Supping with the Devil

by Sally Spencer

  She walked to the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Are you nearly ready, Ben?’ she called out.

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ a young voice called back.

  ‘Only the countess will be here in a minute, and you don’t want to keep her waiting,’ Jean said.

  She looked up at the clock, and thought to herself that it was strange the countess was not already there, because she seemed to really enjoy these Sunday morning lessons, and was normally bang on time.

  ‘Her Ladyship didn’t ring to say that, what with all that’s going on in the Hall, she couldn’t make it today, did she?’ Jean shouted up the stairs.

  ‘No, Mum.’

  Of course she hadn’t cancelled.

  What was it she had once said?

  ‘When I make a commitment, Jean, I stick to it through thick and thin, because once you start making compromises, you’re lost.’

  Jean hadn’t understood the last bit. At least, she’d understood the actual words, but not what the countess had meant by them.

  But then the countess had seen a lot more of the world than she had, so it was only to be expected that even when they were both talking in English, they were not necessarily speaking the same language.

  She walked over to the back door, and saw the countess’s shiny blue Mercedes Benz parked near the barn.

  ‘She must have driven up while I was still vacuuming,’ Jean thought, surprised at how relieved she felt. ‘Yes, it’s hard to hear anything over the noise of that old Hoover.’

  She went back in the kitchen and put the kettle on the range, just in case the countess fancied a good, strong cup of tea before she got started.

  Two minutes passed, and, for the first time, Jean began to wonder if something really was wrong.

  But that was a stupid thing to think – because this was rural Lancashire, and nothing could be wrong.

  Still, the feeling would not go away, and after another two minutes had ticked by, she decided to go and look for herself.

  ‘So, Mr Hill, now that we know you don’t have any alibi at all for the night of the murder, what do you think the next step will be?’ Wellbeloved asked.

  ‘I do have an alibi,’ Hill protested. ‘I was with Lawrence Taylor.’

  ‘Ah, but you see, Taylor has retracted that initial statement and written a new one.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘How can we convince Mr Hill we’re telling the truth, Inspector Beresford?’ Wellbeloved asked.

  ‘Maybe we could show him Lawrence Taylor’s new statement,’ Beresford said.

  ‘Yes, we could do that,’ Wellbeloved agreed. He took a piece of paper out of the folder, and slid it to the centre of the table. ‘Strictly speaking, I shouldn’t be doing this, but if it helps to convince you …’

  Hill barely glanced at the statement.

  ‘You have to understand my position,’ he said.

  ‘Perhaps we will – if you explain it to us,’ Wellbeloved said coaxingly.

  ‘I knew who Terry Lewis was, and when I saw him in the Royal Vic, I knew why he was there. Now, I’ve made a couple of mistakes in the past, but I love my wife, and I’m prepared to fight to keep my marriage together—’

  ‘Sorry, you’ve lost me,’ Wellbeloved interrupted. ‘What’s Terry Lewis got to do with your marriage?’

  ‘I’ve been having an affair.’

  ‘Ah, and when you saw him, you realized he was on to you, and you decided you’d have to kill him.’

  ‘No, I … I thought I’d have to buy him off, but I never got the chance to, and when I heard, the next morning, that he’d been killed, I panicked – because I knew the way your minds work, and I thought you’d be bound to suspect me. That’s when I got Taylor to give me an alibi.’

  ‘You’ve lost me again,’ Wellbeloved told him. ‘Are you saying you didn’t have an alibi for the night Lewis was killed?’

  ‘No, I’m saying I had an alibi I didn’t want to use – the woman I’ve been having the affair with.’

  ‘What’s her name?’ Wellbeloved said.

  ‘I’d rather not …’

  ‘Tell me her bloody name!’

  ‘Her name’s Margaret Rodgers.’

  It was the legs that Jean Harris saw first. They were invisible from the house, because of the angle that the Mercedes was parked at, but once you got closer, you couldn’t miss them.

  One of the legs – the left one – was straight, but the other – the right – was twisted at a crazy angle, and at first Jean thought the whole thing was no more than one of those practical jokes that her older son, Tommy, was always pulling.

  But even Tommy would never have considered pulling a joke which involved the countess’s car – and besides, the right leg suddenly twitched, and somebody screamed.

  She had been walking fast, but now she ran around the front of the car to the driver’s side – where the body attached to the legs was lying.

  The countess was a mess. Her right leg was broken below the knee, and the bone was poking through. Her face was a bloody pulp. The position of her left arm suggested it had been dislocated at best, but probably – like the right leg – had been broken.

  Jean crouched down beside the injured woman.

  ‘Can you hear me, my lady?’ she asked.

  The countess made a groaning noise that may have been a yes.

  ‘I’m going to have to leave you for a minute or two while I get help, but I’ll be back as soon as I can. And while I’m away, you mustn’t fall asleep. Have you got that? You mustn’t fall asleep.’

  The countess groaned again.

  Jean stood up. In the distance, she could hear a roaring noise. Her passive mind registered the sound, but her active mind made no attempt to analyse it. She didn’t even know it was stored for later use, though, of course, it was.

  Beresford could quite understand why Jeff Hill should be attracted to Margaret Rodgers. It wasn’t just the blonde hair and the ever-so–slightly voluptuous figure – though they were both pleasing enough – there was also an air of earthy sensuality about the woman which very few men would find it easy to ignore.

  Keep your mind on the job, Colin, he ordered himself.

  ‘It was good of you to agree to come in and help us with our inquiries, Miss Rodgers,’ he said aloud.

  ‘I’m always willing to help the police in any way I can,’ the woman told him. ‘I just don’t see how I can help you now.’

  ‘We’d just like you to confirm someone’s alibi for the night before last,’ Beresford said.

  Margaret Rodgers looked puzzled.

  ‘Whose alibi?’ she asked.

  ‘Jeff Hill’s.’

  ‘But how could I confirm it?’

  ‘Mr Hill says he spent the night with you.’

  ‘He says what?’

  ‘He says he spent the night with you – and the night before that. In fact, according to him, you’ve been having an affair for the last six months.’

  ‘I have no idea what would ever possess him to say that,’ Margaret Rodgers said.

  ‘It’s a lie, then?’

  ‘Of course it is. I hardly know the man.’

  The man puts his hand on his head, grasps his hair, and pulls. The hair comes away in his hand. He turns around, as if he is checking whether or not anyone is following him. Then he turns again, and heads for the woods.

  Stop … rewind … stop … play.

  The man puts his hand on his head, grasps his hair, and pulls. The hair comes away in his hand. He turns around, as if he is checking whether or not anyone is following him. Then he turns again, and heads for the woods.

  Stop … rewind … stop … play.

  The man puts his hand …

  ‘You look like you’ve found something interesting,’ said a voice from the doorway of the control centre.

  Paniatowski stopped the tape, and turned around.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘In fact, I think I’ve found a lot more than I ever bargained for.’ She he
ld up her copy of the morning newspaper for Edward Bell to see. ‘Look at this man.’

  ‘That’s the journalist who wrote all the smutty stories for the papers, and ended up getting himself killed,’ Bell said, giving the picture no more than a passing glance.

  ‘You’re not really looking at it,’ Paniatowski said. ‘I want you to memorize it, so that when you close your eyes, you can still see it.’

  ‘All right,’ Bell agreed, clearly mystified.

  ‘Now look at this,’ Paniatowski said, hitting the rewind button and then the play button.

  The man puts his hand on his head, grasps his hair, and pulls. The hair comes away in his hand. He turns around …

  ‘That’s him,’ Bell exclaimed. ‘That’s the journalist.’

  ‘That’s what I think, too,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘And this was taken the night he died! Doesn’t that mean he might have been killed here?’

  ‘I think it’s almost certain it does. That’s why the killer stripped him down to his underwear before dumping him.’

  ‘Because if he had still been wearing that sheepskin jacket, somebody might have connected him to the RockStately Festival!’ Bell said, excitedly.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So we’ll have the murder on film.’

  ‘We might,’ Paniatowski said cautiously, ‘but it’s perfectly possible he was killed in one of the blind spots we’ve already found, or one we don’t even know about yet.’

  ‘This will be a real feather in your cap, won’t it?’ Bell said.

  ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you, looking at it as an outsider?’ Paniatowski agreed. ‘But I’m afraid I won’t get much out of it at all. This isn’t my case. In the eyes of the investigating team, I’m no more than a witness who’s inadvertently come across some valuable evidence – and all I can do is pass it on to them.’

  ‘That must be a disappointment for you,’ Bell said sympathetically.

  ‘Not really,’ Paniatowski replied.

  No, she thought, it’s not a disappointment – its nearly bloody killing me.

  ‘I think we’ve let Harry Elton sweat for long enough,’ Wellbeloved said. ‘It’s time to stick the boot in.’

  ‘Before we question Elton, I think you should take a look at this, sir,’ Beresford said, handing him the photograph which has just arrived from Paniatowski. ‘It was taken at Stamford Hall, on the night of the murder.’

  ‘Why are you showing it to me?’ Wellbeloved wondered.

  ‘Look at the man, sir.’

  ‘I’m looking at him. I just don’t know why.’

  ‘It’s Terry Lewis.’

  ‘This is a photograph taken in fading light, from some distance away. I’ll admit the man in it bears some resemblance to Lewis, but it could just as easily be anyone else.’

  ‘It’s him,’ Beresford said firmly. ‘Look at the sheepskin jacket that he’s wearing.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘You remember when we were trying to figure out why Lewis had been wearing only his vest and underpants when he was dumped?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And DC Crane suggested that maybe that was all he was wearing when he was killed.’

  ‘Get on with it!’

  ‘You said that couldn’t be the case, because the vest would have been drenched in blood. You said he must have been wearing something quite thick.’

  ‘I remember what I said.’

  ‘Something like that sheepskin jacket, for example?’

  ‘Or an overcoat. Or a donkey jacket.’

  ‘Why would he have been wearing an overcoat in the middle of summer?’ Beresford asked.

  ‘Why would he have been wearing a sheepskin jacket in the middle of summer?’ Wellbeloved countered.

  ‘Because he needed to fit in with a group of people who put fashion before comfort.’

  Wellbeloved sighed. ‘So tell me, Inspector Beresford, would you be prepared to stand up in a court of law and swear under oath that that’s a photograph of Lewis?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, no,’ Beresford admitted, reluctantly.

  ‘So there you have it,’ Wellbeloved said. ‘On the one hand, we have a photograph of a man bearing a passing resemblance to Terry Lewis. On the other hand, we’ve got Jeff Hill’s balls in the vice, and all we need to do now is turn the handle just a little more tightly to get a result. Of the two possibilities before us, Inspector, I think I much prefer the latter.’

  ‘In so many ways, you’re no more than an innocent party, caught up in something you have no control over,’ Wellbeloved told Harry Elton.

  ‘Have you got any chocolate?’ Elton asked.

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘A KitKat? A Bounty Bar? A Turkish Delight? I don’t mind what. Anything will do.’

  Wellbeloved turned towards the uniformed constable who was standing by the door on the interrogation room.

  ‘Slip down to the canteen and get Mr Elton a bar of chocolate, will you?’ he asked.

  ‘Or two bars,’ Elton said. ‘Two bars would be good.’

  The constable left the room.

  ‘As I was saying, I consider you pretty much the innocent party,’ Wellbeloved told Elton. ‘And Inspector Beresford believes that, too, don’t you, Inspector Beresford?’

  ‘I do,’ said Beresford, playing along with the game, though his heart was no longer in it.

  ‘You see, we know what you did to earn the five thousand pound fee that Terry Lewis paid you,’ Wellbeloved continued. ‘He wanted you to gather some information on a certain person, didn’t he? And that’s exactly what you did. Now you weren’t to know that the certain person would kill Terry – and I don’t think anyone can possibly hold you responsible for the fact that he did.’

  ‘Go on,’ Elton said cautiously.

  ‘I’m prepared to offer you a deal, Harry,’ Wellbeloved said. ‘If you give us the name of the person who Terry Lewis paid you to collect the information on, we’ll let you go.’

  ‘Terry Lewis didn’t …’

  ‘Didn’t what?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  The constable returned with the two bars of chocolate.

  ‘Put them on the table in front of me,’ said Wellbeloved, who had had his hands clasped together for the entire interview.

  The constable laid the bars down, and Elton followed their progress with greedy eyes.

  ‘Just one name – that’s all I want,’ Wellbeloved said.

  He unclasped his hands, and with his left one placed the KitKat bar in the palm of his right. Then he stretched his right arm across the table.

  ‘Take it, Harry,’ he said coaxingly.

  Elton reached across and lifted the bar slowly and carefully from Wellbeloved’s palm, as if he suspected it was a trap waiting to be sprung.

  But then, even after he’d liberated the bar, his eyes stayed on the hand – continued to look at it for a full three seconds, until Wellbeloved closed it again.

  A grin spread across Elton’s fat face.

  ‘You want a name, Chief Inspector?’ he asked. ‘I’ll give you a name – Jeff Hill.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Elton,’ Wellbeloved said. He stood up. ‘Now if you’ll just excuse me for a minute or two …’

  As he left the interview room, his right hand was firmly inside his trouser pocket.

  Beresford counted to ten, and then stood up himself. As he reached the corridor, Wellbeloved was already disappearing into the nearest Gents, and by the time Beresford got there, the chief inspector was vigorously washing his hands under the tap.

  Wellbeloved jumped slightly when he saw the other man standing in the doorway.

  ‘Why the sudden need to wash your hands, sir?’ Beresford asked.

  ‘Don’t you ever feel the need to cleanse yourself after spending time with scum like that?’ Wellbeloved said uncomfortably – and he continued to scrub away.

  ‘Scum like that?’ Beresford repeated. ‘Oh, you mean Harry Elton, the man you’ve just
given a free pass to.’

  ‘He’s given us valuable information,’ Wellbeloved said. ‘And on the other matter, I wasn’t aware that I needed your permission to wash my hands, Inspector Beresford.’

  ‘No sir, of course you don’t,’ Beresford replied. ‘A man should be free to wash himself any time he feels dirty.’

  Then he turned and left – not quite trusting himself to say any more.

  The earl was pacing up and down the corridor in Whitebridge General Hospital, and the expression on his face said that while he was determined to retain his grip on his own mental stability if at all possible, he wasn’t holding out very much hope that he’d succeed.

  ‘I came as soon as I could, my lord,’ George Baxter said. ‘How is the countess?’

  ‘Her leg has been set, and she’s been given some stitches,’ the earl said. ‘They tell me her condition is painful, but not life threatening, and I suppose I should be grateful it wasn’t worse. Indeed, I am grateful – but if I ever find the man who did this to her, I will kill him.’

  They all said that in situations like this one, Baxter thought, and it was perfectly understandable.

  The earl smiled weakly. ‘That’s nonsense, of course. I don’t believe in the death penalty, and even if I did, I’m not the kind of man who could ever bring himself to inflict it. But I do want this man caught, chief constable, and when he is caught, I want him to be subjected to the full rigour of the law.’

  ‘We’ll catch him,’ Baxter promised – though he was not entirely sure it was a promise he could keep. ‘I’ll assign a chief superintendent to head the team, and the case will be given top priority.’

  ‘I want Detective Chief Inspector Paniatowski to be the one who investigates it,’ the earl said.

  And I don’t want her to be the one, Baxter thought, because I’ve got her nicely hemmed up in a box, and I intend to bloody keep her there.

  ‘With the greatest possible respect, sir, I think I’m in a better position than you are to decide who should head the team,’ he said.

  ‘I know Chief Inspector Paniatowski, I like her, and I trust her,’ the earl said. ‘And I want her – and no one else – to be in charge.’