Scene of Crime

by Jill McGown

  “I’ve booked the table for one o’clock. I’ll meet you there, darling.”

  She wasn’t sure how Lloyd would feel about her conducting her own private investigation into this business, but her lunch hour was her own time, Marianne was her friend, and there was no rule that said police officers couldn’t have lunch with a friend.

  What harm could it do?

  CHAPTER SIX

  When he got back to Stansfield, Tom bought an evening paper; in the days leading up to Christmas, it appeared earlier and earlier, and Tom had never worked out why.

  The headline screamed WOMAN LEFT TO DIE BY BURGLARS at him, and he read the item, more or less a rehash of the press release, but with more descriptive color than the press officer was allowed.

  As he walked into the incident room, he got bombarded from all sides with information, almost all of it negative. There were no prints on the tape dispenser. The empty box that had probably contained the tie and handkerchief had Bignall’s prints and someone else’s—presumably his aunt’s, because the unknown ones didn’t match either the prints found on the door between the dining room and the kitchen or the ones found on the window frame. All the unidentified prints found at the scene, including these, had been checked against known felons, and they had drawn a blank.

  Estelle Bignall’s bathrobe had no foreign fibers on it, so they had nothing on what her assailant had been wearing.

  Two things that were of some interest: the mud that had been walked through the dining room into the kitchen contained brick dust from the garden and glass from the window, and the muddy shoe prints on the patio did not. Therefore the person on the patio had probably not entered the house. Which, Tom thought ruefully, fitted nicely with Dexter being a lookout and running away, except they weren’t his shoe prints.

  The other thing—the one that had distinct possibilities—was that someone had called to say that he’d seen a van parked on the main road, at a bus stop between the entrances to Windermere Drive and Eliot Way, at about eight-twenty. He had written down the number because of the burglary in which a van had been used, and the driver, a heavily built young man, had run back to it and driven it away as he’d done so. And it was the number of Baz Martin’s van. Of course, Ryan said he’d been there, but he said Baz had gone home before anything happened, and clearly Baz had not.

  He’d let Ryan have his lunch while he went to have a word with Baz, and then interview him again, now that he knew he’d been lying about both that and seeing Bignall’s car. In fact—he’d take him his lunch himself, and let him look at the paper.

  That might make him come to his senses.

  Officially, Lloyd had to assume that Estelle Bignall’s death was the result of the treatment she received at the hands of burglars, because so far that was what the evidence suggested, but he still didn’t believe it. And neither did Freddie, so he had hoped that the full postmortem might produce something they could go on, but as Freddie said, it had been a long shot.

  “No evidence of strangulation,” he said. “I think she was smothered, but not necessarily by being gagged. The vaginal swabs were positive, though, which might be of assistance to you. They’ve gone off for DNA analysis.”

  Lloyd’s eyebrows rose. “Really? I thought you said you didn’t think there had been a sexual assault?”

  “I think I said there were no external signs of sexual assault,” said Freddie. “And I don’t recall saying anything at all about sexual assault just now.”

  Lloyd sighed. Pathologists were so pedantic. “So what are you saying?”

  “In my opinion there are three possibilities. One, the sex was consenting, and coincidental to the subsequent violence; two, she submitted to sex before any violence was done to her—possibly in the hope that violence wouldn’t be done to her; or three, she was raped when she was no longer able to offer resistance.”

  “Do you mean after she was dead?”

  “Or unconscious. She would lose consciousness quite quickly if she was being smothered. If it was an assault, it wasn’t violent, and she didn’t put up a fight, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “So what would you be prepared to say in court?” asked Lloyd.

  Freddie sucked in his breath. “What I’ve just said about the sexual activity is what I would say in court,” he said. “And as far as her death goes, I would be prepared to say that in my opinion the findings are not consistent with accidental smothering due to being gagged. That the bruises on either side of her jaw are consistent with someone having held her by the back of the neck, which could suggest deliberate smothering. But the defense would have no trouble finding someone to say exactly the opposite.”

  “So how would they account for the non-soggy handkerchief?”

  “They could point out that she, suffering from some sort of upper respiratory problem, could well have panicked and died very soon after being gagged.”

  “But you said you could find no evidence of an upper respiratory problem,” said Lloyd.

  “No. But even if we discount the head cold, we don’t know how the tie was used to hold the gag in place—it was very tight, and could have obstructed her nostrils. The tie could also account for the bruising on the jaw. Sims obviously just pulled it away—he didn’t note its exact position.”

  “And your belief that if she had been alive when she was gagged she would have rolled herself over so that at least she wasn’t facedown?”

  Freddie shook his head. “The self-preservation thing is opinion at best, but even if it was an established fact that someone would do everything in their power to facilitate breathing, we only have Sims’s word for it that she was facedown when he saw her. We don’t have a photograph to prove it.”

  “It wouldn’t be enough on its own anyway,” said Lloyd.

  “No. And even if it was, Sims is young and inexperienced and was in two minds about what to do,” Freddie went on. “He was in something of a panic himself—a good defense barrister would tie him in knots. By the time he was finished, Sims wouldn’t be able to say for certain if she was lying facedown or dancing the polka when he saw her.”

  The lack of injury to her mouth seemed to Lloyd to be the best bet, but Freddie, professionally able to see the facts from both the prosecution and defense points of view, shook his head.

  “If she interrupted the intruder, the first thing he would do would be to try to keep her from making a noise,” he said. “A hand over her mouth would be the quickest way, and he could have told her that if she allowed it to be done, she wouldn’t get hurt. Only after that does he start tying her up, and only then does she start to struggle, because she can’t breathe. She passes out from lack of air before he tapes up her ankles.”

  It was possible, thought Lloyd. But it certainly didn’t sound like Ryan Chester’s style.

  “Any or all of these things could mean that she died exactly as it looks as though she died,” said Freddie. “I just don’t think she did. It’s an opinion. No more than that.”

  Lloyd didn’t think she had either; time for Judy’s suggestion, he felt, and offered it.

  Freddie smiled. “She thinks the doctor was putting arsenic on his wife’s porridge?”

  “Well, she did have mysterious illnesses. He says she was a hypochondriac, but perhaps she wasn’t. So if we can find evidence of any previous attempts to do away with her …”

  “Sure,” said Freddie. “I can test for all the usual drugs. But from what I’ve seen of her organs so far, she seems to have been in very good physical health. I mean,” he said wickedly, “just look at this, for example.”

  Lloyd didn’t.

  Carl left Estelle’s solicitor, feeling a little more in control than he had been. It was up to the coroner, apparently, to release Estelle’s body in order that funeral arrangements could be made, and he wouldn’t do that until the police investigation had reached a stage at which they knew they no longer needed it, and then only if any criminal proceedings did not require the defense to be able to
carry out their own autopsy. It meant he couldn’t lay her to rest in the foreseeable future, and he felt that only then would he be able to draw a line under his life up to that point and start again. But at least he knew what was what.

  As to the other things, they were as he’d believed them to be; Estelle’s will was straightforward, and he already knew that the death certificate would be issued as soon as the cause had been determined. Dexter’s possible plight was still nagging at him, but for the moment he was in no danger, so there was little point in worrying about that now.

  And he had managed to spend the whole morning away from Meg Leeward’s watchful and concerned gaze, which made him feel a little better in itself. But she would undoubtedly have search parties out if he didn’t go back now, so he drove toward the village where the Leewards lived, still confused, still anxious about how it was all going to turn out, still aware that Chief Inspector Lloyd was deeply suspicious of him, but definitely a little more in charge than he had been.

  “He’s still not back.”

  Denis had come home for lunch, though it was something he didn’t usually do, purely to see how Carl was, and even he was now bothered by Carl’s prolonged absence.

  “He looked ill this morning,” she said as she began preparing a meal without even thinking about what she was doing. “I just hope he’s all right.”

  Other men’s wives might find it irritating if their husbands came home unexpectedly in the middle of the day expecting to be fed; not Meg. She was barely aware of what she was doing as she produced his lunch; she’d been born to look after someone. He had taken it for granted, even allowed it to get him down at times. He had never meant to have the kind of wife who stayed at home and looked after the house and him, and, when he married her, Meg hadn’t seen herself like that either.

  But children had come along, and she left work and brought them up; he didn’t have a lot to do with it. He had resented that; he knew that now, though he hadn’t been aware of it at the time. She was the one who had bathed them and put them to bed and told them stories; he would look in on them and kiss them good-night. Often they were asleep before he had the chance.

  Carl would confide in him about Estelle; how unpredictable she was, how exhausting. But even that seemed glamorous to Denis; a wife who could fly into a rage, slip into a depression and be the life and soul of the party all in one night might be hard to live with, but it wouldn’t be monotonous.

  The doorbell rang, and Carl was back, apologizing to Meg for having been out so long, explaining that he had just wanted to get all the legalities sorted out as soon as possible so they weren’t hanging over him. Meg sat them both down and served lunch, and Denis looked at Carl, much more like himself now, and realized that he probably needed a bit of monotony, a bit of Meg, to help him through all this.

  And there was a beneficial side effect as far as he was concerned; while she had Carl to wait on and worry over, she wasn’t doing it to him.

  Eric had gone over and over everything Finch had said, and the more he thought about it, the more he felt that Dexter had probably kept his mouth shut. He didn’t know how they had got on to Dexter so quickly, but if Finch had known anything, he wouldn’t have left without trying to find out a little more.

  As it was, all that seemed to be bothering Finch was when Bignall left last night, so things were looking pretty good.

  Judy didn’t have to look for Marianne when she got to the restaurant; no one ever had to search for Marianne in a crowd. She was out of her seat, waving, scarves flying everywhere, as soon as Judy stepped over the threshold.

  “Oh, I’m so glad you could make it, darling—I thought you might be too busy with all this dreadful business.”

  Judy sat down. “I’m not actually involved in the investigation,” she said.

  “Oh, I don’t understand who does what in the police. I just wondered how it was going. I heard that two boys had been arrested—is that right, or aren’t you allowed to say?”

  “I don’t honestly know, Marianne,” said Judy. Which was true. She had accepted Marianne’s invitation to lunch in the hope that Marianne was going to tell her something, not the other way around. She took the menu from the waiter and glanced at it. She never ate lunch; she wasn’t all that interested in anything. Which was just as well, because she found that Marianne was ordering for both of them.

  “You must have the sole, darling, it’s absolutely divine. Isn’t it wonderful these days? Real restaurants everywhere! Even in Malworth. This one costs the earth, but it’s worth it.”

  Judy had just seen the prices, and felt that if the sole wasn’t solid gold, they’d be cheated. But it was a lovely restaurant, so she supposed they had to pay for the surroundings.

  “And what will you have to start?” asked Marianne.

  “Oh, nothing, thank you. The sole will be fine.”

  Marianne ordered a starter, and handed the menus back to the waiter. “I eat,” she said. “When anything unsettles me or upsets me, I eat. And I hate to eat alone. That’s why I dragged you away from your work. But you do have a lunch hour, don’t you, darling?”

  Judy agreed that she did have a lunch hour, refused white wine, and parried questions about the investigation until Marianne’s starter arrived, and with it came the real reason for Marianne’s invitation to lunch.

  “Do they think those boys did it?” she asked. “Or are they just hauling in likely suspects?”

  Judy smiled. For someone who claimed to know nothing about police methods, Marianne’s guesswork was very close to the truth. But not this time. This time they really did think they’d done it, or at least they had when she last heard. But Marianne didn’t, and she wanted to know why.

  “As I said, Marianne, I’m not on the investigation. They might just be witnesses of some sort.”

  “It’s just that—well, if poor Estelle was just the victim of some vicious thugs, then there would be no need to bring up anything personal, would there?”

  “Is there something personal you think should be brought up?”

  Marianne demolished the rest of her starter, and drank some wine. “If I talk to you,” she said, “that’s not official, is it? I mean, you said you weren’t involved in the investigation.”

  Which Marianne had known perfectly well all along. Judy waited until the waiter had taken Marianne’s plate away before she spoke. “It’s not quite like that,” she said. “If you tell me something that has a bearing on the investigation, I’d have to act on it.”

  “But if it didn’t,” Marianne persisted, “I mean—if that lovely, lovely man of yours came home and said they’d confessed and it was all wrapped up, you wouldn’t have to make an official report or anything like that, would you?”

  “Marianne, all I can say is try me. If I don’t believe that there’s any reason for the investigation to know, then obviously I wouldn’t make it official. But a confession from someone about the burglary wouldn’t necessarily mean your information wasn’t relevant. You’ll have to trust me. Or not tell me.”

  The sole came then, and it was, as Marianne had promised, delicious. Judy hadn’t known about this place. She knew Lloyd would love it. She might bring him here as a treat for being her lovely, lovely man. Which he was, mostly. When he wasn’t being exceedingly irritating.

  Marianne ate in a totally unnatural silence for a few moments, then came to her decision. “Estelle was having an affair,” she said. “But, I mean—if this was just a burglary that went horribly wrong, then it has nothing to do with anything, and it might have nothing to do with it anyway, come to that. But I told you she’d been much happier lately, and—” She laid down her knife and fork. “I did a terrible thing.”

  Judy too laid down her knife and fork. “Marianne, if you are going to confess to a crime, please don’t do it here,” she said.

  “No—not a crime. Well, yes, I suppose it was. I suppose it was stealing, really. Except that I’m giving it to you, so—”

  “Stop
there.” Judy had been joking. Now she leaned forward and spoke in an urgent whisper. “You know if you go on, I am going to have to act on it, whatever it is.”

  “It’s up to you, darling.”

  Oh, God, what had Marianne done? Lloyd would hold her personally responsible. “Can we go somewhere else?” she said. “Somewhere more private?”

  “No one’s listening,” said Marianne. “And we haven’t finished our lunch.”

  Judy looked around; the diners did seem engrossed in what they were eating and in one another; the hum of conversation and the civilized spacing of the tables precluded overhearing. The waiters weren’t likely to come to the table for a little while. “All right,” she said. “What have you done?”

  “I went to see Carl this morning,” she said. “Actually, he’s staying with his partner, but he was at the house.”

  Oh, dear. Carl was being investigated by Marianne. Much scarier than being investigated by the police.

  Marianne, who claimed clairvoyance, correctly guessed, or simply knew what she was thinking, and looked offended. “I just wanted to see if he was all right,” she said. “Anyway, I had to go to the bathroom while I was there, and I couldn’t help seeing the bedroom—the door was open and the bed wasn’t made, so it caught my eye, because the house always looks immaculate. There were no pillows on the bed—any of the beds, come to that—is that significant?”

  Judy didn’t reply. Her sole was growing cold; Marianne was eating hers.

  “And I saw Estelle’s diary on the bedside table,” she said. “I recognized it from the pattern on the cover. It was a real diary, not an appointment diary. I’d seen her with it lots of times.”

  Judy felt as cold as her sole. “And?”

  “And I went in and had a look at it.”

  “Oh, Marianne,” groaned Judy.

  “It wasn’t like on the telly, darling. They didn’t have the room closed up—there wasn’t any of that crime-scene ribbon over the door or anything—I wouldn’t have gone in if there had been.”