The Lately Deceased

by Bernard Knight

  ‘Would you happen to be Mr Colin Moore, of this address, sir?’ The policeman switched off his light and came across the porch to take him by the arm.

  Colin’s reeling mind took in the shape of the helmet and the black pyramid of the caped figure in the gloom.

  ‘What do you want? Have you been waiting for me?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir, you’ve been wanted urgently all day. I’ve been here five times myself. You’re wanted for questioning at Comber Street station right away.’

  Colin made an attempt to think straight.

  ‘What is this? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why the hell should I go to a police station for questioning at this time of night?’

  The constable, seeing that the other was not going to fall down the steps after all, released his hold on his elbow and shone his torch on the lock of the door.

  ‘If you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to use your phone to ring the station. Perhaps they can send a car for you.’

  Colin obediently fumbled for his keys. As he pulled the bunch from his pocket, the memory or another key he had dropped down a drain came suddenly back to him. He gave a rather foolish laugh.

  ‘Oh-oh, I remember now! You want me for abandoning a vehicle or causing an obstruction in the Queen’s highway. Sorry, but I was in no mood to park the thing properly before ditching that bitch. Still, it was good while it lasted!’

  They had got the door open by now and, as Colin fumbled for the light switch, the policeman tried to make sense of the words.

  ‘I don’t know anything about any traffic offence, sir. I think you are wanted to help with some information on a more serious matter. Your wife’s whereabouts are a mystery too; can you tell us where she can be found, sir? It’s most important.’

  There was a flood of light in the hall as Colin touched the switch and, immediately, he made for a small cloakroom on the left, where a washbasin could be seen through the open door.

  ‘I’m going to stick my head under the tap first, chum,’ he mumbled. ‘If you want the phone, it’s in that room and if you want my wife, I should go down to hell and have a look around there!’

  With this comment, he disappeared into the washroom.

  Ringing his station, the constable explained the position to the station officer, who promised to ring Comber Street and find out what was to be done.

  Within a couple of minutes, a wet but more sober Colin appeared, as the station rang back telling them that a squad car was coming to pick Moore up and take him to Comber Street.

  ‘Now can you tell me what all the fuss is about, if it’s not my car that’s the trouble?’ he demanded of the constable.

  ‘No, sir, I can’t; at least, not in any detail. All I know is they want to talk to you in connection with a sudden death at which you were present.’

  Colin took a cigarette from a box on the table with a shaking hand. He offered one to the policeman, who declined.

  ‘Oh, hell, yes! But surely they don’t want to talk to me in the middle of the damn night about that?’ He lit up and went on rather aggrievedly. ‘Especially as I’m feeling a bit under the weather.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. I’m just carrying out orders.’

  Colin spoke almost to himself, picking shreds of tobacco from his tongue.

  ‘I wonder where that blasted woman is?’

  The patrol car arrived and, inside minutes, he was sitting in the CID office where his fellow guests had spent much of the afternoon.

  Chapter Ten

  A tired-looking Masters sat on the other side of the desk.

  ‘Sorry about this, sir, but we’ve been looking high and low for you all day. I’ve notified DI Grey; he’s coming back right away.’

  ‘Can you tell me what’s going on, for Pete’s sake?’ asked an exasperated Colin. He had a headache and his mouth felt like the proverbial country closet.

  Masters was hesitant. He wasn’t sure how much to tell Moore before Grey arrived.

  ‘The inspector will be able to tell you more fully, sir; but, as the newspapers will be spreading it in the morning anyway, I can at least tell you that Mrs Walker died as a result of foul play, presumed to be murder.’

  The news seemed to affect Colin Moore profoundly. His face was already so pale that it could hardly blanch any more, but a white ring appeared around his mouth as he tightened his lips. His red-rimmed eyes stood out against the pallor and he looked as if he was going to be sick. He got up abruptly from the desk and walked halfway across the room, then swung round and faced the detective.

  ‘The bloody swine, the bloody, bloody swine!’ he said in a low voice trembling with emotion. He stood there, looking at Masters as if he was a creature from the Pit, but the sergeant knew that he was looking right through him to some hateful vision beyond.

  Masters was young, but well supplied with common sense. He realised that if he missed the chance to get something out of Moore now, the mood would have evaporated by the time that Grey arrived.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked encouragingly.

  Colin’s eyes were fixed on the infinity behind Masters’ back.

  ‘She’s bad enough, but that bastard needs doing away with. The murderous, lousy, rotten devil! My God, I’ll see he doesn’t get away with it.’

  ‘Who do you mean, sir?’ Masters was desperately trying to keep the man’s mood intact, a mood created by emotion, alcohol and fatigue.

  ‘Who the hell do you think I mean? That bloody man Walker, of course. There should be a law against people like him. Takes Pearl from me; rubs my nose in his success and throws me work like giving me a down payment on my wife. Now this! He’s going to make it legal and get a million or so on the side. It’s fantastic enough to be possible, that’s the hell of it!’

  He dropped suddenly into another chair and buried his face in his hands. The sergeant knew his chances of hearing anything more of importance had gone, but he was well satisfied.

  ‘The inspector will be here soon, sir,’ he said soothingly. ‘You can make a full statement then.’

  Colin Moore spoke from behind his hands. ‘Have you any idea where my wife is now?’

  A sudden thought hit him and he sat up quickly; ‘Is she living with that bastard already?’

  Masters hurried to reassure him.

  ‘No, I’m afraid we have no idea where your wife is at present. I wish we had. If you were referring to Mr Walker, he’s staying with a Mr Tate. We’ve had to close up his flat for the time being.’

  Colin sank back into apathy, with a muttered ‘He should be locked up by now, waiting to be hanged!’

  In spite of Masters’ hopes, the statement taken when Syd Grey arrived proved to be no more useful than the others. Moore did not repeat his outburst to the inspector and, after Masters had taken him aside and told him or the accusations against Walker, the senior officer brought the question up again.

  ‘Now, Mr Moore, apart from personal feelings, have you anything concrete you would like to tell us about any other person in particular?’

  Colin thought for a moment, then shook his head wearily.

  ‘No, nothing you would call concrete,’ he said with a sigh. ‘But if you can’t see what is so damn obvious, I pity you!’

  He stood up to indicate that, as far as he was concerned, the interview was over. ‘Tell me, how did he do it?’ he asked, tensely.

  Grey frowned.

  ‘I’d advise you not to talk like that outside this room unless you can substantiate what you say, sir. You’ll lay yourself open for a lot of trouble if others hear you. Death was caused by a stab wound of the chest. We are trying to trace a long thin weapon, such as a large knitting needle. Can you help us in remembering whether any such thing was lying around the flat last night, sir?’

  Colin, now calm and almost sober, asked, ‘Would a meat skewer fit the description?’

  The detectives looked at him and then at each other.

  ‘It certainly would, Mr Moore. Did you see anything lik
e a skewer there at the time?’

  Colin looked at them pityingly. ‘I suppose you could say that I did, if about three dozen barbecue skewers would fit the bill!’

  When he left, he caught a taxi home.

  Geoffrey Tate and Eve arrived back at his flat at about eleven that evening, tired but contented. They had wallowed in a newly found affection for each other, sat hand in hand through a happy musical play and had almost rubbed noses across a little table in a coffee bar afterwards. They had hardly thought at all of the day’s sordid affair but, when the time came for him to take Eve home to her place in Holland Park, he had a sudden pang of conscience for having left Gordon alone for so long.

  ‘Come and call in on the way home, sweet,’ he implored. ‘I feel a bit of a heel for leaving him, but if you come and brighten us both up over a drink, it’ll help a lot.’

  They took a taxi to the rather bleak Bayswater square where Geoff lived. In a gap torn by bombs in a great row of tall Victorian houses, a squat plug of yellow brick had been built, looking like a bad filling in a row of even teeth. In this plug were eight small flatlets, nearly all occupied by bachelors who were ‘done for’ by the same pair of daily helps.

  They all ate out, the only sustenance apart from toast and a boiled egg usually coming from a bottle. Geoff lived on the ground floor, having a lounge, bathroom and two small bedrooms. The nominal cooking facilities were shared in a ‘utility room’ common to all four occupants of the four apartments, there being a similar arrangement next door.

  Geoff opened his front door and called out to Gordon.

  ‘Hey there, I’ve brought a visitor to see you.’

  Though the light was on in the pocket-sized hall, there was no answer or movement. All the rooms in the flat opened off this box-shaped entrance. Geoff hung his coat on the stand, the sole article of furniture, and turned to help Eve out of her coat. Holding this over his arm, he opened the lounge door, to find it in darkness.

  ‘Funny, he’s either out, or in bed. Come on in, anyway.’

  He put the light on and they went into the comfortable room. The curtains were drawn and the lounge was warm and snug.

  ‘I wonder if he’s in bed,’ queried Geoff. ‘Sit down a moment, darling, while I have a look.’

  He went into each of the other rooms, but there was no one there.

  ‘Damned queer! Let’s have a drink and think about it, pet.’ He went over to the cocktail cabinet while Eve stood before the electric fire in the hearth, patting her shining hair into shape with the help of a small mirror. As he bent to open the glass door, Geoff’s glance fell on a sheet of paper near the telephone, which stood on a small table next to the cabinet.

  ‘Ha, the mystery solved!’ he exclaimed. ‘Gordon’s left a note – “Gone out for a while, don’t wait up”. Wonder where the hell he’s gone at this time of night?’

  Eve stood across the room looking at him with a smile, her lips full and her eyes twinkling.

  ‘A fine tale, Geoffrey Tate! It sounds like a put-up job to me. “Innocent maiden lured into bachelor apartment” – I thought you’d got past that by now!’

  ‘The day I get past that, my dear, you can have me cremated! But honestly. I’ve no idea where he can be. Perhaps he’s gone out for a drink. I suppose it was a bit rotten of me to leave him alone on the first night. It’s all your fault, Eve, for being so fascinating!’

  ‘Perhaps the police have called him in for more questions?’

  ‘Hardly at this time of night. I wonder if they’ve found Colin and Pearl yet? Those two weren’t in the best of humour when they left the party.’

  Eve held out her hands to him. ‘Just like us, darling. I can tell that you hate the sight of me by the way you’re looking at me!’

  As Geoff came across the room to meet her, his bachelor soul fought a forlorn rearguard action.

  ‘How the hell those two stuck together for as long as they did is beyond me!’ he said. ‘This will certainly put the finish to anything that was left of their marriage.’

  ‘Yes, darling,’ said Eve, pulling him down on to the settee. ‘I wonder how long Gordon will be out.’

  They stopped talking about Moore and Gordon, for their lips were otherwise occupied.

  Chapter Eleven

  After Colin had left, Pearl continued to sit unmoving in the passenger seat of the car. She watched him disappear from sight round the corner, then opened her handbag and took from it the ignition key she always kept there. It was so like Colin, she thought, to make a grand dramatic gesture and succeed only in making a complete fool of himself. All their married life he had been given to such histrionic outbursts, and always he had presented her with the opportunity to make mock of him and his ridiculous gestures.

  She started the car, manoeuvred it off the pavement and pulled up in the kerb. Then she sat and pondered on her next move. Colin, she was certain, would take a taxi straight home. There he would go to bed and sleep off the effects of the night’s drinking in an unbroken ten-hour stretch.

  She had no desire to meet him until he had sobered up – or ever again, if it came to that. Things were different now that Margaret was dead; Gordon was free. In the past Margaret had been the main obstacle in the path of her marriage to Gordon. Colin could be bought off, she was quite certain of that. But not Margaret, she had had too much money to be tempted by bribes.

  At the far end of the street, a policeman came into sight. Pearl decided she had no wish to answer questions if he became inquisitive as to what she was doing parked by the kerb so early in the morning.

  She started the car again and drove slowly away. More than anything else at the moment she needed coffee and she drove on until she saw what she wanted. It was a sleazy cafe that was just opening its doors to early breakfasters; not at all the sort of place she would normally frequent but this morning it did not seem to matter. She stopped the car and went in. The air inside was stale with tobacco smoke and the reek of hot fat. A man in braces and without collar or tie looked up from behind the counter as she entered.

  ‘Sit there, miss,’ he said, pointing to one of three greasy-looking tables. ‘I’ll be over in a moment.’

  A few minutes later she was sipping a steaming hot brew that had little resemblance to any coffee she had ever tasted but was nevertheless drinkable and warming. Pearl sat wondering what the immediate future held in store.

  As soon as it could be arranged, of course, she would marry Gordon, but what should she do in the meantime? It occurred to her that now was the time to make the break with Colin – it would pave the way for what lay ahead, but if she did, where was she to go? In other circumstances, there would have been no problem.

  She could have moved in comfortably with Gordon. But not now; not immediately on the heels of Margaret’s death. Pearl normally cared little for the opinions of friends or enemies, but even she was unwilling to face the censure this course would invite. The only alternative was to stay at an hotel until she could find a place of her own – but the hotel did not have to be in London, she decided in a flash of inspiration.

  London, she suddenly realised, had lost its appeal. It had become drab and sordid and Margaret drinking herself to death had made it more so. She had no immediate professional commitments to keep her in the metropolis; why not get right out of it? Why not Paris?

  Reaching this decision she paid for her coffee and drove to the London Air Terminal. There she had breakfast and booked a seat on the noon flight to Paris. Then she drove back to the Hampstead flat to pack a bag. She let herself in with her key, quietly closing the door behind her so as not to rouse Colin from his stupor.

  Pearl soon saw that he was not there. The door to his room was open and there was no sign that she could see that he had been home. She stuffed a few essentials into a case and left hurriedly before he returned. Tossing the case into a taxi, she was driven to Heathrow Airport, not bothering to leave a note explaining where she had gone.

  By teatime the same day she was
in Paris giving a punch-by-punch account of the tribulations of her married life to Diane Grantly, another model and the nearest she had to a permanent friend. After describing what a drink-sodden, no-good loafer her husband was, Pearl got around to talking of Gordon. An hour later Diane arrived at the correct conclusion that Pearl had gone overboard for her managing director and his money, and that her husband, who was the scum on the duck pond, was all set to be ditched.

  ‘Will he give you a divorce, darling?’ she asked sweetly.

  ‘He’s damn well got to now,’ Pearl replied vehemently. ‘Though in the past he’s been adamant. You’d hardly credit it but I’ve done everything – moral and immoral – to make him release me, but he’s just stood me out like the stubborn bastard he is. But this time, now we’re shot of Margaret, he’s just got to give way; even if it costs me every penny I possess to bribe him.’

  ‘You can’t get grounds against him, I suppose?’

  ‘Hell, no. He thinks more of whisky than of women. I can hardly use his mooning around with his arm around a girl at a party as grounds, now can I?’

  ‘How perfectly bloody for you, darling,’ said Diane, sympathetically. She too, had recently shed a husband and was planning to replace him with one in a higher income bracket on her return to England in the spring.

  The two girls spent the next morning window-shopping and at lunchtime they bought a copy of the Daily Express, flown over from London that morning. It was Diane who spotted the headline and eagerly read the details printed below it.

  ‘Girlie, the bobbies are after you!’ she carolled gleefully. ‘Are you sure you only hit your dearly beloved with your handbag and didn’t go berserk with a carving knife?’

  Pearl took the paper and read with amazement the passage that Diane indicated with a long red fingernail. She began to read fragments aloud, as if to convince herself of their truth.

  ‘“Mystery death in West End … wife of television chief found in party stabbed to death. Well-known personalities held for questioning . Interviews with CID officers went on until late in the day.” My God, Diane, what’s it all mean?’