The Soft Detective

by H. R. F. Keating

  Is she saying that just to hit at me? Out of a sort of guilt? She could be. It’d be just like her. Just like her the way she was when the marriage began really breaking up.

  Outside, a municipal dustcart was backing into a driveway before turning round. Attention. Attention. This vehicle is reversing. That honking mechanical loudspeaker voice.

  But it had distracted him just enough to be able to decide to take her outburst as being the simple truth.

  ‘All right, if you were, you were. But that must mean that Conor got back here a good bit after six, for Mike to have had a go at him like that.’

  He pulled himself back from adding Or did he do it while he was lying on top of you trousers round under his hum?

  ‘Oh, very well. We weren’t doing it, if you must know. Not that we don’t. As often as possible.’

  ‘Right then, I imagine you were both next door in the sitting room. And you hadn’t watched the news. But Mike had just come in, saying he was back as usual at more or less six having said Up yours to his Mr Phillips, or possibly not. So how long had Mike been back when Conor came in and got blasted about his homework?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was a bit after Mike had got home.’

  ‘How much of a bit?’

  A shrug.

  ‘I suppose a quarter of an hour, twenty minutes. We don’t sit there looking at the clock all the time, you know. Whatever else we might or might not be doing.’

  He did some arithmetic. Conor back here then at six-fifteen, or six-twenty. Right, if he had been in that room at number twelve Percival Road at just before six when Mrs Ahmed heard the scream, he could not have got here, even running all the way, in less than half an hour. Certainly not if he’d stopped to puke in the garden there.

  So he was OK, off the hook.

  He felt relief welling up inside him. Slowly, as if he could not dare let it flood out.

  ‘Or it might have been longer. We were having a drink. I think I was on to my second.’

  Oh, God.

  ‘How much longer, for God’s sake?’

  He could not now keep the anger out of his voice.

  And she replied with an equal anger.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t bloody well know, I keep telling you. It might have been twenty minutes. It might have been half an hour. It might have been even more. But one thing I do know: Conor did not kill that Nobel person. He did not. He did not.’

  But, he thought, blackness coming back in, denser, darker than before, he may have done. My son. He may have done, if that’s all the alibi he’s got.

  Chapter Nine

  He drove away from the cottage at full speed. When he had finally made clear to Vicky that, without the alibi she was unable to give Conor, he had to believe their son could well have killed Professor Unwala, she had spat and splattered at him till he could take it no longer. But as soon as he had rounded the corner out of Frogs Lane he brought the car to a halt.

  One thing, he thought, if I drive in the state I’m in now I’ll be more of a danger than if I’d got nine or ten pints sloshing in my gut.

  ‘My God, I knew when I married you, Phil Benholme, you were a cold fucking fish. But I never in a million years imagined you’d shop your own son on a charge of murder.’

  That had been one of Vicky’s milder taunts.

  But did I deserve them? Do I deserve them? Is what I know I really ought to do such a totally unthinkable thing? For God’s sake, I told the stupid bitch: if it was anyone else that I’d found with as much evidence against them I’d have unhesitatingly pulled them in. So why should it be different with Conor?

  It is, though. My son. I’m faced with going to the Gill and telling him I believe my son could well be our murderer. Worse, the murderer of a Nobel Prize winner, a killer the media will be crying out to have ‘brought to justice’. And, Christ, yes, there’s the press conference at eleven.

  He looked at his watch.

  Twenty-to.

  So what I really ought to do this minute is drive back as quickly as I can, find the Gill and report to him that we could be bringing in a suspect - It is understood that a youth is helping the police with their inquiries - even as he is fielding reporters’ questions. He’d be fucking delighted. Another triumph in the making for Detective Chief Superintendent Fothergill, soon to be Assistant Chief Constable, and before long Deputy Chief Constable and bloody Chief Constable.

  And Conor?

  Picturing Conor, once the Gill had learnt the strength of the evidence against him, was, for all that he knew every detail of the safeguards the boy would have, something he could not bring himself to do.

  With face set rigid he put the car into gear, took off.

  But he arrived only just in time for the conference. Lucky from two points of view. First, there was no opportunity to put his suspicions, his unbelievable suspicions, to the Gill, and second, he just avoided the wrath that would have jetted out had he not been ready to go marching on to the platform behind the Gill to take his place next to the force public relations officer. Red-hot on punctuality, Detective Chief Superintendent Fothergill. Especially when the TV cameras were there.

  But insistence on punctuality, to do the Gill justice, no bad thing in a senior police officer.

  The conference began much as he had expected. A good many more reporters present than at most such affairs. Three TV camera crews. Half a dozen photographers crouching on one knee at the front punctuating the proceedings with camera flashes. And plenty of questions after the Gill’s punchily delivered opening statement. The Gill pretty good at taking them, too. Sharp, in control. The very image of a decidedly up-to-date top police officer.

  And then came a question from the muck-raking New Star.

  ‘Is the investigation taking into account the fact that Professor Unwala, despite his long retirement, was still engaged in major research, and was very near making a breakthrough on Alzheimer’s disease?’

  It brought him bolt upright. At once he tried to make it look as if, uncomfortable on his slatted wooden folding chair, he had just been shifting his weight. Those sharp-eyed buggers from the nationals would be quick to take an uneasy movement as an indication that no one in this provincial force had cottoned on. And how had the New Star got to hear about Professor Unwala’s research, typically grafting on an imminent ‘breakthrough’ of which there was in reality no sign?

  Oh, yes. Got it. My fault, in a way. Mentioning that the professor had been working on Alzheimer’s at the briefing last night, trying to infuse an extra sympathetic urgency. Some bright spark must have thought of making a few quid passing on a tip. Which of them read the New Star? Almost all of them, favourite paper in the lower ranks. And upwards. Not the most enlightened group in the community, the men and women of Bar-shire police.

  But then their work was hardly conducted in enlightening circumstances. Their work: our work: my work.

  Then, after the Gill had snapped that, naturally, this was something the inquiry was taking into consideration, there had come a wicked little supplementary And are you aware, Chief Superintendent, that there is in King’s Hampton at the present time a team from a well-known German pharmaceutical company?’

  The New Star, in its customary little-Britain way, going for some fantastic wicked Germans angle. And, as was perhaps to be expected, the Gill passed that one on.

  ‘I suggest that is something the officer in charge of King’s Hampton CID is best positioned to answer. Detective Chief Inspector Benholme?’

  Miraculously, as he got to his feet, rather slowly, he remembered something he had read in the Advertiser.

  ‘Yes, King’s Hampton police are, of course, aware of the presence in the town of distinguished guests from Germany. They are here for talks with one of the major firms on our industrial estate, Hampton Pharmaceuticals.’

  And, if I’m not mistaken, a definite look of disappointment on that pale-faced reporter. I may be soft as a duck’s arse, but I do know what’s going on around me.
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  With Barshire Police shown to be fully on top of local conditions, if not much advanced with finding who had killed Professor Unwala, the conference broke up.

  So now, he thought to himself, it’s time for me, far from soft, to go to Fothergill and inform him that the Harrison Academy boy asthmatic Mr Jones saw in the fog was very likely my son Conor ready to commit murder.

  To put off the evil moment rather than because of any physical need, he decided to visit the toilets.

  There, standing four-square at one of the urinals was Jumbo Hastings, and a sudden idea came to him. He had wondered if there was anyone he could discuss his dilemma with. A fellow officer was the only possibility. No one outside the police could assess the evidence in the same way. And, up till now, he had rejected everybody. Bob Carter? Too ready with the instant judgment. Anyone lower in rank, an unfair burden to put on them. Waiting for Mr Verney back from Bramshill? Too much the set-in-his-ways old-fashioned detective. Go by the book, would be his advice. And going by the book would be taking what he knew directly to the officer at the head of the inquiry. Detective Chief Superintendent Fothergill. Which was precisely what he wanted to find reasons not to have to do.

  But Jumbo? All right, junior in rank, and destined to stay that way. Happy to. But not junior in experience. A detective before he had been one himself.

  Yes, Jumbo.

  The flush went in one of the cubicles, and a moment later its door was opened and the Gill himself came out.

  Stepping quickly up to the urinal next to Jumbo, he stood head lowered pretending not even to notice the big boss. Not the moment to receive a word of congratulation on the way he had handled the New Star reporter. If one would be forthcoming.

  Then as soon as the outer door had wheezed closed he turned to Jumbo.

  ‘Something I wanted to talk to you about. In private.’

  Jumbo wriggled away his penis, zipped himself up, stepped away.

  ‘So long as no one comes barging in, this is what they call a fine and private place.’

  Jumbo, poetry quoter. Surprise, surprise. Well, no. Probably just some scrap he’s picked up somewhere. But, in any case, if it’s a sign of a well-stored mind that’s just what’s required.

  ‘You’re right at that,’ he said.

  Then he took the plunge.

  ‘Look, Jumbo, something terrible’s happened to me.’

  Jumbo gave him a sharp glance, thrusting his big, florid face forward. Perhaps a joke contemplated. But, plain to see, the idea being rejected.

  ‘Tell Uncle then. What you want, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, by God, it is. Someone to tell.’

  ‘So?’

  So it came out. The moment when DS March had shot out her query about the black-coat lurker in the fog and he had suddenly thought of Harrison Academy boys in their black jackets, worn out of bravado in all weathers, and what that said about how evasive Conor had been when he had first told him about the murder.

  ‘You see … Well, you see, I think it may be Conor himself we’re looking for.’

  Jumbo’s large, placid face creased in a frown.

  ‘Listen, Phil, are you sure you’re not making too much of something not really all that evident?’

  ‘I wish I were, Jumbo. I wish I were. But there’s more. A lot more. I mean, for one thing… Well, you know Vicky and I have split up?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But what you yourself probably don’t realize is quite how hard that’s hit you. Oh, you’ve not shown many signs of it, that’s not your way. But anyone who’s known you as long as I have could see it. You’re hyped up, Phil. Oversensitive. You don’t mind me saying that?’

  But it came as shock. A slap in the face.

  He stood there, suddenly aware of the sharp medicinal tang of the toilets’ disinfectant.

  Yes. Well, good old Jumbo. A true friend, someone who’d been quietly caring.

  But is it true, what he said? Well, yes. Yes, I suppose it is. The break-up has hit me. Even harder than I’d admitted.

  ‘No, Jumbo, of course I don’t mind. Thanks for saying it.’

  He brought his thoughts back to what he had been trying to put into words.

  ‘But listen. Honestly there’s more to what I’ve come to think about Conor than just some overwrought ideas of my own. I mean, there’s Conor’s overwrought ideas for one thing. Or the overwrought ideas he may have been keeping suppressed. Down there. A split-up like ours doesn’t leave an only child untouched, you know. Especially one of Conor’s age.’

  ‘Granted. But still, if that’s all…’

  ‘No, it isn’t all. There’s evidence, hard evidence, to back up my suspicions, I promise you. Think. What about that yell Mrs Ahmed heard? She said a boy’s voice, “I am knowing what is sounding like a boy”. I can hear her now.’

  ‘Well, all right. She heard a boy’s voice, and you’ve said she’s a good witness. But that doesn’t mean it was Conor’s voice. For God’s sake, Phil, there are other boys in King’s Hampton. Thousands of ‘em. Girls, too, come to that. And, after Di March got back from Barminster full of how she’d been looking at some Britforce trooper’s black and blue arse, the field’s wide open. You know it is.’

  ‘All right, it may be down to some youngster in the town again. But how many of those wear size seven trainers? Conor does.’

  ‘OK, he does. And that cuts the number of possibles from, say, five thousand to three thousand.’

  ‘Nevertheless … Look. I’m really not being paranoid about this. The trainers and the yell Mrs Ahmed heard are only a couple of strands in the evidence.’

  ‘OK, if you say so. But go on. You’d best get the whole of it off your chest while you’re about it.’

  Jumbo looked across at the heavy door of the toilets. No sign of anyone pushing at it.

  ‘Right. Well, don’t think I didn’t ask myself why my Conor should have killed Professor Unwala. No connection. That was my first reaction. Till I remembered.’

  ‘Well, what? What did you remember?’ Jumbo allowed the full weight of his scepticism to roll with the words.

  ‘Just this. The Hampton Hoard. You must know about—’

  ‘Don’t I just. Famous million-quid’s worth of gold coins buried in the dunes. Roman, Celtic, I don’t know. Whatever. But that’s no more than the sort of silly rumour people love to persuade themselves is true.’

  ‘Exactly. To persuade themselves. And what’s more likely than Conor - he’s always been mad about treasure hunting - has persuaded himself in the same way? And he could easily have got to learn, true or false, that Mrs Unwala, who had a degree in archaeology, had located the Hoard but died before she could get to it. And then he could very well have been tempted by the idea of becoming an instant archaeological success.’

  ‘Stop. Now listen, Phil, you’re building castles in the air. Castles? More like bloody dungeons. Come off it. Think who you’re talking about. Conor. Your son. I do know him, you know. I’ve seen him off and on since he was at primary school. A decent lad, if ever there was.’

  ‘No, Jumbo. Listen, I’ve talked to him about it all. I went out specially first thing in the morning and gave him a lift into school, just so that I could clear it up. If I could.’

  ‘Well? Why didn’t you?’

  ‘Because the damn boy first of all denied being in Sandymount on Monday evening, though he said he’d been down there when I first happened to mention the murder. And then when I tricked him, best bloody interrogator-fashion, into admitting he’d told me a lie, he just one hundred per cent clammed up. Clammed up tight. Now, if that doesn’t show he ought to be questioned, and by someone like the Gill, then what does?’

  Jumbo thrust his lower lip forward doubtfully.

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, that’s the worst thing you’ve found to say so far. But— But even then, Phil, it’s not proof. Nothing like proof. I tell you what, the boy may have been down in Sandymount at the time all right, but he could be covering up for a mate. Can’t think why, b
ut he may be.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve already thought of that. But even if it should turn out to be the explanation, I still ought to tell the Gill. I mean, if Conor’s concealing evidence about a murder, he should be made to talk.’

  ‘Well, even if you’re right about that, Conor’s not really involved. I dare say I could get him to tell me his mate’s name, if you like.’

  ‘No. No, it could still be the other way round, him the killer. Don’t you see that?’

  ‘No, Phil, frankly I don’t. Of course I don’t know Conor as well as you do, but I just don’t see him as a murderer. I just don’t. Not even as the result of a sudden burst of rage. If it had been that, he’d have confessed to it. Like a shot.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’d like to believe you. Of course I bloody would. But if it’s true … I hoped earlier on he might have an alibi. The time he got back to Vicky’s new place. But he hasn’t. I went into it all with her. Had a hell of an upper-and-downer in the end. Naturally. But it’s quite clear: Conor was in Sandymount at around six on Monday and he lied to me about it for as long as he could and then just clammed up. No, it’s no good. He’s a suspect. He must be. The prime suspect in fact. There’s no one else.’

  ‘But, Phil, think. It’s early days yet. How many other cases we’ve worked on produced no real suspect until weeks had gone by? No, Phil, listen to me. There’s no need whatsoever to go to the Gill. No need at all.’

  Which was when he decided, without uttering another word, that he would do just that.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Well, Mr Benholme, you realize what this means?’

  The Gill, sitting stiffly upright behind Benholme’s own desk, glowered into the mid-distance.

  ‘I’ll have to come off the case, sir. Yes.’

  ‘More than that, Mr Benholme. You ought to be suspended. Suspended until the outcome of this is clear, and then most probably be asked to consider your future in the force.’