“…they are called Traby’s, they have two-stroke engines and sound a lot like mopeds. And as these ungainly little cars cross the border, a handful of Hungarian border guards just stand by and look on with studied indifference, as if they’ve seen it all before. But in a not so distant past they would have been called upon to shoot on sight any citizen of an Eastern European country trying to cross the Iron Curtain without a valid exit visa…”
Daisy was ironing her handkerchiefs and her summer blouses while listening to the radio. Ironing had always been a chore she liked, because it was difficult and dangerous for a blind person to do, but she never burned her fingers. And: she had always prided herself on the impeccably starched and ironed overcoats she had worn on the job as a physiotherapist. Now that she was retired, she still liked a crisp style of clothing, smoothly ironed blouses and skirts, ditto summer dresses.
“…What fate awaits these very unconventional East German holidaymakers? Well, according to West German law, these people are entitled to benefit from a “return” ruling that will automatically grant them German citizenship in the West. And as the Federal Republic applies rather generous social security programs, the newcomers will be entitled to a roof over their head as well as to social benefits that will put food on the table. Some of these GDR-citizens even have family ties in the West that will help them get back on track. But having said that, the refugees will have a hard time finding their footing in their new environment. Nothing in the communist way of life of the GDR has prepared them for the hard-headed struggle for survival in the West. Their future lies wide open…”
Daisy no longer lived in the small flat in Tufnell Park. When her father had passed away, she had decided to invest her inheritance in a basement flat under a Georgian-style house in a more central part of London. She now lived just under street level on a lovely garden square not far from Earl’s Court Tube station. A light well in front, with its typical area railing and steep stairs, gave direct access from the street. It was a very posh street, too; therefore, apparently, a very good investment. Daddy would have approved. Daisy’s friends had second thoughts about how dark and gloomy her place really was, but she told them that there are no dark places for the blind. No, for her the biggest bonus was the earthy smell coming from the square, and of course the birdsong bursting forth from dawn to dusk. On top of that, her upstairs neighbours—a young couple with a baby—had offered straight away that she make use of their garden at the back of the house. So sometimes Daisy took up a canvas chair and spent a couple of hours sitting on their tiny lawn in the shade of their tree, reading her Braille copy of The Hunting of the Snark, or other short works she possessed, or larger books from the public library. The young daddy had said, “As you’re blind, dear Daisy, we’ll never have the feeling you could be spying on us.”
“Yes, well, don’t forget that there’s nothing wrong with my hearing!”
Suddenly the doorbell rang, or rather an unearthly electronic chime echoed through the house, a legacy from the previous owner. In some respects this place still didn’t feel like home. Daisy no longer left her front door unlocked when she was in, as anyone could enter directly from the street. She opened the front door, and a man’s voice asked politely, “Mrs Daisy Hayes?”
“Yes, and what on earth is the police doing at my door?”
“Gosh! How can you tell that I’m a police officer, if I may ask?”
“The smell of the uniform is very familiar to me, but as I no longer have any military acquaintances, it must be uniformed police…”
“I see… You’re right, of course. I am Constable Collins, from New Scotland Yard, and I’m here to hand you a summons and take you with me to the Yard. If you will reach out, I will hand it to you now.”
“You do realise that I can’t read your summons anyway? Am I being arrested?”
“No! No, please relax, Madam. Here, the summons is in Braille, by the way, so please read it. You’ll find that you are only being called upon to testify… say: as a witness.”
Daisy took the firm sheet of paper the man had pushed in her hand, and felt the familiar embossed pattern of the Braille script. “I’ll need to sit down to read this, so please come in. Can I offer you something to drink?”
The front door gave directly into the kitchen, a quirk of such basement flats that Daisy rather liked. She motioned the man to take a seat at the kitchen table.
“Just a tumbler of tap water would be fine, Madam. Take your time.”
And so they spent a few peaceful minutes at the table, the uniformed man sipping water, and the blind lady reading the document with a frown over her strange, hollowed-out eyes. The constable marvelled at how the woman’s slender fingers raced over the invisible print; it seemed frightfully difficult to him, reading Braille. At length she concluded, “All right, it is as you stated. I’m summoned to testify. But can you tell me what this is all about? I have no idea, and it doesn’t say here…”
“Well, I’m not supposed to disclose any details, but we’re investigating a murder.”
“A murder! All right. And I’m supposed to know something about it? Who’s the victim, anyway?”
“Well, again…”
“You’re not supposed to tell; I get it. Well, really, that’s wonderful!”
The blind lady was now frowning fiercely, which made the constable very uncomfortable. “Erm… does the name Martin McCullough ring a bell?”
“Oh! Sure does. Now I get it. So McCullough was murdered, huh? Doesn’t really surprise me.”
“Well, don’t tell anyone that I mentioned his name.”
A moment later they were driving through the London traffic on their way to the Metropolitan Police headquarters at 10 Broadway. Daisy was now wearing dark glasses, to the constable’s great relief, and she was holding her white cane between her legs. She hadn’t said a word for quite some time, and she was still frowning as her mind was racing. McCullough murdered! Even though she knew perfectly well that she had nothing to do with his death, the news was extremely unsettling. Especially the fact that the police wanted to talk to her in the first place. On the other hand, the link between her and Martin’s daughter Loretta had been public knowledge… twenty years ago. Then there was another problem. How on earth would she manage to prove her innocence without revealing the two murders she had committed… in a distant past? Both cases had involved McCullough, so this was not looking good… Not good at all.
After a long interval of tense silence, Constable Collins couldn’t help himself and said, “You know, Mrs Hayes, if you’re innocent, you have absolutely nothing to be afraid of.”
“Oh, but that’s the thing, don’t you see? In my experience nobody is ever entirely innocent.”
Daisy was introduced into an office, led to an armchair in front of a desk and asked to please sit down. Then a soft male voice said, “Thank you, Collins,” and the police officer left. When Daisy heard the unknown man’s voice, she pricked up her ears. Somehow he sounded familiar. Then the man spoke to her.
“Welcome, Mrs Hayes. Sorry for plucking you from your home like that, but it can’t be helped. My name is Bernard Thistlehurst, Detective Chief Superintendent at the Yard.”
“Bernard Thistlehurst? I know who you are! I spoke to you on the phone on V-E Day. You said ‘Please call me Bernard,’ but that was more than forty years ago.”
“So you remember? I wondered about that. I certainly remember you.”
“Don’t we all remember exactly what happened on V-E Day, Mr Thistlehurst?”
“Please, you may still call me Bernard, if I may call you Daisy…”
“All right. I also remember that you were called ‘one of the most brilliant criminal investigators of your generation’ by Coroner Jacobs of Saffron Walden.”
“Ah yes, Coroner Jacobs. He retired in the fifties and passed away in the sixties… I have no idea what he meant by saying that, as at the time I was the only investigator still operating as such.”
“Well anyway, I always referred to you in my mind as ‘the top notch investigator at Scotland Yard’. I also remember that you went to school with Cedric Clifton, who used to be a good friend of mine.”
“Yes, Cedric, of course, and you were part of ‘the gang’ at Bottomleigh House.”
“Only for a while… Now, dear Bernard, to what exactly do I owe the pleasure of meeting you today?”
“I hope you’re not feeling angry at me for handing you a summons in this official way.”
“Well, as you just said, it can’t be helped. I was very much impressed that the summons was written in Braille. Grade 2 Braille: very professional. You went to a lot of trouble.”
“Oh yes. Rest assured, my dear Daisy, that I fully intend to take into account your particular needs during these proceedings.”
“Very noble I’m sure. But my greatest concern right now is to know why I have been brought here in the first place. I gathered from the police officer who drove me over, that all this has got to do with the death of Martin McCullough?”
“Well, he was not supposed to tell.”
“I had no idea McCullough was murdered. It wasn’t in the news as far as I’m aware of.”
“No, it was kept from the press until now for reasons of state security. The man was an IRA operative. But you already know that.”
“Yes. That much I know. So what is this all about? Am I a suspect?”
“Hmm, not necessarily. A witness, definitely. I intend to get to the bottom of your relationship with McCullough. But first I want you to relax; I want to make our interaction as enjoyable as possible, for I believe that you are an interesting person, my dear Daisy.”
“Well, my dear Bernard, I’m sorry to say that this hardly seems the place nor the right moment for pleasantries. Am I not entitled to know as soon as possible what the police want from me?”
“Yes, of course, you’re right, but please indulge me. Before we get down to the details of the investigation, I want to take a few steps back, to take a look at the broader picture, and demonstrate something about my methods. Besides, there is absolutely no hurry; believe me, you’re going to be stuck with me for a while…”
“All right. So what do you want exactly?”
“First I want to ask you to tell me a story. Tell me some happy childhood memory, something that will show me how much you love the people closest to you, or better still, your love of humanity in general.”
There was a moment of silence, as Daisy had to make up her mind. Was she going to be difficult; stand up for her rights? Or should she go along with this strange man’s demands? Then she sighed, “All right… So, you mean something like a nice story from my school days? The girls’ school for the blind that I went to as a child, the ‘Anne Sullivan’, was something like paradise on earth for me…”
“Excellent! Tell me about that.”
“Well, you went to a boarding school yourself: some military school in Folkestone?”
“Yes. You remember that too! The Duke of Cumberland’s Royal Military School at Folkestone.”
“Well then, you know exactly how this goes. In the morning after breakfast, and then again at bedtime, we all had to brush our teeth at the same moment. So you went to this big room in the sanitary block, where you had a dozen washbasins fixed to the walls in two rows, left and right… Sound familiar?”
“Yes, excellent! We had exactly the same setup at my school.”
“Now, for blind girls the difficulty is that you can’t see if there is a free basin somewhere, and it’s no good asking the others because they can’t see it either! But we had a funny little ritual to deal with this. We had learned it from the older girls, and each year after the summer break we explained it to the new girls. The trick was probably as old as the school itself! So you entered the room and walked along the basins on the left, holding out your hand and brushing the backs of the other girls with your fingertips. You did the same coming back along the right-hand wall. If you felt that there was a gap somewhere, you knew that there was a free spot and you took it. Otherwise you just kept moving quietly, brushing the backs of the others. This way everyone knew exactly how many girls were waiting for their turn. When someone was ready to vacate her washbasin, she would say ‘I’m done!’ and leave; and the girl who took her place would say ‘I’ve got it!’ and start brushing her teeth…
“Now, this whole thing may sound a bit complicated, but believe me, it was very natural, very cosy, and it was typical of our life at school. We were always reaching out, brushing against one another, seeking physical contact. We groped, patted and hugged a lot, too. On your way to class, your best friend of the moment would think nothing of throwing her arm around your neck and leaning heavily into you. Sometimes it was all you could do not to start snogging with abandon, you know?”
Bernard Thistlehurst burst out laughing, and Daisy asked innocently, “Did I say something funny?”
“You are hilarious my dear! I love your sense of humour. And this is a very good story, precisely what I need to illustrate the point I want to make.”
“So let’s have it then. I’m curious.”
“Well, when witnesses testify, and that is what you will also be asked to do, they always do two things that are a little contradictory. Sometimes they simplify the story, they take short cuts, leave out the bits that seem irrelevant or simply less interesting. Sometimes they elaborate, fill in the gaps, invent details that they feel are missing in their narrative. They do this unconsciously, of course, but for the interrogator it is always worthwhile to identify these omissions and embellishments. You need to analyse and invalidate them in order to get to the truth.
“Now, you have just told me a very nice little story. You are very good at this: precise, concise and entertaining. As I asked you to convey some fond memories, I have no complaints, you did just that. But let us imagine for one moment that a murder has been committed on a poor blind girl in that big room in the sanitary block. And you are my star witness, or even a prime suspect. Suddenly, as an investigator, I have to get to the truth, weed out the inconsistencies, maybe even some lies, and I’ll do my best to mine your story for as much material information as I can get. I need the facts to solve the case…”
“All right,” Daisy said. “I understand. It is what you intend to do with me now.”
“Exactly. But I want to play the game honestly. That’s why I’m explaining my method to you beforehand.”
“Very noble I’m sure! And how exactly do you go about mining for the truth?”
“It’s quite simple, really. I always ask the witnesses to retell the story in a first person present tense narrative. ‘Go back to the moment as it is happening,’ I say to them. ‘You are there, it is happening right now, so tell me minute by minute what is going on, here and now.’ I have become an expert at the analysis of narrative, and that, you see, is the whole secret of my success.”
“Great,” Daisy said. “But before we go any further, I believe I’m entitled to a little story from you… Give me some fond recollections of your own from your boarding school.”
“Fair enough… But I’m afraid my recollections are not as happy and sunny as yours. You see, the Duke of Cumberland’s was not only a boys’ school, it was also a military school, with a long tradition of very strict discipline and appalling corporal punishments. An awful amount of sports, too, and I happened to be rubbish at sports… So you see, a rather grim atmosphere.
“When I arrived there as a young boy of eleven, I was terrified. I did all I could to keep my nose clean, of course. Perish the thought that they should find valid grounds to punish me! But that was not the attitude of the older boys. They were always trying to break the rules and get away with it. And when they couldn’t get away with it, that didn’t matter either, because being punished gave you tremendous prestige. It was seen as a badge of honour, the only one that really mattered. The badge of manly defiance and suffering hard. It was recognised—never derided—by all the boys of the school…”
“And how about Cedric?” Daisy asked. “Cedric Clifton was there with you. Did he also earn those badges of bad behaviour?”
“Oh yes. We were the same age. He arrived at the same time as me, but within a year he was among the worst offenders, and I admired him greatly for that.”
“Really? So you were no exception: the only boy who disapproved?”
“Oh no! That was going to be the pointe of my story… Even I admired those tough guys immensely. Especially I, who was meek and timid. You wanted a moving story from my school days, and I will give you a moving story. Bear with me.
“When the offenders were going to be punished, the Head would read out their names from a list, after breakfast, in the hall. This always caused a lot of excitement. With each name we turned our heads to the place where we knew the culprit would be sitting, and he pretended to be completely indifferent to his plight, of course. For the rest of the school day the boys on the list basked in the glow of our admiration, but at the end of the afternoon they had to gather in front of the Head’s office, and that is when the high drama came into play. One by one they disappeared inside, and we all started to speculate, watching from a distance. It must be awful in there! What does the Head do to them? You wouldn’t want to trade with them for all the money in the world!
“When the heroes emerged from the lair of the Minotaur, they’d lost their swagger, I can assure you. They were subdued all of a sudden, and that was precisely what impressed me most. Some of them where obviously biting back some tears, another couldn’t help himself and let out a few sobs, but his fellow convicts didn’t mock him. No, the heroes drew together and patted one another’s shoulders without a word. The tough guys showed a glimpse of their most caring side; they seemed almost tender-hearted for one moment. And I always found that deeply moving to witness. Oh, I wanted so much to be one of them!”
Bernard Thistlehurst was silent for a moment and Daisy sighed, then she said softly, “And in the end that shy young boy became a top notch police investigator, and he still feels sometimes that he would like to be one of the criminals…”
“Well… yes… you may be right, my dear. With you at least there’s no need to belabour the deeper meaning of a story.”
“Speaking of which: can we now move on to the reason why I’m here?
“Yes, yes. You’re right. The suspicious death of Martin McCullough.”
“Tell me more about it. I know nothing; I wasn’t there…”
“Hmm, we’ll see about that. The case is already more than a year old, but as I told you, it has been kept a secret. The man’s remains were found in his garage, and the local police concluded that he had died under suspicious circumstances. But as the case is very baffling, and as no one seems to be getting any nearer to the truth, it has recently been handed over to me… I was actually called back out of retirement to handle it.
“Now, when I read the victim’s name: Martin McCullough, I immediately thought of Loretta McCullough, and it was quite simple to verify that Martin was indeed Loretta’s father. And then I thought of you, Daisy, as you have been involved with both. You see, I have an encyclopedic knowledge of all the criminal records I have ever come across in my professional life. That is also one of the things that has made my reputation as an investigator. Nowadays of course, with the appearance of desktop computers in every office, everyone enjoys the benefits of such encyclopedic knowledge. But my recall predates the personal computer. The Loretta McCullough case crossed my path in 1967, long before the first IBM micro came on the market…”
“Well, Bernard, it’s great to have this kind of total recall, of course, but the fact that I was involved with the case in ’67 doesn’t mean I can give you information about a murder in 1988.”
“Be patient my dear. The link will become clear in a moment. The body was found crushed under a hydraulic vehicle lift, without any restraints on the limbs, perhaps in a crude attempt to make the death look like an accident. But the autopsy report is very clear. First the victim was chloroformed, then he was tied up and allowed to regain consciousness. Traces on his wrists and ankles show that he pulled hard at his restraints. Then, most significantly, the victim was bitten in the neck, his carotid artery was severed, and he was allowed to bleed to death, the blood flowing into a drain well under the lift. Subsequently the dead victim was untied, the lift was lowered, and the body was flattened. These are the facts of the case, as established on the crime scene and on the examination table by the forensic pathologist.”
“Good grief!”
“Yes. Indeed.”
The investigator and the blind lady both remained silent for a moment. Then, at length, Bernard said, “Have you nothing more to say, my dear?”
“Well, apart from: that it’s a great tragedy, no. If you think I’m a suspect, you’re going to have to tell me why. And if you want my testimony as a witness, I have none to give you, as I was not there.”
“Very well. We’ll get back to that. For the moment, what really puzzles me, is that McCullough was bitten, and that he bled to death. Now that is very significant because it is a highly unusual way to kill someone. The murderer could simply have crushed him while he was unconscious. Why tie him up, then bleed him, then untie him again? It’s the biting and bleeding that strikes me as an embellishment to the narrative. An elaboration. It seems to me that the murderer wanted to tell us a story. It is as if he or she is telling us, ‘I am killing this man as an act of revenge. I’m avenging someone who was bitten to death’. Of course this narrative doesn’t make sense to me right now, but I have no doubt that it is the key to the crime… You are still very quiet, my dear?”
“I still haven’t heard anything that justifies my presence here.”
“Maybe not. But here is the first thing that does require your presence. The forensic experts were able to make very good castings of the teeth marks on the victim’s neck. Right at this moment our people are comparing those marks with the dental records we have, but there’s no match so far. Now, what I want to ask you, Daisy, is to allow us to take an impression of your teeth. By comparing a casting of your teeth to the marks on the corpse, we will be able to exclude you as a sus