Error of Judgment

by Roy Lewis

  The tasks for tomorrow had to be decided upon. First, there’d be the preliminary lab report which might give him something to work on. Then there’d be the sifting of statements from the Faculty heads and from the rector. He’d get Wilson working on the personal files he’d retained, and one of the constables on the background information on Dr Peters and the others. That was enough to get started with.

  Stevens and Carliss; two possibilities.

  Stevens for the fact that he might have been interested in Rosemary Harland, Carliss for his obvious desire to involve Stevens in the murder enquiry. But there was the other deliberate involvement which had seemed to puzzle that civil servant, Fanshaw — the involvement of the rector by Vernon West. It was an interesting question — why should West want to put the finger on Peters? It was certainly what Fanshaw had implied: he’d tended to discount West’s statement as it stood.

  West would stand some looking into.

  * * *

  It was the first thing that Crow did next morning. He rang Martin, the police surgeon at Sedleigh, and asked to see him. Martin was reluctantly available at eleven-thirty so Crow checked through his notes on West and then had some coffee before walking across from Headquarters to Martin’s office. The little man with the bald head, blue suit and quick, nervy hands welcomed him briefly.

  ‘What can I do for you, Inspector?

  ‘Give me some medical information. I want to get sorted out on heart diseases.’

  ‘And in particular . . . ?’

  ‘Angina pectoris.’

  The little man settled back in his chair and folded his hands over the delicate paunch he had developed. He put his head on one side like a blackbird eyeing a worm.

  ‘Not a medical diagnosis, strictly speaking. It’s a name we give to a symptom, a gripping pain that starts beneath the breastbone and radiates up to the throat and jaws. Sometimes it extends over the back, and down the arms.’

  ‘Over suddenly?’

  ‘It reaches a climax of intensity, and then diminishes slowly. It’s caused by a temporary deprivation of part of the heart muscles of an adequate supply of blood. The pain often becomes apparent under conditions in which the oxygen requirement of the muscle is greater than usual.’

  ‘You mean when some stress occurs?’

  ‘That’s right. The pain of angina pectoris is usually brought on by effort; it tends to subside when the patient rests for a while. In the course of time, however, the effort required to produce the pain may become less.’

  ‘What sort of effort will bring it on?’

  Dr Martin put his head back and stared at the ceiling thoughtfully. His fingers played with a gold watch-chain on his waistcoat spreading across his paunch. ‘

  ‘Lots of examples I could give, Inspector. Any strain or exertion making demands upon the heart muscle for blood. Running, lifting, anything really, particularly if it is abnormal in nature as far as the patient is concerned. That’s not to say the strain must be abnormal; I’ve seen a case where a fatal heart-attack was brought on by the patient concerned putting on the brakes of his car.’

  ‘One moment — I’m not clear. You’ve now moved to fatal attacks. Angina pectoris can be fatal?’

  Dr Martin smiled and flicked out his watch-chain, glanced at his watch, and shook his head.

  ‘I’ve described one kind of anginal pain to you. There’s another, which occurs in more severe degree and is longer in duration. It arises from a sudden reduction of the heart’s blood supply by a blockage of one of the coronary arteries. This cuts off the supply of oxygen to that part of the muscle affected by the block. The first angina I mentioned arises because of the increase in the heart muscle’s oxygen requirement — because of the exercise, you know. The one I now speak of arises because an artery, which has already been narrowed, has been blocked by a thrombus—’

  ‘Thrombus?’

  ‘Blood clot. It circulates slowly through the narrowed artery—’

  ‘How did the artery get narrowed?’

  Martin glanced again at his watch. He obviously felt that it was not part of his job to give medical lectures to policemen.

  ‘Arterial disease. The walls of the artery get thicker, rougher, more tortuous. This in turn causes layers of clotted blood to cling and further narrow the width of the passage through which the blood must flow. It slows the flow, and the slower the flow the more easily the blood clots. It’s a cumulative thing. Now, Inspector I really must—’

  ‘What’s the main difference between the two kinds of angina?’

  ‘The latter tends to be more severe, and of longer duration. It can often be preceded by attacks of angina of effort. In the latter case, if the thrombus blocks one of the main arteries, or one of the large branches, it can cause the death of the patient.’

  ‘Immediately?’

  ‘Quite so. In less serious cases, the occlusion does not cause immediate death but gives rise to permanent death of a part of the heart muscle — a myocardial infarct. The pain of an acute occlusion,’ Martin added, rising to his feet and slipping his watch-chain firmly back into his waistcoat, ‘is more severe than in an attack of angina, usually lasts until it is relieved by analgesics of a powerful kind, arises frequently at rest, is not relieved by rest and gives rise to considerable shock. I have just realised, Inspector, that I have another appointment and though I trust I’ve been of assistance to you I fear I shall have to terminate this interview.’

  ‘One more question, Dr Martin: in an attack of angina when does the pain pass away?’

  ‘It passes off as soon as the exciting cause is removed — the effort, in other words. The patient then returns to his previous condition. The pain, you see, is a symptom of a temporary functional coronary inadequacy; the deprivation of a part of the heart muscle of the necessary supply of blood. No permanent damage to the heart or arteries results from the attack. Now you really must excuse me, Inspector.’

  Within minutes Crow was entering Headquarters again. He returned to his desk and sat down, took out his notebook and looked at his account of West’s statements. The man had suffered angina pectoris. Angina pectoris could be caused by abnormal effort.

  Such as battering a woman to death?

  The problem was, Vernon West had suffered his attack before Rosemary Harland had died. Crow sighed. He’d have to look at the whole thing again, but right now there were other problems too. Stevens, Carliss, Redman and Svensson. He walked over to his door and called to Wilson to come in. The sergeant picked up some papers on his desk and entered.

  ‘Have you got the statements of the Faculty heads?’

  ‘Yes, sir. West you already know—’

  ‘I saw to him myself. What about the others?’

  ‘Well, they’re an awkward bunch, sir. Stevens, the one who’s got a crippled wife, he states that he was at home all evening. A principal lecturer in his Faculty was undertaking a duty evening and Stevens stayed in.’

  ‘Any corroboration of his statement?’

  ‘His wife is crippled. She was upstairs. He says she can vouch for his presence.’ Wilson hesitated. ‘When I spoke to Carliss, however, he asked me about Stevens, asked what story I’d been given. Carliss laughed at the idea of Mrs Stevens corroborating any story of her husband’s — Carliss claims that Mrs Stevens is so heavily sedated all the time she wouldn’t know her . . . well, I won’t use the phrase that Carliss used, sir.’

  Crow had never thought of Yorkshire men as inhibited in their speech but he’d always recognized that there were some limits beyond which Wilson would not step.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Carliss — his account of his movements includes a visit to the cinema where he claims to have been at the relevant time. He’s divorced, or about to be, anyway—’ Wilson pinched his nostrils at this point in the disapproval of a long-married man for another cutting free — ‘and says he’s nothing else to do but go to the cinema often enough. States what he saw there and—’

  ‘I’ve spoke
n to Carliss. Get all this checked out with the cinema manager. What about Redman?’

  ‘Funny chap. He’s a bachelor and a sort of culture-vulture, sir, with books, records, paintings all cluttering up his flat, but I get the impression that he’s a good, solid type who keeps very much to himself and doesn’t bother anyone. I gather he was listening to a radio programme — Beethoven’s Fifth — that evening and I’ve checked in the radio programmes published in the paper—’

  ‘Which is what he could have done.’

  ‘Oh yes, sir, but I’m inclined to believe what he says and—’

  ‘He’s a Roman Catholic isn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right. He lives with his mother, but she was out at the Bingo that evening so can’t corroborate his presence at home.’

  ‘Bingo! All part of the Redman cultural background?’

  Wilson smiled. ‘There’s culture and culture, sir.’

  ‘Right. That brings us to Svensson.’

  ‘It looks as though he’s in the clear. He was at the Anglo- Norwegian Club for the latter part of the evening and says that there are at least three people who can vouch for the fact.’

  ‘Check it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  And that left Crow waiting for the lab report. He sent Wilson out to his own desk to check whether the report was likely to come through that afternoon and he turned up the files on the rector. He himself had interviewed Peters yesterday and had taken down the details in his notebook. Now, out of interest, he looked through the personal file held by the college on Dr Peters.

  It lacked the additional comments included in the other personal files on the Faculty heads but that was quite understandable; it was Peters himself who had annotated the other files. He was unlikely to place remarks on his own. The details, therefore, were bald. Antony Peters, born in 1925, son of a wine merchant, educated at Charterhouse, service in the Royal Marines during the Second World War, mentioned in despatches in 1944. Cambridge welcomed him in 1946 and he remained there as a research fellow in 1950. A brief spell in industry — 1953 to 1957 — and then a directorship in a chemical firm, with the creation of a management consultancy firm in 1962. Six years and several moves in the business and he had stepped into the education field by serving on two Royal Commissions on Education before become Principal of a College of Technology in the Midlands. From there he had been appointed first rector of the new Burton Polytechnic.

  Crow pursed his lips. Bare bones, no flesh to show what the man’s desires, weaknesses, strengths might be . . . He rose and walked across to the door, opened it and waited until Wilson looked up from his desk.

  ‘Peters, the rector at Burton. Get Records to throw up anything they can on him. Just to fill in background.’

  ‘All right, sir. I’ve been on to the lab, by the way; they’ll be sending up a preliminary report in ten minutes.’

  That was better than he’d hoped for. This would be one occasion at least when they’d have got their skates on. Crow went along to the canteen and a got a cup of tea for himself. There was a small group of officers sitting in one corner and they eyed him uncertainly but he made no attempt to join them. He sat away from them by himself and slowly stirred his tea. He wanted solitude, chance to think. The Harlands . . .

  He finished the tea and walked out of the canteen, conscious of the silence as he ambled across the room, and the eyes of the other officers watching him as he left. Time to take a look at that lab report.

  ‘Has it arrived?’

  ‘On your desk, right now, sir,’ Wilson said.

  ‘Come on in.’

  Wilson followed Crow into his office and closed the door quietly behind him. ‘You’ve read it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Crow picked up the sheet of blue paper and read it through quickly. He replaced it on the desk and glanced across to Wilson. He pulled thoughtfully at his long chin.

  ‘Well, who do we go after now, Wilson?’

  ‘Looks pretty clear, sir.’

  ‘But not quite clear enough, I think. I’ll want all the detail I can get my hands on, so you’d better get over to the newspaper offices, and the library in Bank Street; take a couple of men with you. I want everything you can dig out on this man — everything, you understand? He’s been enough of a public figure to make news on occasions. So I want it all, the Debrett bit, the lot. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Crow nodded to him in dismissal and Wilson went out of the room. Crow returned to the paper and read it again, more slowly.

  More details, and then he’d be able to go back to the Polytechnic and ask all the questions he wanted to ask. .

  He wondered whether Dr Peters would be able to provide the answers.

  * * *

  Mr West was certainly looking better than Joan had anticipated. It was the first time she’d been able to get away to see how he was, though she had wanted to come earlier, as soon as she’d heard he’d been taken ill. She liked Mr West: he was a good Head of Faculty and a kindly one. There had been occasions when she had caught him looking at her in a strange way — a way which she would have described as wistful had she been asked to categorize it, but it had been in no sense disturbing. It was certainly better than the looks she sometimes got from the male members of the Social Administration department when her husband wasn’t around, and nowhere near as unpleasant as the openly lecherous glances she received in the Engineering Departments when she went there for her General Studies classes. But then, everyone knew that engineers were over-sexed — a reaction from dealing in rigid metals, heat combustion engines, pistons, and other phallus-oriented machinery. Their diseased imaginations even described various joints as male and female. It would have been all quite embarrassing to anyone other than a sociologist like herself. She took all their leering in her stride and allowed the apprentices no liberties, physical or verbal, while in the engineering staff room she kept her back to the wall. That way, she knew she was safe from assault.

  Men in the other Departments tended to be more subtle, but no more successful in their approaches. In the Economics and Law Department there had been the gambit of testing her out with quips and suggestive remarks. The first had been the tale about the factory girl who had been leaning out of a window calling to a friend when a fellow worker had come up behind her, pinned her down with a lowered sash and worked his will upon her, whereupon after her pregnancy was over she had made a claim to benefits under the Industrial Injuries Acts. That leering story had brought no more success than the predatory pinching of the Principal Lecturer in Thermodynamics.

  But Mr West was different; he looked at her but it wasn’t a leer; he spoke to her, but it was in quiet, modulated tones, not in suggestive undertones; if he touched her it was lightly, a fatherly hand on her shoulder not a secretive stroking of her buttock. She liked him. She was sorry he’d been taken ill.

  ‘It’s kind of you to call in, Mrs Lambert.’

  ‘I came as soon as I could. I hope you’re feeling a little better.’

  ‘Oh, I am indeed.’ He smiled at her, a warm, friendly smile that contained a hint of affection. ‘I should be able to leave the hospital tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘I’m pleased it isn’t serious.’

  ‘Well, they tell me it really amounts to a warning, you know. I had two attacks; the first prostrated and frightened me and the second, fortunately, flattened me! It meant I got some enforced rest — I was unconscious most of the night. I’d virtually recovered by the next day and while they’ve kept me in for observation they say I should be all right — as long as I heed this warning.’

  ‘Have you had trouble before?’

  ‘Just once — two years ago. But I shall be all right now. I won’t be back to college for a couple of weeks, I think, but no doubt the Faculty will manage without me for a while.’

  ‘At least you’ll not have to concern yourself with the students and their pressure group for the democratization of the Polytechnic!’
r />   West raised his eyebrows and put his head back on the pillow.

  ‘You mean they’re going to try to work outside the committee structure we’ve been establishing?’

  ‘I believe so. They’re a bit hazy, and their views are, as usual, somewhat amorphous, but they’ve arranged a meeting tonight. They organized a demonstration yesterday, but it sort of fizzled out when . . . when the news about Rosemary Harland came out. It hasn’t stopped them calling a meeting tonight though; I’m on my way there, as a matter of fact. I just called in to see how you were, first.’

  West’s eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips. He looked anxious, in a paternal way. ‘Why are you going to the meeting?’

  Joan Lambert shrugged.

  ‘It’s always seemed to me that the rift between students and the administration isn’t great — it’s lack of communication that’s the real trouble. Language itself — it’s become a trap, a maze of changed meanings as the old idea of protective authority is faced with the emerging power of individual responsibility. The students want a democratic dialogue on an equal basis: they don’t want paternalism. And, let’s be frank, many of our teaching staff aren’t prepared to recognize that the growing political awareness of the student body is a force to be reckoned with. They’re still steeped in the Victorian ethos of hierarchies — they think they know what’s best for other people.’

  ‘You sound like your thesis.’

  ‘Well, yes, I agree that one of my reasons for going is connected with my MA thesis.’ She laughed, an embarrassed, throaty sound. ‘But there’s more to it than that, Mr West. I feel that the students have a point, and I feel that there’s a great deal of constructive bridging to be done. The only people who can do it effectively are those who are able to speak the language of both sides. In the universities, the junior dons can do it, because they’re newly out of the student body themselves, and haven’t yet become immersed in the traditional authoritarianism of the university structure. The junior dons in the universities can do the bridge-building.’