receptionist tried to take a few more details, he made an excuse, went towards the toilets and never came back.’

  ‘Suggestive.’

  ‘Yes, suggests trouble,’ said Wimpey bluntly. ‘He’s got something to hide.’

  ‘You think he’s the man?’

  ‘Taking it all together,’ said Wimpey with slow deliberation, ‘ I do, and if we do manage to lay hands on him I think he will turn out to have a record.’

  Then he added, ‘But I think we are a long way from doing that.’

  ‘Meanwhile, he might attack some other woman.’

  ‘Almost certainly will do.’

  After a moment’s thought, Charmian gave him Mr Pilgrim’s name and address. It would be interesting to see how his nose was. He could have followed her. If that was his style.

  Sergeant Wimpey said he did not believe in coincidence, but he would check on Mr Pilgrim, and it was no trouble. He liked to know of any weirdos who might be in his area.

  ‘I’ve got a problem myself I would like to ask you about.’ Speedily and briefly he outlined the story of the slaughtered pony and his worry about Joanna.

  ‘You seriously think the child might have done it?’

  ‘She just might have done. And she’s not quite a child. She’s half on the verge of growing up.’ Which was always a dangerous time. ‘And she troubles me. I think there is something seriously wrong.’

  ‘Do you think she is being abused, ill-treated in any way?’

  He shrugged. ‘ Can’t say. Perhaps. It’s something I am bearing in mind. It could be what lies behind the slaughter of the horse. I’m not sure about anything. But I would be grateful for any help you could give.’

  Charmian considered. ‘I can’t do much unless you ask me in officially, and I don’t imagine you want to do that? No. But I’ll keep it in mind and see what I can come up with.’ She would go through her case histories and see what parallel, if any, she could find. Nothing more active. She had her own load of work in London.

  Next day Sergeant Wimpey was back. He had news.

  ‘Mr Pilgrim is known at the address he gave, but not often there. A rented room. Looks like an accommodation address.’

  ‘That’s interesting.’

  ‘I think so. Glad I could help.’

  Then he told her that he also had news about the slain horse.

  The blood on the knife was from the mare.

  ‘And the child insists she knows nothing.’

  Once again he was seeking her advice. She was a specialist on women and children in crime.

  ‘Could the child have done it?’

  ‘Perhaps. It’s not impossible. But we have to imagine she is in a very odd state of mind.’

  ‘I think she is.’

  ‘You haven’t told me her name.’

  ‘Gaynor. Joanna Gaynor. Aged thirteen, looks older. Father’s a
barrister. Nice house out Eton way.’

  ‘Are you asking for my help?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Suddenly he was very official.

  ‘It will have to go through channels.’

  He nodded. ‘I have already had a word with the guv’nor. We are taking this seriously.’ They had to. Last year they had had a bad case concerning two children abused and then killed by their own father, while that same year had seen another bloody murder case where a child had been involved too. Charmian Daniels had solved that one, as a kind of by-product of another case. Now no one was taking chances with cases about children.

  Charmian too remembered that case which she had not so much solved as extricated herself from. She still occasionally saw the little boy involved, out of a kind of loyalty to his father.

  ‘You’ll hear from me,’ Wimpey promised.

  Thus simply was Charmian Daniels brought into the case. But before she could take action, she had to prepare herself.

  Within an hour of this conversation she was on the telephone to the psychiatrist who had worked with her on her thesis, which had been on the subject of violent women, criminal women.

  ‘Ulrika?’

  ‘Speaking.’ The slow, deep voice was deceptively hesitant. Ulrika Seeley knew her own mind. Usually yours as well. Charmian had found this disconcerting at first – to be so easily seen through – then got used to it and now found it useful.

  She put her problem. The horse, the slaughter, the knife, the blood and the girl.

  ‘Could a child do this, Ulrika?’

  There was silence. Ulrika never hurried herself. ‘ This will take time,’ she said at last.

  ‘I thought we could do it on the telephone.’

  ‘Oh no. We must meet. Talk. We need a good hour.’

  ‘Right.’ Charmian was resigned.

  ‘You will come here.’ Ulrika, half German, half good Yorkshire stock, lived a solitary, but not, Charmian supposed, a completely celibate life, in a large, immaculate South Kensington flat, ornamented by black, firmly priapic African carvings, her household gods.

  ‘When?’