A Dead Question

by Gerald Hammond

  He listened patiently to a story that is as old as sex itself. ‘I’ve no doubt you’re right,’ he said at the end. ‘The approach of family can be a binding agent, but pregnancy can be almost as hard on the man as on the woman. If you’ve found sex uncomfortable, which is often the case, that’s nature’s way of telling you not to do it. You certainly shouldn’t proceed with anything that hurts you. But Sandy may find the lack of it just as discommoding. In addition, unless you explained yourself with care and tact, he may very well feel rejected; in which case he may feel shy about risking further rejection by trying to heal the breach. This may well explain an apparent dwindling of affection on his part. You haven’t been married long enough for friendship to take over from lust.’

  ‘All very well,’ Honey said, ‘but what do I do about it?’

  Mr Potterton-Phipps flinched. His staff would have been amazed to see their unvaryingly positive chief at an apparent loss. This was not usually a subject discussed between father and daughter. He called up his reserves, banished embarrassment and plunged ahead. ‘The two of you have to figure out between you what works for you both. There are plenty of ways for both of you to achieve release without causing pain.’ Pretending to meet her eye in an expression of understanding and compassion, he was in reality studying a minute freckle on her forehead. He went on to enumerate at some length more than a dozen alternative means by which frustration might be relieved. ‘That’s putting it bluntly,’ he added, ‘but, if I read you rightly, you were asking me to do just that.’

  ‘Not that damn bluntly,’ Honey said, ‘but thank you anyway.’ In his relief, her father was still chuckling as he watched their lights fade away down the drive.

  Honey considered herself to be a thoroughly modern and emancipated woman. She had, she considered, ‘been around the block’ before she met Sandy. But, although her father had tried to convey his more detailed advice in a gentle and even oblique manner, she had been perturbed to realise how insensitive she had been in failing to guess at Sandy’s needs. Her father’s suggestions as to how to remedy the situation came as a surprise only in the context of herself and Sandy. She now had to pass the hurdle of introducing the topic with Sandy. She had been pensive on the long road home. By the time that Dodson had seen her safely indoors and left on his motorcycle, she had decided to take a firm grip on herself, face up to embarrassment and make the opening moves.

  Sandy, for his part, had been both surprised and gratified to be called upstairs, to find the love of his life attired in her slinkiest peignoir (which, for the moment, would no longer quite meet at the front). She was armed with one or two marital aids, including some lubricant jelly and a pair of handcuffs. Any embarrassment was both hidden and unnecessary. Her mood was the mood of loving persuasion for which he had been longing. If the events that followed lacked the usual depth and lubricity in the culmination, at least the event as a whole, as well as being more protracted, was filled with the old delight.

  Next morning, the two Lairds slept later than was usual even for an off-duty Sunday. When they rose, each was in a languorous mood. It was, she thought, as good as of old or even slightly better. They wasted a few minutes in neck-nuzzling before Honey said, ‘You could do something for me.’

  ‘Anything,’ said her husband.

  ‘I’ll hold you to that, some time. But what I want now is a printout showing every major unsolved crime for the last five years.’

  Sandy withdrew his face from her shoulder, yawned and frowned into hers from a range of only a few centimetres. ‘You probably couldn’t lift it. What I had in mind was something more like this.’ His head vanished under the duvet.

  Honey chuckled but got a grip on his ears. ‘Come out of there, you idiot, or I’ll scream for June. I’m looking for ideas, but not that sort. Of course, whatever Dr McGordon did may still be an undiscovered crime. But that’s my problem, not yours. I don’t suppose you can do anything to help until tomorrow. Go and play golf.’

  ‘You mean that?’

  ‘I think so. If you still have the energy. You made the date so you’d better go. I want to think, but with you in the mood you’re in my thoughts would get stuck in a rut.’

  ‘There’s no polite answer to that.’

  They ate a leisurely breakfast together before getting dressed. Sandy disappeared towards the golf course. Honey, while promising herself a leisurely day, opened her emails. Among a clutter of social messages and such minor advertising as had slipped through the net was one from Detective Superintendent Blackhouse:

  There is to be a meeting with the ACC(Crime), Tuesday, 11 a.m. in his office. Please attend, bringing with you such evidence as you have collected in the matter of Dr Duncan McGordon.

  J Blackhouse, Det Sup.

  The afterglow of her episode with Sandy and the relief of having resolved the tension between them faded only slowly. In their place she became aware of extreme discomfort in the area where, she imagined, Dr McGordon’s nephew would have pursued his speciality. If J Blackhouse Det Sup had sought the meeting, he would have worded it differently. It sounded as though the Assistant Chief Constable (Crime) was on the warpath, Mr Blackhouse was on the carpet and she was . . . where? It seemed that somebody had whispered in the ear of somebody who had passed the word onward towards Dr McGordon. Just who the whisperer might be was irrelevant. The story might well have been passed on ‘in strict confidence’. But if the identity of the whisperer should happen to come to her attention, no doubt Allan Dodson would be happy to provide an endless series of parking and speeding tickets.

  The discomfort in her mid-section recurred. Did she have indigestion or was she developing an ulcer? She had no love for Mr Blackhouse. Earlier, she would have said that she would be only too pleased to see him go down the pan. Now, she was surprised to find that a sort of loyalty prevailed. She might not like him but she had got used to him. If his head rolled, whoever succeeded in his stead might not accept his view of her as an eccentric but beautiful genius but might instead see her as Honey sometimes saw herself, as a flighty and undisciplined hoyden. Or he might even regard her as fair game. Furthermore, she felt herself to be vulnerable. She had been the most active participant in the forbidden enquiries; and while she might be able to excuse herself at Mr Blackhouse’s expense she might thereafter carry the stigma of disloyalty or even whistle blowing. And, the next day being Sunday, she was going to be very much hampered in doing anything about it that day. Retirement on grounds of motherhood seemed to be looming.

  She leaned back in her chair and breathed deeply, telling her muscles to relax. She had never phoned Mr Blackhouse at home and she had to look up the number, but when she called it his telephone rang repeatedly without an answer.

  Just when her deliberations were at their gloomiest, the phone rang. Kate Ingliston, apparently returned from her weekend jollity, was returning her call. Honey’s first impulse was to put her off. But it came back to her that her original call had been made because there was one faintly possible line of enquiry open. It was a long shot. It was much more likely that Mrs McGordon had moved on and her place had been taken by another friend or relation or even that the police photographer had been misled into photographing Mrs McGordon’s sister walking with some other acquaintance. It was nevertheless worth pursuing. It could not possibly be pursued to any sort of conclusion on a Sunday morning but perhaps Monday would allow time for an exchange of emails with Canada in preparation for the next day’s meeting. If she could show that any avenue was open it might help to deflect the blow. She issued an immediate invitation to coffee.

  Kate was on the doorstep within ten minutes, giving Honey time to enlarge a photograph on the computer before settling in the sitting room. Kate, now the butterfly still dressed and made up for her weekend of dalliance, was hardly recognisable as the caterpillar of the rest of the week. But while Honey was anxious to discuss the photograph, Kate was determined to explain over the coffee-cups why she had returned home rather earlier than usu
al. It seemed that while Phil had enjoyed his liaison with the other lady (and rather too much for Kate’s peace of mind) the gentleman had proved to be a disappointment. ‘My nephew Simon,’ she said bitterly, ‘is better hung. And he’s only six.’

  Honey commiserated. When she could at last grab Kate’s attention, she produced the photograph emailed from Canada. ‘Do you recognise anybody in this picture?’ she asked. ‘I got the Mounties to send me a photograph of whoever the woman is who’s living with Mrs McGordon’s sister. To be honest, in the photograph I’m not even absolutely sure which is which. If somebody from around here was sent out there, or offered a home, in order to give the impression that Mrs McGordon was still alive . . .’

  Kate was hardly listening. She studied the photograph. ‘She’s put some weight on,’ she said. Honey felt hope rising. ‘And she’s bleached her hair and stopped bothering so much with her makeup, so she looks about ten years older, but it’s her all right. This is Dulcie McGordon.’

  Hope did a belly flop. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘It took me a few seconds, but I’m sure. Of course, you only saw her in the distance and not over a very long period; but I knew her quite well. Looking past those superficial changes, yes, I’m absolutely sure. You can’t mistake the bone structure of the face. And she was slightly knock-kneed. You can see it quite clearly in the photograph.’

  Honey fell silent. Looking again at the photograph, she could see that Kate was absolutely right. While Kate prattled on about the physical deficiencies of her weekend partner, Honey sat, sipping her coffee and numbly regretting what had been a very hopeful line of enquiry. Hope was going down for the third time.

  The phone rang as she returned from seeing Kate to the door. Honey picked it up. As usual she only gave her number, which any caller must already know.

  ‘Who am I speaking to?’ asked the caller. The voice was male, deep, well modulated but with an accent that had not quite managed to escape from its origins somewhere in the Scottish Central Belt.

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Laird. Who’s calling?’

  The introduction was usually enough to frighten off any random caller, but not this one. ‘This is Henry Kristmeier.’ Honey’s recall was not usually slow but on this occasion it hung fire. ‘You left a note for me,’ the voice said impatiently.

  Hope surfaced and began to swim for the shore. ‘I’m delighted to hear from you, Mr Kristmeier,’ she said. ‘I have some questions to ask you concerning Dr McGordon. Could you possibly come and see me at my home?’ June was busily preparing meals to last for the rest of the day so that she could take the afternoon off and go visiting. Honey had told Allan Dodson that he was free for the day or that if he cared to turn up they might be able to go a little further towards unravelling the tangled skeins of the case; but there had so far been no sign of him. With Sandy away from home she must face the discomfort of driving herself or call a taxi. A glance out of the study window showed that the forecast rain had arrived at last. ‘I don’t find travelling very convenient at the moment,’ she said. ‘Let’s just say that my doctor discourages it.’

  Mr Kristmeier considered in silence. ‘How would I know that you are a genuine police inspector?’ he asked.

  ‘A sensible question. I can show you my identification. You can check my phone number with Lothian and Borders if you like. They won’t give out a private number but if you quote this number to them and ask if it’s correct for Detective Inspector Laird, they’ll confirm or deny it.’

  A smile came into his voice. ‘I don’t think that we need bother. I’ll come to you. What’s the address?’

  *

  Honey was busy with her thoughts about Dr McGordon, considering what questions she should put to Mr Kristmeier and what answers to hope for. In the light of Mr Blackhouse’s email, it was surely rash to continue investigating and yet there was no other avenue of escape and, with care, there should be no leakage of the fact back to the ACC(Crime). Her deliberations were interrupted when the front doorbell rang. Only the vaguest shapes could ever be made out through the wired and obscured glass of the front door so she stooped to the fish-eye lens. She could see an elbow and a shoulder and, beyond, a motorcycle propped on its stand. Expecting Allan Dodson, she opened the door.

  Where the man on the doorstep resembled Allan Dodson, the resemblance was exaggerated almost to the point of caricature. Dodson was tall but this man was taller. Allan was slim but the newcomer had an athletic leanness. Allan was nice-looking but this man was handsome and aware of it, with high cheekbones and features modelled in the best traditions of strength and masculinity. Where Allan was attractive to girls this man would, Honey thought, be sexually irresistible to women . . . to most women, she corrected herself. He was the very stereotype of a stud, a sex god, and as an actor he would inevitably have been cast as such. He could have had a future in hardcore movies. It was lucky that she had made up her differences with Sandy last night, she decided, because while Allan Dodson might make a young woman’s heart beat faster, this one could cause palpitations in quite a different place. While, at her invitation, he removed his wet leathers in the hall, he seemed to be releasing a cloud of testosterone, endorphins, pheromones, MHCs . . . she ran out of names of male sexual messengers. And while she was noticing him, she was aware that he had taken in her pregnancy and found that it did nothing to detract from her own female magic.

  Sternly telling herself that her knees were as firm as ever, she led him through and they took seats in the study. ‘Before we begin,’ she said, ‘I’d like to know how strong is your loyalty to Dr McGordon.’

  He locked eyes with her. All sexual signals seemed suddenly to be switched off. ‘I don’t owe him any loyalty,’ he said. ‘You tell me if your interest in him is because you want him painted in pretty colours so that you can use him as a witness, or are you after his blood?’

  They could have fenced all day but she decided to be frank without encouraging him to fabricate slanders against the Doctor. It was too late for discretion. ‘All that we’re really after is the truth,’ she said. ‘But we have reason to believe that the Doctor has something serious on his conscience. If so, we want to dig it out.’

  ‘I doubt if he has much of a conscience,’ Kristmeier said. Given his appearance and his name, Honey might have expected a variety of accents, but an accent, which had been exaggerated by the phone, carefully suppressed but redolent of the Lothians, was somehow out of key. ‘If you find that he does have something hanging over him, then what?’

  ‘Then as far as I’m concerned the axe can fall.’

  ‘But will it?’ He leaned towards her. She leaned back rather than be overpowered by a surfeit of pheromones. ‘I’ve had my suspicions,’ Kristmeier said. ‘I had a word with a friend of mine in the police, a sergeant, and she spoke to somebody else and the word that came back was that the Doctor had some powerful friends, some of them his patients, and that I might not be doing myself any favours if I took it any further.’ He sat back in his chair.

  Honey felt her blood pressure return to normal. ‘That is why I have been told to do this from home. But your own personal view of the man?’

  ‘So Dr McGordon is not flavour of the month with everybody in the police.’ Kristmeier frowned. He crossed his knees and even managed to invest that simple movement with an air of masculinity. ‘I think he’s a crook and a charlatan.’

  ‘Do you have anything to go on?’ Honey asked.

  ‘Judge for yourself. So that you’ll understand, I’d better explain myself. I trained as a male nurse, but I couldn’t see it as a lifelong career. Blood and urine and heavy lifting, spending every day surrounded by people who feel sorry for themselves. I’m not unsympathetic but a dead-end job among the sick and lame was not my ultimate ambition. I thought of studying medicine, but that would only be to climb higher up the same old ladder.

  ‘I decided that the place to be is in management. I knew I was a good administrator but whether I’d ever be more than
that I had to find out. I was taking a business degree course while working for Dr McGordon’s practice, so I acted as practice manager as well as giving injections and sticking plasters on boils. Even then, I had my concerns. If I discussed them with colleagues and with others it was in the hope that somebody would put my fears to rest. It must have got back to him that I’d been talking out of school, because he called me into his consulting room. Fired me without a reference for stabbing him in the back, so he said.’ Kristmeier’s proud nose wrinkled in disgust. ‘He had the wrong end of the stick. I could have explained but he wouldn’t listen. And he still owes me my last month’s pay. When I argued with him, he said that I could sue and the publicity would prevent any employer ever taking me on.’ Kristmeier smiled grimly, which only added to his air of self-assurance. ‘Well, I can do without him. I’m assistant manager of a small pharmaceutical supplies company now and when the manager retires in three years I’ve been promised the job. When that time comes, I’ll be just as happy if a hostile and influential doctor isn’t still in practice and spreading poison about me. But that’s over and above the fact that I think he’s a pig-turd.’

  It was only as the thudding of her heart calmed and the tight band around her head relaxed that Honey realised how tense she had been. But now, a great change had come over the case. The team so far had comprised one pregnant inspector, a constable borrowed from Traffic and sundry ladies with patchy knowledge of the two medical men. Suddenly the hour had produced the man. Kristmeier – she almost laughed aloud – was just what the doctor ordered. He must have a deeper knowledge of the Doctor and his nephew than anybody else and he was deeply disaffected. If anybody could show her the Doctor’s Achilles heel, this was the man.