A Reconstructed Corpse (20 page)

Charles thought about what she'd said. It could just be that the protection of Chloe Earnshaw had moved down the priorities, but, so long as the threat to her safety remained, that was unlikely. She had become such a nationally known figure, that if she came to any harm the police'd never live it down.

A more attractive thesis was that Chloe Earnshaw's protection had been scaled down because the risk to her was perceived to have diminished. Which could possibly suggest that the police knew that it wasn't her husband who had been murdered.

Time for Charles to move on to the reason for his visit. ‘Chloe, do you ever consider the possibility that Martin might still be alive?'

It was a cue and Chloe Earnshaw took it like the professional she was. She went straight into television mode. The dark blue eyes misted over as the textbook answer came out. ‘Well, of course I sometimes wake up in the morning thinking for a split second that it's all been a ghastly dream, but then reality comes thundering in. I kept thinking Martin was still alive for as long as I possibly could – even when every kind of logic told me how futile such hopes were. But once his arms were found, well . . . I couldn't pretend any more.'

There were plenty of Equity actresses Charles knew who couldn't have managed that little half-sob in the last few words.

‘You identified the arms, didn't you?'

Chloe Earnshaw gave a brave little nod.

‘Must've been ghastly for you.'

‘Not the greatest moment of my life, no.'

‘And . . . I hope you don't mind my asking this, but what about the other body parts?'

‘What
about them?'

‘Did you have to go through the process of identifying them too?'

Chloe Earnshaw shook her head. ‘I offered to, but it wasn't thought necessary. Once they'd checked that the various bits matched, that they came from the same body . . .' Her speech trickled away into quite convincing sobs. ‘I think, if the head ever gets found, I'll have to.'

The picture she was building up seemed increasingly odd to Charles, though it did tie in with Sam Noakes's complaints about incomplete forensic examination. He wondered whether the scope of the police investigations into the case had been deliberately restricted.

‘Could you . . . I'm sorry, Chloe, I know it must be painful for you to go back over all this, but I do have a reason for asking . . . could you tell me a bit more about when you identified the arms . . .'

She gulped, but gave a resolute little toss of her head. Charles may not have been a television audience of millions, but at least he was an audience. ‘Yes, all right. What do you want to know?'

‘I want to know how you actually did identify the arms as belonging to your husband.'

‘Well, obviously they were his.'

‘But how did you know? Was there any distinguishing mark you recognised? A mole? A scar?'

‘No, nothing like that. I just
knew
.'

‘So there was nothing that made you absolutely certain beyond any possible doubt that they belonged to him?'

‘Well . . . There was his watch.'

‘Ah.'

‘It's a Rolex – well, it's not, it's a fake Rolex. One of Martin's clients brought it back from Hong Kong for him.'

‘And that was still on the arm?'

‘Yes.'

‘Did you actually spend long looking at the arms?'

‘No!' She grimaced. ‘It's not something you want to spend long doing.'

‘Of course not. So what exactly happened? Were the arms in a mortuary?'

‘No, it was kind of a – I don't know, a forensic laboratory sort of place . . .'

‘Here in Brighton?'

She nodded.

‘And what . . . You went into the room and they were lying there on a table?'

‘No, they were in a kind of drawer thing, and a woman police officer took me through to look at them.'

‘What did she say to you?'

‘She said, “There's something we'd like you to look at, Chloe, and I'm afraid it may be bad news.” And I said, “What, you mean Martin?” and she said, “Yes, and I think I'd better tell you now – what you're going to see is two severed arms.”'

‘What did you say to that?'

‘I said I felt sick. I
did
.'

‘I'm not surprised.'

‘And she said, “Don't worry, you won't have to look for long.” And then I said I was OK, and she took me through and opened the drawer . . . and I could see the Rolex through the polythene and –'

‘The arms were wrapped in polythene?'

‘Yes. And I said, “That's him” and then I rushed out. I thought I was going to be sick.'

‘Were you?'

‘No, not as it happened, but she took me to the ladies' and I was crying and she . . .'

Chloe rambled on, but Charles was too preoccupied with his thoughts to listen much. It certainly didn't sound as if the identification of Martin Earnshaw's arms had been the most scientifically elaborate since forensic pathology began. The policewoman had put the thought into Chloe Earnshaw's mind of what she was about to see, and the confirmation of identity had been based on a momentary glimpse through polythene. It was only the fake Rolex that connected the limbs to Martin Earnshaw. And you can buy fake Rolexes all over the world.

If the arms has actually belonged to Ted Faraday, then it was likely that the rest of the body, as well as the head in the pressure cooker, was also Ted Faraday's.

Charles once more became aware of what Chloe was saying. ‘. . . but I'm going to see that whoever's done this awful crime is brought to justice. I don't care about my own safety, Sam,” I said, “I just want –”'

‘Sam? Did you say “Sam”?'

She nodded.

‘You mean Sam Noakes? Sam Noakes was the woman police officer who accompanied you when you identified the arms?'

‘Yes,' replied Chloe, puzzled by the urgency of his enquiry.

‘But –'

He stopped. They looked at each other. Anxiety glinted in Chloe Earnshaw's eyes. They had both just heard the front door opened with a key.

Charles gave Chloe an interrogative look, and she nodded him permission – or something in fact more like an order – to go through into the hall.

Charles Paris pushed the kitchen door gently open.

A man with his anorak hood up stood in the hall. His back was to Charles as he closed the front door.

The man shook the hood off as he turned round.

It is hard to say which of them was the more surprised.

Charles Paris found himself looking at Martin Earnshaw.

CHARLES HAD been in this situation before, but only in Shakespeare plays.

He'd given his Sebastian in
Twelfth Night
at Norwich (‘Sebastian is admittedly a boring part, but he doesn't need to be quite as boring as Charles Paris made him.' –
Eastern Evening News),
and when confronted by his cross-dressing twin Viola (played by a right little raver, as his memory served) had heard the Duke say:

Then again, in
A Comedy of Errors
at Exeter, he'd given his Antipholus of Syracuse (‘Charles Paris twitched through the play, as if worried he might have left the gas on at home.' –
Western Morning News
) and, appearing on-stage for the first time with his unknown twin brother, Antipholus of Ephesus, had heard the duke (it's a rule in Shakespeare that only dukes get speeches like this) say:

Facing Martin Earnshaw was different. For a start, Charles Paris didn't reckon they looked anything like each other. Mind you, he hadn't thought he looked much like the little raver playing Viola or the old queen playing Antipholus of Ephesus. And in the Earnshaws' hall there was no handy duke ready with a little speech to convince everyone they looked alike – really.

Charles was aware of Chloe moving to his shoulder.

Martin Earnshaw caught sight of his wife and a spasm, almost like fear, ran through him. ‘Chloe,' he announced nervously, ‘I had to come back and talk to you face to face.'

There was a hissing sound from behind Charles, as Chloe Earnshaw, the nation's favourite tragic widow, spat out the words, ‘You bastard! I told you never to dare come back here!'

Suddenly she was past Charles and into the hall, hurling herself at her husband. Martin Earnshaw raised arms to shield his face as her nails ripped towards it. He backed away from her flying feet as they hacked into his shins.

Charles was so surprised that it took a moment before he moved in to get Chloe off her husband. By then she had pulled a horn-handled walking-stick out of the hall-stand and was about to bring it down on Martin Earnshaw's head.

She was amazingly strong and, as Charles pinioned her arms, turned all her aggression on him. He felt the nails gouge into the flesh beneath his eye and the teeth meet through his sports jacket and forearm. It took a full five minutes before he could subdue her.

‘It's not something any man's proud to admit,' said Martin Earnshaw, ‘that his wife beats up on him.'

‘No,' Charles Paris agreed, feeling the bruises on his face swelling.

‘A battered husband – I mean, it just sounds so pathetic.'

Each had a pint of beer. They were sitting in the pub in Trafalgar Lane into which Charles had followed Greg Marchmont only a few weeks before. They were there because it was near the station and Martin had arranged to meet someone who was arriving on a train from London.

‘Has she been like that ever since you've known her?'

‘No, obviously not right at the start. I'd never have married her if I'd seen her in one of those moods. But really, from the moment we were married – even on the honeymoon – she started hitting me.'

‘And you never hit her back?'

‘No, I'm . . . I've never really been that kind of person. I was a bit naive, I suppose. My first marriage worked fine, but unfortunately my wife died. I met Chloe and, well . . . I was very flattered that someone as young and dishy as her was interested in me. She was the one who suggested getting married, actually. I'd never have dared ask her, but . . . well, I couldn't believe my luck, and I just assumed that everything would be like it was with my first wife. I certainly wasn't left with that illusion for long.' He took a rueful sip of beer.

‘Didn't you think about just leaving her, walking out?'

‘Oh, of course I did, but it wasn't easy. It takes a long time to believe something like that's actually happening to you. You think things'll change, get better.'

‘But they didn't?'

A gloomy shake of the head. ‘No. I did make elaborate plans for escape when I first realised what the situation was. I thought of going abroad. I even took to carrying my passport around with me all the time. But somehow . . . being with Chloe sort of sapped my will. I couldn't . . . I don't know . . .'

He shuddered. ‘Then there were financial reasons why I had to stay. I'd got a lot of money tied up in the house. I worked from there, apart from anything else. If things'd been better, I could have afforded to get out, but . . . well, you probably know the property market hasn't been at its brilliant best the last few years.'

‘I did just hear about that, yes.'

‘And . . . well . . .' Martin Earnshaw looked embarrassed. ‘The fact is, I'm not the most dynamic person that was ever created. I admit that. With my first wife it didn't matter – she loved me, she gave me confidence, and we had lots of friends, we were fine. I just didn't know how to cope with someone like Chloe. She isolated us as a couple . . . one by one, stopped me seeing all my friends, everyone I'd known before I met her. It got horribly claustrophobic. Also I can't pretend – I was absolutely terrified of her. And even though she spent all her time criticising and getting at me, I don't think she wanted me to leave her. I think she wanted me to stay around . . .'

‘As a punch-bag, you mean?'

He grinned ruefully. Charles noticed a matching bruise to his own was swelling beneath Martin Earnshaw's eye. ‘Pretty much, yes. And of course working at home made it all worse. I was around all the time, and the work was going badly, and the money was running out.'

‘Did you borrow to cover your debts?'

‘As much as I could, yes. But that wasn't much. Not a bank's favourite kind of customer – an unsuccessful property developer paying out huge mortgages on properties nobody wants to buy.'

‘So did you try anywhere else?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Anywhere other than the bank?'

Martin Earnshaw looked genuinely puzzled. ‘Is there anywhere other than the bank?'

‘Have you heard of loan sharks?'

‘Well, I've heard of them, from the press, television documentaries and so on, but I've never met one.'

Charles began to realise the scale on which Chloe Earnshaw had built up her huge edifice of lies. And he also realised how almost every detail of the case had come from her testimony.

It was Chloe Earnshaw who had reported her husband missing. It was Chloe Earnshaw who had said he'd got involved with loan sharks. She had also provided background by telling how he'd arrived home beaten up a few weeks before his disappearance – though, given her propensity for violence, he might well have been seen around with a few bruises.

Charles had a sudden thought. ‘Did you have any life insurance?'

‘Yes, I did, actually, a couple of quite decent policies. When things got bad, I suggested we should cash them in, but Chloe said no. She said, as my wife, she ought to get some money if anything happened to me.'