Error of Judgment

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Error of Judgment Page 15

by Roy Lewis


  Then there was the rector. Crow couldn’t make up his mind about Peters. He was convinced the man was unscrupulous and would stop at little to achieve his ends. But why would he have wanted to kill the girl, his secretary. His secretary . . .

  ‘Wilson,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘I wonder whether Rosemary Harland could have found out something about Peters? Something he wouldn’t have wanted noised about. Lambert says the girl arranged to meet him at eight. But she stayed late at Burton. None of the other staff did. What was she doing there? Was she confronting Peters about something she’d discovered in his files? Was that an occasion when they could have argued, and he killed her?’

  Wilson looked wary. He was encumbered with a greater respect for authority and influence than Crow.

  ‘I think we ought to go carefully there, sir. After that last interview, and Dr Peters’s accident—’

  Crow dismissed it with a snort. He wasn’t prepared to let Peters off the hook that easily. The rector had been the one at the college to know Rosemary best, after all, if one discounted Lambert.

  ‘I think we’ll have to get all Peters’s files checked. Just to make sure. And will you chase up the lab again, about the girl’s clothes?’

  Wilson nodded and left the room. Crow sat on for a while, then went to the canteen and obtained a cup of tea. Tiny pieces of leaf swirled around and around the surface of the tea, little black specks, circling aimlessly like the questions in his head, going around and around and ending up where they began. Nowhere. There was one central big leaf swirling in the cup but in the Harland investigation no one seemed to be out in front leading the others, not even Lambert. Crow was an experienced officer, and in his opinion there had been an element of truth in Lambert’s protestations. Crow was also sufficiently experienced to discount the formation of opinion based on insufficient evidence.

  So it all left him back where he’d started.

  He had a murder case on his hands and there were too many questions to be answered, too many to see the right one, the necessary one. Too many trees to see the wood.

  Someone was standing at his table. He looked up, surprised. It was Wilson. His expression told Crow that he had something of importance to impart. Crow waited.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I rang the lab like you said and I thought you’d want to know straight away.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s another complication, I’m afraid, sir.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘They’ve been looking through her clothes, the stuff she’d been wearing the last few weeks. Nothing much came to light at all except in her raincoat. And even with that they’re not absolutely sure — they insisted that this was merely a preliminary report, and they don’t think there’s really enough to go on but—’

  Wilson paused and Crow leaned forward. ‘-but you’ll be interested to know they found minute traces of a substance in the pocket of the raincoat, sir. Or to be more exact, traces of two substances. One was a dusting from a mixture of amphetamine and barbiturate.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘Cannabis.’

  * * *

  Lambert had denied all knowledge of it, of course. But then, he’d now got to the stage where he was denying everything and screaming for a lawyer as soon as Crow or Wilson came anywhere near him. He denied having seen Rosemary that night, he denied having killed her, he denied knowing she was pregnant and he absolutely denied knowing that she had been in possession of drugs. More, he didn’t believe it. He started bawling like a young calf at Crow, insisting that the police must have planted it in Rosemary’s raincoat.

  The Harlands would scream too, Crow had no doubt about that. Crow decided not to interview them himself: the last experience had been one he had no desire to repeat and Wilson could probably handle this one more tactfully than he. Besides, Crow doubted whether they’d be able to shed much light on this issue, for in his experience parents rarely knew what their sons or daughters were up to. The barrier that existed between the two generations was certainly effective as far as matters such as drugs were concerned: parents could not and did not understand why young people took drugs, and more often than not they simply did not believe that their children came into the drug-taking category. The Harlands wouldn’t believe it, of that Crow was certain.

  Perhaps Antony Peters would. Perhaps Antony Peters would know how Rosemary Harland came into possession of cannabis.

  The desk sergeant checked that Peters was at the Polytechnic before Crow left Headquarters. When he arrived at Burton, Crow was surprised and a little nettled to be kept waiting, particularly since Peters had been informed in advance that the Inspector was coming to see him. Crow waited for a few minutes in the anteroom and then wandered out into the hallway. There were a few students walking up the stairs with books under their arms and there was a small group standing near some public telephones stationed in one corner of the hallway.

  Among the group were two people he recognized.

  As he stared at them one of the two looked up and caught sight of him standing there grimly. The student grinned, and said something to the others before detaching himself from the group to walk towards Crow. The second man whom Crow had recognized followed him. Sadruddin and Peter Rhodes.

  Sadruddin’s lean face was creased by a wide smile. He possessed considerable charm, this young man, but underneath it Crow sensed the sting of a scorpion. This man could be smooth and persuasive and friendly but he could not be trusted.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector. A courtesy visit?’

  ‘You might say that.’

  ‘You’ve already met my friend, Peter Rhodes? Of course you have, the morning of the demo, wasn’t it?’

  Rhodes wasn’t smiling. His freckled face was sullen and as he stood there with one hand tucked into the belt of his jeans there was studied insolence in his manner.

  ‘Are you planning another one of those demonstrations?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Sadruddin said easily. ‘But we’re being very constitutional about it, Inspector. That’s our action committee over there — though you can’t get much real action to draw the necessary attention to ourselves. You know, the press, television, and the fuzz of course. We got to keep the fuzz informed!’

  ‘Why don’t you just do what you’re supposed to do at college?’

  ‘Don’t be a drag, man. This is the day of student power, and we want our rights as citizens.’ Sadruddin was smiling as he spoke and Crow gained the impression that the man had little conviction that his words were meaningful — they were attitudes that he found convenient to adopt for purposes of his own. ‘We’re out to democratize the institutions of higher learning. We’re out to give youth a chance to air its views, we’re out to revolutionize, man! The lecture room, ha, that’s for the birds.’

  He glanced at Rhodes and grinned but Rhodes was still staring resentfully at Crow. The Inspector suspected that Rhodes was still angry about the way Crow had treated him the morning of the demonstration. Perhaps Rhodes saw himself as an emergent leader, and Crow recalled that Sadruddin hadn’t been around when the demonstration started; it had been Rhodes’s chance to show his mettle but he had been browbeaten by the police inspector. He was still sore about it, still sore at having been shown up as lacking in steel. Sadruddin . . . now Sadruddin hadn’t been bested that morning. He’d given way, certainly, but in an insolent, devil-may-care way that had in no sense detracted from his public image with the students.

  ‘Anyway, how’s your scene, Inspector? What’s with the killing bit?’

  Crow’s glance flickered from Rhodes to Sadruddin.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Interest, real, pure interest! I’m a law student, didn’t you know, and it’s penology and criminology for me once I graduate. So the chance to observe the fuzz at work, close at hand, it’s not to be missed.’

  ‘It may well be,’ Crow said, turning on his heel to walk away, ‘that you’ll get the chance to observe it eve
n more closely, from the inside of a cell, if you keep on the way you are.’

  ‘Well said, Inspector!’ Sadruddin jeered. ‘You want to join our right-wing compatriots? They’ll welcome an Establishment figure like you with open arms.’

  Crow ignored the jibe and went back into the anteroom. He stuck his head through the doorway to speak to Peters’s secretary but even as he did so he heard the door to the anteroom open. He looked back and a man in a dark grey suit was entering, carrying a briefcase. His face was round, chubby, with a skin as fuzzy as brushed nylon.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector Crow.’

  Crow nodded as the man went straight into Peters’s office. A few moments later the man reappeared and said pleasantly, ‘You can come in now, Inspector.’

  Peters was standing in front of the desk.

  His face was grim and stiffened by dislike.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said curtly. ‘As you will see, I decided that I would not meet you this time until my solicitor was present also. This is Mr Andrews.’

  ‘This is most careful of you, Dr Peters. You needn’t have bothered, though.’

  ‘That remains to be seen. What is it you want? I might say right at the start that I’ve discussed your last visit with Mr Andrews and he’s informed me that you have no right to press me with questions about my background. So if that’s the reason for your visit, we can conclude it even before it starts.’

  ‘It seems you’re in no great haste to help the police.’

  Andrews smiled, a lawyer’s smile, false, cunning, its meaning far divorced from its appearance.

  ‘Not at all, Inspector, we’re only too pleased, and indeed eager to help the police as far as we are able, but we must draw the line at personal questions which have no direct bearing upon the case.’

  ‘Or answers which might incriminate your client.’

  ‘Statements such as that are dangerous,’ Andrews replied, still smiling, ‘and a careful man would be well advised not to make them. Innuendoes, you know . . .’

  ‘What is it you want, Crow?’

  Peters at least was making no pretence at politeness. He stood with his back to his desk, his arms folded, a heavy frown on his handsome features. He bore no signs of his recent ‘accident’, apart from a reddish patch of skin near his lips but he spoke as though his mouth were full of pebbles and was obviously still suffering from some soreness of the tongue.

  ‘I have some further questions to ask about Miss Harland.’

  ‘I don’t see how I can help you.’

  ‘You haven’t heard the questions yet.’

  ‘What is it you want to know, Inspector?’ Andrews interposed sweetly. Crow hesitated, then turned to Peters.

  ‘Miss Harland — was she a moody girl? Subject to fits of depression?’

  ‘She always seemed a balanced, pleasant personality to me. I don’t understand what you mean.’

  ‘There weren’t occasions when she seemed to think she was super-efficient, or otherwise depressed; no occasions when she seemed hazy, over-excited, over-confident, prone to take things lightly?’

  ‘I’ve already told you she was efficient, quiet, and well-balanced. There’s nothing I can add to that.’

  ‘All right. Then tell me this: have you had any trouble with the students as far as “pot” is concerned?’

  ‘ “Pot”? Drugs, you mean? Good heavens, no. It’s true that last term there was an occasion when—’

  ‘One moment, Dr Peters, I think we’d better get to the point of the Inspector’s question.’

  Crow ignored the solicitor and said quietly, ‘You were about to say that last term you had an occasion when . . .’

  ‘No, Dr Peters was about to make no admission which might leave him open to a charge of failing to inform the police that an offence of a criminal nature had been committed in the college. He was about to say no such thing, were you, Dr Peters?’

  The rector opened his mouth, and closed it again. He stared thoughtfully at Crow. Andrews smiled again.

  ‘Now just what is this all about?’

  Crow hesitated. He was angry. He realised he wasn’t going to get far with the solicitor there but there was no way he could get round the problem. All right, if Peters wanted it this way Crow could play rough too.

  ‘I have reason to believe that there might be a charge relating to the possession of narcotics arising in this college, as well as murder. I have reason to believe that some drugs were in the possession of Rosemary Harland. Since she spent a great deal of time here in this office and in this college it’s possible that she obtained the drugs here rather than from some “pusher” outside. It doesn’t look as though I’m going to get much co-operation from you, so I have no alternative but to inform you that I shall be getting a warrant sworn out for these premises to be searched. In addition, all your files will have to be handed over to my officers. Forthwith.’

  Peters straightened and protested angrily with his slim hands waving in front of him. ‘You can’t do that! You can’t just walk in here and—’

  Andrews interrupted him quickly with one hand on his arm. The solicitor stared at Crow, a mongoose watching a snake.

  ‘I’ve no doubt, Inspector, you’ve got grounds for asking for a warrant.’

  ‘I’ve got grounds.’

  ‘Then I don’t think we need to go to those lengths, getting a warrant, I mean. I’m sure that Dr Peters is only too pleased to render any assistance he can in the circumstances.’

  ‘But I don’t see—’

  Andrews waved the rector to silence. He turned back to Crow. The speculative look remained in his eye.

  ‘I should be grateful if one of my clerks were present while Dr Peters’s files are scrutinized, and they will not be removed from the premises, of course. Not without the rector’s permission, that is.’

  ‘You afraid we’ll plant something on him?’

  ‘You’re a very direct man, Inspector.’ Crow was getting what he wanted, access to Peters’s files and the right to search the premises without fuss, but there was little joy in it for him. He would have liked the rector to put up a fight, so that he could have hammered him into the ground, verbally. Andrews had forestalled it, and it would now appear to everyone that Peters was more than willing to help the police. When Crow stomped from the rector’s office he was in an unpleasant frame of mind.

  There was someone in the anteroom, talking to Peters’s secretary. He had his back to Crow and the girl was just saying ’ . . . much better, but he’s decided not to keep his appointment with Mr Fanshaw this morning—’ when he turned and Crow saw who it was.

  ‘Mr West. Are you back at work now?’ The heavy, serious face was touched with the ghost of a smile. West nodded slowly, and his jowls quivered.

  ‘Not completely, I suppose. I’m back, but my principal lecturers are really doing all the work. I feel almost supernumerary and it makes me wonder whether I need be here at all, at any time.’

  ‘Hmph. But you’re feeling better.’

  ‘I feel quite well, though I’m told I must take things easily.’

  ‘It wasn’t as serious as you made out, then?’

  The pouched eyes met his calmly.

  ‘It would seem not.’

  Crow nodded and moved past West and out into the hallway. He crossed to the main doors and stood there a moment blinking in the sunlight before he went out and walked down to his car. A few students lounged under the trees, but it was all very quiet. The English academic scene. It had been somewhat different the last time he was here.

  The next call that Crow had to make was out at Edgerton Lane. Mrs Woods wouldn’t like the police car outside her door for a second time but that was just hard luck. He wanted another word with Sally Woods. The last time he had spoken to her she had been withdrawn, evasive in her replies without actually holding back the answers he demanded of her. He was beginning to wonder now whether he had asked the right questions.

  This time he wasn’t to suffer the
pomposity of Joseph Woods at least. Through the frosted glass he saw Mrs Woods come to the door and as it opened he heard the murmur of voices from the sitting-room. She must be having guests to tea. She looked suitably upset when she opened the door, one hand fluttering theatrically to her ample breast.

  ‘I’d like to see Sally, please. There are some more questions I’d like to ask.’

  Mrs Woods’s eyes were round as blue-centred white-edged saucers.

  ‘I’m afraid she’s not here, Inspector.’

  ‘Where can I reach her?’

  ‘I . . . I’m afraid I don’t know. She’s left home.’

  * * *

  When Crow walked back into the office he spoke to Wilson, playing as usual with his typewriter like a tremulous virgin with a kinky magazine, fascinated but unable to cope.

  ‘Have you been to see the Harlands?’

  ‘Yes, sir. They can’t believe that Rosemary had any connection with drugs at all.’

  ‘You mean they refuse to believe it.’

  ‘That’s about the size of it.’

  ‘Well, you’d better get on to the Woods girl now. She’s left home, and her parents don’t know where she’s gone. Mrs Woods suspects she might have gone off with some lad — she might have spent last weekend with him, and she thinks that her husband’s seen the man. So get down to the bank, have a word with Joseph Woods and get a description of the man he saw with Sally. And send Gates in here.’

  The detective-constable entered hurriedly a few minutes later. Crow looked up at the raw-boned young man.

  ‘A chance for you to gain some further impressions.’

  Gates’s face became a little pink at the gibe.

  ‘I want you and Framwell to get out to Burton Polytechnic. I want you to go through the offices, any place where Rosemary Harland might have worked, with a fine toothcomb. And I want you to go through every file that she might have had access to, and particularly every file in Peters’s office. All right?’

 

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