The Worried Widow

by Gerald Hammond

  ‘We now have a new problem,’ Munro said. ‘Was this written by Hendrickson himself or by somebody else?’

  ‘And when?’ Keith said. ‘It could have been put into the computer at any time since the death.’

  ‘It doesn’t look right to me.’ Gowrie said. ‘These machines make it so easy to edit out your mistakes, even with one hand. A man who was just about to kill himself would surely take the trouble to correct the very last message which he would leave on this earth. On the other hand, some other man – or woman – who was putting a false message into the machine might well try to copy Hendrickson’s usual style.’

  ‘I think,’ Munro said, ‘that you are making one or two rash assumptions. People under stress do not follow guidelines. Mr Hendrickson, in a desperate mood, might not have felt like lingering over his final message. He might have been in a hurry to do the deed before his courage failed or his wife arrived.’

  ‘Irrespective of who wrote it,’ Keith said, ‘I’m going to print it out and also copy it on to his disc. It’s been in the computer for a fortnight, but it would only take a two-second power-cut to wipe it off for ever.’

  Mrs Hendrickson arrived, puffing slightly, a few seconds later. Keith had returned the computer to its list of functions. He got up and stood aside.

  ‘Is this what the screen was showing when you found your husband?’ Gowrie asked her.

  Mrs Hendrickson hesitated and then nodded.

  ‘How did you switch it off?’

  ‘That switch there.’ Mrs Hendrickson indicated the switch on the television set.

  Gowrie looked at Munro.

  ‘We have found an electronic message,’ Munro said gently. ‘It purports to be a suicide note from your husband. It may or may not be genuine. We want your advice. Are you ready?’

  ‘Deborah told me.’ Mrs Hendrickson braced herself and then nodded. Keith reached past her and touched the ESCAPE key. The colour drained from her face and she swayed. Keith brought the wheelchair forward and steadied her as she sank into it.

  ‘Take your time,’ said the superintendent.

  ‘I don’t think —’ She broke off, swallowed and began again. ‘I don’t think Sam wrote that,’ she said. ‘He hardly ever called me “Darling”, and he usually referred to Mike as “Spike”.’

  Mrs Hendrickson read the message through again. ‘What makes me more certain is that he always detested the word “cripple” even before he had his stroke. There used to be a sign near our house in Edinburgh which said “Cripples Crossing”. Sam complained to the Council until they changed it to “Disabled Persons Crossing”, although I said at the time that the new wording was an awful mouthful and I couldn’t see that it mattered what they were called, and I don’t suppose that they minded very much either, it was the fact of being crippled that mattered. But he said that the word itself was degrading.’ She shrugged and looked away out of the window, blinking. ‘Why two words should be less degrading than one is among the many things I’ll never understand.’

  ‘The message is a fake?’ Munro persisted.

  ‘I’m sure of it.’

  ‘What nonsense, Mum!’ A girl of about Deborah’s age was standing in the doorway. She had features resembling her mother’s and yet her expression was in complete contrast, both forceful and contemptuous. ‘I’ve heard Dad use all those expressions, often. He wrote that message.’ She wheeled about and was gone.

  ‘Don’t heed my daughter,’ Mrs Hendrickson said. Tears had spilled on to her cheeks but she was past caring about them. ‘Beth was devoted to her father. She can’t believe that anyone would hurt him. She would prefer that he had killed himself out of nobility, to spare us.’

  ‘You, on the other hand, prefer not to believe that he killed himself,’ Gowrie said. ‘Should we heed you?’

  Keith broke in quickly. ‘If you weigh up the other evidence,’ he said, ‘you’ll see that it supports Mrs Hendrickson rather than her daughter.’

  Gowrie nodded and looked at his superior.

  Superintendent Munro sighed deeply. ‘We will be sealing the room,’ he said, ‘pending further investigations.’

  *

  Superintendent Munro and his detective inspector remained in the summerhouse, considering the scene and bickering in muted voices. Keith and Deborah returned to the house with Mrs Hendrickson. They sat in the large living room. Daylight was going and they saw the lights flash on in the summerhouse. A rabbit came out on to the lawn and crouched, alert for danger.

  Mrs Hendrickson was seated at her small writing-desk. Her face was still stained with tears. She seemed uncertain what to say but her instincts as a hostess triumphed. ‘You’ll take a drink?’ she suggested. ‘Please help yourselves.’

  Keith looked at his watch. The day had almost fled. ‘A very quick one,’ he said ‘Molly has guests coming.’ He poured a whisky for himself and gin for his hostess, wondering how soon he could get away without seeming rude to a client who was clearly upset. Surreptitiously, he dipped a finger in the gin and ran it round the rim of another glass before topping both glasses up with tonic water. Deborah sipped suspiciously from the weaker drink but the tang of the gin on the rim of her glass seemed to satisfy her that she was not for once being palmed off with a placebo. Keith made a mental note to warn her of the dangers before she entered other drinking company.

  Mrs Hendrickson brought herself under control and listened to Keith’s explanation. When he had finished, she raised her glass solemnly to the pair of them. ‘I really do congratulate you both,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have believed that you could persuade them so quickly.’

  ‘Nor would I,’ Keith said. ‘We were lucky that there were some strong indicators. The police still have to satisfy themselves that I’m not talking through my hat, but I’ve no doubt that they will. I take it that that’s all you want from us?’

  ‘It’s up to the police now. But they may still decide that it was suicide. Or I suppose that they might agree with you but without finding enough evidence to re-open the case with the sheriff. I can call on you again if I need your help?’

  ‘Of course,’ Keith said politely. ‘But they’ll be thorough this time. And Superintendent Munro’s a very conscientious man. He won’t make a final decision until they’re sure.’

  ‘If only he doesn’t go by that silly girl of mine!’ Mrs Hendrickson said. Her voice and body had been taut when they entered the room but she had gradually returned to her placid self. ‘I expect he’ll have more sense,’ she said. ‘I agreed a rate with your partner. How many hours did you spend on it?’

  ‘Seven,’ Keith said. ‘Each of us. And a lunch for ourselves and Mr Enterkin.’ He passed the receipt over, wondering what to do about Deborah.

  ‘Mr James said that your daughter would almost certainly be helping you. He suggested half your hourly rate for her. I thought it was very fair.’ She opened the flap of her desk and picked up a pen.

  ‘So do I,’ Keith said. Privately, he thought that 50p and a pat on the head would have been ample. ‘Forget about Molly. She won’t take a fee from a friend.’

  ‘Could you make my cheque out separately, please?’ Deborah asked. ‘Uncle Wal phoned me. He said to get a separate cheque and he’d fix it so that I could offset it against my school books and not pay any tax.’

  ‘But I buy your school books,’ Keith said.

  ‘That’s what I told Wal. He said, “So much the better”.’

  Mrs Hendrickson handed over two cheques. ‘I really am grateful,’ she said. ‘Poor Sam, luck was against him. His stroke and then . . . to die like that! He was only forty-eight, you know. I feel that the least I can do for his memory is to see that he doesn’t go to his grave as a suicide.’

  The girl, Beth, appeared in the doorway. She ignored Keith, nodded to Deborah as to an acquaintance barely worthy of acknowledgement and spoke to her mother in tones of cynical amusement which somehow failed to be convincing. ‘Give up, Mum,’ she said. ‘You’re kicking against the pricks.
Dad topped himself and you know it.’ Her voice had the throaty tension of the highly-strung.

  Mrs Hendrickson’s hand clenched and then relaxed slowly. She took a deep breath. ‘I know no such thing,’ she said shakily. ‘How can you speak to me like that? Your father would never . . . never . . .’

  ‘He would. Like a shot, as they say.’ Beth snickered at her own joke. ‘Not to save you from wearing yourself out looking after him, he felt entitled to that. But he hated being ill and dependent and he’d have loathed seeing his precious reputation going down the plug-hole, which would have happened if he’d lived. So, for his own sake, not for yours, he popped himself off.’

  ‘I won’t believe it,’ Mrs Hendrickson whispered.

  Beth came further into the room and they saw that an older boy – presumably her brother – had been waiting behind her. ‘You don’t want to believe it,’ Beth said, ‘because of the money. It’s not his reputation you care about. You don’t want to be dependent on us when we come of age.’

  The boy – Michael – pushed past. He caught Deborah’s eye and checked for a moment, then walked quickly across the room. He looked back at his sister. ‘You’d rather that Dad had killed himself, just out of spite,’ he said hotly. ‘But he didn’t write that note. He never, ever called me Mike, and even after his stroke he still managed to blow his top if anybody referred to him as crippled.’ He stooped over his mother. ‘But you can count on us, you know,’ he said. ‘We’ll look after you. I will, anyway.’

  ‘He blew his top all right,’ Beth said.

  Keith forgot for the moment that he was off the case. ‘How did you know what the note said?’ he asked.

  The boy raised his eyebrows. He seemed quite unperturbed. ‘Beth told me,’ he said.

  ‘I never said a word about it,’ Beth snapped and flounced out of the room.

  Mike broke into a second’s brittle silence. ‘She did tell me, word for word.’ He heaved an exaggerated sigh. ‘I don’t know what’s got into her these days.’

  ‘She’s upset,’ said his mother. ‘Try to be nice to her.’

  A ring at the doorbell heralded Molly’s arrival. Keith and Deborah were glad to make their escape from a scene which was becoming embarrassing.

  Chapter Five

  Keith and Molly were a sociable couple but they had no social ambitions. Rather than attend a dinner dance at the golf club they were content to spend an evening at darts in the local inn or playing snooker, not very seriously, at the club in Newton Lauder.

  As Deborah approached womanhood, however, they had decided that she must have at least a nodding acquaintance with social etiquette. So on Saturday evenings, when guests could linger without dread of the alarm clock’s voice soon after dawn, Molly would often give a small dinner. Her guests that evening were Wal and Janet, with Sir Peter Hay. Sir Peter, during his lady’s absences abroad, was a frequent guest, not only to round up the numbers nor because he was a good friend and patron but also because, when it came to such matters as the right wine for a course or the proper fork to be used, his was a sure lead to follow. He knew such things as certainly and as unthinkingly as Keith knew the workings of a gun or Molly knew when a joint was cooked.

  By custom, Keith and Wallace wore suits but Sir Peter honoured the occasion by draping the least tatty of his many kilts around his long, thin frame. Janet, Wal’s blonde wife, was aglow in cream silk. In earlier days, Deborah would have waited at table; but Molly insisted that Deborah must now learn to be waited on, so Deborah was in her only good party frock while Molly kept an apron over an out-dated favourite dress, now in honourable retirement.

  Good manners held curiosity in check through the preliminary drinks in the living room and soup or pâté in the heavily-panelled dining room but, when the main course had been served and their hostess was thus freed to give the conversation her attention, Sir Peter voiced the question which had been hanging in the air.

  ‘What’s this we hear, Keith, about you looking into Sam Hendrickson’s death. Did the scourge of the TUC not take his own life, then?’

  ‘I can’t go that far,’ Keith said. ‘All I’ve done is to show that the issue isn’t as clear-cut as the sheriff was led to believe.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Dad,’ Deborah said. ‘You put it a lot more strongly than that to Mr Munro.’ She took a small sip of her wine. She was only allowed one glass for the evening, so she was careful to spin it out.

  ‘Maybe I did,’ Keith said. ‘I had to. I was the devil’s advocate. If I hadn’t made as strong a case as I could, the police might well have decided that this particular hare wasn’t worth coursing.’ Briefly, he summarised the evidence. There was no need for detail; each of those present was familiar with guns. ‘Consider, for instance, the cigarette,’ he went on. ‘Sam Hendrickson could have been having one last cigarette while he struggled to load the gun. If he’d dropped it at that time, he might well have decided to ignore it rather than risk being found by his wife attempting an act of which she would have profoundly disapproved. The cigarette would have been well away from any upholstery.’

  ‘Well, you certainly had me convinced,’ Deborah said.

  ‘It won’t give you nightmares, will it?’ Molly asked.

  Deborah considered the question seriously. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Of course, I want to live for a million years yet, but—’

  ‘Death itself gets less fearful as its time approaches. It’s premature death that one fears. For my part,’ Sir Peter said, ‘I always had doubts about that verdict. The sighs of relief when his death was announced combined to blow slates off the roofs in more than one city.’

  This comment was received with respect. Sir Peter was a director of a number of companies.

  ‘But whose sighs were they?’ Janet asked.

  Sir Peter beamed across the table. He had been an admirer of Janet’s golden looks since she had left school. ‘About every alternate name in the phone-book,’ he said. ‘His own faction in his union, because his death will probably abort a scandal which could have ruined them all. The less fanatical among the ordinary members, because they can now hope against hope for a more honest and democratic administration of their business. Several concerns who were next on his hit-list. A great number of men and women who have fetched up in the dole-queue due to his past machinations. Plus, of course, any personal enemies he may have made along the way. Myself included.’

  ‘Golly!’ Deborah said.

  ‘You’ve m-met him then?’ Wallace said. ‘Was he as bad as they paint him?’

  ‘As bad or worse,’ Sir Peter said. ‘I know all about de mortuis nil nisi bonum, but frankly there wasn’t any bonum so the tag doesn’t apply. I met him last when he went after a major firm with a trumped-up dispute. It seemed to be no more than a brazen attempt at blackmail, so they weren’t going to give in. I was on the board and I went along to the meeting. The chair was occupied at that time by a very charming and distinguished lady and she took the trouble to speak to him as if he were a respectable colleague rather than a crook. She was wearing a dress which, in this day and age, could be considered prim rather than daring. But the charming Mr Hendrickson told her in so many words that if she thought she could get a better deal by flashing her – er – bosom at him, she could think again.’

  ‘Crikey!’ said Deborah. ‘And nobody hit him?’

  ‘Despite the temptation, no. In fact I suspect that, rather than boorishness, it was a calculated move to keep us off-balance.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘A few days later, we got the hint that a smaller but rival body was behind him. So we started talking takeover and the threat faded away. Oddly enough, I met him socially a few months later when somebody else invited me to shoot with a syndicate of which he was a member. His attitude was friendly and he seemed quite surprised when I made it clear that I would rather not know him.’

  Molly got up to collect the plates and to serve a sweet. ‘It sounds as if the police are going to have th
eir work cut out,’ she said.

  ‘What’s more,’ said Keith, ‘I don’t think they can make a job of it if they keep it low-key, the way Munro intends. With so many people potentially involved, and so much money and power, they’re going to need the big guns.’

  ‘I’m surprised,’ Sir Peter said, ‘to hear you use that particular analogy. You of all people, Keith, know that big guns are seldom needed. If you have the fieldcraft to bring the quarry within range, a smaller gun with the right load can do the job just as well or better. If Superintendent Munro cares to channel his enquiries through some of the specialist units, he may go places without asking for a full-scale murder team – which, in view of the sheriff’s decision, he wouldn’t get.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Deborah said, ‘that Mr Hendrickson couldn’t have made enemies up at Boswell Court? He only moved there after he had his stroke and I don’t exactly see him using his word-processor to go on putting people’s backs up.’

  Sir Peter laughed shortly. ‘Mrs Hendrickson would have had difficulty finding anywhere to live where nobody already owed him a grudge.’ He paused and gave his host a thoughtful glance. ‘You’d better watch your back, Keith. There could be powerful interests involved.’

  ‘We’ve already had one threatening phone-call,’ Keith said. ‘But the damage is already done. I don’t really expect somebody to come after me for revenge.’

  ‘Boswell Court’s where the police should be looking,’ Deborah said. ‘Mum thinks so, too.’

  Molly seated herself and picked up her spoon. ‘That’s true,’ she said.

  ‘I rather thought as much myself,’ Keith said. ‘That phone-call came last night. Mrs Hendrickson would already have phoned her neighbours, asking them to co-operate with me. There had hardly been time for anybody else to know that I’d been called in. What are your reasons?’

  ‘Because I went round most of the houses,’ Molly said, ‘and Deborah called at the others. Not everybody was in, but we talked to at least one person in each household. Apart from a window-cleaner and the milkman, there was nobody there at all that morning except the residents. And we don’t see how a stranger could have got in without being noticed.’