Face Value (Richard and Amelia Patton)

by Roger Ormerod

  I looked away. The next bit was difficult. ‘It all depends on motives, on Amelia Trowbridge’s attitude to Clive Kendall, and it’s no good oversimplifying it and saying she was in love with him. It was more complex than that. Certainly she was dominated by Kendall. He was too strong a personality for her to handle. He could get her to do anything for him — but she’s always insisted it was only related to her job. I couldn’t see how it could reach out beyond that and grab hold of her private life. But...well, she and I seemed to get on well. I soon realised she saw something in me that reminded her of Kendall. I wasn’t too keen on that, but you have to use what you’ve got. So I came on a bit stronger, trying to get her to reveal whatever emotional tangle she’d got herself into with Kendall. It worked, to some extent. I thought I’d gained her confidence, but I still couldn’t get through to the basic truth, though I felt it was there, just out of reach.’

  I gazed round cautiously, as though seeking their approval. Ken was no longer humming. Brason was staring at me with disgust.

  ‘So where did you go from there?’ asked Donaldson softly. His lip curled. ‘We can only gain from your technique.’

  I shrugged. ‘I needed something that’d help me put on the pressure, and it couldn’t simply come from me, as my idea. In the end, Brason came up with it. That wonderful theory I’ve just outlined...by heaven, it was just what I needed. I gave her the lot. At first, she just wouldn’t accept that she could be arrested, and actually locked up. I had to paint a pretty vivid picture for her. You can see what I was digging for...’ I looked from face to face, making the effort, though I nearly flinched. Beamed instead. ‘Having realised that the dead man could, after all, be Kendall, there was still one great snag. Motive. Why would Trowbridge want to kill Kendall, when he’d seemed to go along with everything his wife had done for him, and quite happily? In the end, she broke down, and told me what I’d guessed — that she’d hated Kendall, and quite bitterly.’

  I looked down at the pipe in my fingers. ‘All the while she’s avoided having to face that admission. How the hell could she admit that she’d worked so hard for the release of a man she’d come to hate? Damn it all, it’d be an admission of failure. But she admitted it to me, because that was the only thing that’d save her — or so I made her believe.’

  ‘God,’ whispered Brason.

  ‘And you see how that’s cleared the air,’ I claimed. ‘Certainly, Clive Kendall had brought about a great deal of domination, but that should have ended with his release. But her husband saw it carrying over. He agreed to move into this district, even though it didn’t help his job prospects. He helped her to prepare the bungalow for Kendall. He was even with her when she went to look at the cottage. And he knew his wife hated Kendall. If she’d been in love with Kendall, he might simply have bowed out, thinking only of her happiness. But he could see this Kendall taking over her life, and nothing coming from it but misery for her. So...what was this quiet, ineffectual man to do? There was only one way out. The Kendall his wife had released to destroy them had to die.’

  ‘You’re saying...that body is Kendall’s,’ Merridew demanded, ‘and that Trowbridge killed him?’

  ‘Exactly that. Trowbridge knew that Kendall would eventually go to the cottage. He’d left a hanging doll at the bungalow to scare him away from there. Meanwhile, Trowbridge went to the cottage and waited. He searched the locality and found himself a shotgun. And waited. His wife, in the meantime, had reported him as missing, because he would not have dared to tell her what he intended. Probably he hadn’t expected to have to wait as long as he did.’

  Merridew grunted. He was worried about Donaldson.

  ‘That pistol, now...it was Kendall’s and he’d need that, frightened, and driven from his bungalow. He’d bring it with him to the cottage, where he expected he could hide. And there he’d find...well, Trowbridge had taken his wife’s car, and it would be there. Kendall would think it meant the wife was there, but I’d suggest he’d be wary, and drew the pistol, and Trowbridge, seeing that, would run and take up the shotgun, and get himself into position. Kendall walked round to the back door. Not locked, you see, because Trowbridge was waiting for his victim. But in spite of the pistol, Trowbridge wouldn’t have expected somebody to pop up suddenly with a shotgun. His head would be blown off in a second.’

  ‘You’re not tying it up,’ Donaldson grunted, disappointed that I was.

  ‘I’m trying to find logical action,’ I retorted. ‘I don’t know what Trowbridge originally intended. Possibly a faked suicide. Why else would he rig the trip-wires? But suicide was way out of the question, the way the hands were destroyed. But then, maybe, he’d think it was just possible he could confuse the identity of the body. His own fingerprints were everywhere, and Kendall had touched nothing. Except the revolver, which Trowbridge would have to take, and return to Kendall’s bungalow. For the rest, he simply had to leave the set-up as we found it, door locked at the back and the hole in the window. That hole, he did when he got out of the window, pushing the pistol through the glass. Then he reached through from outside and fastened it. No tricks with fingerprints there, they were all his. Then he’d simply drive away.’

  ‘And that’s it?’ asked Merridew.

  ‘A few minor details to be tied down.’

  ‘Then we’ll put out a general trace for Trowbridge.’

  ‘If it’s not too late. He’ll be convinced we’ll take the body as his own, and that we’d suspect Kendall, not his wife. But he’ll be far gone by now. Or...’ I looked from one face to the other, another bright idea bubbling to the surface. ‘You could arrest her, and hope his conscience brings him back.’

  They stared at me. Donaldson swallowed, but had nothing to say. Ken moved restlessly, and Brason was edging to the door.

  ‘To play safe,’ I put in, ‘it’d perhaps be best to ask Mrs Trowbridge her opinion of Kendall. Just to make certain this isn’t just another of my obstructions.’

  They filed out into the hall. Merridew closed the door softly behind him. Then I heard their voices in the other room. I heard their voices! I hadn’t expected that. Were the walls that thin? It went on too long for the single question I’d urged on them, but I sat very still in the chair by the window. After a few moments I put off the light, then sat in the same chair, waiting for them to leave. The third vehicle, I saw, was Brason’s official Allegro.

  Then at last there was movement in the hall, and the front door slamming. I stood, and watched them walk down the path, and Amelia wasn’t with them. The WPC, I saw, was Marjie Crane. I knew her well, and tried to smile at her, hut she met my gaze with white, tense dislike.

  When Amelia entered the room I was sitting with my head in my hands. It was still buzzing.

  ‘Richard?’

  I lifted my face. ‘You heard?’

  She nodded. ‘Every word.’

  Her voice had been so empty and her face so stiff that I looked away quickly. Brason’s car was still there, I noticed. As I watched, I saw the glow of an indrawn cigarette.

  ‘I must have a word with Brason,’ I told her, and was out of the room before she could say anything. I had to get away from what I’d seen in her eyes.

  I slipped into the passenger’s seat. Brason glanced at me, then away.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ I said.

  ‘You tricked me,’ Brason whispered, his eyes on the white knuckles clasping the steering wheel. ‘You fed me that theory.’

  ‘I had to have it, son. Who better from than you!’

  ‘They drove away, and not one of them said goodnight.’

  ‘I needed somebody to put forward a solid theory, something I could throw at her.’

  ‘That much,’ said Brason, ‘was clear.’

  ‘And it couldn’t be Ken.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Cold, his voice was, toneless.

  In his self-absorption, he failed to realise that I had another reason. Later, perhaps, it would occur to him that my own theory gained strength beca
use it followed his very good one, which I’d been able to break down. Psychology, that was, and he’d need to learn how to use it.

  ‘Don’t take it to heart,’ I said at last.

  ‘I’ll have to resign.’

  Then I was angry with him. ‘Don’t be a damn fool. Give yourself time to cool down.’

  He glared at me, slapped his palm on the wheel. ‘I could tear your theory to pieces — the same way you did mine.’

  ‘So why didn’t you?’ I smiled, and opened the door. I got out into the rain. ‘I think you made a good impression, whatever you might see of it.’

  ‘The revolver!’ Brason said savagely. ‘The car...’

  ‘See what I mean?’ Then I slammed the door.

  I watched him drive away, then turned back to the house. It was going to be difficult to explain to Amelia, how my hands would have been tied, once they’d arrested her and had her tucked away. She had seemed stiff and hurt.

  The front door was closed. I rang the bell, but there was no response. I hammered with the knocker and peered through the letter slot. Then, when I turned away in exasperation, I saw her face at the front window. I gestured, and called her name in appeal, but she was unmoving, simply a white face, drawn with rejection.

  It had been necessary to force her into admitting that she’d hated Kendall. I’d not intended she should hate me.

  After a while I went to the Stag and drove away. I never recalled the journey home.

  12

  In the morning I went to the office to clear out my desk, and collect together the accumulated debris of my life. Not early. There had, first, to be the luxury of lying late in bed, and persuading myself I was going to enjoy a life of leisure.

  They had cleared all the paperwork from my desk, and taken the trays into Donaldson’s room. Ken put his head in, but seemed to remember somewhere else he should be. Then there was the embarrassment of going round to remind everybody about the do at the Carpenter’s Arms on Saturday night. I’d hired the upper room for a booze-up, and the invitations had already been accepted with pleasure. But there had not been time, the day before, for the routine round of handshaking. Nobody actually backed out of the party, but all the same there was a coolness. There was also a pain in my chest.

  It seemed only manners to put my head into Donaldson’s room and invite him, too. Ken was in there with him, and tried to smile, whilst Donaldson put on his expansive manner and said he’d be delighted, because after all a free pint or two was not to be refused lightly, especially when you haven’t contributed to the traditional retirement clock.

  ‘Er...Richard,’ he added, ‘we can’t quite find a logical reason why he’d burn the car, especially where it was done.’ That cost him a lot, I could see by the strain round his mouth. I shrugged. ‘Pity I’m retired. Have you tried asking Brason?’

  ‘I’ll do no such thing.’

  ‘Then you’ve only got to give it a bit more thought. See you Saturday, Ken?’

  ‘What? Oh...sure. See you.’

  It had been a painful morning. I couldn’t get away fast enough. I’d willingly have forgone the pleasure of acquiring another clock, hut there was no possibility of withdrawing at that late hour.

  For the rest of the week, mainly I stayed home, but never far from a phone. It hadn’t rung by the time I left the house for the party, best suit on, and rehearsing in the taxi my Lord-am-I-glad-to-be-out-of-it speech.

  At first the whole thing was terrible. The formal presentation was made, Merridew reciting his few sad words. The purchasing committee had been highly original — not a wooden-cased mantel clock, but something very quartzy, guaranteed not to lose a second in ten years. It even showed the year, and some joker had set it at year one. The first year of a glorious retirement.

  But of course, after a few pints comfortably absorbed, the atmosphere lightened. Arms became strung across stalwart shoulders, and sentimental Rugby songs were sung. Ken, sober still, came to me and said:

  ‘When’re you going to tell me, Richard?’

  ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘Why you did it.’

  I grinned, and called for another pint. ‘Going out with a bang, Ken.’

  And he had the grace to smile.

  Eventually, clutching my precious clock to my chest, I was escorted to my taxi and sent on my way with roars of alcoholic best wishes.

  Sunday was hell. Monday and Tuesday, which should have improved with practice, were worse, and each successive day seemed to contain more hours. On the Wednesday evening Ken came visiting. I welcomed him with a friendly face, though he seemed nervous and repressed. I fetched cans of lager from the fridge and we sat in the untidy kitchen, small talk covering his intentions. But at last:

  ‘It’s not going well,’ he said. ‘Not a trace of him anywhere. It’s weird.’

  ‘What did you expect? He had a good start.’

  ‘And there’s the car.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘It just doesn’t make sense, Richard, pushing it off the road and setting fire to it.’

  ‘What’s the betting Brason could explain it?’

  ‘He’s not talking. Probably expects to be slapped down.’

  I grimaced. ‘Somebody asked him, then? Surely not Donaldson?’

  ‘No, me. I’m not sure Donaldson’s normal — but we’ll live with him, somehow.’

  I made no comment.

  ‘He’s asked for Brason, you know. On transfer to CID.’

  I raised my glass, giving myself time to think. ‘And he’s accepted?’

  ‘He’s coming next month. But in the meantime...’

  ‘The car?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Donaldson’s sent you, hasn’t he?’

  ‘I wanted to see you. Me.’ He looked uncomfortable. ‘We’ve always been friends, and there’s something you’re keeping from me.’

  ‘Am I? About the car?’

  ‘About the way you treated that woman...’

  ‘Drop it, Ken,’ I growled. ‘I’ll talk about the car.’

  ‘Richard...’

  ‘The car. There’s a reasonable explanation. Trowbridge knew nothing about fingerprints, and everything depended on fingerprints. For all he knew, they might well go stale. He’d have to get things moving. The car was a beacon, Ken.’

  ‘I’ll put it to Donaldson.’

  ‘But you’ve got everything else in hand, I suppose? Description out — fingerprints — Interpol?’ I glanced out of the window, wondering what she was doing at that moment. ‘And a surveillance on her house?’

  He spoke defensively. ‘There’s always a chance he’ll try to contact her.’

  ‘Discreet surveillance?’

  ‘Of course. There’s an empty site hut quite near.’

  ‘I noticed it. Tell you what — let her see she’s being watched. Then I might be able to help. God knows I’ve got nothing better to do.’

  ‘Christ, Richard!’ Then he took a look at my face. ‘All right. I’ll do that...if you really want it.’

  ‘I want it.’

  He hesitated. ‘You’ve changed.’

  ‘Of course I have. Maybe I’m seeing things from the other side. Have you ever realised, Ken, how much we’re told to think? We’re shown the law — reams of it. We have to know what’s legal and what isn’t, and all the shades of it, and what we can expect to prosecute, and whether we can. Well...now I’m trying to use my own decisions. It’s all very strange. You see things differently. Before — everything was legal or non-legal. Now there’s only right and wrong. So much simpler, I find.’

  He looked at me doubtfully. Had it sounded pretentious? ‘I’ll see if I can lay on what you want,’ he said, and he reached for his coat.

  When he’d left, the house was big and quiet. I waited, and six desolate days later she phoned. I’d been about to decide what might interest me as an evening meal. I dropped an egg on the floor and ran to the phone.

  ‘Richard?’

  ‘Yes. I
t’s me.’

  ‘I must see you. Please.’

  ‘I’ll be right round.’

  I hung up before she could thank me, in case it should deflect me from my purpose.

  13

  She seemed to have every light on in the house, as though in welcome, and the door was open before I reached it.

  ‘Come in. Let me have your coat.’

  She took my short motoring coat. I was wearing no hat. ‘No flashy tie?’ she asked, her eyes on my roll-neck sweater. ‘I’m retired. Ties are out.’

  She looked very worn, I thought, her eyes dull, and not even attending to the tired banter. She moved with less grace and her energy seemed exhausted. I followed her into the kitchen, where she turned quickly and fixed on me a long and determined scrutiny, looking, I thought wryly, for any loss of flesh.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ she asked.

  ‘I was about to scramble a couple of eggs when you phoned.’

  ‘We could both do with a hot meal,’ she decided.

  I did not reply. As she peered, frowning, into her fridge, I prowled the floor, touching surfaces, turning the taps on and off, until she told me to sit down for heaven’s sake and let her get on with it. I sat, extended my legs and spread my feet, and put my head back with my eyes closed.

  ‘They’re watching the house,’ she said suddenly.

  I opened one eye. ‘That’s only to be expected. They’re waiting for your husband to contact you.’

  She bit her lip. ‘And the phone sounds...different.’

  ‘That’s possible, too. They’d apply for a legal order to tap it.’

  ‘But when’s it going to end?’

  ‘It will gradually ease off,’ I assured her. ‘Better, perhaps, than being in custody. For you, I mean.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that.’

  I grunted. ‘They’ll assume you’ll want to help him. As you probably have already.’

  She made no reply, just stood watching me.

  I went on: ‘I’ve no doubt Donaldson will try to get a positive identification on the body. He’ll try to trace Rona Kendall. Some wives can recognise their husband’s body, you know. They’re not all like you.’