Scene of Crime

by Jill McGown

  Leeward was shaking his head.

  “You were heard! The people next door heard a row. Then a scuffle—that was when you tied her hands so she couldn’t defend herself, wasn’t it?”

  “No!”

  “And then there was silence,” Tom said. “That was because you had suffocated her, hadn’t you? Then you got to work and made it look as though someone had broken in.”

  “No! No, she was dead! She was dead when I got there!”

  Lloyd put down his pen. Tom sat back. He had enjoyed that; it had gotten some of the anger he felt out of his system.

  “All right, Doctor,” Lloyd said. “Tell me exactly what happened. From the moment you arrived.”

  Leeward looked nervously at Tom, then took a deep breath and calmed himself down. “I parked at the rear, but I couldn’t get in that way, because the gates were locked. I was going to go round to the front, but as I walked past the house next door I realized I could get into their garden through that one. So that’s what I did, and when I got to the house, I could see that the French window was broken. I opened it and saw there had been a burglary. And then I saw Estelle. I went to her, and felt her pulse, but she was dead. I didn’t know what to do.”

  Lloyd frowned. “You had found a house that had been burgled and a woman dead, and you didn’t know what to do? I can’t really believe that, Dr. Leeward.”

  Leeward shook his head. “I had no reason for being there,” he said. “I couldn’t tell how long she’d been dead—I couldn’t say she’d called me out, because for all I knew she might not have been able to. I had known Carl would be out, so I couldn’t have been calling on him. Don’t you see? If I’d called the police, it would all have come out. I’d lose my job, my marriage—everything. Everything. And she was dead—there was nothing anyone could do for her. It would have helped no one, and done a great deal of harm.”

  He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, blew his nose. “Maybe if I’d taken just a moment to think I would have come to my senses. But I ran. I ran back out, and over the wall, but it was dark, and there were bricks piled up—I fell and hurt my ribs.” He paused in his account to pull his shirt out and show them his bruised ribs, as though that proved something. “I picked myself up, got over the wall, and suddenly a light came on. I almost died of fright, and I just kept going until I got to the car. It wasn’t until I was driving away that I realized I was only wearing one glove. I’d taken the other one off to feel for a pulse.”

  Lloyd shook his head. “Dr. Leeward, I’m sorry, but your story doesn’t add up.”

  Leeward stared at him. “What?”

  “What time did you get there?”

  “I don’t know for certain.”

  “Where had you arranged to meet Mrs. Bignall?”

  “We met at the surgery.”

  “What time did you leave the surgery?”

  “Quarter to eight—I wanted to be certain Carl was gone by the time I got there.”

  “And the journey takes how long?”

  “I don’t know … fifteen, twenty minutes. I got there just after eight, I think. A few minutes after eight.”

  “At a few minutes after eight the next door neighbors heard an altercation between a man and a woman. Then silence. Then a few minutes after that they heard a window breaking. Four people heard the window breaking, and one heard the bricks being dislodged. They all saw the security light. And you triggered it when you ran away. I think you broke that window. I think you killed Estelle Bignall and faked a burglary.”

  “No, no. No!”

  Tom supposed that anyone who could convince himself that it was okay to screw your psychologically disturbed patients could convince himself that he hadn’t done away with them, because Leeward truly seemed to believe that they had the wrong man. But five witnesses, even if one of them was Ryan Chester, was a bit difficult to get around.

  “I—I saw the man who did it!” Leeward shouted. “He was trying to steal my car! He ran away.”

  That clinched it. Tom had never felt kindly disposed toward Ryan Chester, unlike Judy Hill. But he did now. Because he was going to put Leeward where he belonged.

  Lloyd sighed. “Denis Leeward, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not …”

  There was no reaction as Lloyd went through it all again, making certain the procedure was followed to the letter, because Leeward obviously knew something about all of this, and one slip-up could cause trouble if you weren’t careful. Leeward was sitting there, his eyes wide, but they weren’t seeing Lloyd, Tom was sure.

  “You have the right to have someone informed of your arrest, and you can make a telephone call if you wish,” Lloyd concluded.

  “I think,” Leeward said slowly, “that it was when I found the glass in the sole of my shoe that I knew I couldn’t hope to get away with it.”

  “With what?” said Tom. “Murdering Estelle Bignall?”

  His eyes seemed to focus for the first time since Lloyd had arrested him. “No,” he said. “And I don’t want to answer any more questions.”

  “Very well,” said Lloyd. “Interview terminated, 7:05 P.M. We’ll see how you feel in the morning, Dr. Leeward. I would advise you to think very carefully about legal representation. Take Dr. Leeward to the custody suite, Sergeant Finch.”

  Tom got wearily to his feet and took Leeward’s arm.

  “Can I phone my wife?” he asked.

  “What’s going on, Dex?”

  Dexter looked at Ryan, his eyes wide with would-be innocence. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “I mean why were you anywhere near the Bignalls’ house last night?”

  “I went for a walk.”

  “Come on, Dex—don’t give me that! What were you doing there? Who did that to you?” He shook his head. “And why did you lie about me?”

  Dexter frowned. “I didn’t,” he said.

  “You told them I wasn’t there! You said you hadn’t seen a car there!”

  Dexter was shaking his head. “I didn’t,” he said.

  Ryan leapt to his feet. “Were they lying to me? They’ve no right to do that. If they were lying, I’ll—”

  “No,” Dex said, agitated. “No, Ryan—listen! I didn’t mean I hadn’t said that. I meant I didn’t see you. Or a car.”

  “But you must have!”

  “I didn’t,” said Dex. “There was no one there. The road was empty.”

  Ryan sat down again. What the hell was going on? He hadn’t imagined the bloody car. So if Dexter really hadn’t seen him, then it was Dexter who wasn’t there. He looked at him. “Where were you?” he asked.

  “Eliot Way.”

  “Before you were in Eliot Way.”

  “Nowhere.” He looked scared.

  “Dexter, tell me where you were!”

  “I wasn’t anywhere!”

  And with that, he ran upstairs. Ryan heard his bedroom door slam, heard him crying. He thought about going after him, then thought better of it. He’d get nowhere. Better to leave him alone, let him calm down.

  Whoever had done that to him had scared him. Scared him into lying about everything he’d done, everything he’d seen. And Dex had been a bit funny for a long time now, now that he came to think of it. His mother had noticed long before it got to this stage, and as usual had ignored it for as long as she could. But he had to have it rammed down his throat, hadn’t noticed until the poor kid was beaten up and was upstairs crying his eyes out because he was too scared to tell even him the truth about what had gone on in Windermere Terrace last night.

  Neither of them had been much help to Dex, whatever it was that he’d gotten himself mixed up in.

  “He’s been arrested?” Carl wouldn’t have believed that things could become more incomprehensible, but they just had.

  “He’s at the Stansfield police station. I wanted to go, but he said they were locking him up for the night and I wouldn’t be allowed to see him anyway.”

  Carl sat down with her on the sofa. Perha
ps he was jumping to conclusions. “But what’s he been arrested for?” he asked. “Drunk driving or something?”

  She shook her head. “It—It’s about Estelle, Carl,” she said, her voice a whisper. “He says they’ve arrested him on suspicion of murder. It’s ridiculous—I don’t understand what’s going on. It’s obviously all some dreadful mistake. I don’t understand why he hasn’t told them that he was with his—”

  “But—why?” Carl spoke through whatever she was saying. His head was spinning. “What’s Denis got to do with what happened to Estelle? Why on earth would they—” And then, in the world’s slowest double take, he realized why the police had been so certain his car had been outside his house last night.

  Denis had been there. He put his hand to his mouth and closed his eyes, unwilling to think beyond that point.

  “Carl?” she said, her voice fearful. “What is it?”

  What in God’s name had been happening in his house last night? He didn’t know the answer to that, but he did know what had been happening with Estelle and Denis for the last two months. It hadn’t been a fantasy. It hadn’t been a writing project. It had been the truth.

  He saw Meg’s anxious face looking into his. “I—I think Denis was at my house last night,” he said. “I think someone saw his car.”

  She looked puzzled. “No,” she said. “He was with his brother. They’ve been going out for a drink on Monday nights for weeks. That’s what I was going to tell you. It’s all some mix-up, it must be. I don’t know why he hasn’t told them where he was, but Alan will clear it all up.”

  Carl shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I don’t think he does go out with Alan on Mondays.” His mind was racing through all the possibilities, rejecting all but one of them. His voice was far away, as if someone else was speaking. “I thought Estelle went to a writer’s group, but she didn’t.”

  “Carl, what are you saying?”

  Carl closed his eyes, shook his head. “I think they were having an affair,” he said. “She wrote about it in her journal. I thought she’d made it all up.”

  “Denis and Estelle?” she said, her lip trembling. “But he was—she … she was his patient! He wouldn’t do that. She wasn’t …” She tailed off, then swallowed. “She wasn’t well.”

  Carl half laughed, half sobbed. “Tell me about it,” he said.

  She hadn’t been making it up about having an affair, he thought, and maybe she hadn’t been making it up about Watson. He had to tell the police. Now. Dexter could be in danger.

  “I—I’ve got to go, Meg,” he said.

  “Where?”

  He didn’t answer. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Lloyd was busy when Carl got to the Stansfield police station, but he said he’d wait. He didn’t want to talk to anyone else. He waited in the small anteroom at the entrance to the station, not exactly happy about what he was about to tell Chief Inspector Lloyd, but if he was right, Dexter had to be gotten out of the situation he had found himself in.

  “Dr. Bignall,” Lloyd said as he came in. “Have you remembered something that might be of use to us?”

  “Not exactly,” said Carl. “But I understand that Dexter Gibson was seen running away last night, and that you think he was running away from my house.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Lloyd. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss that with you.”

  “I realize you can’t confirm it, but Janet herself told me. The thing is—I think I might know why Dexter was there.”

  “Oh?”

  “I …” Carl took a moment. This was not going to show him in a good light, but he hadn’t thought there was a scrap of truth in it. “I told you that Estelle got much worse when Watson moved in next door,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Lloyd.

  “She would say things about him. They sounded ridiculous. That she saw people going in there but she could never see them in the house, that he must have some secret room where he took them—all that sort of paranoid stuff.”

  Lloyd frowned. “Had she ever said that sort of thing about anyone else?”

  “Not like that,” said Carl. “And it sounded ludicrous. I asked her if she saw them come out again, because I thought she was accusing him of being a serial killer or something. And she said of course they came out again—it was what they were doing while they were in there that bothered her. And who they were doing it to. It really did sound crazy.”

  He saw Lloyd sneak a look at his watch. “Sorry,” Carl said. “You’ve had a very long day—I realize that. And I am getting to the point. It’s—It’s just important to me that you understand the kind of climate we lived in.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” said Lloyd. “Take all the time you need.”

  “The thing is, she went on like that about people all the time—well, not like that, exactly, but she was always thinking people were out to get her, up to something, conspiring against her. I really didn’t think anything much about it.”

  “And now you think there was something to it?”

  Lloyd clearly thought it was time he stopped trying to justify his lack of interest, though he honestly did feel it had been justified. Estelle’s misgivings about everyone and everything had been constant, her capacity for invention staggering at times. He’d grown used to ignoring her.

  “I don’t know if there was something to it,” he said. “But in the summer she told me she’d seen Dexter Gibson leaving Watson’s house, that she believed Watson was sexually exploiting him, that the other people she saw going in there were abusing him and Watson was photographing it all in this secret room. That was too much—I told her to get help from someone more qualified in that area than Denis.” He felt his face burn. “I know how that sounds. But—But I had to live with that sort of thing day in, day out. I’d long ago exhausted my supply of understanding.”

  Lloyd didn’t speak. Carl had no idea what he was thinking.

  “And then she told me that when she was thirteen she desperately wanted to be a model or an actress—you know, like little girls do. She was in a school play, and Eric Watson came to take photographs for the program. He told her that if she wanted to be a model, she had to have photographs to show the agencies, and he would take them for her, that she wouldn’t have to pay him, just help him out with some odd jobs.”

  “I expect I can guess the rest,” said Lloyd.

  Carl nodded. “She found that the ‘odd jobs’ meant taking her clothes off and modeling in provocative poses for him. He told her that models and actresses had to get used to that sort of thing, so she did it. And then he said he would like her to pose with other people, and he would pay her to do it. She agreed to that as well, and found she couldn’t get out of it—whenever she said she didn’t want to do something, he would threaten to send the photographs to her grandfather. So she found herself performing all manner of sexual acts with all manner of people in all manner of places until she was too old to be of interest to him.”

  “And you didn’t believe her when she told you this?”

  He sighed. He knew what it sounded like, but she’d been dramatizing herself and her life for years. “No,” he said. “I thought she was just trying to draw attention to herself, as usual. I told her that she would find herself in court if she continued saying things like that.”

  “Did she say that Watson himself had abused her?”

  “No.” Carl frowned, thinking about that. If he hadn’t dismissed it as he had, perhaps that would have struck him, but it hadn’t. “I should probably have taken more notice of that, shouldn’t I? It’s not the sort of detail you’d expect in a fantasy.”

  He was reminded then of Finch, who had said almost exactly that about Estelle’s journal. He obviously wasn’t very good at spotting the truth when he saw or heard it.

  “She told me that he just took the photographs,” he said. “That he called the people who bought them pervs.”

  “If she thought he was doing that to Dexter, did
she try to do anything about it? Did she speak to Watson about it?”

  Carl shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “And she didn’t contact us, I presume.”

  “No. I tried to call her bluff, told her to tell the police, but she said if it went to court, she couldn’t bring herself to give evidence, which I said was very convenient.” He shook his head. “I know I sound like a brute, but I’d had years and years of her paranoia—I thought this was just a new twist.”

  “What’s changed your mind?”

  Carl shook his head. “I have no more proof now than I had then. But I know you’ve arrested Denis Leeward.” He shook his head. “I don’t think for a minute that Denis had anything to do with Estelle’s death, but I am assuming it was his car that was seen, and that he is the lover Estelle was writing about.”

  Lloyd didn’t confirm that, of course, but if he’d been wrong, Carl was sure that Lloyd would have put him right.

  “If she was telling the truth about that, then I have no reason to suppose she wasn’t telling the truth about Watson. And what I do know is that Watson has a studio in Welchester—which is where Estelle lived until she was fifteen—and that he met Dexter during the school holidays, when Dexter came to my house with his mother one day, and now I know that he does a Saturday job for Watson. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized it could explain an awful lot about Estelle and the way she was, couldn’t it? It would certainly explain how she was about Watson.”

  “It would,” said Lloyd.

  “And Estelle said she saw Dexter coming out of Watson’s house, so if he was seen running out of Watson’s garden last night, it seems possible he was in Watson’s house rather than mine.”

  Lloyd nodded seriously and stood up, holding open the door much as Carl himself had held the door open for Marianne, no doubt with just as much relief that his visitor was going.

  Carl got to the door. “If that story about Watson is all just a sick fantasy of Estelle’s, I’m sorry. And I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time, but I wanted you to understand why I didn’t react the way another husband might have reacted to his wife telling him something like that. If I’d thought for a minute it was true, I’d have tried to get Dexter out of it.”