Chapter Two.
A broken sparrow. Mrs Mansfield – Anne – was somewhere in her forties, but she had the air of a flustered, spare old lady. She wore ill-fitting brown slacks and a blue floral blouse. Her hair was mousy and grey and tied up in a bun. “Yes,” she’d said on answering the door. “Can I help you?” She sniffed the air suspiciously, like a rabbit scenting danger.
“Mrs Mansfield?”
“Yes. Who are you?”
I proffered my warrant card. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector Black, and this is Detective Sergeant Brightly. Could we come in for a moment, please?”
“My husband,” she said, turning away. “I’ll get my husband. Alan,” she called – presumably her husband’s name; “Alan, there are police officers at the door. Police officers, Alan. They want to come in.” And she hurried away from us into the house.
“Police, Anne? Are you sure?” Alan – presumably – came out of a back room to meet her. “Calm down, Anne,” he said soothingly. “Are you sure... “ He stopped when he saw us, and said in a completely different tone: “Are you police?” Curt, as though we deserved rebuking for upsetting his wife.
“Yes, sir. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Black; and this is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Brightly. We’d like to have a word with you. I’m sorry we startled your wife.”
Mrs Mansfield put her hands to her ears, and said, “They’re bearers of bad news, Alan – bearers of bad news.”
Alan said something quietly to her, and she disappeared into the back of the house. “I’m sorry about that,” he said urbanely. “My wife’s not very well.” He had the air of a man taking – perforce – control of a difficult situation, though there was something lumpish and resigned about him. I could imagine him coming apart and laughing madly at the absurd part he’d been forced to play. He was wearing a dark blue shirt with white trousers. His hair was grey-black and worn brushed back despite a receding hairline. He said, “If you’d like to come in here,” and escorted us into a dining room dominated by a rectangular oak dining table, around of which stood six matching dining chairs. A matching sideboard was adorned with blue-on-white floral display plates – at least, I assumed no-one had eaten off them. “Please,” he said, “sit down. I’m assuming my wife is correct about the bad news.”
I pulled out a chair and sat down, as did Simon – or, more formally, DS Brightly. I was rather disconcerted by the man’s fatalistic readiness for bad news. He went to the sideboard and produced an unopened half-bottle of Scotch from one of the drawers and a tumbler from the cupboard underneath. He half-filled the tumbler, pulled a chair back from the table and sat down. He raised the glass and said, “I would offer, but no-one civilised drinks at this hour. It’s just that I get the distinct impression that very shortly I’m not going to care overly much about social niceties.” He took a sip of the Scotch. “Fire away,” he said. “You have the floor.”
I said, “Do you have a son called Adrian Mansfield, sir? Tall, long hair? About nineteen or twenty?”
Alan Mansfield chuckled dryly. “Is this the check-list you have to go through in case you accuse someone of rape who turns out to be backpacking in the Himalayas? Be terribly bad PR, that. All over the local press, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Simon said, “Is that a yes, sir?”
Mansfield took another sip of the Scotch. He turned to Simon and said, “What are you – the organ grinder’s monkey?”
“Sir,” I said. “Look at me, please, sir. Thank you.” I paused. “Sir, we believe your son is dead. An Adrian Mansfield was found dead this morning in Amberton Park.”
He stared at me over the tumbler, and then drank deeply from it. He got to his feet and returned to the sideboard, where he poured more Scotch. “You’ll want me to identify the body? Isn’t that the form? What a mess. How did he die?”
“We’re still investigating that, sir,” I said. “Would it be possible to look in his room?”
“Yes – whatever you want. Nothing matters now.” He sounded brisk, dismissive even. “Do what you like. Take what you like. I don’t mind. Seriously, I’m past caring. I need to make a phone call. Top of the stairs on the right. His name’s on the door.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, but he had already turned away.
*
Adrian’s Den, declared the plate on the door. Something of a misnomer that. Not so much a den as a well-appointed hotel room. Typical of a modern teenager’s bedroom, I supposed, in that there was little need to leave it, though this one was a little on the plush side. A double-bed, a flat screen television. No hi-fi, but a set of speakers attached to the laptop. Modern music collections tend to be computer-based, much to the chagrin of the phonographic industry. A pair of headphones adorned a Styrofoam model of the human head, which also sported a pair of mirror sunglasses. I lifted the lid on the laptop and pushed the on button. I wanted to check something of which I was already fairly certain: that is, that Adrian Mansfield had private access to the internet. When the Windows operating system had finished loading – and it lacked the situation’s sense of urgency – I opened the browser and accessed the BBC. The computer was, indeed, online.
We would want the computer, just as we would his mobile phone, which hadn’t been found on his body. There was, I supposed, always the possibility, surely a very remote one, that he didn’t have a mobile phone – one can text from a computer – but it would make him a very unusual young man; young people tend to be tediously interested in social networking, and its technological appurtenances.
Alan had made his phone-call; to someone called Martha. He wanted her to come round. “Something terrible’s happened.” Well, yes. I wondered how I might have put it in his place. What was it, though, about how he had put it that bothered me so much? The formality, I think. “Martha? Martha, something terrible’s happened. Can you you come round? My wife...” Martha probably said something like, “Of course, Alan. Don’t worry. I’m on my way.” Martha understood. Martha was something like a brick. Martha had always been there. History. Of course, there was always history, and yet... what? A whiff of misfortune revisited. Martha had always needed to be there – that was her principle role in the Mansfields’ drama. So – she was coming round. Of course she was. Straight away, no doubt.