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

by Ann Cleeves

  “I’d like to talk to your father. Do you think that he’d be willing to see me this evening?”

  “Oh, I don’t think that would be wise,” Helen said quickly. “As I explained, he’s a very old man.”

  “Goes to bed early does he?” Savage said. “Doesn’t matter. We can call first thing in the morning.”

  Ernest laughed. It was a deep throaty chuckle and ended in a cough.

  “It’s no good, Helen. They’ll see him some time. One of Superintendent Savage’s men talked to Father this morning. You’re better going this evening, Superintendent. He doesn’t go to bed early, but he does lie in until mid-morning. It’s become a habit of Helen’s to prevent our acquaintances from meeting my father. She thinks that he’s vulgar.”

  “Nonsense,” she said, dismissing him, refusing even to be offended by him. “I’m concerned for your father’s health. But if you think that he’s fit to see the police, of course you must go, Superintendent. Would you like me to telephone to tell them that you’ll be visiting?”

  “That would be very kind,” he? said, walking towards her, overwhelming in his gratitude.

  Connibear, who had said nothing and had been ignored by both Todds, stood up, and this was a sign that they should leave. Now that the interview was reaching its end, Todd and his wife were gracious. They apologized for not having offered food and drink and stated that of course if they could help at all in the future, Savage should not hesitate to be in touch.

  Then they were outside in the dark. The wind had changed to the west and was damp and sweet, and smelled of the wet leaves, and salt. Connibear felt very excited and alive. He was exhilarated by Savage’s driving, by the feeling that they were moving, forward, physically and in the task which they were performing.

  Albert was thrilled to learn that the superintendent wanted to see him. Elsie took the telephone call. Laurence was in the attic with his model railway. She went to tell him first. He listened to her carefully: he knew that it must be important for her to disturb him when he was in the attic. Carefully he switched off the power, put away the engines and followed her downstairs. Albert was watching a western on the television. He was a little deaf and the sound was turned up loud.

  “You mustn’t be upset, dear,” she said when she got his attention. “Helen’s just phoned up. Superintendent Savage has just been to see her and Ernie. He’s in charge of the case, you know. In charge of the murder inquiry. He’s on his way here. He wants to talk to you.”

  “About time too,” Albert said. “ Why did he go to see Ernie before coming here?”

  Laurence blinked. “Ernest went to see him,” he said. “He thought the police ought to know about Nicholas Mardle. He went to tell them.”

  “I suppose that was Helen’s idea,” Albert said. “Ridiculous anyway. Nicholas Mardle wouldn’t have murdered Charlie. Charlie didn’t have anything to do with the business. Young Mardle liked him as far as I know. Did she say what this detective was like?”

  “No. Not really.” Elsie was apologetic, as if she should have gained more information. “ She said that he wasn’t local.”

  “Perhaps he’s from Scotland Yard,” Albert said, becoming even more excited. “I wonder what he wants.”

  “I don’t think he wants anything especially,” Elsie said. “Just a general conversation.”

  “Of course he wants something. He wouldn’t come here if he didn’t want something.”

  Connibear immediately felt at ease in the house in Laurel Avenue. Elsie bustled them out of the wind and began talking at once about tea. There was a print in the hall which he recognized. His aunty had had one like it on her mantelshelf for twenty years.

  Albert Todd sat in a high, straight-backed chair in one corner of the living room. A walking frame stood against the wall beside him, but there was no other indication of his age. He did not look very old. Savage took the chair next to him. Laurence had turned off the television as soon as he heard the knock at the door, and was hovering nervously, uncertain whether he should stay or go, bothered about where he should sit. Elsie was in the kitchen making tea.

  Savage and Albert looked at each other. Neither was too concerned with the conventions of politeness and did not hide the mutual appraisal.

  “It’s good of you to come and see me,” Albert said with a touch of sarcasm. “I was expecting to see you earlier.”

  “We’ve been on the island all day,” Savage said. It was a kind of apology.

  “I’ve never been there,” Albert said. “Don’t suppose I will now. Do you know who killed Charlie?”

  “Not yet,” Savage said.

  “Well, it wasn’t Nicholas Mardle. I knew Fred and Mary very well. They wouldn’t have had a son who is a murderer.”

  “What do you think, Mr. Todd?” Savage turned to Laurence. Laurence was surprised by the question. He hesitated, stammered briefly before speaking.

  “No,” he said. “No, I don’t think that he killed Charlie. He was very upset, very upset, but I don’t think that he could have done that.”

  Savage dismissed Laurence as a waffler. He turned back to Albert.

  “When young Mardle came to see you, what exactly did he say? His mother had died?”

  “Yes,” Albert said. “ It was the day after the funeral. You mustn’t take any notice of what was said then. It was only natural. I wouldn’t have mentioned it. It doesn’t show the business in a good light.”

  “All the same,” Savage insisted. “ I must know what was said.”

  Albert repeated the phrase he had used to Elsie earlier in the day. “He said that we were a bunch of murderers and that if he could get away with it, he would kill us one by one.”

  Connibear was discreetly taking notes, watching the protagonists. There was a sudden flash of surprise and fear on Laurence Todd’s face, which he hid immediately behind his blinking eyes and blank expression. It occurred to Connibear that Laurence had not known before what Mardle had said to his father.

  Savage made no comment on Albert’s words and changed the subject. “Charlie left the island to the Observatory Trust and everything else was to be split between Pamela Marshall and Jonathan Todd.” He looked briefly at Laurence. “ That’s your son?” Laurence nodded, but Savage’s next question was directed once more towards Albert.

  “Did that surprise you?”

  “Yes it did. I wouldn’t have thought that he would have bothered much with the family.”

  “Mr. Todd?” Laurence was asked, but it was obvious that Savage did not expect much from his answer.

  “I didn’t know what was in Charlie’s will. Not until…” He hesitated. “ No. I didn’t know what was in Charlie’s will.”

  Elsie came in then with a tea tray. She was concerned with the policemen’s comfort, pointed them towards the easy chairs, poured out the tea for them.

  Savage smiled at her, thanked her warmly. “ We’re just discussing Charlie’s will,” he said. “I expect it will come in useful for the boy. Expensive business now, being a student.”

  “Yes,” she replied. “Wasn’t it nice of Charlie to remember Jon? Not that it will mean much to him now. He says that he’s not into materialism. We offer him money of course, but he won’t take any more than he needs to make up the grant, so he never has more than the other boys. He’s so independent. I sometimes think that he doesn’t eat properly. But we’re very proud of him, aren’t we Laurence?”

  “Yes,” Laurence said softly. “Very proud.”

  “What about Mrs. Marshall?” Savage asked. “Is she into materialism?”

  “She’s into materialism all right, that one,” Albert said sharply. “I’ve never known anyone spend money the way that she does.”

  “Got money problems has she?” Savage asked conversationally. No one was deceived by his tone.

  “No,” said Elsie, shocked. “ No, of course not.”

  “She’s got no debts if that’s what you mean,” Albert said. “Nothing substantial anyway. She always
seems to have the problem of never having enough money, but I daresay she’s not the only one.”

  Elsie offered another cup of tea. Savage refused it, watched impatiently while Connibear drained the dregs from his cup, then stood up with a jerk. Before leaving the room he looked directly at Albert.

  “Thanks for your help, sir,” he said. “ If you think of anything else you know where to contact me.”

  He took Elsie’s hand in both of his, briefly acknowledged Laurence’s presence, then walked out. Connibear followed.

  “What did you make of that?” Savage asked when they were in the car. He had allowed Connibear to drive.

  “Not much,” said Connibear. He was disappointed that they had achieved so little. His exhilaration and optimism had disappeared. He felt that the interview which had promised so much had been an anticlimax. It had been over so quickly. “ They didn‘ t tell us much more than Ernest.”

  “Oh, they did. They told us that Mardle threatened specifically to murder each of the family members. That makes a big difference.”

  “But it’s not logical. Charlie had no part in throwing his mother out of the cottage.”

  “Of course it’s not logical, lad. It’s crazy. But murder isn’t logical, and most murderers are mad. The courts don’t admit it very often, but it’s true. It’s not logical to want to kill every prostitute in Yorkshire, but it happens.”

  “So you think it was Mardle? The old man wasn’t very convinced.”

  “The old man hasn’t met as many murderers as I have. I don’t think anything yet. I’ll want to get some more information from the scientists before I think anything. But I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out to be the boy. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “So you don’t think that the financial motive is important?”

  “No I don’t. The amount isn’t big enough. For someone like Pamela Marshall it’s peanuts. And that boy Jonathan could get anything he wanted out of his parents. They obviously dote on him. If he wanted money, he only had to ask for it. Besides, he wasn’t there, and I know that whoever killed Charlie Todd is still on that island.”

  Connibear drove through the town towards the police station. The orange street lights were reflected in the wet pavements. In the summer it was a shabby, tatty town. The gift shops sold cheap and shoddy souvenirs, the amusement arcades were brash and noisy. There was nothing classy about it. There were no good restaurants, no smart boutiques. Now that all the holiday premises were closed it had a quiet, derelict dignity. The pubs were just closing. Three people waited in the fish and chip shop, but towards the harbour the streets were deserted.

  Connibear pulled into the car park behind the police station. It could have been anything from a town hall to an insurance office, but no other building in the town was so obviously open and alive. Connibear switched off the engine, waited for Savage to make a move. He sat for a moment.

  “There’s no need for you to come in,” Savage said. “ I won’t be long. You go home if you like. We’ll have to go back there tomorrow morning.”

  He nodded into the darkness towards the sea.

  “That’s all right. I’ll come in with you, if you don’t mind. I’m in no rush to get home.”

  It was his first important case. He did not want to miss out on it.

  Savage seemed pleased, pushed the door open aggressively, paced impatiently while Connibear fumbled to lock the car, then they walked quickly together towards the building.

  “Any news?” Savage shouted at the officer at the desk, but he did not stop moving. The policeman had to call up the stairs after him that there had been no news.

  They both sat down. Connibear took out his notebook, so that they could discuss the interview with the Todds in some detail. The phone rang. Connibear answered, waited for the call to be put through. Savage drummed his fingers on the desk crossly, as if Connibear were wasting time unnecessarily. The call came through and Connibear listened. Then he said:

  “You’d better speak to the boss.”

  As he handed the receiver to Savage he said: “ It’s Martindale. There’s been another murder on the island. He’s arrested young Mardle.”

  Chapter Nine

  George Palmer-Jones returned to the observatory with Paul Derbyshire and Pamela Marshall at about the same time as Savage was beginning his interview with Ernest Todd. Elizabeth was serving cocoa. Constable Martindale took a cup, and ate the cakes she offered with enjoyment. Everyone was there. Everyone was quiet, exhausted by the drama of the day’s events and the wind. Elizabeth collected the cups, John carried them to the kitchen for her. They returned briefly to say goodnight, then disappeared to the flat. The other guests started talking about bed and, led by Jasmine Carson, went upstairs. Pamela lingered, hoping perhaps for another opportunity to talk to George, but Martindale had moved into the seat next to his and showed no sign of leaving them alone.

  She said, “See you in the morning,” and followed the others up.

  “Would you like to hear the tapes of the other interviews, sir?” Martindale said. “Superintendent Savage said that I was to ask you.”

  “Did he?” George felt tired. Savage’s ability to bully him, despite his absence, was oppressive. He felt inclined to refuse, but curiosity overcame him.

  He looked properly for the first time at the policeman. He seemed very young, shy, not as arrogant as young policemen often seemed to be. “Are you local?” he asked.

  “Not quite,” Martindale said. “I went to school in Bideford.”

  George smiled. Bideford was only twenty miles away.

  They went together to the ringing room and listened to the tapes. George made notes in his bird notebook. Martindale sat very still and listened with concentration. He must have looked like that when he was revising for O levels, George thought. When the tapes finished Martindale looked anxious, as if he were to be examined on their content, but George said:

  “I’m too tired to take it all in now, Perhaps we could discuss them tomorrow morning when we’ve had a chance to sleep on it.”

  They walked to the entrance hall where the coats hung, and up the narrow stone stairs. John had switched off the generator, and Martindale showed the way with a torch. He went into the dormitory and Palmer-Jones into his cell-like single room. There was a small bed, an old dining chair and his rucksack; there was just room for him to stand. He was tired, but he did not feel ready to sleep. He lit a candle. The place seemed full of small noises, of the plumbing, soft footsteps, the creak of beds and the rustle of clothes. It was as if everyone had been tired in order to avoid the company of others, but now they could not sleep. He wondered if he should find out where Pamela was sleeping. He could see if she was awake and talk to her. But although he was not sleepy he felt a kind of lethargy, so that the idea of any action intimidated him. He sat on his bed and looked at his notes, but the words spun before his eyes and he was left only with a series of impressions, visual images of the kind that usually came to him when he was over-tired. He saw Savage, sitting in the ringing room, intense and competitive, defying the murderer to outwit him, determined that by will alone he could know what had happened. He saw Jasmine Carson offering her help as if it were a donation to some worthy cause, and Doctor Derbyshire’s spiteful, smiling face turned to the wind. He saw fear in young faces, and triumph, because the island had been restored to them, and because the young cannot sustain a pretence of mourning. But he could not be sure if the visions were true, or the distortion of truth, caused by his own interpretation and prejudice. It occurred to him then that he might write to Molly. He began the letter in his mind, and the words comforted him, gave some sense to the situation. He was thinking that he might undress and sleep, when somebody screamed.

  It was not a loud scream. It was stifled and could have been man or woman or child. He took the candle, opened the door and walked quickly into the corridor and towards the noise. As he did so other doors opened. The screaming continued. Mark joined him and they ran toge
ther towards the sound. Jerry Packham was in front of them. Both were fully dressed. The noise came from the room next to Packham’s and he opened the door.

  It was another single bedroom, like the one which George had just left, whitewashed, with a hand-painted print of sea-pinks on the wall. The scene was lit by a tilly lamp hung from a hook in the ceiling. Nicholas Mardle was kneeling by the bed like a child at prayer. His hands were red and sticky with blood and as he rubbed his eyes with his fist the blood smeared on his face and hair. He was screaming. On the bed Pamela Marshall lay. Her nightdress had been white starched broderie anglaise. The sheet and blanket had been pulled back from her, carefully and neatly, so that an exact triangle of white sheet had lain against the quilt. Now the nightdress and the sheet and the quilt were crimson. Blood still oozed through the cotton weave of the nightdress and because the cloth was wet, the outline of her breast showed through it. She looked at them with blank-eyed horror.

  Nicholas Mardle’s screams turned to sobs. He could speak for the first time.

  “I didn’t mean it,” he said. “I didn’t mean it.”

  “It’s his knife,” Mark whispered to George. “There on the floor. It’s his.”

  Next to the boy’s knees, the blade and metallic handle dulled by blood, was his knife.

  It had all happened very quickly—the scream, the dash from the bedroom, the assimilation of the scene. They froze for a moment to take it in, then with Mark’s words the action started again. PC Martindale pushed through the three men at the door. He must have been following quickly behind them down the corridor. He checked competently that the woman was dead. He seemed unsure, then, what to do. It was obvious that Nicholas Mardle was not dangerous. Martindale took refuge in formality. Hardly looking at Mardle, he told the boy that he need not speak, but that anything he did say would be taken down and might be used in evidence against him. Nicholas seemed not to have heard him and continued to sob.

  George Palmer-Jones broke away from the group of spectators and ran down the corridor. The corridor cut the upper storey of the building in two. On one side was the Lansdowns’ flat, although there was no access to it from the corridor, only from an outside fire escape and a private flight of stairs from the kitchen. On the other side were the guests’ bedrooms, in a row, each with its own door leading directly from the corridor. The dormitory was right at one end, next to the double room shared by Nick Mardle and Mark Taylor, then his own room, then Jerry Packham’s, then Pamela Marshall’s. So all the people with rooms to the north of Pamela Marshall’s were accounted for. He opened the next door to the south. It was a bathroom and empty. The next was an empty double bedroom. Blankets were folded in piles on a metal-framed bunk bed. There was no possible place to hide. He walked on, tapped at the next door and opened it. Jasmine Carson lay on the bed. Either she was an extremely skilful actress or she was asleep. Even in sleep she looked stern. On the chair next to the bed were a glass of water and two bottles of tablets; one contained pills for the relief of arthritis, the other a branded pain killer and sedative. That’s why she’s breathing so deeply, he thought. She was breathing heavily as if she were drugged. At the foot of the bed her clothes were folded carefully on top of a leather holdall. She stirred and he could see that she was wearing pyjamas, buttoned up the front like a man’s. They were made of striped winceyette. George shut the door carefully behind him. He knocked at the next door, pushed it open, looked into a small dormitory, four beds close together and a chest of drawers. He did not bother to knock at the next room and pushed open the door. Paul Derbyshire was sitting on the bed, combing his hair. He was wearing a pale blue nightshirt. He had removed his false teeth and when he looked up at George his surprise and horror were made ludicrous. His smile of embarrassment was as pink and gummy as a baby’s.