by Alan Hunter
‘And Ronnie had it. He had devil. He was me all over again. I put him in the drawing-office to begin with, and at once he came up with a new design.’
‘You had him living with you . . . ?’
‘Why not? Don’t sons usually live with their fathers? At first he stayed here, then we had the flat built – Ronnie designed the flat for himself.’
‘But the family’s attitude . . . ?’
‘They hated his guts – just as they’ve always hated mine. They’re their mother’s brats, do I need to repeat it?
‘Never forget that I’m on my own . . . !’
‘Did they know your intentions?’
‘I may have dropped hints – no doubt that’s why they hired the detective. But I was keeping the announcement for a special occasion . . . last Tuesday fortnight. Can you guess why?’
‘Was it Best’s birthday?’
‘Right. All that time ago at Southampton . . .’
Raynes’s lips quivered afresh.
‘Ronnie was just thirty-two.’
Restlessly, he got to his feet again: ‘It’s getting a bit close in here!’
But instead of opening a window he went to a wall-panel to adjust an air-conditioning control. The faintest hiss of air could be heard; Raynes hovered over the knob.
Then he came back to sit glowering, his pipe now gripped in his hand.
‘That aspirin business . . . you know it was faked?’
Gently stared, face empty. Raynes’s mouth was working and he made a jerky, baffled gesture.
‘I don’t know how . . . they must have got at him later! But it wasn’t the aspirin that killed him. There wasn’t enough, anyway . . . what they said at the inquest was rubbish.’
‘In conjunction with alcohol . . .’
‘That’s poppycock. He’d taken nothing but wine and a drop of brandy. How much did they find, eh? One hundred and twenty milligrammes!
‘Oh no – that wasn’t the way. Ronnie was doomed when he left my table. Somehow those swine had fixed him up – right under my nose.
‘And I didn’t see a thing!’
His expensive pipe was in danger as his hands clenched and unclenched. Even now, pushing seventy, Raynes would have made a formidable opponent.
‘You don’t accept suicide—’
‘Never.’
‘Best’s domestic life was unsettled.’
‘Forget about that. Ronnie had put it behind him. He never gave his marriage a second thought.’
‘There was his son . . .’
‘All that was sorted out. Ronnie could see his son whenever he wanted to. Just take it from me that it wasn’t a problem – Ronnie’s life was the business, like it is mine.’
‘All the same, with the family so hostile . . .’
Now the pipe was in real peril!
‘Listen, he didn’t give that for the family – they weren’t in his league, you compris? You should have seen him when the row was on – he just sat there smiling, never saying a word! Then he gave me a grin and a “Goodnight, Pop”.’
‘And you’re telling me he went off to do himself in?’
He heaved himself straight to glare down at Gently, his brows hooked aggressively. But his gaze faltered.
‘Goodnight . . . that was the last thing he ever said to me.’
Gently drew on a cold pipe – in fact, the shag tasted better unlit! From the yard came a bright hooting as some business commenced around the gantry.
A motor-yacht was being hoisted to load on a waiting transporter; growling, Raynes fumbled for his glasses and focused on the operation.
‘Then . . . it’s your theory that Best was poisoned at dinner.’
‘That’s no theory. I know he was.’
After a long stare towards the gantry, he’d lowered the glasses to his knees.
‘Who prepared the meal?’
‘Never mind the grub! We all ate that without an inquest. It was cooked by Norah, my housekeeper, who’s been in the family twenty years.’
‘It was she who served it?’
‘With a bit of help – the old girl and Carole, probably. There was soup, fish and roast duck – but I’m telling you, the funny business wasn’t in the kitchen.’
‘What did you drink?’
‘Bordeaux and Riesling. And brandy with the coffee.’
‘Who served those?’
‘They were pushed around. I uncorked the bottles myself. The coffee was left ready on a trolley. After it perked they were helping themselves.’
‘It was at that point you made your announcement.’
An unpleasant gleam came into Raynes’s eye.
‘I had the draft agreement lying by my plate . . . all during dinner they were glaring at it!
‘Then, when the brandy was poured, I opened the envelope. You might have heard a napkin drop in there! And after I’d read out what was on the cover they sat goggling, mouths open.
‘Have you heard a lot of hens when they spot a hawk? That’s the sort of clatter that started up then! All of them letting go at once – couldn’t wait to get their knives in!’
‘Where was Best sitting?’
‘Across the table . . . but let that go for the moment! My loving son Clive was having a fit, and his bitch of a wife was bawling her head off. Then dear Greta was blowing her top – and Swoff, her husband, who fancies his chances . . .
‘Johnny, to give him his due, was trying to quieten them, while the old girl had turned on the waterworks.
‘Oh dear!
‘You might have thought I’d suddenly sprouted horns and a tail.’
‘In fact . . . a considerable commotion.’
‘If that’s how you want to put it!’
‘While people were sitting with their coffee and brandy.’
Raynes pulled himself up. ‘You’re suggesting . . . ?’
Now the transporter was being backed under the gantry, but Raynes didn’t raise his glasses again. Nevertheless there was some shouting and waving, and one could hear a revving engine.
From an office-block window someone peered out: at a guess, Clive Raynes.
‘Listen, Superintendent . . .’
Raynes’s voice was lowered.
‘Whatever they . . . used, it fooled the pathologist. He’d make his usual checks, no doubt . . . the aspirin wouldn’t have put him off?’
‘He would make tests for the more common substances.’
‘I mean, something like arsenic would have been spotted.’
‘It couldn’t have been arsenic.’
‘That’s my point! It was something out of the usual run . . .’
‘Well?’
Raynes sent him an odd look.
‘It would need special knowledge, wouldn’t you say? To pick out something that wouldn’t be spotted . . . producing effects like an overdose of aspirin . . . ?’
Gently said nothing.
‘I’d say it would need a chemist . . . someone with a knowledge of drugs and poisons! With access to them, too – no books to sign or questions asked.’
‘So . . . ?’
‘Do you have to ask me? Clive’s wife, Flo, is a qualified chemist. She’s the daughter of a man who owns a string of chemist’s shops . . .
‘And she was sitting by Ronnie at dinner.’
* * *
Grabbing Gently’s matches again, Raynes struck a light with clumsy fingers. Down at the gantry the motor-yacht was being lowered, watched by the truck-driver from his cab.
Raynes’s eyes dwelt on it for a moment as he made an act of drawing rapid puffs.
‘Are you . . . accusing Florence Raynes?’
‘I’m simply telling you the facts, aren’t I?’
His eyes missed Gently’s; abruptly he jumped up and went to refill his glass. Pausing at the cabinet, he took a gulp before returning to his chair.
‘Look . . . let me tell you! . . . I don’t love Flo, and she certainly doesn’t love me. But facts are facts . . . and there isn’t much she
wouldn’t do to see Clive boss of Raynes-Marine. Him, he’s nobody – just a place-man – but she’s as ambitious as the devil. And with Ronnie a partner . . . can’t you see?
‘All her big ideas would be up the spout.’
He drank, breathing hard.
‘This isn’t easy . . . much as I loathe her! But they had no mercy on Ronnie, and somebody’s got to pay for that . . .’
He gulped more whisky.
‘Listen . . . I’m not blaming Flo alone. Greta . . . Swoff . . . even Johnny. And Noel, keep an eye on him!
‘Swoff wouldn’t have lasted with Ronnie around, and no soft option for Clive’s kid brother. They all had reasons, and ten to one they all knew what was going on . . .
‘But Flo had the knowledge, that’s what I’m saying! And she could have got her hands on the stuff. Without her they couldn’t have done it . . . though she could have done it on her own . . .’
He tossed up the last of the whisky and slammed the glass on the table. His face was in a flush; perspiration glinted under his eyes.
Insensibly, the note of the air-conditioner had altered, its soft hiss sounding greasier.
‘And . . . Florence Raynes . . . chose the seat by Best?’
‘Right again! There were no set places.’
‘Who was sitting on his other side?’
‘Who—?’ He puffed at the pipe, which had gone out once more. ‘Look, I can’t remember everything! I had other things on my mind. If I’d known it was important, perhaps . . . as it was, with the row going on too . . .’
‘Perhaps I can see your dining-room.’
Raynes hesitated, then got up with a show of impatience.
He took them through a lounge-hall to a room panelled in natural oak. It was furnished with a circular table and a set of Chippendale dining-chairs. Beneath a serving-hatch stood a sideboard, to its right a cabinet bearing decanters; then there was a wine-cooler mounted on wheels and a pair of trolleys, one with fitted dish-covers.
A poorly-lit room: its single window was overshadowed by trees. On the floor was a dark-red padded carpet; the oak panels emanated a sweetish smell.
Raynes pointed to a door.
‘That leads to the kitchen, but the meal was served through the hatch. Then there was the trifle for sweet . . . Norah had laid it out earlier on the sideboard.’
‘Did you enter the room together?’
‘Norah rang the bell when she was ready to serve. We’d been having a sherry in the lounge . . . they’d all turned up more or less on time.’
‘And that was?’
‘Seven-fifteen. For dinner at seven-thirty.’
Silently, Gently prowled around. Of the ten chairs, one was a high-backed carver. Facing down the room, it was nearest to the decanters, distant from the trolleys, which flanked the second door.
Beyond the hatch some machine had been turning; now it was switched off, though one could hear movements.
‘You would have sat here . . . ?’
Narrow-eyed, Raynes was watching as Gently paused behind the carver.
‘Your wife on your left . . . Best opposite. On which side of Best was Florence Raynes seated?’
‘On his right.’
‘And her husband next to her?’
‘Yes . . . no! Clive was by the old woman. And I’d got Carrie next to me – she’s more civil than her tight-mouthed sister.’
‘That leaves your son Noel, the Swafields and John Meeson.’
Raynes bit on his pipe and stared at the table.
‘It’s no good! They filled in anywhere . . . there was coming and going. I don’t remember.’
‘Perhaps Mrs Raynes . . . ?’
He scowled furiously before lifting his head to bawl:
‘Ada! Come in here and stop straining your ear-hole at that hatch!’
The woman who entered had small, fearful eyes and faded hair, worn in a bun. That she was Clive Raynes’s mother was as apparent as that Ronald Best had been sired by her husband.
To the same narrow-shouldered, fleshless form were added the same creased, long-featured looks. Nevertheless she wore a smart knitted costume and her glasses had fashionable frames.
Standing haplessly by the door, she scarcely dared steal a glance at Gently.
‘Don’t act the innocent, old girl . . . you know who’s here and what it’s about!’
‘Walter, I’d sooner—’
‘Just stay where you are, and answer the questions the Superintendent puts to you.’
Her mouth trembled, but she stood her ground. Gently tried to catch her eye with a smile.
‘Just a routine matter, Mrs Raynes . . . ! We want to know where your guests sat at dinner.’
‘But I’d sooner my husband—’
‘He doesn’t remember.’
Her eyes were desperate behind the glasses. All the same, she made an effort to say calmly:
‘I . . . don’t remember either. The children sat where they thought best.’
‘Now come on, Ada!’ Raynes hectored. ‘We know who sat next to you.’
‘Walter, please—’
‘It was your loving son, Clive.’
‘But the others . . .’
‘It’s no good your protecting them!’
‘Walter . . . I’m sorry . . . I can’t . . .’
Bursting into tears, she turned and ran. One could hear her feet on stairs; then the slamming of a door.
Fuming, Raynes ground on his pipe and took strides towards the window.
‘That’s what I married! She had education – I thought she was the wife for a man like me. Shall I give you her measure? Take the names of the children – christened after film stars, every one!
‘And now they can do no wrong.
‘You won’t get anything out of Ada!’
He towered at the window, fists clenched, teeth working at the pipe.
‘Let’s clear out of here! I’ll show you the flat.
‘By now, you must be getting the idea.’
But outside on the sweep they ran into Clive Raynes in the company of a fat, balding man. Raynes’s eye had a malignant gleam as he planted himself in front of them.
‘You wanted to see me?’
‘We have something to discuss . . .’
‘Can’t you see I’m busy just now?’
Clive Raynes flushed and his chin jerked; the other man ventured a placating smile.
‘Now look here, Walter—’
‘Shut up, Swoff! When I want to hear from you I’ll tell you. But since you’ve come . . . Superintendent, my loving son, Clive, and Greta’s husband, Arthur.’
His gesture was insolent.
‘Clive, he’s described as my general manager! That means he sits at a large desk and keeps an eye on the girls in the office.
‘Swoff has an office next door where he oils the customers with Scotch and blarney . . . known as sales-management! He owns a yacht and otherwise lives up to . . . someone’s income!
‘No doubt you’ll want a word with them later, but that’ll keep.
‘Let’s go.’
‘But Father . . . just a minute . . . !’
Clive Raynes’s thin mouth was twitching. Swafield’s eyes were bright with anger and his plump hands balled.
‘It’ll keep, I said!’
‘You can’t treat us like this!’
‘I can’t . . . what?’
Raynes loomed above his son.
‘If it goes on we shall have to take steps! All this . . . your behaviour . . . is driving us to it.’
‘Steps . . . !’
Raynes’s laugh was savage and he turned his head aside to spit.
‘Go talk to your mother!’
‘Father, I’m serious . . .’
‘Come on!’ Raynes said, striding away.
Across the sweep stood the brick coach-house, with steps leading to an upper storey. Garage doors ranged along the lower level and, above, square windows with aluminium frames.
Raynes ma
rched up the steps and unlocked the door; they passed through a vestibule into a lounge. In the corner was a bar; Raynes went directly to it, poured a whisky and gulped it down.
‘Now you can see how I’m lumbered!’
He poured more whisky, the glass shaking.
‘And when I think that one . . . perhaps both of them . . . came up here when Ronnie was dying . . .’
He dropped on a chair and kept gulping whisky.
Near the centre of the room stood the settee. It was large, covered with hide, and dimpled by rows of deeply-set buttons.
Beside it stood an occasional table on which were a table-lighter and ashtray. Through the windows one could see the house, part of the sweep and one of the cars.
Raynes was pouring again.
‘Are you with me . . . or against me?’
The glitter in his eye was probably alcoholic. Slumped in the corner he looked somehow smaller, and you noticed that his legs were short for his height.
THREE
UNTIL THEY CLEARED the iron gates, Ives drove the car in silence; then, as they headed for the village, he murmured:
‘So what do you think now, sir . . . ?’
Gently grumbled into his pipe: still the taste of shag lingered! Coarse, plebeian but indelible, it was like the flavour of the man himself.
A vulgar flavour . . . Raynes gave the impression of a labourer who’d won the pools; yet won them by skill, not by chance: skill, allied to ruthless energy.
One had to admire him, and yet . . .
What stuck in the throat was a note of self-pity. Behind it, one sensed the real man lying in ambush, watching his chance . . .
‘Let’s hear what you think!’
Throughout the interview, Ives had stayed a resolute spectator; with face as straight as a board, he’d offered no hint of his impressions.
All the same he’d been mulling it over and was dying to get his word in . . . now that Gently had had a taste of what lay beneath those neat report-sheets!
But he kept his face to the front.
‘Well, sir . . . it’s only an opinion.’
‘Out with it!’
‘I’d say there was a stink brewing that doesn’t need us to stir it up.’
‘You think the old man is trying to use us?’
Ives hesitated, driving slowly.
‘Yes, sir . . . in so many words. I’ve had that impression all along.’