Element of Doubt

by Dorothy Simpson

  Unlike his business premises, Speed’s home looked spruce enough. Paint gleamed, windows shone and well-tended flowerbeds full of newly planted summer bedding surrounded the close-cropped lawn. Mrs Speed’s handiwork, Thanet guessed.

  ‘If she really doesn’t know what’s been going on between her husband and Nerine Tarrant,’ he said, ‘then this is going to be a bit tricky.’

  This was the part of his job that he hated, the damage done to innocent people peripherally involved in his cases. Mrs Speed, by all accounts, was a nice woman protected until now by a consensus of goodwill from knowledge which would cause her considerable distress, and he, Thanet, was going to be the one to have to disillusion her.

  ‘She’s bound to wonder, if we ask to talk to him privately,’ agreed Lineham. ‘But what else can we do?’

  Musical chimes sounded as he pressed the bell and a moment later a light went on in the hall. The man who opened the door stood back resignedly when Thanet introduced himself.

  ‘Come in.’

  Geometric was the word which blinked on like a neon sign in Thanet’s brain. Speed had a square head, and a square body, with oblongs for trousers and arms. The head was adorned with thinning hair and a curly moustache which drooped a little on one side, spoiling the symmetrical effect. He was in his mid-forties, and was wearing designer jeans and a shirt unbuttoned half-way to the waist. A gold medallion winked coyly in the sparse hair of his chest. Thanet spared a moment to marvel at the attractions between men and women. What could Nerine Tarrant have seen in this ageing Lothario?

  The room into which he had led them was hazy with cigarette smoke and rather too gaudy for Thanet’s taste: brown-and-white striped Dralon suite, multi coloured floral carpet and fluorescent orange velvet curtains, which a woman was drawing across the large picture window. She turned as they entered.

  ‘My wife.’

  If Speed was all straight lines, his wife was all curves. Short and plump, with billowing breasts overflowing the tight brassiere clearly visible beneath the thin material of her dress, she looked a prime candidate for Weight Watchers. Noting the double – no doubt soon to be triple – chin, the sausage-like arms and legs, Thanet wondered if PC Driver had been wrong, if Mrs Speed had known of her husband’s affair (affairs?) all along and had been stuffing herself with food to compensate. But he had been right about the good nature. Despite the anxiety in her face the lines were benign, the mouth generous.

  She watched the two policemen warily as they all sat down, the Speeds side by side on the settee, Thanet and Lineham in easy chairs facing them. Speed stubbed out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and lit another.

  ‘Actually, I was wondering if I might have a word with you in private, Mr Speed,’ said Thanet.

  It was their very lack of reaction, their careful, frozen stillness, which betrayed the unspoken message which passed between them.

  So Mrs Speed had known of the affair, thought Thanet with relief. The question now was, how long had she known? For some time? Or just since this afternoon, when having killed his mistress her husband had anticipated the possibility of a murder investigation, and had decided to throw himself on his wife’s mercy?

  ‘There’s no need for my wife to leave,’ said Speed. ‘We haven’t got any secrets from each other.’

  Mrs Speed’s hand sought her husband’s, squeezed it.

  Thanet noted the stubborn line of her mouth, the defiant angle of her head. Good. Whatever happened, she was not going to faint or have hysterics. She was preparing for battle and he didn’t mind that – welcomed it, in fact. He enjoyed a good fight. Better get on with it, then.

  ‘As I expect you’ve guessed, we’re looking into the death of Mrs Nerine Tarrant. We …’

  ‘Just a minute.’ The colour came up in Mrs Speed’s face and she shifted uncomfortably on her seat. ‘I’m sorry, but can I ask you something?’

  She was not, Thanet guessed, a woman who was used to asserting herself in the presence of men. Her husband was watching her with surprise.

  ‘By all means.’

  ‘How … How did she die? I mean, there’s all sorts of rumours flying around the village but nobody really knows …’

  No reason why the information should be withheld. ‘She fell from her balcony.’

  ‘Oh.’ A wave of colour again, stronger this time. She glanced at her husband, for the first time. ‘Then … Are you saying it was an accident, after all? We’d heard … We thought …’

  ‘I’m afraid we don’t know yet. And won’t know for sure, until various tests have been done and we have the post mortem results. But as there is an element of doubt …’

  ‘There is, then?’ she pressed. ‘An element of doubt?’

  ‘At this stage, in this particular case, yes, there must be. But,’ he went on, as Mrs Speed squeezed her husband’s hand and shot him a reassuring glance, ‘as there is a strong element of doubt, we can’t afford to waste time doing nothing, we have to proceed as if the death were murder.’

  The word dropped into the conversation like a stone, and there was a brief, appalled silence on their part. Then they both spoke together.

  ‘But …’

  ‘So …?’

  Thanet waited. Let them sort it out. It would be interesting to see who deferred. It was Mrs Speed. From habit? he wondered.

  ‘So what did you want to say to me, Inspector?’

  ‘Can’t you guess, Mr Speed?’

  Speed glanced nervously at his wife and Thanet could guess what he was thinking. There’s a chance they don’t know. If I assume they do, I could drop myself right in it for no good reason. He cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry, no, I can’t.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Mr Speed. Let’s not play games.’ Thanet glanced at Mrs Speed, who bowed her head as if to shield herself from the blow which she knew was coming. ‘Well, if you insist on making this painful for your wife … It is common knowledge that you have been having an affair with Mrs Tarrant. Naturally, in the circumstances, there are some questions we would like to ask you …’

  Speed shrugged and tried to look confident. ‘Like what, for instance?’ He was beginning to sweat, Thanet noticed.

  ‘Well, let’s begin with an account of your movements today. From, say, lunchtime.’

  ‘Since lunchtime?’

  Had there been a hint of relief in Speed’s tone? If so, why? The testimony of both Mrs Haywood and Marilyn Barnes confirmed that Nerine Tarrant had still been alive at half past three. But Speed ran a garage. Perhaps he had been up to something shady with second-hand cars this morning. Thanet knew that in the course of a murder investigation people often acted in a guilty manner for reasons which had nothing to do with the case, simply because they had some other secret to hide.

  ‘That’s easy,’ Speed was saying. ‘I was at the garage all afternoon – and all morning too, for that matter.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Absolutely.’ A thought struck him. ‘Oh, except for a test drive, late this afternoon. We’d changed a gearbox.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Let me see …’ Speed stubbed out his cigarette, leaned sideways and, with difficulty, extracted a handkerchief from the pocket of his tight jeans. He mopped his forehead. ‘It must have been about a quarter or twenty past five when I drove off. So it would have been around twenty to six when I got back. I usually take the same route for test drives, and the circuit takes about twenty minutes.’

  And Nerine’s body had been found at a quarter to six. The garage was only minutes away from the Tarrants’ house. Speed could well be in the running, then. ‘Which route do you take?’

  Lineham took down the details. And yes, Speed’s route had indeed taken him past High Gables.

  ‘Did you see anyone at the house, as you passed?’

  ‘I was doing a test drive, Inspector. I was concentrating on the car.’

  True, perhaps. But wouldn’t it be natural for a man to glance at his mistress’s ho
use, however briefly, as he went by?

  ‘There are two very nasty bends, near High Gables,’ said Speed, as if Thanet had spoken his thoughts aloud. ‘You can’t afford to let your concentration slip. There’ve been a number of accidents there, in the past.’

  ‘Can anyone corroborate these times?’

  This provoked a definite though almost undetectable reaction from both of them. A sideways flick of the eyes from Speed, a determinedly wooden look from his wife. What now? wondered Thanet.

  ‘My son will bear me out. He’s helping at the garage at the moment. He’s just finished his A levels,’ Speed went on, forced to continue by Thanet’s silence, ‘and they’re allowed to stay at home if they want to. He’ll tell you I was at the garage all day.’

  ‘And at lunchtime?’ said Thanet, softly.

  Again he picked up a tremor of reaction.

  ‘My husband was at home for lunch,’ said Mrs Speed firmly. ‘And a neighbour of ours can verify that. Mrs Shrimpton. She called in to pick up some stuff for the jumble sale on Saturday.’

  Lineham noted Mrs Shrimpton’s address.

  ‘And what did you do after lunch, Mrs Speed?’

  ‘Me?’ She was taken aback.

  ‘Just for the record,’ said Thanet, smiling.

  ‘Well,’ she said, a little flustered, ‘let me see. From half past two till four I was at a meeting in the village hall. Afterwards I went to visit someone who is sick. I left there about five.’

  But she was holding something back. Thanet was intrigued; but he wouldn’t probe any further at the moment, he decided. Better do a little digging and acquire some ammunition, first, in case he was met by blank stares and flat denials.

  ‘Is your son at home? What’s his name?’

  And yet again he had touched a nerve, hard though they tried to conceal it. What on earth was going on here?

  Speed cleared his throat. ‘Tim? Er … No, he’s out, I’m afraid.’ He gave an apologetic smile. ‘You know these young people. The minute they’ve got some cash in their pockets, they’re out spending it.’

  ‘You know where he is?’

  They shook their heads in unison, two clockwork figures. ‘With friends,’ said Mrs Speed. ‘That’s all we know.’

  ‘Not to worry,’ said Thanet, rising. ‘I’ll have a word with him tomorrow.’

  This time they were even less successful in hiding their consternation.

  Lineham waited until he had closed the front gate behind him before bursting out, ‘What on earth did she see in that slimy little creep!’

  ‘You’re talking about Nerine Tarrant, I presume?’

  ‘I mean, she was gorgeous, wasn’t she? Really beautiful. Surely she could have done better for herself than that.’

  Thanet forbore to point out that she had in fact done better for herself than that; she had married Roland Tarrant, who was handsome and successful and by all accounts as devoted a husband as she could wish for. ‘Nothing better around?’ he suggested.

  ‘All the same …’

  ‘Interesting interview, though, Mike, didn’t you think?’

  ‘I bet he’s our man,’ said Lineham enthusiastically. ‘It was obvious that he was covering up, and I can just imagine him creeping up behind her and shoving her off a balcony.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what? Why should he shove her off?’ Lineham shrugged. ‘He was tired of her? Or, much more likely, she was tired of him? That’s probably it, sir. Mrs Haywood and PC Driver both said her affairs never lasted more than a few months. Perhaps he nipped in to see her on the way back from that test drive of his. She tells him to get lost, she never wants to see him again. She stalks off onto the balcony and leans against the rail, turning her back on him. He’s in a blind rage, determined that if he can’t have her, nobody will. He goes after her, bends down, lifts her by the legs like you said, and gives a good shove. Then, naturally, he scarpers …’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Thanet thoughtfully. ‘But I think there was a lot more going on back there than just covering up a murder.’

  ‘Just!’ said Lineham. ‘Just! Now if I made a remark like that you’d be having my guts for garters! Sir.’

  Thanet laughed. ‘I stand rebuked, Mike. But you know what I mean.’

  ‘The way they nearly had heart attacks every time their son was mentioned, you mean? Yes, I noticed that, all right. I wonder what he’s been up to.’

  ‘Something to do with Damon Tarrant, you think?’

  ‘Could be. We’ll have to find out, obviously.’

  ‘Along with a million other things,’ said Thanet.

  Unconsciously, both men speeded up. There was indeed a great deal to do.

  SIX

  It was one o’clock in the morning before Thanet got home and he was surprised to see a light still burning in their bedroom. Joan was coming downstairs in her dressing gown as he entered the house.

  ‘What on earth are you doing, still up at this hour?’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Worrying about your protégé, I suppose.’

  As soon as the words were out Thanet realised that he had been tactless; impartiality was the probation officer’s golden rule.

  ‘Don’t call him that!’ And then, more gently, ‘I left your supper in a low oven, if you feel like eating it.’ She went ahead of him into the kitchen and stooped to open the oven door. ‘Really, Luke, he’s a client, nothing more, nothing less. But I was worried about him, yes. I was just about managing to get him onto an even keel, and now this happens … How is he?’

  Thanet shook his head. ‘No idea. He hasn’t turned up yet.’

  ‘Not turned up yet?’ she echoed, turning plate in hand. ‘Do you want this?’

  ‘Sorry, love, no. I’m past being hungry. I picked up a sandwich, earlier, so I won’t starve.’ He sat down heavily at the kitchen table. ‘I’d like a cup of tea, though. No, Damon apparently left home in his car at about twenty to six, and hasn’t been seen since.’

  ‘So does he know about his mother’s death?’

  ‘That’s what we would like to know,’ said Thanet grimly. ‘Amongst other things.’

  ‘You’re not suggesting he had anything to do with the murder, are you? It was murder, I gather, or you wouldn’t be so late.’

  ‘We think it was, yes.’ Thanet explained about the balcony, the height. ‘But as far as Damon is concerned …’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

  ‘But that’s preposterous! You’re not seriously suggesting he killed her?’

  ‘Darling, you ought to know by now that at this stage I’m unlikely to be suggesting anything so specific. I’m just saying we don’t know. How can we, if the boy isn’t even available for questioning?’

  ‘But …’ Joan broke off to make the tea, maintained a thoughtful silence until she poured it. Then she sat down opposite him. ‘Look, Luke, I don’t want to seem over-biased, but I really can’t believe Damon would have had anything to do with it. He’s just not the violent type.’

  ‘What is the violent type? You know as well as I do that everyone has potential violence in them, if they are pushed hard enough. Then there’s the question of drugs …’

  ‘But he’s off drugs! That is, he was never really on them. It was only cannabis.’

  ‘Only cannabis! My God, I never thought I’d live to see the day when you said, “only cannabis”! What would you say if we caught Ben smoking it? Is that what you’d say? “Only cannabis”?’

  ‘All right, darling, calm down. You know what I mean, I simply meant, it wasn’t an hallucinatory drug. Those are the ones that are dangerous in the kind of situation we’re talking about.’

  ‘We both know that once people get into drugs there’s no telling where it’ll end. Let’s face it, he’s just the type, isn’t he? Rich parents, more money than love …’

  ‘You’re over-simplifying and you know it.’

  ‘No, I don’t know it. I know very little about him. Why don’t you tell me, then I can
make up my own mind.’

  Silence.

  With a shock, Thanet realised that Joan had no intention of doing so.

  He had been right, then, to feel apprehensive. It had indeed come upon them, the moment he had been dreading for years, when their respective jobs would erect a barrier between them. He was appalled at how suddenly and stealthily it had arrived, catching them unawares, vulnerable, complacent, even. He and Joan had never held anything back from each other before; there had never even been any need to discuss the matter, it was implicit in all they said or did. Thanet had seen too many of his colleagues’ marriages eroded by resentment and mistrust to allow even a hint of such destructive emotions to creep into his own, if he could help it. Now, it seemed, he had no choice in the matter.

  Joan looked up at him and their eyes met. She was thinking the same thing, he could tell.

  He put out his hand to cover hers. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We mustn’t let this happen. I know you can’t talk about clients, especially in circumstances like this. I shouldn’t have asked. And I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m a bit tired, I suppose. Forgive me?’

  She smiled, squeezed his hand. ‘Of course. Anyway, there’s no need to apologise. I shouldn’t have overreacted.’

  ‘And we’re not going to allow it to come between us?’ But it had. It already had.

  She shook her head, smiled again. ‘No.’

  He only hoped their good resolutions would hold, if things became sticky. ‘I wasn’t really saying we suspect him, you know. It’s just that there is this unexplained absence …’

  ‘I appreciate that. But there could be a dozen reasons for it. The most likely one is that he’s gone to a party, some distance away, and he’s simply late getting home.’