She seemed to have gathered comforting bits and pieces around her like a hamster in its cage. Odd pages of newspaper littered a coffee table and the floor around her chair. Most pages contained news items of a religious nature or features on serious music. Amos expected her at any minute to start chewing them up and building a nest in her corner.
She eyed Amos coldly and with suspicion as they sat facing each other, cup and saucer in hand.
"You left four messages on Mr Jones's answering machine," Amos said to her. "Why was that?" he asked simply.
"Why do you think?" Miles retorted. "Ray never missed Sunday evensong. Not without telling me. I'd spoken to him only on Friday and he said he would be there."
"But you were not sufficiently concerned to go round to his flat to see if his car was there and if he was all right?"
"Don't point the finger at me," Miles came back with surprising vehemence. "The vicar wouldn’t listen. Ray’s own office wasn’t bothered. His housekeeper wouldn’t put herself out. I rang the police and no one took any notice. If you had done your duty and gone round to his flat you might have saved him."
A sob interrupted Miles's flow.
"No one could have saved him," Amos interrupted. "Why didn't you go to his flat on the Monday, then?"
"I went to his office and they hadn't seen him. They wouldn't take matters seriously, either. And that useless housekeeper of his who didn't look after him properly wouldn't stir herself. No one cared about Raymond except me."
"So you didn't have a key, then?"
"What are you implying?" Miles’s angry, defensive tone was edging back.
"I'm implying that as a friend you might have had a key," Amos said quietly.
"Well I didn't," Miles snapped. "Who Ray gave a key to his own home to was entirely up to him."
Others whom Amos had thought would be angry accepted the circumstances and the questioning better than he had expected; Miles had a sharp tongue that belied her mousy nature.
"I simply find it hard to understand, Miss Miles, why you raised the issue with the vicar, the police, with Mr Jones's office and with his housekeeper - even with his answering machine - and yet you did not take the simple precaution of checking if his car was at Killiney Court or of going up to his flat and knocking on the front door."
"I didn't see why I should go chasing after him," Miles said truculently. "He told me he would be at church on Sunday. I don't have a key to his flat."
Amos was slightly flummoxed by these non-sequiteurs that did not answer his question. It appeared that Miles did not intend to account for her lack of action.
"Did you know where he was going on Sunday afternoon?"
"He didn't tell me. I asked him but he wouldn't say. He was hiding something. He couldn't bring himself to tell me. Anyway, it was none of my business."
I'm sure you wanted to make it your business, Amos thought to himself.
"Whoever he saw," Miles went on, "she's got something to account for" and, as Amos raised his eyebrows, "or him," she added hastily.
"Do you know where his wife is?" Amos asked.
Miles looked startled and a reddened a little. She could not meet Amos's eyes.
"How should I know where his wife is? I haven't seen her since she left him. I don't know why he didn't just divorce her and get on with a new life."
"You were close to Mr Jones?" Amos asked. "Close ... friends?" He hesitated deliberately between the two words. Miles went slightly redder and stared down at the floor.
"Mr Jones was a fine man. Everybody liked him. He was a staunch supporter of the church - and he stood by his friends."
Miles managed to look up briefly.
"Forgive me, Miss Miles," Amos said gently, "but in my experience no-one is universally liked. Surely Mr Jones would make enemies in his business dealings. It would be virtually impossible to do otherwise. Do know of anyone who would bear a grudge against him."
"Certainly not. No-one would want to kill Mr Jones. They must have got the wrong person. And no-one," she stressed, "would kill Raymond."
"Was he popular among the other churchgoers?" Swift interceded.
Miles looked at her with some scorn.
"Church is not a popularity poll," she said disdainfully. "You go to church to worship and praise your maker, not to score points with your fellow human beings. Mr Jones was a good Christian who respected and helped his fellow men and women," she went on proudly. "It was a privilege to know him."
"Did you see much of Mr Jones outside the church?"
"Not particularly," Miles snapped. She shuffled her feet uneasily. "I saw him occasionally in town, just like a lot of other people. Churchgoers have to shop, you know. We have to buy our loaves and fishes."
“And you saw Mr Jones on the Friday afternoon before he died?"
"You seem to know an awful lot," Miles commented, forgetting that she had herself referred indirectly to the meeting. "I saw him briefly in the market square. We exchanged a few words, that's all."
"And was that the last time you saw him?" Amos inquired. "Before you went to his flat this morning."
"Yes," Miles managed after a slight pause. There was again the trace of a sob in her voice. Her eyes, which had finally managed to meet his again, looked back to the floor but Amos could see genuine tears brimming. He did not fancy a stint as comforter.
"That's all for now, Miss Miles," he said in a kindly voice. "We'll show ourselves out."
"I can't feel we've got any further forward," Swift remarked as they walked to their car. "She was just plain evasive."
"Yes," Amos replied thoughtfully.
Chapter 8
Amos and Swift returned to Killiney Court where they had left a team of police officers taking statements from all available residents.
Constable Martin, he of the deft touch with the computer, was waiting excitedly.
“I think you should hear what the Browns have to say, Sir,” he informed Amos.
The inspector raised an eyebrow.
“Potential murderers?” he inquired with a touch of humour in his voice.
“Oh no, Sir,” Martin added hastily. “They’re a harmless old couple who wouldn’t hurt a fly. In any case, they’ve had no dealings with Jones. They hardly ever spoke to him.”
“How intriguing,” remarked Amos. “What could they possibly have to say?”
Fred and May Brown lived in flat 4C. It was furnished tastefully and adequately but not ostentatiously. May Brown indicated a comfortable arm chair to Amos and took her place on the sofa next to her husband. Swift claimed the other arm chair while the constable took a dining chair.
The Browns were in their 80s but looked 70. The only hint of their real age was the slightly drawn look that came from the back twinges that had prevented Mr Brown, rather than his wife, from coming to the door as the etiquette of those of that age decreed.
“Sorry not to get up, Sir,” Mr Brown apologised. “It's a bit difficult once I've got settled.”
“I'd like you to tell the detective inspector what you told me,” the constable said.
It was Mrs Brown who took up the story: “This young man came to see us about the dreadful business across the way. Naturally we couldn't help much. Mr Brown and I hardly knew Mr Jones even though we lived directly opposite. We spoke, of course, and were on civil terms but no more than that.
“I'm afraid we don't go out much as it's a bit more of an effort these days, what with my knees and Mr Brown's back. We didn't see anyone at all over the weekend.”
Despite her protested lack of information, Mrs Brown was in full flood.
“Mr Brown was an auctioneer on market days in three of the villages round about. But we were town types ourselves and bought this place when Mr Brown retired and sold the business. We came here for the formation dancing and the bridge club. But we don't get out as much as we used to. I've a touch of arthritis in my knee and Mr Brown's back plays up from all the boxes of agricultural produce he used to hump around on a
uction days.”
Amos shifted in his chair and looking inquiringly at the constable to ask: “What on earth is so fascinating about this couple?”
The young officer looked embarrassed and nipped in quickly before Mrs Brown could launch into further irrelevance.
“Mrs Brown, please tell Inspector Amos about the keys.”
“Oh that,” said Mrs Brown, slightly deflated. “But that had nothing to do with Mr Jones. He was far too successful to resort to petty thieving. The amounts involved were never much.”
“The amounts of what?” Amos asked, his interest stirred.
“The things that went missing. You know, cash and ornaments and trinkets and the like. We changed our lock and we were all right after that.”
Fred Brown cut in: “Let me explain, dear. I'm afraid you've jumped around a bit.
“Inspector, we moved in two years ago with the first batch of residents. We could afford to buy outright with the proceeds of the sale of my business. Then we sold our existing house and invested the money to pay the maintenance charges here and supplement our pensions. We live, as you can see, quite comfortably but not outlandishly.”
Amos nodded. Brown had paused to check that the officer wanted him to continue in this vein.
As Mrs Brown made to fill the gap, Amos hastily intervened: “Go on, Mr Brown. I’m with you.”
Brown picked up his tale: “Within six months the place was full and so far no-one has left. Well, it's early days yet. Anyway, almost from the start we suspected things were going missing. At first we thought odd items had been mislaid in the move.”
He chuckled. “We started teasing each other that we were putting things in the wrong place and then forgetting what we had done with them. We put it down to old age.
“We keep some cash in the top drawer of the sideboard. Sometimes there wasn't as much there as we thought there should be. Again, we each assumed that the other had taken a bit out. But it did seem strange, as we generally go out together since I retired. So there was no reason for one of us to take any cash unless we were both there.
“We didn't see a lot of the other flat owners so it was a few weeks before we started to realise that the same thing had happened to other people. One day when we went out Mr Jones and Mr Warren were having a - shall we say heated - discussion in the common area in front of the lifts.
“You've probably seen that each laundry area faces the laundry of a flat opposite. Well, Mr Jones accused Mr Warren of getting across into his laundry and removing some antique porcelain. He collected it, you see - in fact he started at one of my auctions.
“Mr Warren said Mr Jones had so many pieces that he didn't know where he had put them.
“Mr Jones said Mr Warren had some planks stacked in his laundry area and could easily have laid them across the gap and climbed over. Mr Warren was redecorating his flat right through and said the people who worked for the property company had no taste. The planks belonged to the decorators.
“Mr Jones was right about that because we saw the men carrying in trestles and planks to stand on to reach the ceilings more easily. The whole thing would have been quite farcical if it hadn't been so bitter. Still, we started asking round and several other residents said bits and pieces had gone missing.
“We put a note through all the other doors in the block inviting people who had lost things to a meeting in our flat. About half of the residents turned up. It was a bit of a crush getting them all in. We never expected so many to come.
“By this stage we had been in over a year and everyone else at least six months. I'm afraid, though, we simply caused a lot of ill feeling. Accusations flew round the room, some residents stopped talking to each other and the whole meeting broke up in chaos. Nothing was decided.
“Next day Mrs Brown and I counted out some money and left it in the top drawer: a five pound note, six pound coins and 65p in small change. We made a point of going out every day for about an hour.
“Each time we came back we counted the cash and it was all there. We had just started to believe that we had imagined the whole thing when on the fifth day some of the money had gone. The note was still there but two pound coins, half the silver and half the copper had vanished. Whoever had taken it clearly hoped we wouldn't notice.
“Next day I went out alone while Mrs Brown stayed on guard. I bought a lock and replaced the one on the front door. Nothing ever went missing again, though we have left a carefully counted amount of cash in the drawer ever since just in case.”
Mr Brown nodded to his wife who got up, went over to the sideboard and pulled the drawer right out. She carried it over to Amos to show him.
“Did you ever report this to the police?” asked Amos, although he knew what the answer would be.
Mr Brown looked embarrassed.
“No, we didn't,” Mrs Brown said firmly. “The amounts were quite small and we didn't think you would take it seriously. We were just a couple of old fogies who got flustered.”
It was the turn of Amos to look embarrassed. The woman was quite right. Here were two pensioners who had to protect themselves against petty crime.
“And did you have any idea who had gained access to your flat?” Amos inquired. “Presumably you are vulnerable through the laundry area as well?”
“Oh no,” burst in Mrs Brown with a laugh. “Old Mrs Atkinson could never get across there.”
She hesitated.
“My wife and I discussed this matter after talking to the constable,” said Brown. “We knew you were likely to ask at some point. We don't feel it is right to point the finger when we have not a shred of evidence against anyone.”
“This is a murder inquiry,” Amos said quietly. “I think you had better tell me.”
Mrs Brown, despite the twinges of her conscience, was patently quite eager to speak out now she had the officer's blessing.
“Two people were here when these flats were council owned. One was Miss Norman in 5B. She moved out during the renovations then came back into her old flat overlooking the front drive.
“The other was Nick, the caretaker. He occupied the little caretaker's flat on the mezzanine floor. He didn't have to move because they hardly did any work on his place. He kept his job as caretaker because no one got round to sacking him. I suppose they didn't have the heart to get rid of him. He was getting on and they didn't pay him much.
“Anyway,” she continued quickly as she caught the exasperated look in Amos's eye, “we think one or the other of them somehow got hold of a set of keys for the entire block. We're not sure if the front doors were changed.”
Her husband added: “Naturally we would never have suspected Miss Norman but she does sit at her window overlooking the front drive such a lot. She pretends to be knitting but it looks like the same piece of garment all the time. She can see everyone come and go and she would know which flats were empty.
“In fact, one of the things that came out during our get-together with the rest of the block - as accusations started flying round - was that the whole floor had probably been out when each break-in occurred. It was bound to happen from time to time with only four flats on each floor. Miss Norman would have known when the coast was clear.”
“Of course,” his wife added as if her conscience troubled her over accusing a neighbour, “Nick would also know who was in or out.”
“Did either of them come to the meeting?” Swift interposed.
“Miss Norman did,” replied Mr Brown. “But she didn't say anything.”
“The poor woman couldn't get a word in,” Mrs Brown explained.
“Nick wanted to come,” she added suddenly, “but he's not a resident - not a proper resident, anyway. He was quite put out when I said no. He accused me of being a snob.”
Swift stifled a giggle a trifle noisily, causing Mrs Brown to glance at her inquisitively.
Even Amos was provoked to smile but he overcame the weakness quickly and started to rise.
“Thank you Mrs Brown .
.. Mr Brown,” he remarked graciously. “You have been very helpful. I hope I shall not need to trouble you again but if I do I am sure I can count on your cooperation.”
“Of course,” replied Mr Brown. “We quite understand. Please don't hesitate to ask if we can help in any way.”
Amos was deep in thought as the three police officers took their leave.
Chapter 9
Amos had not the slightest objection to seeing Jones's body in the mortuary early next day, even though he knew it had been chopped up and sewn back together again. The mortuary was the proper place for a victim of violent death, not the poor fellow’s own bedroom. There could be no objection to something, however unpleasant, being in its proper place.
Slater looked up from the cold slab as Amos entered the room. The pathologist was in a better mood. He tended to swing for no particular reason that Amos could divine. Today was a good day.
"Morning," Slater called out cheerfully. "Now let’s see what I can tell you.
“Male, fifties. Killed by several blows to the head. Crushed the skull. Didn't stand a chance. Look at the mess," he added, turning over their head to show the left-hand side where the damage had been done.
"Not a pretty sight. Death instantaneous. The first blow would have been enough. No need to bother with the rest - and there were at least five more direct hits plus several smacks scattered round the body. Look at the bruising.
"You’ll be pleased to know there's no doubt about the weapon. That iron bar left conveniently by the side of the bed fits the bill nicely. The blows were delivered by just that sort of implement and blood and hair on the bar match Jones perfectly. So at least you don't have to go around looking for a weapon."
"Time of death?" Amos asked.
"Some time Friday night."
“You couldn’t narrow it down a bit?" Amos asked hopefully.
“Correct," came the reply. "I couldn't."
Then Slater added as Amos was about to open his mouth: "For heaven’s sake, it was Tuesday before I got a go at the body. The longer after the deed was done, the harder it is to be precise about the time.”
Dead Money (A Detective Inspector Paul Amos Lincolnshire Mystery) Page 3