Damned by Logic

by Jeffrey Ashford

  After a further half hour, during which time there was no movement along Bracken Lane, Tiny – six foot one tall – leaned forward in the car and spoke aggressively. ‘You waiting until it’s daylight so as we can see better?’

  Noyes was reluctant to move just yet, but if tension became too sharp, mistakes would be made. ‘OK.’

  Jock opened the wrought-iron gate slowly. Tiny followed, an encased electronic reader in his right hand. Lofty used a torch on which the beam had been reduced by plumber’s tape to a very small spotlight, scanned the side wall to determine the make of the alarm, evidenced by the shape and size of its cover, binoculars to read the model number. Piera was silent, since it was Noyes’ job to make the break in. Noyes gave the signal for them to move.

  They went down the passage between house and wooden fencing of the next property and round to the back door. Lofty shone the torch through the kitchen window, fixed the light on the alarm control board. ‘Never leave anything to chance’ had become his motto after his first arrest. He told Jock to hold the torch and keep it aimed at the board while he used the binoculars to confirm that the layout matched his identification of the model.

  He used skeleton keys to force the locks of the door. These had been made by a man whose skill was mostly turned to overhauling and repairing stolen watches and removing identification marks. The skeleton keys had the appearance of twisted wire, but had been made from the highest quality steel and topped to prevent scratch marks – the giveaway that a lock had been forced and also of the skill of the operator.

  Lofty went into the kitchen and across to the control panel. Not certain how long it would be before the alarm sounded if the correct numbers weren’t fed into the panel in the preprogrammed time, he switched on the electronic reader, held it against the panel. A torrent of figures crossed the small screen and as the seconds passed, they prepared to run. Then figures stilled, leaving one number; within twenty-five seconds there were five more. These were punched in.

  They climbed the stairs. The third tread from the top squeaked and caused them to tense, but there was no response. In turn, the others stepped over the noisy tread.

  There were four doors leading off the landing. Tiny, using a converted stethoscope, listened at each at some length. He indicated that only one bedroom was occupied. Noyes stood by the door, gripped the handle and turned it slowly, then very gently pushed – the door was not locked. Making certain the others were ready to follow him, he reached inside and felt along the wall to locate the light switch, pressed it down, threw open the door and rushed into the room.

  A woman was in the right-hand single bed. In the brief interval between her waking and understanding, Noyes reached the bed before she opened her mouth to scream. ‘Shut up or I’ll throttle you,’ he said violently, as he gripped her throat.

  He felt her collapse, become limp. He reached under the nightdress – there was no heart beat.

  Jock stared at Eileen. ‘She don’t look so good.’

  ‘She ain’t.’

  ‘She told you where to look?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then ...?’

  ‘The silly bitch has died on us.’

  Barbara looked at her watch. Eleven thirty-three. Eileen, who prided herself on never being late, had said she’d be along for coffee at eleven. Pride goes before a fall, Barbara thought, incorrectly but with satisfaction.

  She picked up her mobile and dialled. There was no answer. It would be suitable, if annoying, should the invitation have been forgotten. Some weeks ago, she had missed tea at Eileen’s where she was to meet someone ‘she was bound to like’. Eileen’s annoyance had been excessive and frequently regurgitated.

  Barbara made coffee for herself. There were chocolate cupcakes, bought in part because Eileen hesitated to eat between meals, but found it difficult to resist temptation and it was amusing to watch the mental battle. Barbara ate a third cupcake, happy in the knowledge that life allowed her to indulge without putting on weight.

  Experts said that to eat healthily, one should not have too many ready-cooked meals. When entertaining guests, Barbara always made it clear that all the meals in her house were home-cooked; however, when she and her husband were on their own, finding cooking an unwelcome chore, they repeatedly ate ready-made meals, usually from Marks and Spencer since these were frequently named the best that one could buy.

  She was in the supermarket when her name was called out. She turned to see Yvonne, a woman whose husband made so much money, she believed she walked two feet higher off the ground than the plebs.

  ‘I’ve been trying to get in touch for days and days, but your phone forever seems engaged.’

  ‘I keep telling myself, I must cut back on my social life,’ Barbara said with a giggle that was meant to suggest amused exaggeration, but really just underlined that she was trying to prove how popular she really was.

  They chatted, much to the annoyance of other shoppers who had to walk around them.

  ‘I must go,’ Yvonne finally said. ‘We have a German and his wife coming to lunch – he’s something to do with Phil’s work and I must see Kathy is not making a hash of the meal ... That’s rather fun. A hash!’

  Juvenile, Barbara thought.

  ‘It’ll be a simple meal. One doesn’t want to appear to be trying too hard.’

  ‘Sausages and mash?’

  ‘Just lobster, boeuf-en-croute and chocolate raspberry gateau.’

  ‘Only three courses?’

  ‘Allows one to enjoy the food rather than eating so much the taste buds become overloaded,’ Yvonne replied rather pompously.

  ‘I suppose that’s sensible. Except ...’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Germans are usually such good trenchermen. I’d be worried they’d find three courses rather light fare, as an Edwardian would.’

  ‘Different days.’

  ‘Well, I hope all goes smoothly and your Kathy doesn’t overcook the beef, as so many do when it’s a dish they seldom prepare. Spare a thought for me – lamb and mousse. Very plebeian, but as I always say, none the worse for that ... You’re very friendly with Eileen.’

  ‘I think I would prefer to say just friendly. She can be rather ... You know ... Perhaps I should have asked her and David along since she speaks German.’

  ‘Kitchen German. But your guests might find that more homely. By the way, d’you know where she is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I can’t get through to her on the phone. David’s not there, gone up north on work or something. Glad to get out of the way.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ve not heard?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘He’s been on a cruise and had fun with a blonde.’

  ‘Knowing him, it seems unlikely, but he needs something to cheer him up. I must dash.’ Yvonne left.

  Barbara went to the food counters to buy lunch.

  ELEVEN

  Olive Kelton, old enough to have become an uncertain cyclist, wheeled her bicycle across the pavement and down the side alleyway, leaned it against the kitchen wall. She brought an apron and pair of soft shoes out of the handlebar basket, took the key from her purse, walked towards the back door, but was surprised to find it ajar when she went to unlock it. Mrs Ansell was usually very careful about keeping doors shut and locked when at home on her own.

  She opened the door, stepped inside. ‘Mrs A?’ she called out. Silence. After a few seconds of listening out for a delayed answer, she began to worry. Mrs Ansell had said the two of them would take down the curtains in the dining room for dry-cleaning today. ‘Mrs A?’ she called once more. When there still was no reply, Mrs Kelton recalled the number of burglaries there had been in the neighbourhood recently. Perhaps the open back door meant something more ominous than just a one-off mistake ...?

  She wondered if she should go inside to take a look and try and find out what had happened to the silent Mrs Ansell. However, upon reflection – and there had been all those recent
burglaries – she decided instead to call the police. They might laugh at her fears, but that was preferable to being attacked by a teenage thug who was still inside, rummaging around for anything that would help to finance his drug habit.

  PC Urquhart stood inside the hall and listened to Olive’s convoluted description of what she had seen and not heard.

  ‘Suppose you stay here while I have a good look around, madam. Make some tea,’ he added; it might calm her down to be doing something and he wouldn’t mind a cup. ‘And make sure you don’t touch the handles of the back door.’

  As he moved into the kitchen and through into the hallway, PC Urquhart became aware of a slight smell which was worrying since it reminded him of the time he had been called to a house in which a man had died.

  The old cleaner had told him that she had not searched the downstairs rooms. He did so now and found nothing to indicate vandals or thieves had been there. As he climbed the stairs, the obnoxious smell became more noticeable. With mounting certainty, he entered each room. He was unsurprised when, in the second bedroom, a woman lay dead on the bed, her dishevelled nightdress and bedclothes in disarray around her.

  PC Urquhart called in the discovery and then prepared himself for the undoubted histrionics he would have to deal with from the old biddy downstairs, who had hopefully by now made a lovely steaming pot of tea.

  The forensic pathologist visually examined the dead woman’s eyes. He stood up, crossed to where Glover stood.

  ‘The marks on the neck are too faint to categorize; the post-mortem may be able to say whether the skin has been bruised by pressure or not. However, there are no pinpoint haemorrhages in the eyes as one would expect in a case of throttling.’

  ‘Then for the moment, there’s no positive cause of death?’ Glover queried.

  ‘That’s the picture.’

  ‘Very helpful!’ Glover had spoken less lightly than intended.

  ‘We aren’t omniscient.’

  ‘Any more than we are.’ He wondered whether to add something more to lessen the other’s annoyance at what he had said, decided not. ‘How about time of death?’

  ‘Around two days ago. Rigor has passed, there’s staining on the abdomen.’

  ‘So until the PM we can’t be medically certain we’re dealing with a crime?’

  ‘No.’

  The pathologist left. Glover crossed to the window and looked out at the street, his mind asking the question whether he should treat this as a probable murder before the PM was held. To do so, would tie up many man-hours when he had many other cases to deal with, not least the murder of the presumed high-class hooker, Melanie Caine, which was still causing him much concern. However, should this death prove to have been an unnatural one – particularly a possibility with those very faint marks on the neck – and he hadn’t initiated a murder investigation straightaway, this would mean an unwelcome delay as the first twenty-four hours could be all important. One scenario could be that the intruder might have gone into the house to steal, found the owner had died from natural causes, been scared by the danger in which he’d placed himself and fled, taking and disturbing nothing. Such circumstances had occurred. Although, in all likelihood, surely a burglar, finding himself in such a situation, would have taken advantage of it; better be blamed for doing something than doing nothing. So, no, that settled it, her death would be treated as murder as Glover was instinctively convinced there was more to this death than was so far evident.

  The rain finally ceased by the middle of the afternoon. In the main bedroom of number thirty-four, curtains had been taken down and carpet rolled up, ready to be taken to the forensic laboratory; window, furniture and inbuilt cupboard had been checked for prints and other traces. The silver-backed hair brushes, small jewellery case in which were three rings, attractive but probably of no great value, and fifty-two pounds, suggested theft had not been an intruder’s intention, unless – there was almost always an ‘unless’ – he had been so shocked to find Mrs Ansell dead, he had fled with nothing.

  A search, less concentrated, was in progress in the second bedroom when the phone in the hall rang.

  ‘Answer it,’ Glover shouted.

  Detective Constable Trent, downstairs, did so. Before he could speak, the female caller said, ‘Eileen, where on earth have you been? I’ve rung a dozen times and no reply. Have you decided that what’s good for him is good for you and been having fun while hubby’s up north?’

  ‘Who is speaking?’ Trent asked.

  ‘Hullo! Hullo! Let me guess what you look like. Six feet, curly black hair, deep blue eyes, pearly white teeth, lips which caress like duck’s down.’

  ‘Who is speaking?’ he asked for the second time.

  ‘I promise I won’t tell, so you don’t have to worry.’

  ‘I am Detective Constable Trent.’

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘And you are who?’

  ‘Has someone stolen the family silver?’

  ‘I am very sorry to have to tell you that Mrs Ansell has died.’

  ‘Christ!’

  He hoped she was not too shocked. One job that disturbed his cheerful life was to have to report a sudden death and know the listener was probably precipitated into mental darkness. ‘Presumably you’re a friend of Mrs Ansell, so may I have your name and address, madam?’

  ‘Why d’you want to know them?’

  ‘Someone may need to have a word with you to help us work out what happened.’

  ‘Why.’

  ‘In order to make certain what was the cause of death and to contact her next-of-kin.’

  ‘It must have been heart failure.’

  ‘She was suffering from a problem with her heart?’ DC Trent reached inside his jacket pocket to bring out his notebook.

  ‘As fit as a fiddle, but why else would she suddenly die?’

  ‘Your name and address, please?’ he insisted again.

  She gave them this time, finally overcoming the shock of what she’d heard.

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘Yes ...?’

  ‘Is your husband with you?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  ‘An officer may soon be along to talk to you.’

  He replaced the receiver, went upstairs, spoke to Glover. ‘The caller was a woman, sir, who gave her name as Barbara Morley. She did not know Mrs Ansell had died.’

  ‘Had she any particular reason for phoning?’

  ‘She’d tried several times before and got no answer.’

  ‘She’s a friend?’

  ‘A close one from the sound of things. She thought I was Mrs Ansell’s boyfriend and we were having fun because her husband was not at home.’

  ‘Having explained the unlikely mistake of that, what did you say?’

  ‘That an officer would probably be along to have a chat with her.’

  ‘What kind of person does she sound like?’

  ‘Bouncy.’

  ‘In ancient language?’

  ‘I’d say she’s relatively young and full of fun.’

  ‘In your definition of “fun”? Did she mention where Ansell was, apart from not being there?’

  ‘I didn’t like to rush things, sir. Shall I have a word with her now?’

  ‘Find Draper and tell her to go along.’

  ‘As I’ve already talked to her, wouldn’t it be better if I went?’ DC Trent said, an annoyed expression on his face.

  ‘She’ll probably bounce less when talking to another woman.’

  ‘Do you know where Draper is?’

  ‘You failed to hear me detail her to question the inhabitants of the other houses along Bracken Lane?’

  ‘I meant, where precisely is she now?’

  ‘Unable to foresee the unforeseeable, I can’t answer. Perhaps you might think it reasonable to question the occupants of houses in the road.’

  He left number thirty-four and walked to the end of the road, turned into the house on his right-hand side.

  An
elderly man opened the door. ‘Yes?’

  Trent introduced himself. ‘Hello, sir. I’m afraid I have some bad news. Unfortunately—’

  He was interrupted. ‘There’s a police car at number thirty-four.’

  ‘Just what I was about to explain to you, sir. Sadly, Mrs Ansell has died from—’

  ‘Not even half my age!’

  ‘Has Constable Draper already spoken to you?’

  ‘Len was here earlier and told me about the police car. But he didn’t know what they was doing. I said, something’s happened, mark my words. Likely some young hooligan broke in. Happens all the time and you blokes don’t seem to bother ...’

  Trent moved along one house further down the street. The woman who answered his question said a policewoman – not that she looked like one – had talked to her not long ago. As he entered the front garden of the next house – one of the few not turned into a parking space – Belinda came out through the front doorway.

  ‘Thank God I’ve finally caught up with you,’ he said, trying not to show his irritation.

  ‘Content yourself with coincidence, not divine intervention,’ Draper replied with a smile.

  Trent had projected a relationship with her soon after she joined the CID, even while he had wondered why he was contemplating it. She was reasonably attractive, but no more, and had a sharpish character, that he found made him feel uncomfortable some of the time. He had been surprised when she had quelled his interest and, being unused to failure, had considered the possibility that she was a lesbian. Only gradually, after his rejection, had he understood why he’d been attracted to her in the first place. She enjoyed life as it was presented, not as she would wish it to be. On top of that, she had a quick sense of humour, honoured loyalty, possessed the mettle to accept without rancour or resentment the snide comments from colleagues and return them with interest, and she would condemn or console where another might lack the wish or the mental force to do so.

  He brought his thoughts back to the present. ‘The guv’nor said to find you. I’ve been trying to discover where you’d got to.’

  ‘What’s the panic?’

  ‘Barbara Morley rang number thirty-four. Thought I was Mrs Ansell’s hobby, said she’d been trying to get through on the phone and was I enjoying the same fun and games as her husband had been. The guv’nor wants you to chat to her and find out what’s the story. He seems to think you’ll likely learn more than I would.’