The Dreaming Detective

by H. R. F. Keating

  He broke off, apparently ashamed at his spate of words.

  Harriet looked at him in as pleasant a fashion as she felt she could manage at that moment.

  ‘I suppose it was naive of me,’ Pip Steadman said.

  ‘Right, so how did you get on after you’d taken the oath? I don’t think I’ve come across you before.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ the little white-haired DC replied, evidently encouraged. ‘I was posted to A Division, so I never took part in the Hard Detective’s “Stop the Rot” campaign in B Div. I — I thought it was an excellent thing. If I may say so.’

  ‘All right, you may say it, once. But not more. And I don’t ever want to hear the words Hard Detective pass your lips again. Yes?’

  ‘Oh. Oh, gosh. Sorry. Sorry, ma’am.’

  ‘And you still haven’t told me why you had your breakdown.’

  ‘No. No, but, you see, I thought you might understand better if I told you about — About my leaving the advertising profession, and why I did it.’

  ‘So, go on, DC. Go on, Pip.’

  ‘Well, it was like this. I was doing well as a police officer really. I turned out to be good at the job — Quite good. And, I actually did feel that at the same time I was helping my fellow man. So, after a bit, thought I might do well in the CID. I thought it was really the life for me. Something I would be good at, and ... But then — ‘

  A full halt.

  Harriet waited a little and then, suppressing her impatience, prompted him.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Well, and then — Then something rather awful happened to me.’

  Going to need another gentle prompt? No. Seems not.

  ‘It was like this, ma’am. I’d been on a murder inquiry — It was — It was — It was a man accused of battering his wife to death. And I’d thought — I’d — You see, he was a fellow I rather liked, and I thought he was getting something of a raw deal. Not from Prosecuting Counsel, of course. It’s their job to paint black blacker than black. But from our own side. Some of the evidence my boss put in disproving the alibi was a bit loaded. Well, a lot, really. He was dead keen on getting a verdict, his last case before retirement. And so — ’

  Flow abruptly stopped.

  ‘Go on, DC.’

  ‘Well, so, ma’am, when it came to my turn in the box, with what was really a pretty crucial bit of evidence to break that alibi, I — Well, I contrived to muff it up. And in consequence the fellow got off.’

  ‘And you were reprimanded? You should have been, you know.’

  ‘No. No, it wasn’t that. Of course, I came in for a bit of flak. But my boss — I’d better not tell you his name — was demob happy, and I got away with no more than a cheerful bollocking. But, no, it was a lot worse than that.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘You see, ma’am, about a month later the chap who’d been found not guilty went and killed both his two kiddies.’

  Harriet at once recognized the case. It had been less than a year ago.

  ‘So you had the breakdown?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  He sat there, blinking furiously.

  ‘Ma’am,’ he said. ‘Do you mind if I have a cigarette?’

  Harriet looked at him.

  ‘No, DC, I don’t mind. But let me point out to you that the Chief Constable has had notices posted reminding everybody that the Headquarters building was declared a smoke-free zone more than a year ago, and that there will be severe repercussions if any officer is found breaking that rule. So, go ahead.’

  Pip Steadman looked at her cautiously. And then pulled from his pocket a much-squashed pack of Marlboro Lights and lit up.

  ‘It all got to be too much for me, thinking about what I’d done. In the box. And I got to the point where I couldn’t sleep for going over and over it in my mind. My work went to pot, too, of course. And — And I started shouting at people for no reason at all. And then, well, everything sort of went blank. And it was the psychiatric ward.’

  He leant forward across the little table, a look of desperate earnestness in his pippy eyes.

  ‘But I’m over it now. I really am. I — I’m ready — Ready for work. Really.’

  Harriet looked at him.

  ‘Right, you’re back,’ she said. ‘And still a DC. You’re damned lucky, you know.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I am. I do know it. In fact I was luckier than perhaps you realize. You see, my sick leave came to an end just before Mr Newbr — Mr Newcomen was appointed. Everybody said, despite what his predecessor had decided, that if I hadn’t actually been back in the CID, he’d have had me on the beat before I knew where I was.’

  And so, Harriet thought, old Newbroom, young Newbroom, has scored a double here. Sending me a detective like Steadman, the sort of man, as that old redneck Superintendent Froggott used to say, you wouldn’t use to send shopping, has made my life extra difficult. And at the same time he’s demonstrated his contempt for Sir Michael by showing that he thinks the man he allowed back into the CID is only fit for a half-cock job like this.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘First things first. There’s only one key for this bloody little cell of an office, and I can’t have you locked out if I ever have to be away. So see about getting me a lockable cupboard of some sort, and then we can leave the door open. Right? And, when you’ve seen to that, I want you to make your way down to the Evidence Store and obtain, first, the clothing taken from each of the possible Boy Preacher suspects straight after the killing. Sign for it. Make absolutely sure it’s the right evidence, and that it was properly accounted for back in 1969. And then get hold of the specimens from the post-mortem on the victim, which they’ll also need down at the Forensic Science lab in Lincolnshire. Take every precaution to see that nothing from outside is introduced into any of them. Bring them all up here for me to see, and then you can pack them off to Cherry Fettleham.’

  *

  She found, when Pip Steadman brought back the evidence bags of clothing taken from the suspects and the PM specimens, that he seemed to have carried out his task with efficiency. Questioning him sharply, as she peered into the sealed transparent bags, she could find no fault in the way the vital continuity of evidence had been preserved.

  But then something struck her. She had looked at only six bags, and there were seven people whose clothing ought to have been taken.

  ‘There are six bags here,’ she said sharply. ‘Did you leave one behind? The seventh bag?’

  ‘No, no, ma’am,’ he jabbered out. ‘No, there really ought only to be six. You — You see, there was a note down there. A note with the missing bag’s tab. It said that the garment taken from it belonged to a Miss Priscilla Knott. It was a blouse, pink with pearl buttons and, and a scalloped neck. It, the tab said, had been returned to her when Fingerprints back then had finished with it. She had asked for it. But she was the only one to claim her rights.’

  ‘Very well.’

  All right, she thought, jittery though my beardy friend still is, he seems after all to be capable enough. But Priscilla Knott and her pink blouse, that needs a little thought.

  ‘So, let me tell you what I want you to do when you’ve seen these bags on their way. I want you to find out which of our suspects are still alive, and where they’re currently living. Marcus Fairchild is off the list, safely dead these thirty years. But I need to know about the others, so I can decide whether it’s good policy to see them now or to wait till the Forensic Science people produce their answer. If they ever do.’

  ‘Ma’am.’

  ‘I’ve made a list of the last known addresses, which may put you on the right lines. But I imagine even those that are still with us aren’t very likely to be where they were thirty years ago. So take all the time you need. The lab down there is hardly going to come up with an answer tomorrow.’

  ‘Very good, ma’am.’

  He began gathering together the bags cluttering the little table.

  Helping him, Harriet gave each bag a p
arting look.

  Will this one with the colourful blouse, nylon by the look of it — nylon, the great sixties mainstay — will it prove to have the long-ago dried saliva on it that matches the Boy Preacher’s DNA? It must be Barbara Willson’s, Bubsy’s. Much the same splodgily patterned, cheap and cheerful affair she was wearing when those black-and-white police photos were taken.

  Or — she picked up another bag — will this dark grey waistcoat I see yield the right specimen? Waistcoat on a warm evening in late May? Or that white shirt? And is that a tie? A club tie? Must be. They did things differently, all right, thirty years ago. Or, at least, Undersheriff Lucas Calverte did, because that waistcoat can only be his.

  She gave the bag to Pip.

  Just as this bright blue shirt here, nylon again, can only be that belonging to Sydney Bigod. I can see him behind the trestle of a street stall, wearing just such a shirt as he shouts his wares. And in the pauses between was he, in the days just before the murder, asking himself in twisted anxiety whether the fact that he’d helped himself to large amounts of the Boy Preacher’s funds was about to come to light? Unless the Boy was no longer there to denounce him.

  But what about the collarless shirt in the bag here? Didn’t collarless grandad shirts come back into fashion recently? This’ll be Barney Trapnell’s, most likely, though possibly Harish Nair’s. Either of them, thirty years ago, could have been wearing this sort of greyish shirt with the faint red stripes. But, no. No, look at that thick cotton one, with a collar. Only a man who was Indian would wear that design of little yellow daisies on a pale green background. And, damn it, I can’t help thinking it indicates a nice happily smiling temperament. But, yes ...

  She shook the bag.

  Yes, Harish Nair surrendered a tie, too. That horrible red one. Clashing appallingly with his charming shirt.

  So what sort of temperament does Trapnell’s grey-white collarless shirt indicate? A sort of dull response to life? A not caring one way or the other? Could be. And if anyone’s as careless about their own life as that, would they also have been careless about others’ lives? Would they be the sort of person who’d drown a kitten without a second thought?

  So, this last bag must contain whatever outer garment Marcus Fairchild, somewhat mysterious journalist, was wearing at the time of the murder.

  She peered through the thick transparent cover, dulled to a yellowish shade now after more than thirty years in storage. But whatever was inside was so wrapped up that it was unidentifiable. The mystery man keeping his secret still.

  ‘Oh, and one thing more,’ she said, as she passed the bag over. ‘You might just check on a DS Shaddock, DCI Kenworthy’s bagman. He was at the end of his service during the investigation, but I suppose it’s just possible he’s still alive. If so, it could be worth having a word with him.’

  Pip left, staggering a little under his load.

  Chapter Seven

  Harriet sat staring at the door the nervy DC had closed behind him, a long oily black streak all down one edge, asking herself whether it had been wise to have entrusted him with his task. What if, making inquiries, he allowed his tongue suddenly to run away in the way it had when she had been sharp with him? Would he then, under some pressure or other, blurt out that the Boy Preacher’s murder was being investigated again thirty years afterwards? The investigation Mr Newbroom wanted kept confidential until he could reap the full benefit of a successful outcome?

  And, if he did, who would find coming down on to her the whole weight of a Chief Constable’s displeasure? Detested Detective Superintendent Harriet Martens. That’s who.

  She sighed heavily.

  And then what about that empty seventh clothing bag? What had Pip said was in it? Yes, a scallop-edged pink blouse. Fits in well enough with what I’ve learnt about Priscilla Knott, prim little primary school teacher. But did that blouse all those years ago have on it some traces of spittle, of no evidential value back then, but vital to my inquiry now? Was there a secret hidden in the heart beneath the pretty pink blouse? And there, in the realm of sexual fears and fantasies, had murder been inching its way forward?

  Steady. Steady on. Meadowcraftian prose casting its lurid light.

  No, enough speculation, though speculation had its place resolving crimes. No, nothing else for it now but to get on with acquiring every possible fact that may help, and hope that somehow, if DNA turns out not to be the great answer to everything, sheer hard graft will be. With, in the end, credit going to Detective Superintendent Martens rather than new broom Mr Newcomen.

  Right, over to the offices of the Birchester Chronicle and let’s see what its reporters had to say about the murder in 1969. They certainly ought to be a great deal more down-to-earth than the bejewelled pages of Who Killed the Preacher? And perhaps they’ll prove to have indulged occasionally in some more imaginative, less evidence-bound writing than efficient but stodgy DCI Kenworthy.

  At Newspaper House she found the Chronicle had an excellent printed index. Conscientiously she sat down with the volume for 1969 and checked every entry under Boy Preacher, murder of, from the staid Suspicious Death at Imperial Hotel onwards day by day, through Preacher’s Death, Police Statement and Senior Police Officer Given Charge of Imperial Murder to, many weeks later, Boy Preacher’s Death Remains A Mystery. Weary from going over to the ancient bound copies of the paper, hauling down the staggeringly heavy leather-bound volumes from the racks, and then tracing her way down column after column of thick black print, she had at last to confess to herself she had not really learnt anything new.

  All right, for what it’s worth I’ve got an even better idea of what went on thirty years ago in and around the Imperial Hotel — how magnetically the paper had swung back again and again to that then familiar proud Birchester building — but really I’m no wiser. The same events seen through different eyes, but nothing more revealed than I’ve already taken on board.

  Except ...

  Her mind flicked back to one odd little index entry which she had decided, when she first saw it, was not worth bothering about. The Trufflehound Looks at Birchester. She had thought that whatever that odd headline referred to must have slipped in error into the Boy Preacher, murder of column. But the index’s compiler hardly seemed to be someone who made errors. He, if he was a he, had scrupulously entered, after all, dozens of tiny items with just the slightest bearing on the murder. So why was this reference there?

  Blinking-eyed with tiredness though she was — it was long past lunchtime — she decided to lift down this one last back-breaking monthly volume.

  Okay, it’s most likely nothing. And if it is, I can go off with a good conscience, find the nearest pub and give myself a decent drink. And, if it turns out to be more than some meaningless reference to the murder ... Right, you never know.

  When, flipping through the dried-out pages of the paper, she came across the item at last, she saw it was a short paragraph in Birchester Day by Day written by Looker On, whoever that had been. It turned out to be not quite one thing, not quite the other. In that curious prose style such columnists had used in those days, it read: Birchester was honoured last week, I learn, by the attentions of that most ironic of observers, the man who writes under the sobriquet — sobriquet, would anyone now dare to put such a Meadowcraftian word in the news columns? — of the Trufflehound in that gossip and guesswork periodical which glories in the curious title Time Will Tell. We gather Trufflehound has been here to write about Birchester’s much-hailed young preacher Krisha Kumara — not the most accurate of journalists, Looker On — and he is to write again in next week’s issue of the magazine after he has attended the special meeting the Boy Preacher is to hold in the ballroom of the Imperial Hotel on Sunday to celebrate the hundredth time he has preached his message of peace and purity, sermons that have attracted such enormous audiences up and down the country.

  That and no more.

  Harriet wondered whether she really need do anything about it. The whole paragraph c
ould scarcely have been less informative. No doubt Looker On had not even troubled to get hold of the copy of Time Will Tell that someone must have mentioned to him. Or, if Looker On had managed that, Trufflehound’s assessment of the Birchester where the Boy Preacher was soon to be murdered must have been so dull that it had yielded nothing to quote.

  No, the item had plainly found its way into my section of the index only because it mentioned the Boy Preacher’s next meeting, even if, in the event, it got caught out by the change of the day. So, yes, the pub and —

  But, no. Or, rather, yes, the pub and that drink, but, all the same, that paragraph may have some link to my inquiry. Isn’t it possible — even very likely — that Marcus Fairchild, Michael Meadowcraft’s mysterious intruder into the Boy’s inner circle, was, not a feature writer from The Times, but that ‘most ironic of observers’, Tirufflehound of Time Will Tell. He must have used the name of the august newspaper to gain his entry. And, if that’s so, dead though he’s been these thirty years, it might well be worth finding out more about him. After all, he certainly failed to tell DCI Kenworthy that he had, presumably, only pretended to be from The Times. And might there even be something in what he wrote here in Birchester about the Boy that could be worth learning? Surely he must in that promised second piece have said something, perhaps even a lot, about the dramatic event that had occurred in the Imperial’s ballroom. I’ve an idea Time Will Tell may have ceased publication though.

  *

  Back in her Headquarters office — all the better for a glass of wine and a sandwich — Harriet found Pip had already got hold of the cupboard she had wanted. A narrow, green-painted steel affair it stood now in the corner nearest the door, with Pip standing beside it, a look of proud achievement on his white-bearded face.

  ‘Good work,’ she said. ‘I thought it’d take at least a week to get anything.’

  Pip produced a slow, even sly, smile.