Also by Andrew Taylor

The William Dougal Series

Caroline Minuscule

Waiting for the End of the World

Our Fathers’ Lies

An Old School Tie

Freelance Death

Blood Relation

Odd Man Out

The Lydmouth Series

An Air That Kills

The Mortal Sickness

The Lover of the Grave

The Suffocating Night

Where Roses Fade

Death’s Own Door

Call the Dying

Naked to the Hangman

The Roth Trilogy

The Four Last Things

The Judgement of Strangers

The Office of the Dead

The Blaines Novels

The Second Midnight

Blacklist

Toyshop

A Stain on the Silence

The Barred Window

The Raven on the Water

The American Boy

Bleeding Heart Square

The Anatomy of Ghosts

About the Author

A bestselling crime writer, Andrew Taylor has also worked as a boatbuilder, wages clerk, librarian, labourer and publisher’s reader. He has written many prize-winning crime novels and thrillers, including the William Dougal crime series, the Lydmouth crime series and the ground-breaking Roth Trilogy. Andrew Taylor lives with his wife in the Forest of Dean, on the borders of England and Wales.

To find out more, visit Andrew’s website, www.andrew-taylor.co.uk

THE SLEEPING POLICEMAN

Andrew Taylor

www.hodder.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 1992 by Victor Gollancz Ltd

First published by Hodder & Stoughton in 2012

An Hachette UK company

Copyright © Andrew Taylor 1992

The right of Andrew Taylor to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

Ebook ISBN 978 1 444 76571 7

Paperback ISBN 978 1 444 76570 0

Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

338 Euston Road

London NW1 3BH

www.hodder.co.uk

For Patricia

Chapter 1

Tragedy is a word that has come to have several meanings. By most definitions, the Hanslope case had elements of tragedy. Afterwards, Dougal remembered that tragedy derives from two Greek words which can be translated as goat song.

And that was appropriate too, because in one sense of the word Graham Hanslope was undoubtedly a goat. Hanslope’s goat song ended in discord on the southbound platform of the Bakerloo Line at Paddington Station. It ended with the arrival of a tube train at a few minutes after ten o’clock on the morning of Saturday 16 February. It ended, as tragedies so often end, with death and the destruction of hope.

It is always easy to say where tragedies end. It is much harder to say where they begin.

William Dougal met Graham Hanslope for the first time on Thursday 7 February. Hanslope had phoned the Private Investigations Division earlier in the week. The duty supervisor allocated him to Dougal and gave him an eleven o’clock appointment.

Hanslope was five minutes early. The guard at the desk phoned Dougal, who was sipping Kenya Peaberry and filling in his expenses sheet, an exercise in creative accounting. Eight minutes later Dougal strolled into reception. The foyer, a lofty place of imitation marble, wilting palms and smoked glass, was crowded with men in suits: the Company Security Division was in the throes of yet another sales conference. He went over to the desk to ask where Hanslope was.

The security guard was an elderly man with a red jolly face and fluffy white hair: like Father Christmas minus the beard.

‘Impatient sod,’ he murmured, nodding towards a compactly built man of about thirty who sat on a green imitation-leather sofa in the corner. ‘Thought he was going to walk out a moment ago.’

Hanslope was having trouble sitting still. His face was flushed and his hands and feet twitched. He had muddy-brown hair and his skull was roughly the size and shape of a football. As Dougal watched, Hanslope glanced first at his watch and then up at the black plaque on the wall. Here, emblazoned in golden letters, was the company’s watchword:

CUSTODEMUS

24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year.

Permanent peace of mind.

‘Go on,’ the guard said. ‘Put him out of his misery.’

Hanslope looked up as Dougal approached. He was scowling.

‘Mr Hanslope? I’m William Dougal. Sorry to keep you waiting.’

Hanslope stood up. They shook hands. Hanslope’s skin felt hot and dry. His grip was unnecessarily firm. Dougal winced, and wondered what he was trying to prove.

‘It’s Dr Hanslope actually.’ The voice was sharp, decisive and oddly aggrieved.

‘In that case I’m not sorry.’ Dougal massaged his right hand behind his back. ‘It’s usually the other way round.’

For the first time Hanslope looked properly at Dougal, who stared back. They were much the same height. Hanslope was a few years younger and a few stone heavier.

‘I mean, doctors tend to keep me waiting. I take it you are a doctor of medicine?’ Dougal smiled as he spoke, but it was no good: he realised that Hanslope thought he was being rude or at least making a rather tasteless joke. He added hastily, ‘Come along to my office.’

He led the way through the swing doors and down the corridor to a small room overcrowded with furniture. A bird-dropping made a long diagonal streak down the frosted glass of the window. The place smelled of stale cigarette smoke and fresh coffee. Hanslope wrinkled his nose. Dougal took his visitor’s coat, waved him to a chair and ambled behind his desk.

‘I gather you just want an initial consultation at present? With the possibility of a full investigation?’

‘Yes.’ Hanslope wriggled. For an instant he looked much younger. He reminded Dougal of a child in a dentist’s waiting room.

‘I have to start by giving you these.’

Dougal opened a drawer and took out two sheets of paper, which he passed across the desk. Hanslope skimmed through them. Careful by nature, Dougal thought: the sort of person who never signs anything without reading it from top to bottom at least twice. The first sheet contained the credo of Custodemus’s Private Investigations Division: what it considered lawful and ethical, and what it did not. The second was a schedule of charges. Hanslope raised his dark, strongly marked eyebrows at the fee for a consultation.

‘It seems a bit steep.’

‘Have you had a solicitor’s bill lately? Or a plumber’s? It’s not unreasonable.’

‘The woman I talked to on the phone should have warned me. Should have given me some indication.’

Dougal said nothing.

Hanslope shrugged. ‘All right. Now I’m here, I suppose I might as well stay.’

‘Cash, cheque or credit card will do nicely.’

‘You mean you want me to pay you now?’

‘It’s company policy, I’m afraid.’

For a moment Dougal thought that Hanslope would jump up and leave. Company policy, in fact, left it to Dougal’s discretion whether or not he insisted on payment before the initial consultation; it was a useful screening device for weeding out indigent or otherwise undesirable clients. Hanslope obviously had the money; but he was, equally obviously, the sort of customer who generally ends up awkward rather than satisfied.

‘All right,’ Hanslope said. ‘I shall want a receipt.’

Breathing heavily, he took out a cheque book. He wrote in a rapid and barely legible scrawl. When Dougal examined the cheque he noticed that it was drawn on the account of Dr Graham Hanslope at the Paulstock branch of Lloyds Bank. Paulstock was a substantial market town in the West Country. Dougal wondered why Hanslope had come all the way to London to find a private investigator. He could have found one closer to home – in Bristol, certainly, or even in Paulstock itself. Perhaps he had felt that a London firm with an impressively large boxed advertisement in the Yellow Pages would not only minimise the risk of gossip but also offer a more professional service.

‘It won’t bounce, I promise you,’ Hanslope said. His chin rose. The man was spoiling for a fight. Probably because he was scared.

‘Good.’ Dougal opened the top lefthand drawer. The rocker switch was mounted underneath the top of the desk. He flicked it on. That too was company policy. He picked up a shorthand pad and closed the drawer. ‘Now, Dr Hanslope. How can we help you?’

‘Can I be sure this will go no further?’

The usual question. Dougal said, ‘You wouldn’t last long in your job if you couldn’t keep a professional confidence. The same applies to us.’ He quoted from the Custodemus brochure. ‘Our reputation is your guarantee.’

Three seconds slipped by. The clean, blunt fingers of Hanslope’s right hand tapped the arm of his chair.

‘I’m being blackmailed.’

Dougal nodded and stared out of the window.

‘It’s serious enough for me, I can tell you that,’ Hanslope said with a spurt of anger. ‘A man in my position has to be very careful.’

‘I realise that. Doctors are vulnerable people. What’s it about?’

‘I – ah – rather rashly started an affair with a patient. Or rather the patient started it.’

It took two to tango. Dougal began to make notes on the shorthand pad. He disliked the gloating expression that had flitted across Hanslope’s face. It suggested that the man actually took a pride in his sordid little amours. Dougal said innocently, ‘Am I right in assuming your lover is a woman? And above the age of consent?’

‘Of course she bloody is. What do you think I am?’

It was not a question Dougal intended to answer. He smiled and said, ‘We have to be sure of our facts. When did the blackmail start?’

‘On Saturday. Someone phoned me and played back a tape.’

Hanslope paused. He had narrow eyes that were always on the move. The eyes were a strange, murky colour, difficult to identify. Dougal thought of a stagnant pond under a pale grey sky. Hanslope had not looked directly at him for more than a few seconds.

‘That’s last Saturday, I take it?’ Dougal prompted him. ‘The second of February?’

‘Yes. Look here – how much do you need to know?’

‘The more you tell me,’ Dougal said, ‘the more chance there is that I can help. So tell me everything. Just go back to the beginning.’

Going back to the beginning is always easier said than done. A tragedy which ends with a bang often begins with a series of whimpers. Hanslope, Dougal learned later, lied to him.

The tragedy ended on i6 February – at Paddington Station, on the southbound platform of the Bakerloo Line. It did not begin with Hanslope’s visit to Custodemus House on Thursday 7 February or even with the blackmailer’s phone call five days before. Afterwards, Dougal thought that, if one had to choose a beginning, he would have plumped for Sunday 27 January.

The incident with the sleeping policeman occurred on the evening of that day. Naturally Hanslope didn’t mention it to Dougal, then or later. It did not reflect well on him.

Chapter 2

On the evening of Sunday 27 January Graham Hanslope found himself a prisoner in his own house.

When he tried to leave, the back door wouldn’t open. Once again, he twisted the knob and pulled. Once again, the door resisted him. Nothing was going right. The damp weather must have swollen the wood. He swore, and the loudness of his voice shocked him. The sound bounced like a ball through the darkened rooms.

He put down the carrier bag. The gin bottle clanked against the tonic. He tugged again at the brushed aluminium knob. It was cold and smooth: his fingers found it hard to get much purchase. He knew he could easily walk across the kitchen, down the hall and through the front door. But he wasn’t going to give in. He was leaving by the back door and that was that.

The third time he tried, he wrapped both hands round the knob and jammed his right foot against the door frame. He grunted with strain. The door swung inwards. Graham staggered back, his arms flailing, and overbalanced.

The door slammed into the edge of the work surface on the right of the sink. The fall jarred his spine. Glass tinkled. One of the panes of glass in the upper half of the door had collided with the spout of the electric kettle. Damn it, damn her, damn everything. It was one of those evenings. Cold air, silvered with rain, surged into the house.

Graham fetched a dustpan and brush from the hall cupboard and a hammer, tacks and a rectangle of plywood from what would eventually be the sitting room. He swept up the glass on the floor and then picked out the jagged fragments that were still in the door. The cold and perhaps the gin made him clumsy. His fingers slipped on the wet glass and suddenly there was blood on the back of his hand and a stabbing pain that made him cry out loud.

Another delay. At least he wasn’t in a hurry: no one was expecting him. Somehow the thought made him more miserable than ever and therefore angrier. He had tried to phone Rachel, to tell her that he would be arriving this evening instead of at lunchtime tomorrow, but she hadn’t answered; she often visited her parents on Sunday evening. That was the trouble with women: they were never there when you wanted them.

He washed the cut under the tap, dabbed it with disinfectant and strapped a piece of Elastoplast over it. He decided to leave the rest of the glass in the door. He tacked the plywood hurriedly into place. The wind and the rain beat against his head, his neck and his hands. The plywood hung lopsidedly. A burglar would be able to lever it off with his little finger. Who cared? Graham had always believed in over-insuring his possessions.

He closed the door behind him and crunched across the gravelled yard to the VW Golf. The sky was black. He felt as though he were walking with his eyes shut. The silence, like the darkness, got on his nerves. Here at the back of the house Graham had nearly an acre of garden, and behind the garden were fields. It was very different at the front: from the upstairs windows you could see the yellow lights of the housing estates sweeping up the hill to the centre of Abbotsfield.

He found the car the hard way, by walking into it. The car keys were in a trouser pocket, which meant that he had to put down the carrier bag and unbutton his coat. It took him another long moment to find the right key and the keyhole. Too much gin, that was the trouble. He didn’t even like gin.

All the while his anger swelled. The bloody cow: it was all her fault: the wasted evening at the house, the wind, the rain, the broken glass, the bleeding wound on his hand and the gnawing of unsatisfied desire.

Graham slid behind the steering wheel and dumped the carrier bag beside the overnight bag on the back seat. The sooner he got going the better. He started the engine and let it run for a few seconds while he opened the glove compartment. Inside were two bars of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk Chocolate. He opened one of them, divided it up into squares and laid them on the passenger seat.

The visibility was so bad that he had difficulty backing out of the yard and up the drive. He scraped the wing along the overgrown hawthorn hedge on the near side. In a spurt of irritation he accelerated out into the lane without looking where he was going. Luckily there was no other traffic.

The quickest way to reach the main road was to cut through the newest of the housing estates and then into the lane by the church. Beastly houses for beastly people. If he took that route he would pass the Burwells’ seven-bedroomed monstrosity. It would be interesting to see if the lights were on. The bloody cow.

He braked too sharply for the turning into Meadow Way. The car skidded. Graham changed down into first and trod hard on the accelerator. The car leapt forward. He took one hand from the wheel. His fingers closed on a square of chocolate.

The car lurched. The bonnet lifted into the air. A dreamlike terror filled him: the car had transformed itself from a calm, subservient machine to a thing of power, uncontrollable and irresistible.

The front wheels of the Golf hit the ground. The impact triggered a memory that dispelled the dream: all entrances to the Meadow Way estate were barred by sleeping policemen.

The steering wheel spun out of his hand. The car slewed across the road. He glimpsed a dark shape through the windscreen, right in front of the bumpers. That was all it was in the rain and the darkness: a moving shadow with a white blur of a face.

Graham stamped at the brake. His foot caught the edge of the pedal and slipped on to the accelerator. The engine roared. There was a thud. He stamped again and this time his foot hit the brake. The tyres squealed on wet tarmac. The car bucked, swung inwards and hit the kerb. The engine stalled.

Graham sat in the car. He watched the rain slanting through the beam of the headlights. Red dots blinked on the dashboard’s display panel. Nothing else moved. On either side of him were wooden garden fences. There was a streetlamp, too, but it wasn’t working.

He scrambled out. The plaster on the back of his hand snagged on the door handle; he barely noticed the pain. He walked round the car. The headlights blinded him. Then he saw a foot, or rather a woman’s red-leather shoe – a lightweight affair that laced up to the ankle; a stupid thing to wear in weather like this.

‘What the hell were you doing?’ he said, his voice louder than usual and much higher in pitch.

He took a step forward. The girl was lying with her head and shoulders on the pavement and the rest of her on the road. He couldn’t see her well – just the outline of her body; he assumed she was a girl because of her size and the femininity of the shoe.

Automatically, he bent towards her, his hand outstretched. Two things happened simultaneously. He heard an engine revving as it changed gear in the lane. And he remembered the gin.

Christ, he thought: that’s all I need. He ran back to the car and flung himself into the driving seat. He groped for the keys. As the engine fired, the glare of headlights filled the rear mirror. The car in the lane was slowing. It was going to turn into the access road of the estate. Its driver was going to find him here with a dead girl in front of him.

The Golf was moving. The panic that possessed him left no room for conscious thought. A primitive guile remained, the residual cunning of the hunted. He turned right as soon as he could. He glanced in his rear mirror – no sign of the pursuing car; maybe the driver had stopped by the girl’s body. He took the next left and then turned right again at the T-junction. He glimpsed the Burwells’ house, well set back from the road. There were lights on both floors.

Graham drove at a sedate twenty-five mph between the rows of houses with double integral garages and curtained windows. He met no other cars and the pavements were empty. Thank Christ for this filthy January weather, thank Christ for the deadly dullness of a Sunday evening in Abbotsfield.

He rolled across the hump of another sleeping policeman. A moment later he reached the main road, which led through the centre of Abbotsfield; in ten miles he would reach Paulstock; and in two or three hours he would be in London.

It wasn’t my fault, he thought. He took a square of chocolate.

Rachel lived in Shepherd’s Bush, in a street of small, terraced-houses that ran parallel to and just north of the Green. She had the upper floor of the house at the eastern end of the terrace.

Graham had no trouble parking there on a Sunday evening. Rachel’s Fiat was missing from the Residents Only slot in front of her house. She was probably on her way home from her parents’.

It didn’t matter. He still had a set of keys for the flat. She had never asked for them back and he had never bothered to return them. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard; it was after eleven. It occurred to him that she might be with someone else. He pushed the thought away. Rachel didn’t want anyone but him.

Bag in hand, he ran across the glistening pavement and up the steps to the door. For an instant light gleamed in the bay window on the left. Rachel had told him on the phone that she had a new neighbour, a man. Graham unlocked the door and took the stairs two at a time.

He knew, because he was trained to know such things, that he was still in a state of shock. The nausea and the giddiness would pass. He followed the plan he had laid down for himself during the drive. It was important, perhaps vital, to be methodical. He went from room to room switching on lights. The place was a pigsty. Rachel lived permanently on the brink of domestic chaos.

He turned on the television and set the kettle to boil. In the kitchen he noticed that the cut on the back of his hand had reopened. The Elastoplast no longer covered the wound. A smear of dried blood ran down to his wrist.

He washed his hands carefully and found a fresh plaster in the bathroom cabinet. He poured himself a small whisky but did not drink it; he left the glass and the bottle on the floor beside the armchair nearest the television.

Before the kettle boiled he had unpacked his overnight bag and taken off his shoes. The Observer, neatly folded and obviously unread, was in the hall; he strewed the various sections on the sofa. He went into the kitchen, made himself a cup of decaffeinated coffee and emptied two-thirds of it down the sink. When he opened the refrigerator for the milk, he noticed that Rachel had bought smoked salmon. She knew he liked it. Dear Rachel. He returned to the living room and put the mug beside the whisky.

He looked around. He had done all he could. He was pleased with himself. He curled up in the armchair and used the remote control to change channels on the television. Pretty pictures of bright green hills beneath a blue sky with a lonely and invisible violin grating away like a chainsaw. Talking heads talking nonsense to each other. Top breeders recommend only . . . A rock band whose singer had protruding front teeth. The pictures flickered and nothing that was said or done made any sense. The noise made him wince. Besides, he wouldn’t be able to hear Rachel’s car arriving. Where was she? He was all ready for her. Why wouldn’t she come?

He muted the sound and picked up part of the paper. The business news. He stared at it and the lines of print became fluid: they writhed and buckled; they twisted themselves together.

‘No,’ he said aloud. ‘No. In any case, the girl may not be dead.’ And in his heart of hearts he knew she was.

Graham hugged himself. He thought about Michael in an effort to cheer himself up. Tomorrow was Monday. Michael would be at school all day. Perhaps Graham would be allowed to take him out in the evening.

A key scratched in the lock. He forced himself to relax. Rachel came into the room. Her eyes widened when she saw him in front of the television. He watched her face. He saw disbelief there, followed by joy; and he was reassured.

‘Graham –’

He forced himself out of the chair. His legs were shaky. Rachel plunged forward and swept him into her arms. It was like being embraced by a large, scented bear.

As she hugged him she emitted squeaks of pleasure. Graham buried his head in the angle between her neck and shoulder. He listened to the beating of his heart.

‘Darling, why didn’t you tell me you were coming tonight?’

‘I tried,’ he said. His voice came out as a whisper. He cleared his throat. ‘I was going to do a couple of hours’ work on the house. But I just couldn’t wait to see you. So I phoned – it must have been about half-five. I guessed you’d gone to your parents’.’

He allowed his voice to rise at the end of the last sentence. Rachel rushed to answer the question he had not wanted to ask directly.

‘You should have rung me there. I could have left earlier. My father wanted to show me the video he made at Christmas. It went on for hours.’

‘I didn’t want to mess up your evening. And I know how much they like seeing you. Besides . . .’

‘What, darling? What is it?’

‘Well, I thought my ringing might be a bit tactless. I don’t think your parents like me.’

‘That’s their problem.’ Rachel’s arms tightened their grip. Graham gasped. ‘You must have been here for ages.’

She raised her head and glanced round the room. He knew from past experience that love made her observant. It was a trait that had its inconvenient side.

‘Two hours,’ he said. ‘Maybe three. It doesn’t matter.’ He swallowed. ‘Not now you’re here. Let me get you a drink.’

She released him reluctantly. As he poured her a whisky and ginger, she stripped off her raincoat and tossed it over the back of a chair. She wore black slacks and a heavy jersey. She had tied back her coarse, red hair with a black bow. Several tendrils had escaped. They trailed down her neck. In the subdued light her hair was the colour of the dried blood he had washed from the back of his hand.

‘You’re so beautiful,’ he said quickly.

She looked at him, smiled and stretched her arms above her head, which had the effect of raising her breasts. Graham thought of her as pneumatically upholstered. You could reduce her body to a series of balloons of varying shapes and sizes. Usually he found her very sexy. Even her untidiness attracted him.

‘What’s wrong?’ she said.

He gave her the glass and sat down. ‘I’m just tired.’

‘You’re very pale. Are you eating properly?’

‘Of course I am.’

‘You need someone to look after you.’

‘I’m all right, I tell you. It was a long drive. I’ve been on nights.’

She pushed the newspaper off the sofa and sank down beside him. She was heavier than he, so her weight made him swing towards her. He rested his head on her breast.

‘I’ve got the next three days off work,’ Rachel said in a careful, soothing voice. She worked as a receptionist for a dentist in Chiswick. ‘We can spend the whole time in bed.’

‘That would be wonderful.’

‘You’ve cut yourself.’

‘Just a nick. I broke some glass.’

‘Would you like me to –’

‘Don’t fuss. Please. It’s perfectly all right.’

She sniffed, debarred from an opportunity to mother him. ‘Well, you should know, I suppose. Have you eaten?’

‘I had a sandwich before I left Paulstock.’

‘There’s smoked salmon. Would you like me to –’

‘No. I’m fine.’

‘You need to go to bed. Come on, dearest. Let me help you.’

Graham let her help him up and guide him to the bedroom. She sat him on the bed and stooped to unlace his shoes.

‘I’m sorry about this,’ he said. ‘I – I don’t think I’ll be much use for anything tonight.’

She looked at him. Her face blushed unbecomingly, right up to the roots of her hair.

‘As if it mattered,’ she said gruffly. ‘As if it mattered.’