Come Death and High Water (George & Molly Palmer-Jones)

by Ann Cleeves

  “But Pamela was there.”

  “Yes. Yes, I see. Of course, Pamela was on the island.”

  He was blinking again, very nervously. His lashes were fine and fair.

  “And I understand from Marie that Pamela came in to see you yesterday morning.”

  Marie was their secretary.

  “Was she asking for money again?”

  Laurence looked uneasy.

  “How much did she want?”

  “She wasn’t specific,” Laurence said, “but I gather that it was a substantial amount. She said something about school fees. Sian’s not getting on very well at the local school, and they were hoping to send her somewhere with smaller classes.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “That it wasn’t my decision. That I would have to discuss the matter with Father. And with you. I told her that it was unlikely that we would be able to help.”

  “I should say that it’s unlikely. We pay that solicitor husband of hers a fortune in legal fees, and we’ve put a lot more business his way. He does criminal work too, and Helen says that there’s always someone from his firm in the domestic court. But that’s not the point. The point is, should we tell the police that she has been asking us for money?”

  “Oh no.” Laurence spoke very quickly. He sounded shocked. “Oh I don’t think so. It was a private conversation. I haven’t discussed it with anyone. Not even with Father yet.”

  “Nor have I. I’d better have a word with Marie. Tell her not to mention it. I’ll call in to her home on the way to the police station.”

  He winked unpleasantly and went out. The wind caught the door and banged it behind him. Laurence Todd turned back to the computer, but after staring at it blankly, turned it off. He picked up the railway magazine, and only as he became engrossed in an article about a narrowgauge railway in Shropshire did the nervous blinking stop and his face become calm.

  Sian Marshall sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by dog-eared text books, and willed herself to concentrate on irregular French verbs.

  “I think I must be dyslexic,” she said out loud, watching the words on the page, hoping that she would realize how the conjugations worked with a miraculous flash of insight. “ Or just dim,” as no miracle occurred.

  There was no one to hear her. Her father was playing golf and Edward was in town with some of his friends. Edward always finished his homework on Friday nights.

  With a sudden gesture of freedom Sian pushed the books back into her satchel and called to her dog, Tramp, to come out to play. Mummy would be back tomorrow night to help her. Mummy had promised.

  Mrs. Derbyshire did not know about the tragedy on Gillibry. She did not take a daily paper or listen to the local radio station, and her husband had not telephoned her. She did not know that there had been a murder on the island, but she was obsessively worried. She could only allow herself to be worried when Paul was away. When he was at home all her energy was taken with meeting his needs, caring for him. Worry had become an almost pleasant indulgence, the only way she had now of asserting her own personality.

  She found the envelope of photographs in the filing cabinet in his study. It was locked, but she knew where he kept the key. She had not known that they would be there, but it had not taken her long to find them. She did not look at them immediately. She made a cup of coffee and sat with it and the envelope in the conservatory. The house was near to the sea, but there was not much to see through the glass—a line of dunes, a bank of marram grass. She was glad that she could not see the water. On such a stormy day, that would have disturbed her.

  She sat in the most comfortable chair, which Paul usually took, and opened the envelope. The photographs were all of the same girl, who was still, almost, a child. There was nothing pornographic about the prints. In some, the girl was wearing a swimsuit, but in most a pretty dress and sandals. In two, she was posed selfconsciously in school uniform. Mrs. Derbyshire returned the photographs to the envelope. She must remember to replace them in the filing cabinet before Paul came home. It seemed to her that nothing had changed. He had been hiding photographs of young girls since they had married. That was why he needed her so much to take care of him. So why, in the last month, had he been so frightened?

  PC David Martindale was in love, wonderfully, neurotically in love. He drove the Land Rover off the island towards the mainland, following the tyre tracks made that morning, and thought about Rachel. It was as if the corpse in the canvas bag, the men talking shop in the back of the Land Rover, were part of a hazy dream. He thought of work only as an obstacle to seeing Rachel. Savage had told him that he would probably have to stay the night on the island, and he had arranged to take her out for the evening. He would leave a message at her office. She would understand. He was aware suddenly of a small crowd of people on the quay. They were blocking the path and he shouted at them to move. He yelled Savage’s message to the reporters without waiting for any response. Ghouls, he thought, and the business which had seemed so exciting when they had raced over the sands earlier in the morning now seemed squalid, a melodramatic nonsense.

  Perhaps I’m in the wrong job, he thought, and leaving the others to deal with the body he walked away to find a telephone box and to buy food for his colleagues who were still on the island.

  Chapter Six

  Jasmine Carson sat quite calmly opposite Superintendent Savage. She answered his questions promptly and politely, but he knew that he had failed to impress her. She answered because she wanted to, not because she felt at all compelled by him. He had never met anyone like her before. He had known many formidable women, but none with her control, her detached intelligence.

  “Could you tell me what you did last night?”

  “I had supper with the others. Charles Todd told us that he intended to sell the island.”

  “How did you feel about that?”

  “I was shocked and upset. The island means a lot to me.”

  “And after supper?”

  “I went into the garden for some air, then went up to my bedroom to change into more comfortable footwear. I had been wearing heavy shoes all evening. I have severe arthritis, and I had some difficulty in undoing the laces. I saw the boys going out with the nets, just as I had finished. I was disappointed. I would have enjoyed going with them, but it would have taken too long to change again. I lay on my bed to rest. As I have explained, I was shocked that Charles could consider selling the island, and I wanted to think about it. He said that he would be prepared to sell the observatory to the trust at a realistic price, and I wanted to think out the implications of that. I decided that it would not be feasible. Some time later I went into the common room, and talked to Paul Derbyshire who had come to the same conclusion. Elizabeth usually serves hot chocolate and biscuits at ten o’clock, but it was not a usual evening. The boys had come back from ringing, and went to make the drink themselves. We were pouring it out when John and Elizabeth came in and told us about the fire at Charles’s house.”

  “Could you describe your movements this morning? First of all, did you know that Charles Todd intended to meet Mr. Packham in the seawatching hide?”

  “We all knew,” she said. “Except John, perhaps. He had left the supper table before it was decided. I thought,” she added, “that it was a rather rude and childish gesture to walk out. Not at all like him.”

  “This morning you went out for a walk before breakfast?”

  “I always take a walk before breakfast when I am on the island.”

  “How long were you out for?”

  “Only for fifteen minutes. It was rather windy.”

  “Did you see anyone?”

  “I met Elizabeth as I was coming in. She too had been for a walk.”

  “Did you take the seawatching-hide key from the bird room this morning?”

  “No.”

  “When did you last use one of the mist nets here? Do you know anything about the guy which was used to strangle Mr. Todd?”

&
nbsp; “I come to the island regularly, Superintendent Savage, at least once a week. When I am here I help with the work of the observatory. We catch most birds in the heligoland traps, but we use mist nets fairly frequently. Unfortunately my arthritis prevents me from actually ringing the birds or removing them from the nets, but I help in any way I can. I can assure you that any nets used in my presence are properly put away. My nets do not have missing guys.” She was angry.

  “Is there anything else you can tell me, Miss Carson, which might help in the investigation?”

  “If there were, Superintendent, I should already have told you.”

  In the common room Paul Derbyshire looked at his watch. There was no sense of tension or drama now. The wait was just tedious. They could have been going to see the dentist. It was half past two. He thought: What will she be doing now? Where is she now? and he played the old game of conjuring a scene in which he and she were the only actors, a scene of subtlety and tenderness and beauty. He imagined that they were together in a wood in late spring. She was collecting bluebells, armfuls of bluebells to bring for him. Then she sat beside him and began to confide in him, telling him her secrets. Her long hair, white as silver, brushed against his cheek. Then, in the stillness and the shadow, she held his hand. He was not mad. He did not confuse fantasy and reality. He knew that this had never happened and that it never would. But, he told himself, he needed the dream of an innocent beauty to protect him from the pressures, the niggling stresses, which even after retirement continued to depress him. He needed the dream as he needed Gillibry. Now, with Charlie’s death, both were safe again.

  When Connibear came in he half rose, expecting to be called next for interview. He was not anxious about the interview, because he did not confuse fantasy and reality, and Savage had no means of knowing about his dreams. But Connibear called Jerry Packham, and the doctor looked at his watch again and settled back to wait.

  Savage waited, with interest, for Jerry Packham. He had not noticed him in any detail at the first meeting, and he was interested to meet Pamela Marshall’s lover. The policeman was surprised, even a little disappointed. This was no sophisticated artist. He had sandy, curly hair and a beard, thick red fingers. He could have been a bricklayer. Savage watched him walk into the room, sit on the wooden chair at the other side of the desk. All the furniture in the room looked as if it belonged in a classroom. Perhaps it had been donated by the Education Department. The man looked as nervous and uncomfortable as if he had been summoned to the headmaster’s room. Then he asked if he could smoke, and lit a cigarette.

  Savage waited while Connibear brought an ashtray. There was no view from the ringing-room window. It looked out to the stone wall of the generator shed. They were even sheltered on that side of the house from the noise of the wind. It was like any other interview room. It would have made no difference to Savage if there had been a view. He was beyond distraction.

  “What did you want to discuss with Mr. Todd?” Savage asked gently. “Why was privacy so important?”

  He had assumed an understated, self-effacing style. Connibear had never seen him work like that before and was impressed by the change in technique. He’s showing off, Connibear thought. He’s enjoying every minute of it. He wants to prove that he’s not lost his touch.

  “I illustrated all his storybooks,” Jerry said. “ I wanted to tell him that I wasn’t prepared to work with him again. Not for a while at least … I was bored with them. I’d been offered other work and I wanted time to do it.”

  “How did you think that Mr. Todd would take the news?” The policeman spoke very softly. Connibear could hardly hear the words.

  “I thought that he would be angry, upset. That’s why I wanted to talk to him privately. He could be quite childish if he didn’t get his own way. I wasn’t looking forward to telling him.”

  “Did you go to see Mr. Todd last night to get this unpleasant interview over with?”

  “No. I didn’t leave the observatory yesterday evening.”

  “What exactly is your relationship with Mrs. Marshall?” He still spoke slowly, but he looked directly at Packham for the first time. His long, lined face was quite still, intent, as he waited for the reply.

  “We are good friends.”

  “Do you sleep with her?”

  The pace of the questions was increasing. Jerry Packham did not reply.

  Savage said sharply: “This interview is in confidence. Do you sleep with her?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “Did you sleep with her last night?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “I had decided that I wanted no more than friendship from her. I want to be more independent.”

  “Did Mrs. Marshall leave the observatory yesterday evening?”

  “She said she was going for a walk.”

  “Did she go to see Mr. Todd?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “You arranged to meet Mr. Todd in the seawatching hide early this morning. Did you go?”

  “No.”

  “Why didn’t you keep the appointment?”

  “Because I overslept. I had set my alarm clock to go off at six-thirty. Either it didn’t go off or I didn’t hear it. I slept very heavily. When I woke it was almost breakfast time. I felt very guilty to have missed him, especially when I saw how bad the weather was. I presumed that he hadn’t waited for me, or that he hadn’t bothered to go because of the storm, so I went down to the Wendy House—that’s what we call Charlie’s bungalow—straight after breakfast.”

  “Do you know anything about the mist-net with the missing guy?”

  “No. Although I’m a member of the committee I don’t manage to get to the island very often. I haven’t got a mist-net endorsement to my ringing licence, so I can’t use the mist nets on my own and John is usually busy with school parties.”

  “Did you take the seawatching-hide key from this room at any time during the weekend?”

  “No.”

  They waited until Jerry Packham had shut the door behind him, and the footsteps had moved away down the stone corridor.

  “He’s keeping something from us,” Savage said.

  Connibear said nothing. The superintendent wanted him to act as admiring audience. Connibear did not want to upset his relationship with Savage—his chances of promotion depended on it—but he was not prepared to admire too readily.

  The superintendent stood up, stretched.

  “Protecting his fancy woman, I shouldn’t wonder. He’s worried about something. And I don’t believe that he overslept. Birdwatchers get up early, don’t they? They don’t oversleep.”

  “Do you think that he strangled Todd?” Connibear felt that Savage was expecting some contribution.

  “I don’t know, lad. And I don’t speculate.” It was a rebuke. “I haven’t seen them all yet.” He hesitated. “I want to get this right,” he said. “Not for them …” he nodded vaguely in the direction of the mainland, of the glass and concrete office block which housed his superiors “… but for me.”

  “Which one do you want to see next?” asked Connibear. Now that the first excitement was over, it was just a job, an investigation like any other. He thought that Savage was being melodramatic.

  “Go and fetch the doctor for me.”

  In the common room the doctor had banished his romantic dreams. He was frightened to dwell on them too often in case they lost their magic. He had been considering the ethical problem of whether he should pass on to Savage the conversation between Pamela Marshall and Jerry Packham which he had overheard from the library the night before. He enjoyed thinking about it. He enjoyed teasing out the possible implications of the argument between them. He enjoyed the sense of happiness and security which the awareness of other people’s problems can bring. He had come to the conclusion that it would be right to repeat it, but this decision had nothing to do with ethics and everything to do with the power of gossip.

  When Connibear came
to summon him he felt nervous after all. He fumbled the business of standing up. His hand shook on the door handle. As he walked into the ringing room Savage’s attitude immediately reassured him. The policeman was still standing up. He leaned across the desk and shook Doctor Derbyshire’s hand.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, sir,” he said with an extravagant show of apology. He gestured Paul Derbyshire to sit down, and waited until the doctor was comfortably seated before sitting down himself.

  “I understand that you are the chairman of the Observatory Trust.”

  This recognition of his status gave Paul Derbyshire confidence in the policeman. His nerves disappeared. What did he have to fear? He smoothed his white hair, which was a little long at the back and a little thin on the top.

  “I am,” he said. “I was elected chairman at our first committee meeting five years ago, and I have remained so.”

  “So you can explain to me what Mr. Todd’s proposed sale of the island would have meant to the observatory?”

  “It would have been catastrophic. We could never have afforded to buy the observatory building and if we had done so, the work of the observatory would have been quite changed. You see the most important function of the place is to ring birds. The observatory has a small garden, but most of the mist-net sites are out on the island. The correct habitat is essential.”

  “Do you do much ringing yourself, Doctor?”

  “Not as much as I would like to now, though I maintain my licence, of course. My eyesight is rather poor. My function is predominantly supervisory, you know. I see to the administration.”

  “So you would not know anything about the mist-net guy which was used to strangle Mr. Todd?”

  “No. Nothing at all. Nick Mardle is our keenest ringer. These boys are inclined to be untidy at times. Only the other day I noticed that he had six bird bags in his coat pocket. Six! They should be left in the ringing room, you know.”

  “Bird bags?” Savage was momentarily distracted.

  “Small cloth bags with a drawstring. We use them to carry the birds from the traps to the ringing room to process.”