A Reconstructed Corpse (18 page)

It doubled as bedroom and sitting room. A tangle of sheets and tartan blanket lay on the open sofabed. Clothes, newspapers, glasses and coffee cups littered most surfaces. An old record player perched on a brassbound pine chest. A battered kettle and stained pressure cooker sat on gas rings.

Charles had to admit, with some shame, that it did all look horribly like home.

But there was no sign of anyone in there. He tapped on the window.

Nothing stirred.

DS Greg Marchmont might be on sick leave, but he certainly wasn't at home in bed.

THAT THURSDAY's
Public Enemies
began differently from the previous ones. Bob Garston and Roger Parkes had taken to heart the public's message about predictability, and completely changed the format of the programme.

Throughout the day trailers had done their teasing work, suggesting the imminence of another sensational first for television. But the viewing audience is canny. In a world where every programme is hyped way beyond its possible value, they have learned to take the claims of trailers with a healthy pinch of scepticism.

When that week's
Public Enemies
started, though, they were left in no doubt they were in for something different. The continuity announcer gave the kind of lead-in that all such programmes covet. ‘And now it's time for this week's
Public Enemies
which, because of the nature of the subject matter, contains some sequences which certain viewers may find disturbing.'

Faint hearts immediately switched over to the BBC News and
Dad's Army
. The majority who remained tuned to ITV, pleasantly titillated by the introductory announcement, were then shocked by the absence of the familiar
Public Enemies
signature tune and credits. Instead, they saw a close-up of a knotted string against brown paper.

The image shifted slightly as if in motion and, as the camera drew back, the detail was revealed to be part of a paper-wrapped rectangular parcel about four foot high. It was being pushed on a trolley by a uniformed security guard into what Charles Paris – watching through the customary blizzard at Hereford Road – recognised as the
Public Enemies
office.

During the camera's pull-back, a sonorous voice-over from Bob Garston began. ‘On tonight's
Public Enemies
you can witness live a bizarre and horrible manifestation of the criminal mind in action. Yesterday afternoon,
this
package was delivered by a commercial courier company to W.E.T. House. Its label [THE CAMERA LINGERED ON THE LABEL.] was addressed to this programme, so it was brought up to our office.

[GARSTON CAME INTO SHOT, AS THE SECURITY MAN STOPPED HIS TROLLEY AND MOVED THE PACKAGE TO THE HORIZONTAL.]

‘I myself removed the outer packing from the parcel. [BOB GARSTON WAS SEEN TO CUT THE STRING AND REMOVE SOME OF THE BROWN PAPER]. And I immediately saw this notice stuck on the next layer of wrapping.

[THE CAMERA HOMED IN ON A PRINTED NOTICE ON RED PAPER, STUCK ON TO THE NEXT LAYER OF WHITE PAPER WRAPPING THE RECTANGLE. THE NOTICE READ:

WHY NOT HAVE THE CAMERA RUNNING WHEN YOU OPEN THIS

LITTLE BOX OF GOODIES? YOU MIGHT FIND IT INTERESTING
.

PUBLIC ENEMY NO. 1]

‘Because I thought it might serve the public interest by helping to solve a crime, I decided we would follow the suggestion of whoever it was who had dubbed himself “Public Enemy No. 1”, and we filmed the opening of the parcel – with sensational results which you will see throughout the rest of the programme. I should warn viewers of a nervous disposition that they may find some of what follows . . . upsetting.

‘This sequence you are now watching is a reconstruction. Until we saw the message we obviously had not thought of having our cameras ready. But everything else you will see throughout the programme was filmed live – exactly as it happened.'

The ponderous voice-over stopped, the camera homed in on the printed notice, and that image mixed to the usual
Public Enemies
opening credits. Throughout the country millions of viewers thought, if they didn't actually say out loud. ‘That package looks just about the right size to hold a human torso.'

After the credits, Bob Garston gave another little teaser about the opening of the package, before introducing an innocuous fill-in item on the methods used by counterfeiters and ways of spotting counterfeit banknotes. It was pretty dull, but at least it didn't mention the word ‘insurance'.

Then, momentously, the presenter announced that they would show the next stage in the opening of the mystery package.

It had been moved from the office and the trolley was no longer in evidence. The white-wrapped oblong stood like a gravestone in a studio set of white tiles and chromium tubes, which suggested the image of a forensic pathology lab. Uniformed police, including Sam Noakes, stood by, as well as medical-looking white-coated figures. Everyone had rubber gloves on.

Bob Garston, dressed in white coat and rubber gloves, stepped forward and talked himself through his actions in the way beloved of regional news reporters.

‘Well, I'll just tear off this sellotape here and pull off this corner of the paper. I'm afraid I'm going to have to tear it a bit. Ah, it looks like there's something wooden underneath. Yes, I'll just move a bit more of the paper and . . . ah, here we go. Strip the rest off and . . . There it is.'

With the remains of the paper jumbled on the floor like clothes someone had just stepped out of, what stood revealed was a wooden chest about four feet by two feet by two feet.

In silence the camera homed in on this. Then the filmed insert ended and they cut back to Bob Garston live on the regular
Public Enemies
set.

‘In a few minutes you'll see the next stage of our opening that package, but first an update on some of the art works that have been recovered following the raid on Birmingham's Merton Frinsley Gallery in July.'

The great British public sat through another more or less tedious item. Only a few hands strayed to remote controls, opting for the familiar warm bath of
Dad's Army
.

Then, after the agony had been extended by a further link from Bob Garston, the programme cut back to the wooden chest in the forensic pathology lab. Garston, in his white coat, watched silently as two uniformed police officers (wearing rubber gloves of course) ceremoniously moved the chest over to the horizontal. The camera moved in on the brass latch that held it closed.

Bob Garston's voice was heard again. ‘Don't know whether this is going to be locked or not. We do have a police expert with a picklock on hand if that should prove necessary, but let's see . . .'

His rubber-gloved hands came into shot. ‘It may just be on the latch, so I'll try that first.' The hands fumbled with the latch, pressing in a button and trying to raise the chest's lid. These actions took longer than was strictly necessary, as Bob Garston milked the drama of the situation.

‘No, I don't think it's . . . Oh, just a minute, maybe it's . . . No. One more try and . . . yes, I think it is going to open.'

Very slowly he lifted the lid. The camera veered away a little and moved round to peer over his shoulder, almost exactly reproducing the presenter's point of view as he looked downwards.

Inside the chest was revealed a bulky object, wrapped in a tartan rug.

The viewers only had a moment's sight of this, an almost subliminal flash, before they were whisked back to live action in the studio.

Bob Garston, promising ‘more of that footage later in the programme', then introduced an achingly boring feature about new anti-theft devices for cars. But
Dad's Army
didn't gain any more viewers. The audience for
Public Enemies
was far too caught up in the ghoulish scenario that was unfolding before them.

The next insert of film was very short. Bob Garston's rubber-gloved hands were seen beginning to unwrap the tartan blanket in the chest, then the camera cut sharply to his face. Sudden shock registered there, as he gasped, ‘Quick, police surgeon!'

The programme's final pre-recorded feature – about a group of pensioner vigilantes who had banded together to fight crime on a Newcastle housing estate – seemed to last for ever. But finally Bob Garston cued back to the set with the chest.

It was totally transformed now. Policemen bustled in every direction. There were photographers and men picking at things with tweezers. There was lots of plastic sheeting all over the place. It looked like a classic scene of the crime.

The edges of the tartan blanket spilled out of the chest, so that its contents must have been exposed.

But the camera did not show what was inside. Not quite. It showed everything else, darting around, catching odd angles of the chest, approaching as if to reveal more, then sliding off when it drew close. It was the camerawork of the strip-tease, the technique that was used in all those nude movies of the early sixties which kept avoiding the hairy bits.

And in the middle of all this chaos stood Bob Garston. He was very pale (whether naturally or through the ministrations of the make-up department was hard to know) and he had on the grittiest expression even he had ever attained.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,' he announced grimly, ‘I can now inform you that the contents of that chest are . . .' He held the pause with the skill of a professional torturer ‘. . . a human torso.' And the programme ended.

Half the country shuddered gleefully in communal shock. But no one was more shocked than Charles Paris. He recognised the tartan blanket and the brassbound chest. He had last seen them in Greg Marchmont's flat.

IT WAS ONLY a twenty-minute walk, but Charles picked up a cab in Westbourne Grove and gave the driver Greg Marchmont's address. He hadn't worked out what he was going to do when he arrived, just knew he had to get there as quickly as possible.

As he hurried down the stairs he could see a light on through the basement curtains. His excitement took him beyond fear. Some kind of confrontation was now inevitable. He raised his hand to bang on the door.

But then he noticed it was slightly ajar. Charles pushed and the door gave silently inwards.

He stepped into the tiny hall, off which two doors gave, one on to the bedsitting room, the other presumably to a bathroom. The sitting-room door was also ajar.

‘Hello?' said Charles softly. ‘Is there anyone there? Greg?'

No voice answered him; nor was there any sound of movement. He pushed the door open and sidled into the sitting room.

The first thing he noticed was that the brassbound pine chest was missing. Nor was there any sign of the tartan rug in the disarray of sheets on the sofabed.

Otherwise the room looked even more of a mess than it had the previous day. Drawers of a desk hung open and papers were scattered all over the floor.

Charles bent down to look at these and found all the symptoms of a life fallen apart. There were stern letters from bank managers, statements showing overdrafts galloping out of control, final demands for telephone and gas bills. On Metropolitan Police headed notepaper was a vigorous denunciation from a chief superintendent, assuring Detective Sergeant Marchmont that if there was any repetition of the incident when he was drunk on duty, his career in the force would be at an end.

There was a cold note about late maintenance payments, signed ‘Yours, Maureen.'

And a memento of the cause of the trouble. A faded card with a picture of a satisfied ginger cat on the front. Inside were the words: ‘Thanks for last night. It was wonderful. Love, Sam.'

Charles moved across to the desk and looked through its remaining contents. There were more, similar letters, more bank statements, a stiff communication from the building society about mortgage arrears.

And down at the bottom, as if they had been hidden away, two documents which brought a dry nausea to the back of Charles's throat.

On one were typed the following words:

‘IF YOU'RE LOOKING FOR MARTIN EARNSHAW, YOU COULD DO WORSE THAN OPEN A COUPLE OF COFFINS IN COLMER.'

On the other the message read:

‘IF YOU WANT A BIT MORE OF ME, YOU MIGHT FIND SOMETHING PARKED AT BRIGHTON STATION.'

Charles inspected the sheets closely. Plain white photocopying paper. And on the back of each a little circular red stamp, indicating that the sheets had been faxed.

It looked as if Charles Paris had found Martin Earnshaw's murderer.

He scanned the sad, anonymous room – its open wardrobe with jumbled clothes spilling out, its gas rings with kettle and pressure cooker, its silent telephone, its air of seedy despair. And once again he felt how close he himself had come to this.

He moved dejectedly back to the hall, uncertain what to do next. Obviously the police must be contacted. But Charles Paris was disinclined to involve himself in the inevitable fuss which would follow. He was suddenly terribly tired, unable to face a long night of explanations and statements. No, an anonymous 999 call was the answer. Put on a voice, mention the Martin Earnshaw case, give Greg Marchmont's address and let the police procedures take their course.

He decided he might as well take a look in the bathroom. Not that he expected to find out anything else. There wasn't really anything else
to
find out.

He turned the handle, opened the door, and looked inside. Greg Marchmont was slumped on the closed lavatory seat in a parody of drunken collapse. Charles couldn't see the wound, which must have been on the far side of the policeman's head, but blood was spattered over the tiles and cistern and had drenched the right shoulder of his grey pullover.

His right hand dangled, almost ape-like, a few inches above the cracked lino. On the floor beneath it lay a black automatic pistol.

Detective Sergeant Greg Marchmont was undoubtedly dead.