With My Little Eye

by Gerald Hammond

  ‘For the moment,’ said the DCI, ‘he’s right. You two men go after him. Take him in. If you have to be specific, charge him with whatever comes to hand, perhaps his threatening behaviour just now. It’s too early to bring up suspicion of murder. But seal up the flat downstairs and above all don’t let him tamper with anything.’

  The two policemen hurried out after George Eastwick. The woman officer laid down her pen for the moment and worked her right-hand fingers. The DCI watched her sympathetically. She had been doing a lot of shorthand hurriedly for quite a long time without respite. He was also taking time for thought. When she seemed more comfortable he began speaking again.

  ‘Thank you all for being so cooperative,’ he said. ‘As you just heard me say, it’s too early to be talking murder. Mr George Eastwick’s behaviour suggests that he may be guilty of something serious but I learned years ago that if you fix too early on one suspect you may be pinning the tail on the wrong donkey. Several weeks of plodding routine may enable us to determine whether he is indeed guilty and perhaps even to prove it – if only we had the faintest idea how and why. Why isn’t so important – the law doesn’t require a motive to be proved. But how is crucial. Can anybody offer me the first, faint beginning of an explanation?’

  There was an utter silence in the room.

  ‘I dare say the routine processes of investigation will turn up a method. But why? Assuming that George Eastwick took action against his own brother, can any one of you suggest a motive?’

  The silence became more total, which had seemed impossible. He sighed. ‘Very well. The granny flat downstairs will be sealed and opened only for forensic examination.’ He smacked his hand down on the table. ‘Whatever happened down there, traces must have been left and we … will … find … them.’

  It was a dramatic moment but it was followed by anticlimax. Betty McLeish looked up at the wall clock. ‘Lordy!’ she said. ‘Where has the morning gone? Who’s staying for lunch?’

  The DCI and his sergeant agreed to accept a sandwich apiece, which they ate at the very end of the long table. While the residents shared a pan of curried chicken, it was noticeable that the two officers said nothing – not, Douglas thought, out of discretion but so as not to miss a word that was said by the others. Douglas wished them luck. The morning’s papers had been full of a scandal involving an MSP and an actress; the ladies of the household, with whom Tash included herself, had no intention of discussing anything else.

  NINETEEN

  For all his brave words it appeared that Detective Chief Inspector ‘Sandy’ Laird was still getting no further with the case. Just as a computer can arrive at answers apparently by magic, a body of people receiving information in tiny fragments and discussing those fragments can arrive at answers, some of them usually approximating closely to the truth. The word circulating among the residents of Underwood House was that George Eastwick had remained stubbornly silent. Nothing had been found pointing to method or motive and when the time allowed by the law for inquisition of suspects had run out he had been released. The phrase ‘police bail’ was bandied about without being properly understood. He was banned from the compact semi-basement flat, which remained sealed except when vague figures, usually in white overalls, could be seen poking around, apparently without purpose or understanding, and he was believed to be staying in Edinburgh, in lodgings approved by the police. Winnie the bulldog bitch settled down happily, sharing accommodation with Rowan.

  The death of Stan Eastwick now being firmly on the back burner so far as the police were concerned, the media belatedly discovered that there was an unexplored mystery begging for attention. DCI Laird took advantage of the fresh coverage to seek the help of the public in turning up new facts, but the public on this occasion proved to be many broken reeds. The occupants of Underwood House were plagued for a while by reporters until Geraldine and Harry McLeish started feeding them with more and more far-fetched stories. After that there was peace while the media awaited developments.The small community in Underwood House could now turn its attention to the next most interesting subject, the romantic attachment of Tash and Douglas. The two persons most concerned were understood to intend marriage, although neither of them had ever quite said so, and each had a vague mental picture of slipping away to the chapel at their own places of education. Nothing so informal would be acceptable to their friends, relatives and neighbours. The bride’s father, who continued to strike oil physically and metaphorically in some Arab hellhole, insisted by email that money was no object. Her mother, while uncomfortably aware of two more daughters to be provided for, refused to be the skeleton at the feast and was soon as keen as anyone to see them married in some style, in a cathedral if no palace proved to be available.

  It was left to Douglas, whose profession had imbued him with a keen sense of the value of money and who was well aware of the eventual needs of two future sisters-in-law and bridesmaids elect, to put his foot down. Neither he nor Tash had any firm conviction about the existence or otherwise of a personal God so Mrs Jamieson soon found herself in tentative negotiation with a nearby very smart hotel, much patronised by local nobility, where she and Betty McLeish had been in the habit of taking coffee flavoured with a delicious sense of extravagance. Tash’s residence in Douglas’s flat became permanent after a single hissing argument with her mother during which Mrs Jamieson expressed anxiety about what the neighbours might think but was invited to consider just who and where were those neighbours. Like any other mother she then turned her attention to interfering in their honeymoon plans and also ensuring that Tash was provided with what she considered to be suitable underwear for such an occasion. Mrs Jamieson had been a bit of a girl in her day and if the bridegroom was already captivated there was all the more reason for keeping him so.

  Meanwhile, several of Douglas’s satisfied clients had been singing his praises. As a result, his practice was booming. He was driven to laying off work with a larger firm and was even negotiating with a potential future partner who conducted a similar one-man band some ten miles off. Douglas and Tash between them undertook a prodigious amount of work, somehow avoiding all the pitfalls that lie in wait for the overworked surveyor. Douglas was eagerly putting money by in order to buy for Tash an antique engagement ring with a large solitaire diamond. Tash was somewhat overawed by the prospect of carrying quite so much money on a single finger but had no intention of saying so until it was safely hers.

  At such a juncture the return of DCI Laird was anticlimactic and less than welcome but they cleared an afternoon for him. The day that he first suggested had been one of Tash’s days for attending college, but Tash had insisted on a change of dates. Devoted as she was to Douglas’s interests she was not going to miss the next stage of a murder enquiry for anyone.

  They welcomed the DCI into the palatial office with coffee and his favourite biscuits. He was accompanied only by his sergeant, explaining that he had found Tash’s transcript of their previous meeting more crisp and accurate and better spelled than that of his own young lady. Would Tash again oblige? Tash realized that there was an exchange on offer. If she wished to sit in on Douglas’s statement she could take the record. She sighed but opened a new shorthand book.

  ‘I rather hope that we can keep this confidential,’ Mr Laird said. ‘I’m driven to come back to you because we’re still in the same boat. A man died. We are fairly sure that we know what killed him. We think we know who administered it. As to how and why there are no indications at all. You know this building better than anybody. There must be something here that we have not yet found. Where,’ he demanded plaintively, ‘could we possibly look that we haven’t yet found?’

  Douglas had to struggle to keep the amusement out of his voice. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I can well imagine you wanting to keep it confidential. Especially – am I right? – from Detective Superintendent Laird, your wife.’

  DCI Laird flushed dully and Douglas was almost sure that he could hear the grinding of teeth. ‘I
would prefer that my lady wife were to know nothing of this.’ Mr Laird took several deep breaths and decided to unbosom himself. ‘It’s a damnable position to be in. We were both up for promotion but hers came through more quickly than mine because of some little administrative hiccup over my date of birth; so now mine has to wait to be confirmed, which may not be until the next board meeting. And she’s just too good about it.’ DCI Laird was struggling to keep his face bland but the effort showed. ‘I could understand it if she crowed, but she hasn’t. A man can stand just so much saintliness. If she sees me make a mistake I can’t see a smile, not even a smirk. But I know it’s there just under the surface from the twinkle in her eye and the care she takes to keep the laughter out of her voice. Suppose she arrived here as my superior officer to look for whatever I’ve missed. Even worse, suppose she found it.’

  Tash did not yet have the maturity or experience to skate lightly over the surface of such a delicate subject. ‘I’m sure that if she really loves you …’

  ‘Oh, she does,’ said the DCI. ‘That only makes it worse.’ He did not explain why that made it worse, nor did either of his protagonists dare to enquire. ‘I always tell my juniors to make use of any help or expertise available from the public. So for God’s sake tell me what I’ve missed.’

  There was silence for a full minute. Then Douglas said, ‘I assume that you’ve checked the sources of supply.’

  ‘We have indeed, without finding more than a few loose ends. He has never had an account in his own name with a gas supplier but, for instance, you knew that he’s doing some work for a lady who lives close to Mr McLeish’s garage and workshop. We find that he plays snooker with the workshop foreman and they go for a beer together afterwards. No law against that, of course, I wish there were, but it means that he has a ready source of refills for carbon dioxide bottles. Our forensic scientists assure me that the contents of one cylinder of carbon dioxide in that small space would be quite enough to smother somebody. Then, of course, there was the work his brother was doing for the university.’

  The DCI fell silent while he considered how to go on. Douglas decided to help him out. ‘So what we’re all thinking is that he arrives back here in his van during the afternoon,’ Douglas said. ‘His information is a little out of date and he expects us to be away during working hours. He drives to the greenhouse and leaves one or more full cylinders of carbon dioxide where they’ll be easily explained, removing any empty ones.

  ‘Around sixish there’s usually a sort of lull. The ladies have prepared dinner. They’re taking off their pinnies and changing into something a little smarter – just in case her majesty pops round to borrow a cup of sugar – which puts an onus on us men at least to tidy ourselves up a bit but not necessarily in a more formal way, because each of us has had to remain respectable all day and I for one am becoming fed up by then of the constriction of a collar and tie or a polo-neck if it’s cold weather. I usually change into fresh and well-pressed slacks and an open-necked clean shirt. The professor and Hubert do much the same.’ Douglas paused. ‘I hope that doesn’t lead the other residents to think that I’m the same way inclined.’

  Tash hid a smile. ‘I think you can take it that it doesn’t.’

  ‘That’s all right, then. During that lull the daylight would have been fading. Nobody would notice, except possibly Stan himself, if George slipped out and used his van to move cylinders of gas to where he wanted them.’

  ‘Now you’re coming to the point,’ said the DCI. ‘Where would that be?’

  ‘Off the top of the head, how would I know? Let’s go and take a look.’

  ‘Can I come too?’ Tash asked.

  ‘All right. But you need your coat. We’ll have to go outside and there’s a cold breeze.’

  Tash rewarded his thoughtfulness with a glowing look.

  The detective chief inspector took the hint and picked up his tweed coat. Douglas took his favourite sheepskin coat from behind the door. The trio descended the stairs – Douglas seemed to be paying particular attention to the chimney stack around which the mahogany staircase made its elegant curve.

  Emerging from the front door, Douglas called a halt facing down the main drive. ‘If we’re on the right lines he would have gone down this drive and come back up the other one.’

  ‘Why would he have to come to this side of the house at all?’ Tash asked. ‘He started and finished at the back of the house.’

  There was a pause while Douglas thought back over what he had said. ‘Just testing to see if you were paying attention. Anyway, we’re not carrying anything heavy and I can’t imagine him dropping any useful clues along the way. We’ll short cut across the grass. It’s quite dry.’

  They rounded a corner of the house. A small group of wood pigeon, not enough to be called a flock, took off in a panic from where they had been searching for clover or for seeds blown down in the recent high winds. A walk equivalent to the breadth of a football field brought them to the screen of raspberry canes and the rhododendrons beyond which lay the tarmac path and a large greenhouse.

  ‘A surprisingly good path for what is after all just a glorified garden shed,’ said the DCI.

  Douglas could not accept this slur on his ewe lamb. ‘I think it’s a bit more than that. The greenhouse has about the floor area of the average suburban house. It has its own boiler although that’s not much used. I think Stan used to burn garden rubbish in it. The previous owners liked to have flowers in the rooms all year round. Obviously vans would need to get here occasionally with peat or dung or bags of fertiliser let alone seeds. It was a gravel path originally but I noticed that it was firm enough to be a base for tarmac so I included it when we took quotes for the driveways.’

  Inside, the greenhouse contained benches supporting boxes holding everything from a fuzz of tiny seedlings to carefully separated young plants. There was a rich smell of warm compost and flowers.

  ‘I hope you’re keeping these plants watered,’ said the DCI. ‘They could represent a lot of money.’

  ‘I think we’ve taken the right steps,’ Douglas said. ‘The garden centre took over the maintenance but they weren’t interested in any research work and the university wasn’t going to pay them. Dr Stone took away any papers and as much of the instrumentation as he could find. The flat owners get a share of the flowers in return for the garden centre selling the rest. No money changes hands.’

  In a corner of the greenhouse apparently devoted to the university’s work was an enclosure isolated in a polythene tent. The plants therein had obviously received little or no attention since Stan Eastwick’s death. The boxes of moribund plants were enclosed in their own separate plastic tents coupled to piping that had been improvized from a garden hose. There were incomprehensible instruments for measuring concentrations of carbon dioxide. A single black cylinder lay nearby, disconnected and very lightly powdered with dust. The inspector lifted an end of it.

  ‘Empty,’ he said.

  ‘Just as one would expect,’ said Douglas. He opened the door of the small boiler and looked inside but the ashes had been cleaned out. ‘We’ll take a quick look at the compost heaps and then head back to the house.’

  TWENTY

  The DCI broke the seal and produced the key to what had been Stan Eastwick’s door. The small apartment had the silence of emptiness. Douglas had expected to hear the creak of a dog leaving its basket. He found that he had to make an effort not to speak in a whisper. He led the way into the sitting room. It was very untidy, with George’s airbed and nightwear lying where it had been dropped.

  ‘Now,’ Douglas said, ‘we’re considering the lull between work and play, the short period, around dusk at this time of year, when people are relaxing after work, perhaps having a bath or a shower, probably changing into something that will make them look and feel more leisured and ready to converse with neighbours. About this time, in fact. What would Stan and George be doing at that time? I never noticed either of them making much of an attemp
t at being dapper.’

  ‘Now that you mention it …’ Tash began. She stopped.

  The two men had forgotten her presence and were looking at her in surprise. By tacit agreement they sat down in the uncomfortable garden chairs. Tash opened her dictation book on her knee.

  ‘Go on,’ said the DCI.

  ‘I never thought about it before, but I seem to recall that George used to come back in a rush from the pub or whatever he’d been working on, just in time for a quick clean-up before eating. But the brothers didn’t usually eat with the rest of us – too expensive perhaps. My mum and Mrs McLeish do most of the catering and they came to some sort of arrangement with the Eastwicks. But Stan …’

  ‘Yes?’ said both men.

  ‘Let me think, now. Stan could usually be seen working around the gardens or going in the direction of the greenhouse until mid-afternoon. Then he’d disappear, some time between four and five. I used to assume, if I thought about it at all, that he was making a start to their evening meal. But quite often he would only be heating up a ready-made meal from the supermarket. In light evenings, he’d get back into the garden after dinner.’

  ‘This is interesting,’ said the DCI. ‘You’ve come up against one of the walls that we’ve been butting our heads against. Everything points to Stan Eastwick having died during that period but we have no clue as to what he was in the habit of doing. How did you know that they took ready-made supermarket meals?’

  Tash, who refused to be caught flat-footed by the question, looked at him coldly. ‘I was not in the habit of dining with them, if that’s what you’re thinking. You can see their wheelie bin from our office windows and they are – were – often careless about putting the lid down. I noticed the cottage pie carton more than once.’