The Soft Detective

by H. R. F. Keating

  Perhaps Verney had indeed been getting near the truth, he thought. The truth, not of Conor’s guilt, but the truth of why he was refusing to say what he was doing in Sandymount. That seal had belonged to Belinda. After her birthday she had gone about perpetually wearing it. He could see it clearly now on its thin gold chain on the neat white blouse of her Harrison Academy girls’ uniform, though in fact she had always been quick to discard white blouse, grey skirt and long black jacket in favour of jeans and breasts-enhancing T-shirt. So how did the seal come to be in Conor’s pocket when he had been brought in to the Custody Suite and submitted to Sergeant Spage’s rule-bound procedures? Answer, surely, because Belinda had returned it. And that very day. Otherwise Conor would have restored it to its place in his box of other treasure-hunting finds. Correction: detectorist finds.

  So - surely this must be the truth - down in Sandymount on Monday evening for some reason, perhaps because of a disagreement about drugs, Conor and Belinda had quarrelled. And she had given the seal back to him, flung it at him probably. So was it likely that Conor would then have gone straight to Professor Unwala’s to try and find out where the Hampton Hoard was buried? With his mind, as it must have been, in turmoil? Never in a million years.

  But now… Now the still-loyal fellow, the silly fellow, the splendid fellow, was trying nevertheless to protect Belinda. But to protect her from what? Plainly from something more serious than, as had seemed likely when he had first heard she was involved in the drugs scene, attempting to buy a few Ecstasy tablets?

  If the girl had been down in Sandymount simply to buy Ecstasy, would Conor have endured and endured Verney’s interrogation to protect her? No. What would be the worst that could happen if she was found to have possessed a few tablets, even to have sold some on? Nothing surely to make it vital even for a misguided knight errant to go on and on lying for her.

  So …

  So Belinda Withrington could well be involved, directly or indirectly, in Professor Unwala’s death. And Conor could be no more than a witness to whatever discussions there had been beforehand.

  But, he thought with a sudden access of irony, none of all this was going to be accepted as proof, either by Verney, or, supervising the case from Headquarters, by Detective Chief Superintendent Fothergill, or by any lawyer in the Crown Prosecution Service. And, true enough, all this supposition was the sort of airy tower that might at any moment be brought to nothing by one solid fact telling in the opposite direction.

  He could not, either, however much he himself felt this was convincing, go to Verney and try to make him see the real implications. Off the case. He was off the case. Properly so, if his own son truly was the prime suspect.

  So tomorrow or the next day, if the further inquiries he had spoken about turned up whatever extra evidence Verney was hoping, Conor would have to face another session on the wrong side of the table in the interview room. And, even if he had had nothing to do with the actual killing, it would be a nerve-shattering experience for him. All right, he had seemed, earlier at the cottage door, to be very much on an even keel. But that was like him. He never let his inner fears show. Like son, like father. You could only get to have a hard enough exterior to be a working detective by making yourself look hard. By not letting the doubts and the fears show.

  Well, letting the doubts show a little. You didn’t get labelled soft as a duck’s arse if you never let your second thoughts show. And, by God, no harm in letting others see that you believed things weren’t always unalterably black and white. And that you were willing to act on that. But the fears were better thrust down. As no doubt Conor had thrust his down when Verney’s pressure was for the moment off.

  Yet the boy had not been able to push away those fears all the time. Hadn’t Vicky described him as going whiter and whiter as Verney had banged and battered on?

  And I don’t think she was exaggerating there.

  So how will Conor stand up to a new bout of it? Verney, the tank, grinding ever forwards to his objective, reality or mirage.

  God knows.

  Go to bed. Only thing to do.

  A night of broken sleep. Muzzy dreams where Verney loomed nightmare-like, half man, half gun-swivelling battle tank, interrogating remorselessly sometimes himself, sometimes Conor.

  Come on, lad. There’s no point in you sitting there saying nothing. You know we’re going to get to the truth sooner or later, don’t you? Now, why not save yourself and your mother here a lot of needless anxiety? Eh? Eh? Now, come on, just tell me all about it.

  Come on now, Benholme, we know what the truth is. Why not just face up to it? You’re soft as a duck’s arse. Isn’t that what it is? Soft as a duck’s arse. Now why not just admit it. Get it off your chest.

  Look, lad, don’t piss me about. Do you think I’ve got nothing better to do than sit here listening to you telling fairy tales? You were down in Sandymount. We know that. And you went into that house in Percival Road. Yes?

  It’s you that’s to blame, Benholme. It’s you who brought about this whole appalling mess. Now, there’s only one thing for you to do. Cough to it, Benholme. Admit it. You’re guilty. Guilty as all hell. So, come on, say it. Admit it. Admit it.

  You thought of yourself as the great archaeologist, isn’t that it, lad? Saw your name in the papers. Bit of instant fame. Encouraged, of course, by that father of yours. Spoiling you the way he always has. So you got this idea you could get your fame the easy way. But he wouldn’t talk, would he, the old gent? And then you killed him? You picked up that cricket bat and you killed him.

  You killed him, Benholme. You killed your own son. You shopped him, and, worse, worse, worse, you made him the nasty little murderer he is. You. You. It was you.

  Fighting off a dull headache in the morning, as he came into the station and passed the Muster Room, still the Incident Room, he forced himself to quicken his pace so as to avoid any hint of lurking there to find out what was happening inside. But he could not help hearing Di March’s voice through the closed doors.

  ‘What’s the point, for Christ’s sake? Trying to trace everywhere that little bleeder went? Claiming he was no nearer than that corner shop? For God’s sake, we know he did it. Why the hell should I go checking an alibi any fool can see is fake? If I had the case I’d get the cough all right. Across the interview-room table.’

  He stood rooted to the brown vinyl floor of the corridor. It was only too plain she was talking about Conor, that little bleeder. Conor under questioning yesterday must have said he had been at the shop where fat Mrs Damberry worked. Presumably when that made it more or less impossible for him to have been in number twelve at the time of the You black bastard yell.

  But why had Conor been able to claim he was at the shop then? Something surely must have happened there for him definitely to remember. The row he had with Belinda? Would that have been the very spot where she had flung the copper seal he had given her to the pavement, as they had stood in the fog arguing, say, about buying Ecstasy? And then, black with depression, had he started straight off for Frogs Lane?

  It could be. Or he may have been sure about the place for a hundred other reasons. But the point was that he had seen this as at least a partial alibi for himself, presumably one he believed he could put forward without compromising Belinda. Or whichever of his other friends he was protecting.

  If he was. If all this isn’t my mere deluded hopefulness.

  And Verney, either because he wants by disproving this finally to break down his sullen young suspect, or because - give him credit - he’s genuinely prepared to look for what he can in Conor’s favour, has tasked various detectives with tracing the route Conor has claimed he took. So March is being sent to confirm or otherwise what Conor said about the corner shop.

  March busy swearing black and blue she believes Conor’s a killer. March, who’ll undertake her task with contemptuous briskness, mind made up.

  So…

  He broke out of his statue-still trance and hurried back to
where he had just left his car.

  He did not have to sit in it long before he saw March come stamping out; making for her own bright red little roadster. Just like her herself. As soon as she roared away he set off in pursuit.

  In the fog he did not drive at as much of a pace as March set. But, as he expected, when he came to Percival Road he saw the red roadster parked outside the goods-crammed corner shop. He drove on past, confident of not being spotted inside his car with the fog thick all around, and came to a halt some fifty yards along. Then he walked quickly back.

  Approaching with care, he found once again he had reason to bless March’s crowd-quelling voice. She was evidently addressing, not big, garrulous Mrs Damberry, but the shop owner.

  ‘And that’s all you saw, Mr Patel? This boy in that school uniform, black jacket, that horrible yellow and green striped tie, knocking over your National Lottery board outside?’

  Softly spoken reply inaudible from his place of observation just round the corner. But March, once more, ringing out what she had to say.

  ‘And you can’t describe him any better than that? He might have been any boy from Harrison Academy, yes? Or some other boy who just happened to be wearing some sort of black coat? Right?’

  He had edged nearer the propped-open shop door, and Mr Patel’s answer came more audibly.

  ‘No, no, madam. I am well knowing which boy it was.’

  ‘Oh, you are, are you? And why are you so sure all of a sudden? You may have to give evidence in court, you know. You’d better be certain of your facts.’

  ‘Oh, madam, madam, I am not at all wishing …’

  But now, booming almost as loudly as March, Mrs Darmberry evidently had a contribution to make.

  ‘Lady, we all knowing that boy. He coming in once, twice a week these days. He buying a Coke. Not like those friend of he always comin’ in, wanting half-whisky.’

  ‘Never mind all the Cokes and whiskies. Would you be willing to go into the witness box and swear on the Bible you’re telling the truth when you identify this boy as having been outside this shop, knocking over that National Lottery ad?’

  ‘Holy Bible jus’ right for Marguerite Damberry. Yes, ma’am. I ready to swear I know that boy. Don’t know he name for sure, but I knowing his dad.’

  ‘His dad? What is it you’re trying to tell me now?’

  ‘You was in here Tuesday morning, right?’

  ‘Yes, of course I was. Making inquiries in connection with the murder in the house along the road.’

  ‘Well, you was with a gennelman, yes? Inspector? Big Chief Inspector he saying?’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Benholme, if that’s got anything to do with anything.’

  ‘Lady, it certain sure has. He that boy father, yes? Like as two buttons on same dress.’

  ‘Well, yes. Yes, you’re right, as a matter of fact. The boy I’m asking about is in fact DCI Benholme’s son.’

  ‘Well then, lady. He outside here Monday evenin’.’

  ‘All right, so he was. But at what time? Are you going to tell me you looked at that clock there the moment he knocked over that board? And in any case the damn thing’s wrong, you know Five minutes out, more.’

  ‘Madam, madam,’ the owner of the maligned clock stepped in now, his voice rising in a defensive wail. ‘Clock is kept five minutes slow always. So we are never selling alcoholic liquors before correct hour.’

  ‘Five minutes slow or five minutes fast,’ March banged out. ‘If nobody looked at the clock when the boy was outside here, if he was here at all, then nobody can say what time it was.’

  ‘But, madam, I am able. You see, I was not going out to pick up sign - Lottery people are saying same must be always on full display - because I was having to switch on telly.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You could have switched on your TV at any time.’

  ‘No, no, madam. I am switching on for my very very aged mother to be watching Neighbours. She is altogether bedridden, and same is her lifeline only.’

  From his place of concealment he could actually hear the gigantic sigh March heaved.

  ‘All right, let’s get this straight. A boy that Mrs Damberry here will swear to being Conor Benholme knocked down the lottery sign outside this shop just before Neighbours began at - what is it? - five-thirty-five last Monday? Is that it?’

  Mrs Damberry entered the fray once more.

  ‘That darn well it. Conor Benholme, if that he name, come running, running past here just after it gone half past five, Monday, knocked over that sign, one big metal crash, and then run off, hard as he can go.’

  ‘Ran off, yes. But in which direction? Along Percival Road, wasn’t it?’

  ‘No, ma’am. He run along Lancelot Road, right bang in other direction.’

  ‘Lancelot Road? You’re not making that up? You’ve got some interest in the boy?’

  ‘Ma’am, I damn well ain’t. He a nice boy all right, not like that big tall friend of he or that girl no better than should be who come in with him some time. But Marguerite Damberry always tell truth, and truth she telling now. Lancelot Road it was. Lancelot Road fast as he can run.’

  ‘Well, if that’s your story…’

  March patently trying to reconcile her made-up mind with the given facts.

  Hastily he swung round and walked stealthily away till he was out of sight in the swirling fog.

  Chapter Thirteen

  He stood there beside his car, shivering in the fog. But inwardly he felt a warm glow. All right, the fact that Conor had run off in the opposite direction from Professor Unwala’s house at twenty-five to six, Neighbours soap time, did not necessarily mean he could not have doubled back and been inside the house half an hour later when Mrs Ahmed had heard the black bastard yell. But it was a strong indication he really had had no intention of going there.

  In fact, the picture of what Conor had most probably done that late afternoon and early evening was becoming clearer. Yes, he had gone to Sandymount. Was it because Belinda Withrington was going there, probably to buy Ecstasy? If it was, had Conor gone to stop her? Or was he, poor boy, caught in that complicated, on-off state of falling out of love still just trailing round wherever she went? Perhaps Conor’s redhead friend Alec Gaffney had been there too. Could he be the boy Belinda had switched to?

  Then - the evidence of the copper seal - Conor and Belinda had in all probability had a blazing row. Over love? No, over Ecstasy, more likely. And then Conor had run off blindly, furiously. Wheeling round the corner by the shop, with tears in his eyes perhaps, he had crashed into that clanging metal National Lottery sign, and, heedless in his misery about setting it up again, had plunged off, away along Lancelot Road. Firm evidence of Mrs Damberry.

  And Lancelot Road was at least the start of his way out to Frogs Lane.

  Now if any of the other detectives Verney has tasked - if he has sent anyone out - finds evidence for Conor being at any point on the route between Lancelot Road and Frogs Lane, he’ll definitely be off the hook.

  Who will be on it?

  Not my business.

  Oh, but, yes. Yes, it could very soon be my business again. If Conor is proved to have had nothing to do with the murder, then there’s no reason why I should be off the case. And, by God, I’ll do my utmost to get back on it again. It is very much my business. And I’ll bloody well see it through.

  Yet sitting that afternoon actually dealing with some of the paperwork - clearing the decks: expenses claims due to be checked tomorrow - it still came as a sharp surprise when the phone shrilled and Verney spoke.

  ‘Mr Benholme, come down to the Incident Room, will you? There’s work here you should be doing.’

  Work in the Incident Room I should be doing? Then Conor’s in the clear. Must be. Verney did get Conor’s route to Frogs Lane checked. Conor’s no longer the prime suspect. No longer any suspect at all.

  He felt himself almost melting into jelly with relief.

  For two whole minutes, more, he simply sat whe
re he was, unable to think, unable even to move. The nightmare over. Over, over, over.

  And typical Verney, he thought when he began to come to himself, to ring me with that terse, uncommunicative message. The encased hard man. Wouldn’t, as they say, give away the drips from his own nose. Never thinking, unless forced to confronting a suspect of some sort, what anybody else might be feeling. Typical of him not to have let it enter his head what my thoughts might be, hearing that my son was no longer considered a murder suspect. Typical not to think of giving me any details of just what has in the end cleared Conor. I suppose he’s had the decency to tell Vicky, though I could believe it of him that it’s not occurred to him.

  No, all I get is that curt There’s work here you should he doing. And back, as far as Verney’s concerned, exactly to the situation as it was before. To a murder inquiry with, as yet, little sight of an answer.

  But an inquiry that’s once again my business. I’m on the case again.

  And I’d better not keep Verney waiting one minute more.

  The Incident Room, when he pushed open its no longer forbidden doors, looked little different from when he had suggested to the Gill that the black-coated figure asthmatic Mr Jones had seen in the fog might be, not his own son as he had secretly feared, but some senior Harrison Academy boy.

  Then, when the Gill accepted my reason for setting off on my own to check out Harrison boys, it had been off instead to see if Vicky could give Conor an alibi. Then that row when she failed to be precise enough. Bloody ironic that it turns out Conor actually got back to the cottage altogether early enough. And I never came into the Incident Room here again after that. Sitting in the car, out of range of Vicky’s anger trying to think whether or not I believed Conor was guilty, and then suddenly realizing I’d only just be in time for the press conference. In the wake of that, fearing the worst, seeking the worst even, going to the Gill and telling him everything. Then, guillotine descending, Off the case.