Heberden's Seat

by Douglas Clark

  “That’s what I wanted to know. Any more?”

  “I think the reporters dragged in accounts of previous accidents where the vet had been saved after the precautions had been taken.”

  “Fine.” Masters took from his inside pocket the list of drugs that had been lost when Marchant’s surgery had been blown up. “Cast your eyes down that lot. I want to know if any of the names ring a bell.”

  “As the drug that was being used in the case we’ve been talking about?”

  “Yes. I’m sure the drug in question was mentioned.”

  “It was,” admitted Green, “but I don’t remember its name.” He looked down the list very carefully, taking his time, seeing if any of the names caused any slight stirrings of memory. Masters sat quietly, watching his colleague’s face, hoping to see recognition dawn on his features. At length, Green looked up. “Nothing here,” he said. “Not a bloody sausage. All those chemical names are beyond me. I don’t even know how to pronounce most of them, let alone remember them after a year.”

  “Not to worry. It was just a chance.”

  “Of what?”

  “That one of those drugs was nicked and used on Belton and Heberden.”

  “Oh no you don’t! Watling and his pal both swear there was no injection sites on those bodies and no signs of drugs having been taken by mouth.”

  “Agreed. But listen for a few minutes will you?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Masters spoke for nearly twenty minutes. From time to time Green interposed a question or grunted his agreement. When Masters finished he said: “It’s so bloody far-fetched it could just be true.”

  “You admit it would link all the strange happenings round here recently.”

  “If you’re right, it will.”

  “So we’ve got to try.”

  Green nodded. “But you’ll still be short of proof.”

  “That’s where you and Berger come in.” Masters spoke for a few more minutes, outlining what he wanted Green to do, and ended with, “And use forensic if you need to.”

  Green nodded. “What time are you going?”

  “I want Berger to run us into Lincoln for the first train. Reed should have got the times. We’ll probably be away about six. No need for you to get up. Stay and have a decent breakfast.”

  “I intend to. Phone through to Webb’s office to tell us when you want picking up.”

  Masters stood up. “There’s still an hour of legitimate drinking time left.”

  “What are we waiting for?”

  *

  When he and Reed reached the Yard the next morning, Masters said to the sergeant: “Ask the librarian for the RSM tickets. I’ll be in my office.”

  “Sorry, Chief! RSM?”

  “Royal Society of Medicine library. You’ll have to sign for it.”

  “Sign for a library ticket?”

  “When I was a sergeant,” said Masters, “the Yard could just afford one of those tickets.”

  “Afford?”

  “They were a hundred quid a year then. Heaven knows what they cost now.”

  “Right, Chief. I’ll call for an armed squad to come with me.”

  Masters spent some time in his office with the list of drugs and his private copy of Martindale. When Reed joined him he asked the sergeant to order coffee and then returned to his work. It took a long time, but eventually, long after the coffee had arrived and been consumed, he gave a small cry of satisfaction.

  “Bingo, Chief?”

  “I think so.” He whistled through his teeth. “No wonder there were no hypodermic marks. They weren’t needed.”

  “You’ve lost me, Chief.”

  “Have I? Never fear, Reed, all will be revealed. Time to go.” He made a note in his pocket book and got to his feet. “Library ticket?”

  “Safe and sound, Chief,” said Reed, patting his jacket.

  “Good. We’ll take a cab.”

  Inside the RSM, Masters explained what he wanted and was willingly given the help necessary to find the references he mentioned, together with a number of others allied to the subject. He spent over an hour at one of the reading tables going through the journals carefully. Some he handed over to Reed who dutifully ploughed through the papers indicated, but not understanding them fully because much of the language used was jargon to him and he hadn’t the temerity to interrupt Masters to ask for explanations. Masters had no such qualms, and from time to time approached the librarian for the meanings of TLC, EMIT and various other combinations of letters unrecognisable to the layman.

  But by and large, Reed got the drift. He was amazed by what he read and by the fact that Masters had managed to hit on this at all. It made Reed imagine that he would never be able to emulate Masters. But the Superintendent, when Reed put this thought to him during one of the brief breaks in Masters’ reading, told him not to be a fool because it was totally on account of his, Reed’s, work at the vet’s that he, Masters, had got on to this particular line of enquiry. This made Reed feel better even though he privately reckoned that to make the mental jump from a list of missing products to a research session at a library like this was not likely to be achieved by most of the men he knew at the Yard.

  By one o’clock Masters had chosen three pieces of material and asked if he could have them photocopied. The librarian he approached was helpful and they were able to go off to lunch with the work satisfactorily completed. Throughout the meal and the train journey back to Lincoln in the afternoon, Masters was uncommunicative. Recognising the signs, Reed made no attempt to interrupt Masters’ thoughts until they were approaching their destination.

  “Nearly there, Chief.”

  Masters, a dead pipe in his mouth, nodded, and stood up to take his briefcase from the rack.

  “Is it all sewn up, Chief?”

  “I’m hoping so. Oh, yes, we know all about it now, but getting the proof is going to be the tricky bit, don’t you think?”

  “Proof of what, Chief?”

  Masters looked at him. “You haven’t fathomed it yet?”

  “How it was done? I think so. But not who did it.”

  *

  Green had not come in the car to meet them. He was sitting in the bar of The Chestnut Tree when they entered the hotel.

  “I saw you coming, so I lined them up.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Do we drink to victory or to drown our sorrow?”

  “My end came out all right. What about yours?”

  Green took a gulp of beer before replying.

  “Fine. But there’s no hard fact.”

  “The optician?”

  “Just as you thought.”

  “Cars?”

  “There’s the problem.”

  “Not found?”

  Green shook his head. “The area is being combed by the locals, but we haven’t discovered them.”

  “Where have they looked?”

  Green shrugged. “Everywhere they can think of. The favourite would be water, but look at the map and you’ll see there are no lakes or gravel pits of any size. Plenty of small water courses, but none of them big enough to take three cars.”

  “Garages and lock-ups?”

  “They’re making enquiries in all the villages and in Lincoln itself. But it’s a hell of a job. There are so many old yards and old sheds.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Can’t make bricks without straw,” said Green philosophically and finished his beer without waiting for comment on his remark.

  Masters looked across at him with an exclamation of annoyance.

  “Now what have I said wrong?” asked Green.

  “Not you. Me.”

  “What?”

  “There won’t be three cars to find. At least there will, but not altogether. Belton must have got rid of Melada’s.”

  Green knocked his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Of course. And I didn’t see that, either.” He turned to Berger. “Or you, laddo.”

  “Or any
of the locals, either,” retorted Berger.

  “They’re not in the know,” said Green. “You are.”

  Berger shrugged. “If you ask me, he must have used his missus to help. After Melada died, there would be two cars outside the church. He’d drive his own home and rope his wife in. . . .”

  “Go on,” urged Masters.

  “Well, Chief, he’d go back with her. He’d take over Melada’s bus while his missus followed to pick up after he’d disposed of it. We know she can drive. She went into Lincoln for those medicines.”

  “Right,” said Green. “Catch the barman’s eye, young Berger. I’ve just got time for one more while you get the car ready.”

  “Where for?”

  “You and me, laddie, we’re calling on Mrs Belton.”

  *

  Carol Belton let them into the house reluctantly. “I’ve told you all I know,” she said plaintively. “Why can’t you leave me alone? You promised. . . .”

  “Give over,” said Green, following her into the too-neat front room. “Sit down and tell us what your old man did with the car.”

  “What car?”

  “Melada’s old bus. After Melada died.”

  She looked at him obstinately.

  “Not talking, eh love? Right, we’ll go through it step by step. He came home here to get you. . . .”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “No?”

  Berger said: “What did he do? Ring up and tell you to catch a bus to somewhere, so’s he could pick you up?”

  She nodded. “I went to Basset’s corner. He was waiting for me.”

  “Go on.”

  “He drove back to the church. He picked up Mr Melada’s car and. . . .”

  “Where did he dump it?”

  “In the Walmby brick pit.”

  “And it hasn’t been found?”

  “There’s water in it.”

  Green got to his feet. “How much water?”

  “I don’t know. People round there say it’s bottomless.”

  *

  “It very likely is bottomless,” said Masters. “Or nearly so. They dug those pits as much as a hundred feet deep and then when they were played out, left them to fill with water. I remember one when I was a boy. The tall chimney and the ovens were still there. Then one day they blew up the chimney. I watched, from a distance. But I seem to remember that when I was very small, that pit was still in use. It had a hooter, you see, to call the men to work, and I can distinctly remember it sounding every day. But I also remember that I was still quite small when they blew the chimney up, and by that time the pit was full of water. So it must have filled up in about the space of two years.” He glanced across at Green. “You said no bricks without straw.”

  “Aye, I know. Sort of funny that.”

  “You don’t think. . . .?”

  “That the other two are down there? Who knows? We’d have to send divers down, and a hundred feet. . . .”

  Masters nodded. “Let’s have dinner.”

  “And wait for inspiration?”

  Reed said: “The Chief will think of something.”

  “Not this time,” said Masters. “It’s a case, I’m afraid for routine slog. It’s virtually impossible to think of something or somewhere in unfamiliar country such as this. As witness the DCI. He looked at the map for ponds and lakes and what did he discover? That a car has been dumped in a hundred feet of water which isn’t coloured blue on the map because it’s a brick pit.”

  “Quite right,” said Green. “It’s a case for those who know the area. The village bobbies who pound the beat. . . .”

  “Hold it!” said Masters.

  Green who was about to sit at the table turned to him. “Now what?”

  “It’s a case for who?”

  “The village bobbies.”

  “Who pound the beat?”

  “Yes. Except they use bicycles round here.”

  “Pound,” said Masters. “Sit down gentlemen and answer me this. If you want to hide something, where do you put it?”

  “That’s easy,” said Green. “I think I’ll have the lobster soup followed by the baked fish with leeks au gratin.”

  “Where?” demanded Masters.

  “In the most obvious place.”

  “Quite. And if you want to hide something from the police?”

  “Put it under their noses.”

  “Where’s that?” asked Berger.

  “Feel for the bedpost, lad,” said Green. “We’ve been talking about pounding beats, for heaven’s sake. Pounding . . . pound, pound, pound.”

  Berger’s mouth fell open as the penny dropped. “You mean. . . .?”

  “That’s right, lad. Park a car where you know it will be picked up by the police and towed into a pound where it can stay until it rots for all we care. We don’t send out notices: Dear Sir, We have your car, safe and sound, all neatly parked in our pound. There’s only fifteen pounds to pay, and you can have it back today.”

  Masters grinned. “You think there’s a possibility I’m right?”

  “You damn well know you are. I suppose you want me to ring Webb?”

  “No, I’ll do it. Go ahead and order. I’ll have the same as you. I want Webb to make sure he gets a Scene of Crime officer on to those cars before anybody else starts poking about in them.”

  “That’s if they’re there,” said Berger.

  “They’ll be there,” said Green, turning and signalling to the waiter. “Here, lad, let’s have a bit of service here.”

  *

  The Yard car pulled up at the Lincoln police station soon after nine o’clock that night. The four were escorted through the station and out to a small yard at the back where they found Webb with two cars and a civilian SCO.

  “Anything?” asked Masters.

  Webb grinned. “Over and above the red faces among the city mob, do you mean, Chief? You should have seen them. They’ve been given descriptions and numbers and they’ve been making enquiries all day. Then you suggest they should look in their pound! Lovely!”

  “Has our friend turned anything up?”

  Webb called the SCO over.

  “I’m taking samples, Superintendent. But what I can tell you straight away is that there’s been one of those small-wheeled bikes in both these cars. The marks are there. Heberden’s, of course, is a station wagon, so I suppose the cycle went in easier than it did into Belton’s Ford. But the wheel marks are there in both. Same pattern tyres as far as I can tell by using a magnifying glass.”

  “Thank you. When will the samples be tested?”

  “Against what?”

  “Each other to begin with and against some items of clothing we shall give you tomorrow and, finally, against a house.”

  “By late tomorrow or the next day if everything’s straightforward.”

  “Thank you. What you’ve told me so far has been a great help. We’ll probably meet again.”

  The SCO started to assemble his small vacuum cleaner to start taking dust samples from the cars. Webb asked: “How’s it going, Chief? Are we getting anywhere at all?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s all over.”

  Webb was astounded. “You mean you know who the murderer is?”

  “That’s right, laddo,” said Green. “All signed, sealed and delivered.”

  “You’ve made an arrest?”

  “We shall leave that for you to do tomorrow,” replied Masters. “As the DCI says, we now know how the men were killed and who killed them. But tomorrow morning I want a consultation with Dr Watling before we make a final move. I feel I must have a forensic blessing on this one, because we shall, to some degree, have to rely on circumstantial evidence unless the SCO pulls a lot out of the bag for us.”

  “You feel you can go ahead before the SCO reports?”

  “Yes. Perhaps you would arrange a time for us all to see Watling tomorrow morning. Yourself included. Then you will hear our case and know how to proceed.”

  Webb shook his head in
bewilderment. “I haven’t a clue. Not a clue. As to how it was done or who did it. I mean, you’ve not. . . .”

  “Not what, Chum?” asked Green.

  “I was going to say, done anything.”

  “Except talk?”

  Webb nodded.

  “We found you three bodies, remember.”

  “And besides,” said Masters, “there’s still a bit to do.”

  *

  They crowded into Watling’s office the next morning at eleven o’clock. Watling said: “I know you told me you would call on me today, but I didn’t expect a deputation as big as this.”

  “My fault, Doctor, but I felt as I would have to give you the full story, and it’s a fairly long one, it would save time if everybody came to hear what I have to say and your comments on it.”

  “The full story? We haven’t discovered anything.”

  “We think we have,” said Green. “Do you mind if we smoke?”

  “You mean,” said Watling, pushing over an ash tray, “that you have thought something up which you want to try out on me, or want me to try out for you.” He sat back. “It won’t work, you know. We’ve tried everything we can. No results.”

  “That fact in itself is encouraging,” said Masters. “It is a positive indication that the substance we are looking for, and which induced the fatal respiratory depression, is a drug which leaves no trace.”

  “There isn’t one,” said Watling emphatically.

  “I’ll put it another way,” said Masters. “One that is so powerful and quick acting that, though it would leave traces in anything like a normal dose, can be administered in such small amounts that it will kill before the live body has time to assimilate it or metabolise it, or the bodily organs receive it.”

  Watling stared hard.

  “No,” he said quietly. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Hear me out,” said Masters, “and then pronounce.”

  Watling nodded.

  “I’m not going to cut corners for you, doctor. I want the others present to hear the full story.”

  Watling spread his hands. “I’m all ears.”