Error of Judgment

by Roy Lewis

  ‘I’m afraid you won’t see West today, Mr Fanshaw. He wasn’t feeling well yesterday, and went home after lunch. When he didn’t appear this morning — and you know for yourself that he always appears on the premises at eight forty-five — his secretary rang through to his home. She was just in time to speak to an ambulance orderly—’

  ‘Ambulance orderly!’

  ‘That’s right. They’d just got there, it seems. West had a heart attack yesterday afternoon and must have been lying in the house all afternoon and last night, alone, unable to help himself, until, about eight this morning when he came to sufficiently to contact the hospital. That’s where he’ll be, now.’

  ‘Dear me, dear me.’ Fanshaw was genuinely distressed. He liked West; a strange man in some ways, somewhat reticent, introverted, but a man of quality. ‘I must get out to see him when I can.’

  ‘Perhaps one of his principal lecturers can helpfully discuss things with you? I think Stanley will be looking after things in West’s absence.’ Peters was rising to his feet, obviously regarding his discussion with Fanshaw as nearing termination. ‘I’ll get the girl to ring through for you, to warn Stanley you’re coming down.’

  ‘Yes, that will be fine. I’ve got to see Stevens in the Economics Department too, but perhaps that’ll be later today. Er . . . the girl . . . you mean the youngster in your secretary’s office? What’s happened to Rosemary?’

  ‘That’s another thing,’ Peters said with an explosive grunt. ‘She hasn’t turned up for work this morning either, and with those blasted students kicking up outside and my secretary away life is not going to be easy for me today.’ He grinned suddenly; it was part of his charm. ‘But that’s what I’m getting paid for, isn’t it?’

  It was indeed, thought Fanshaw. He took his leave of the rector and walked out with his black, gold-embossed briefcase into the corridor. Up the broad stairs facing him, along the corridor on the second floor, and he could see across the open campus of Burton Polytechnic to the spire of the church at Sedleigh, and beyond to the faint line of the Down, distant and blue in the sunshine. But he glanced only briefly towards Sedleigh; his attention was directed to the immediate vicinity for the number of students in front of the Administration building had increased. There were now well over a hundred young people there but they still seemed disorganized, milling around with a curious lack of definition and purpose like a disturbed flock of sheep in a paddock. They seemed to be lacking a leader. Fanshaw shrugged and moved on, across the connecting bridge that took him past the chemistry laboratories, through the physics section and left into the block that housed on its five floors the business and professional students.

  Robert Fanshaw was proud of his fitness and of the youthful spring of his step. When he had taken young Spedding as a fledgling HMI last year he’d been pleased to note that the thirty-five-year-old newcomer had kept pace with Fanshaw’s long stride only with difficulty. And normally Fanshaw would always walk up the stairs in the business studies block.

  But not this morning. Perhaps he felt tired, even though he would be the last to admit it. Perhaps he was short of breath. Perhaps it was merely the fact that a picture of West’s overstrained heart lay at the back of his mind. Whatever it was, Fanshaw decided to take the lift. The staff lift, he noted, was rising, two floors above. So he stepped towards the student lift which wouldn’t have been used this morning with all the students remaining outside, and pressed the call button. Thirty seconds later the lift slid up to him, the doors hissed open and Robert Fanshaw stepped inside.

  When the doors closed soundlessly behind him, he was still standing rigidly, glaring in shock at the figure of the girl curled up on the floor. Her head was swathed in a woollen cardigan, roughly tied around her throat, her skirt had ridden up above her waist and she was wearing one shoe. None of this would be bothering her though. She was dead.

  * * *

  Chief Inspector Crow settled back in the car and stared moodily out of the window, watching the hedgerows flash past. Detective-Sergeant Wilson sat beside the driver, saying nothing. Crow savagely reflected that Wilson knew better than to speak before time. Crow had just completed an investigation in Bristol involving a particularly bad knifing case on Brandon Hill, and he’d been looking forward to getting home. It had been Wilson’s task to inform him that he was to proceed straight to Burton — influenza and three other homicide cases had sent the Murder Squad rota haywire and Crow was to be involved in the field again, immediately. Martha hadn’t seen him for three weeks and now there was Burton . . .

  Crow brushed an angry hand over his domed skull and scowled at the pale reflection that glowered back at him in the window. It was a thoroughly bad-tempered reflection and his deep-sunk eyes looked like dark cavities in which embers of anger gleamed dully. But he shouldn’t take out his bad temper on Wilson; the dour detective-sergeant was just doing his job.

  ‘Better fill me in on the details,’ Crow said, and tried to lever his long legs into a more comfortable position. Wilson glanced back briefly, and nodded.

  ‘The subject was discovered this morning, sir, in the lift at Burton Polytechnic. The discovery was reported at once; a squad car was despatched immediately—’

  ‘And I was dragged off my train.’

  ‘Yes, sir. The local force decided the Murder Squad had better be called in at once. The subject has been identified as Rosemary Harland, and it seems she worked as secretary to the rector of the polytechnic. The rector is Dr Antony Peters.’

  ‘How did the girl die?’

  ‘It’s reported as a head wound, sir, but the unit will be down there as soon as possible.’

  ‘Time of death not yet pinpointed, I suppose?’

  ‘No. The lab’s been warned and the pathologists will be standing by.’

  Crow settled back in the seat with a sigh.

  He stared out at the trees moving past in the summer morning and he supposed this part of it, at least, was better than sitting in front of a desk piled high with reports and files. He wondered briefly about the Bristol case: in court yesterday, when the young man had been committed for trial at the next Assizes, there had been a sick, lost look about him that had made John Crow feel ill in his turn. It hadn’t showed; Crow presented an image of cold efficiency, but even so he often felt a prey to inner doubts, even when a case seemed complete, all the ends tied up satisfactorily. The doubts arose because he recognized that the truth had many facets and could sometimes be nothing more than an illusion. And in the long run you never knew, you just never knew. Facts and reports and details could give a picture, build up a circumstantial case, and it could all lead to a conviction.

  But deep down, you never really knew.

  Wilson was looking at him, craning his head backwards to catch his eye. There was an unhappy and uncomfortable air about the stance and Crow felt a stab of trepidation.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Er . . . there’s something I omitted to add, sir.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Sedleigh Television; they’re already there.’

  ‘Already there! How on earth did they manage to get there before we did? You’re not going to tell me that they’ve got their blasted cameras all tracking on that lift already!’

  ‘Almost as bad as that, sir. It seems they were out there before nine this morning—’

  ‘Before the body was discovered?’

  ‘Well, yes, you see they’d received information about a proposed student demonstration and they hoped to film it and conduct some interviews—’

  ‘And as soon as they see that first squad car arrive they’ll be on to us like a swarm of bees! Why can’t life be simple, just for once?’

  He subsided angrily, and Wilson turned his head to stare out at the road ahead. He knew better than to say any more. The inspector would want peace to growl to himself.

  The squad car flashed under the railway bridge and proceeded at a smart pace towards the looming block of the Polytechnic. A
few students were still walking towards the Administration buildings as the car reached the campus, but they seemed unaware of any startling developments. The sight of the police car caused several of them to break into a run, nevertheless, and two shook angry fists. Crow wondered briefly why the sight of the car should incense them; he received the answer within minutes.

  As Crow’s car swung around the bend and towards the car park in front of the Administration building he caught sight of the flashing blue light of the squad car that had already been despatched from Sedleigh. The blue light; that was all he could see, for the rest of the car was hidden from view by a surge of students. They surrounded the car, almost a hundred of them, Crow calculated swiftly, and from the rhythmic swaying at the core of the group he guessed they were trying to rock the car, upend it ignominiously on the tarmac.

  ‘Siren!’

  The driver complied and the wailing note caused heads to swing, white faces to stare open-mouthed at the approaching car. ‘Close up to them!’

  There was a scrambling and leaping as the police car’s brakes screeched, and the vehicle itself slid in at considerable speed, skidding almost sideways onto the crowd of youths and girls tumbling away from the beleaguered squad car. The combination of screaming tyres and wailing siren seemed to have achieved the immediate objective; the small group of youths actively engaged in rocking the squad car were exposed, and with a natural reluctance to having their vulnerable flank nakedly displayed they hesitated, a few flitted back among the crowd, and a blue-uniformed figure emerged, struggling, from the car, hatless and empurpled in the face.

  A straggling shout went up and two men tried to thrust him back, but with flailing arms he burst clear and ran, stumbling, in the direction of Crow’s vehicle. Crow’s driver was already out, hurrying forward; the detective-inspector was still trying to extricate himself from the back seat while Wilson ran around the front of the vehicle.

  The squad car was again submerged by leather jackets, colourful shirts and kicking jeans, while verbal abuse buzzed around the ears of the retreating constable. The less valiant souls who had scattered at the hurtling approach of Crow’s car were now reassembling, linking arms and advancing with a bold front, chanting as they came. Crow emerged, with a ferocious scowl occasioned more by his difficulty of exit than by his displeasure at the demonstration, but was duly rewarded with a nervous ripple in the front line. They came on, nevertheless, and Wilson stood in front of them, a stocky bear of a man waving his arms furiously. The sight provoked a shout of laughter and then the chant took form, sweeping over the small knot of policemen, the spearhead of the last word thrusting, jabbing like a physical blow.

  ‘COPP . . . PERS . . . OUT! COPP . . . PERS . . . OUT!’

  The press behind surged with the rhythm, and the students were swinging into a crescent, reaching out to the side of the police officers. Crow glanced quickly about him; Wilson, the driver, the man who had run across from the squad car. Over the head of the crowd advancing on him he could see the squad car and two more policemen, struggling to break a way through the back of the crowd and being held back by brawny youths in leather jackets.

  The stormtroopers, Crow thought grimly.

  He glowered at the advancing, chanting group. His glance swung along the line and they laughed at him, jeered at him as his eyes met theirs. One in particular, right in the centre, met his eyes boldly, challengingly, and Crow fixed his gaze on him. The young man was supported by two girls, right in the middle — he could be wrested out of there without too much resistance, Crow calculated. He just hoped that those silly girls wouldn’t get hurt — but if they took part in demonstrations they could expect no easy passage. He stared at the boy in the centre and the mindless chant swelled out. He shouted above it.

  ‘Wilson!’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Get that one!’

  Wilson and the driver leapt forward smoothly. They each shouldered a girl aside and the front line broke, shuddering, swinging wildly; the youth thrashed out with his arms wildly for a moment and then Wilson and the police driver had him under the armpits and were dragging him out of the line towards Crow. There was a shocked quaver in the chanting and then it turned, suddenly, into a muted, animal growl. The line formed solidly at the centre, turned into a fist, and it thrust forward towards the four policemen and their struggling captive.

  Crow stepped forward.

  He was suddenly angry. It was not that he was against demonstrations in principle, but he was tired of seeing policemen being kicked, tired of reading complaints of officers who retaliated against mobs — mobs who would as well leave a man’s face a bloody mess as listen to his arguments. It infuriated him now, in a way he was rarely angered, and the tiger of violence growled into life within his own breast so that he wanted to strike out at these young people, hurt them, injure them in the way they might well have already injured the officers at the other car.

  Perhaps he said it; perhaps the mob heard him. Perhaps it was implicit in his face, in his gesture as he stood forward from the other officers and raised one clenched fist. Perhaps they felt it in the air, felt his anger and displeasure like a physical emotion. Whatever happened in that second, whether it was that he spoke or shouted or simply stood, they stopped. Not abruptly, but in a long, circling swell, surrounding the tall thin man with the predatory nose and great domed head, and the angry murmur rose, and drifted and died, slowly, lingeringly.

  Crow lowered his hand. He was entirely surrounded, and cut off from his colleagues. He looked slowly around at the small crowd.

  ‘I can’t talk to all of you. I’m going to talk to him!’

  His long bony finger stabbed in the direction of the young man still struggling with Wilson and the police driver. At the sound of Crow’s grating voice the man stopped struggling and looked up, straightened and ceased pulling against the men who held him.

  Crow pushed his way through the arguing mob and ambled towards the man held by Wilson.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘I don’t see that as relevant.’

  ‘Name!’ Crow’s voice was cold and hard and the young man jumped. The crowd was silent.

  ‘Rhodes . . . Peter Rhodes.’

  Crow pondered. The crowd had already quietened behind him and with the cooler atmosphere this whole affair would quickly get sorted out. He nodded to Wilson and the sergeant released the young man, who shuffled his shoulders with the assumed attitude that if they hadn’t released him within another two seconds he’d have broken their arms. Crow observed him dispassionately: about nineteen, a broad, ingenuous and heavily freckled face, red hair that was short and curling on top, thick at the sides, long at the nape of the neck, blue eyes, medium build, dressed in faded jeans and open-necked shirt.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Rhodes, what’s this all about?’

  ‘You tell me what the hell you’re doing here!’

  Crow was aware of a slight commotion at the edge of the crowd; a television cameraman, with a hand-held camera, jostling his way forward. Crow nodded towards him.

  ‘You wanted them in on it, but not the police, is that so?’

  ‘We see no reason why the Administration has to call in the fuzz on this demonstration. We’ve got a quarrel with the rector and with the Academic Board, but this is a peaceable demo and there’s no need to start screaming for you lot. So the sooner you blow, the better we’ll get on with what’s to be done—’

  ‘You tell ‘em, Cecil boy!’

  ‘That’s my baby!’

  A girl screeched in the crowd and Rhodes grew another inch.

  ‘And another thing,’ he began belligerently.

  ‘No,’ Crow replied in a low tone. Rhodes stared in surprise and the colour flooded to his face. He opened his mouth to continue but Crow forestalled him. ‘Keep your mouth shut, Mr Rhodes, and do as you’re told. I’m now going into the Administration building and my driver is going to park the car. No damage has been done to the squad car, I trust, so we’ll put all this no
nsense down to high spirits — though I’d remind you that if some slum kids behaved like this they’d be inside by now. Now get out of the way, and keep these other louts back. All right?’

  Crow turned aside and Wilson stepped up beside him. For a moment the crowd broke as he marched forward, backed by Wilson and the two other policemen, and then Rhodes was running around in front of them, the crowd of students surging about in some verbal confusion.

  ‘I tell you,’ Rhodes shouted, red in the face, ‘we’re not having the fuzz sticking their noses in on our protests!’

  Crow ignored him completely and proceeded to stride up the steps of the Administration block towards the great glass doors. Wilson butted along behind him throwing off restraining arms, and there was a howl as the larger body of students surged along in their wake. A few men raced ahead of them to line their passage up the steps and there was a hail of verbal abuse, whistling and catcalling. Rhodes was hopping impotently along beside Crow, his face mottled and strained, incoherent with anger, waving his fist and mouthing irrelevant slogans. Crow walked on with a grim face, and took the steps two at a time.

  He had almost reached the top when the atmosphere changed. It changed with a shout that swelled into a cheer and the students poured forwards towards the doors. Crow caught a brief glimpse of Rhodes’s face, swept with a mingled chagrin and relief, and then that young man was running forward with the rest, surging towards the entrance. Crow glanced at Wilson; the Yorkshireman’s eyes told him plainly that in his estimation they were now in for trouble. The students were physically going to block their entrance to the Administration building. There must be about fifty of sixty of them; the original hundred-plus had dwindled in face of the blue uniforms of the squad car men and Crow’s driver, but the hard core of troublemakers remained. Crow’s face betrayed no expression other than indifference, and his stride in no way slackened. He plunged on towards the doors, straight at the struggling crowd of young men and women.