by M. J. Trow
‘No, guv. I’ll stay. Let’s set a time, shall we? Till we crack this, or five o’clock, whichever is the sooner?’
‘Fair enough.’ He foraged about on his desk. ‘Look, here’s the post-mortem on Paul Masters. Can you give it the once-over and let me know if there’s anything interesting?’
Jacquie knew that the PMs on both Medlicotts were on Henry’s desk as well, but he would deal with them himself. And she was glad about that; she wasn’t really up to knowing the weight of the brain of a man who, not twenty-four hours before, had been crying in her arms like a baby.
Chapter Nineteen
Number 38 Columbine was a much more peaceful place to be than Leighford nick. Upstairs, the intermittent whine of the vacuum cleaner was interspersed with bursts of singing, some from Mrs B and some from the radio. The worst moments came when the cleaning lady accompanied the radio and definitely beat it hands down. But these sounds were muffled by distance and didn’t disturb Maxwell, in a world of his own down among the newspapers. The gathered ghosts of trees piled around him seemed to absorb what little sound there was: from outside the occasional car going past, a distant lawnmower; from inside, the soft flap of a turning page, the faint zhurring noise as he ran a craft knife around an interesting article, to remove it to look at later. The quiet motor of Metternich’s snoring was the background to it all.
The pile of interesting things was growing taller. At first, Maxwell hadn’t known quite what he was looking for, then he seemed to get his eye in. Falls resulting in death, obviously. But that couldn’t be all; he then went back and started looking for missing people in general, then, if they were reported found, he went back and threw the article away. This way, he reasoned, the pile of cuttings might stay within reasonable bounds.
He was miles away when Mrs B made him jump again. ‘I’m off now, Mr M,’ she said. ‘One load is dry and piled on the spare bed. Another load is drying and another load is washing. I’ve hoovered and dusted but it was a bit of a lick an’ a promise today. I’ll get back to normal this week coming. Ooh, could I have a key? Mrs Troubridge won’t be … out by next week.’
Maxwell appreciated her delicacy. There were several different endings to the sentence, but she had chosen the least dramatic, which was not like her. ‘Ah, now, that’s a bit of a facer,’ he said. ‘I don’t have any spares. Hold on, though. We’ve got Mrs Troubridge’s key. It’s on a hook in here somewhere.’ He looked around and located it above the freezer. ‘If you wait in here a minute, I’ll nip next door and get our keys from her house and give them to you.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ Mrs B said. ‘I tell you what would be nice as well. What if, when I come next week, I give her place a bit of a going-through. Nothing much, just a dust and a wipe. So’s it’s nice for her when she gets home. Sort the fridge out, that kind of thing. Pick up the post. Water the plants. I can tell her tonight and that will be one less thing to worry her. She was a bit fretful last night about things. She seems to be worrying about money, so I’ll make sure she knows it won’t cost her anything.’ She looked meaningfully at Maxwell.
‘Of course it won’t,’ Maxwell said. ‘Just take it out of your time with us.’
She gave him another old-fashioned look.
‘Or do extra, of course. Just let me know how much. But you know,’ he paused in the doorway, Mrs Troubridge’s spare keys in his hand, ‘you surprise me that she is worrying about money. I really think she is all right in that department.’
‘Oh, old people are funny like that,’ Mrs B said. ‘She wouldn’t say if she was hard up.’
‘No, but really. Her sister, for example, Araminta, she’s always gadding off, foreign holidays, you name it. And she just has the family money. Mrs Troubridge has that and the money from her husband. She’s quite comfortable, I’m sure.’ He tossed the keys in the air thoughtfully. Had he and Jacquie missed that the poor old soul might be in difficulties?
‘Well, I say you never can tell,’ Mrs B said. ‘Does she drink? Gamble? It doesn’t take long, you know, with these Internet poker sites, things like that.’ She gave a cough and changed the subject. ‘I’ll just tidy these papers, shall I, while you’re next door?’
‘No,’ said Maxwell hurriedly. ‘They’re all where they are for a reason. Don’t touch anything. In fact, why don’t you come next door with me? You can have a look round, see how long you’ll be next week.’ The hint was heavy but if she took it she gave no sign.
‘All right, Mr M. Will do. Have you got your front door key? To get back in?’
‘Good point, Mrs B.’ He rummaged in his pockets. ‘Yes, here it is. Shall we go?’ He stood aside and they performed the comic turn of walking up the Maxwells’ path to the pavement, performing a sharp about turn and walking down Mrs Troubridge’s to her front door.
‘It would be easier if you didn’t have this hedge,’ Mrs B observed.
‘Easier?’ Maxwell asked, putting the key in the lock. ‘Why would it need to be easier?’
Mrs B was scandalised. Where she came from, everyone had their neighbours’ keys and were in and out all day. A pint of milk here, a slice of bread there, a space on the washing line on a good drying day, everything was there for sharing. The only things you didn’t touch were money and spouses, and even they were negotiable in the right circumstances. ‘Well, easier to pop in and out,’ she said.
‘Mrs Troubridge isn’t a popper,’ he said. ‘She’s more of a lurker. She’d be lost without this hedge.’ The lock had a personality of its own and he was finding it a little tricky. The woman pushed him to one side. Most days she had to let herself in to other peoples’ houses and there was often a knack. She crouched a little to Mrs Troubridge’s approximate height, pulled down slightly on the key and turned it in two rather jerky twists. The door opened instantly. Maxwell was amazed. ‘However did you do that?’ he said.
‘You just have to behave like the owner,’ she said. ‘Locks get into a habit over the years, they get ground, like scissors. Coo,’ she was in the hall. ‘It’s not much like your place, is it?’
It was an odd thing to say, as in structure the house was exactly like the Maxwells’ house, just in reverse. But even so, she was right. Where next door was light and airy, Mrs Troubridge’s house was dark. Pictures crowded the walls and furniture filled every corner. It was very clean, every knick and every knack polished regularly by its owner, memories giving everything a placid gleam. Even after nearly a week, the film of dust had hardly started to settle. There was a small amount of post on the mat and Mrs B scooped it up and riffled quickly through it.
‘Not much here,’ she announced with the voice of the connoisseur of other peoples’ correspondence. ‘No red demands, that sort of thing.’
‘It’s not really our business, though, is it?’ Maxwell asked, feeling awkward.
‘It’s our business if we can stop the electric cuttin’ her off,’ the cleaner replied sharply. ‘I don’t want the pore ol’ soul coming back to rotting food and a cold house. It’s September. She’ll need the heatin’ on soon, stop the place getting damp.’ She gave a shiver. ‘It’s a bit cold today, don’t you think?’
It was true there was a bit of a chill in the air.
‘We’ll put the heatin’ on low,’ she said. ‘She got one of them boilers like you’ve got, has she? In the kitchen, is it?’ And she marched up the stairs, shoving the post into Maxwell’s hand as she went.
It struck Maxwell that perhaps he ought to say that they were just here to get the key, not to nose around, but he knew that Mrs B, though naturally nosy, was also thinking of Mrs Troubridge and also that Mrs Troubridge would probably not mind. No, that was wrong. She would mind a lot, but she need never find out. He decided to minimise the intrusion, though, and hurried up the stairs, straightening pictures as he went. It occurred to him on the top step that they had probably been knocked crooked as his neighbour had fallen down the stairs and went back and put them all crooked again. He still had a vague thought that t
his might be a crime scene. Henry Hall was seldom wrong.
In the kitchen, Mrs B was just closing the door to the boiler cupboard. There was a faint popping noise as the jets got down to business. ‘I’ve just set it on low,’ she said. ‘It will just tick over. When you come in to check the post, just see if it feels warm enough to you.’
‘Check the post?’ Maxwell felt he was being drawn in a bit far into Mrs B’s world of care.
‘In case there’s any red’uns. Stop her bein’ cut off, that sort of thing. It’s for her own good.’ The woman was adamant and Maxwell knew what she was like when she got her teeth into something. And seeing her every day at school as he did, he also knew his life wouldn’t be worth living, should he fail to do her bidding.
‘Oh, yes. I do see. I’ll do that.’
‘Right. Well,’ she looked around, appraisingly. ‘She keeps it nice. I’ll just give it a quick once-over, shouldn’t come to more than an extra twenty quid, I shouldn’t imagine. That all right?’
‘Yes,’ Maxwell said, weakly. Not only was he suddenly and inexplicably responsible for Mrs Troubridge’s economic well-being, he was also forking out for her cleaning as well. Never mind, he consoled himself, it was probably the least he could do, what with the cat feeding, childminding and the general twenty-four-hour hour surveillance that Mrs Troubridge provided. ‘It’s the least I can do.’
‘Right,’ Mrs B agreed with a nod. She glanced up at the clock on the wall. ‘Look at the time! I must be off. Where’s this key, then?’
‘She keeps it on a hook inside the boiler cupboard,’ Maxwell said.
‘Oh,’ Mrs B muttered. ‘Din’ see it.’ She pulled open the door and looked around. ‘No, no key here.’
‘Let me look,’ Maxwell said. ‘It’s always here.’ He too looked around inside the cupboard. ‘That’s odd. It’s not there.’ He stepped back and looked around. He just couldn’t imagine Mrs Troubridge being anything other than careful with their keys, seeing that she was so obsessed with security, keeping her outside doors locked at all times. Even when she was outside in the garden, she had to let herself in with a key. Maxwell started to open and close cupboards at random. Where do you start?
Mrs B had wandered into the sitting room and was looking around, the thronging furniture making a search difficult. Suddenly, Maxwell heard her shout. ‘Here they are!’ He joined her in the other room. Mrs B stood by the fireplace, holding up the keys to his house. ‘They were in this pot on the mantelpiece.’
‘Whatever were they doing in there?’ Maxwell wondered. ‘She always keeps them in that cupboard.’
‘Bless,’ Mrs B said. ‘Pore ol’ soul probably thought she was being a bit fly. Perhaps she thought somebody as shouldn’t knew where they was.’
‘That’s probably it,’ Maxwell said, uncertainly. It wasn’t as if Mrs Troubridge’s house was lousy with people coming and going. But she had had the gas serviced a while back – perhaps she had moved it then. No matter, Mrs B had her key and he could now wave her off and get the day back on track.
‘I’ll be off, then,’ the woman said, ‘or I’ll miss my bus. I’ll see Mrs Troubridge tonight and tell her you’re lookin’ after the house. She’ll like that. Careful down these stairs. That bit of carpet looks a bit loose. See you Monday.’ And with that she was off, up the path and on up to the bus stop, fag miraculously in her mouth now she was outdoors.
‘Yes,’ Maxwell said, automatically under his breath. ‘We don’t want that. Thank you. Will she? Yes, I will. Yes it does, a bit. Look forward to it.’ He checked that Mrs Troubridge’s door was firmly closed and retraced his steps to his own front door. He stood for a moment and looked at the hedge. It needed a trim; it was growing fast without Mrs Troubridge’s daily ministrations. He made a mental note to bring the shears through next time he had a minute. He expected that to be any time after Christmas – and surely, Mrs Troubridge would be home by then.
Detective Sergeant Jacquie Carpenter-Maxwell massaged her temples and pushed back from her desk. She just needed a few minutes not wallowing around in someone’s insides, so she wandered down the corridor to get a coffee. Fran Brannon was at the machine, looking hopefully at the empty cup in the dispenser.
‘Where’s my coffee?’ she said plaintively to Jacquie.
‘What sort did you ask it for?’ Jacquie asked her.
‘Cappuccino,’ she said. ‘One sugar.’
‘There’s your problem, then,’ Jacquie said. ‘This machine is the Mark III Stupid version of this model. It can only do one thing at a time. Cancel and ask it for cappuccino, no sugars or anything fancy. I keep sugar sachets in my bag – I like to feel I have beaten it at its own game.’
‘OK,’ Fran said and punched a few buttons. On cue, the cup filled up with some greyish-brown liquid on which the froth lingered for all of five seconds, before subsiding into a slight, greasy scum. ‘That’s better.’ She took it and stepped back.
Jacquie chose black coffee and watched it being dispensed, with just a hint of Fran’s cappuccino slick floating on the top. She took the cup and moved on to the chocolate machine. ‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘My sugar hit is more than due. I think I’ll have a bag of Maltesers.’ She put the money in and pressed the keys for the Snickers bar two up and three across from the required chocolate. Before Fran could show her ignorance and correct her, the red bag moved jerkily forward and fell into the chute.
Jacquie smiled at Fran. ‘I assume that you don’t tend to spend much time in the office,’ she said. ‘Otherwise you’d know a bit more about these stupid machines.’
‘I am out more than I’m in,’ Fran conceded. ‘I’m enjoying this, though. Makes a change.’
‘You might want to rethink the use of the word “enjoy”,’ Jacquie said. ‘Three people are dead, don’t forget. That’s people, as in human beings.’
Fran Brannon was immediately contrite. She had remembered all of a rush that Jacquie knew two of the three. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s just that it’s difficult not to be a bit excited, working on a big case.’
‘Come into my office,’ Jacquie said. ‘Let’s talk this case through, shall we? It will be a change to work with someone who doesn’t feel the need to go and smoke every ten minutes and spend the gaps in between farting. Though to be honest with you,’ she said, ‘I’d rather they smoked indoors and went out to fart.’ She pushed open the door and stopped. ‘Oh, hello, guv,’ she said, blushing a little. Not that she had ever been aware of Hall farting, although she assumed that even he did, sometimes.
‘Jacquie, Fran,’ he said. ‘Come in, both of you.’
Fran Brannon started to back out. ‘Oh, no, guv … sir. I’ve got stuff …’
‘No, no, come on in. Another brain won’t do any harm.’
They went in and Jacquie sat behind the desk she had been using, Hall pulled a chair out from the wall for Fran. He held a file in his hand and, leaning forward, opened it on the edge of the desk.
‘Now, then, Jacquie, I don’t know how far you’ve got with the PM report on Paul Masters?’
‘I’d just finished, guv,’ said Jacquie. ‘Hence the sugar break.’ She held up her chocolate and coffee. ‘Want one?’ She proffered the bag.
‘Thank you, perhaps later.’ He bent to the file again. Fran Brannon was left wondering whether she would ever feel confident enough to offer the boss a piece of chocolate. She was guessing that the rumours were true and that Hall and Jacquie were an item. She wasn’t sure she would want to go as far as that; she wasn’t really that dedicated.
Jacquie crunched a Malteser and then bent her head to her file too. ‘It all seems quite straightforward, guv,’ she said. ‘Fell off the ladder. Quite severe injuries, but all commensurate with the fall; broken bones, fractured skull, various bruises.’
‘Various bruises?’ Hall asked.
She breathed out through her nose and hummed a little as she ran her finger down the report. ‘A lot of lividity, that’s the trouble. He lay there for a couple of d
ays, they reckon. Bit of nibbling by wildlife; that’s what you get I suppose, from living in the country … umm … oh, hang on. Broken hyoid. That’s odd.’ She looked up at Hall, who was looking very smug. ‘The pathologist doesn’t mark it up as not in keeping, though. Perhaps he fell across something. He probably twisted in the air, trying to save himself. And apparently he lived for a few minutes after he fell. He was in an odd position, re the ladder.’
‘What if,’ Hall said, steadily, ‘he would have lived for another forty years after he fell off the ladder? What if someone moved the ladder and finished him off?’
‘What?’ both the women said together.
He handed Jacquie the file and Fran stood up to read it upside down; she had attended that lecture, unlike Bob Thorogood. ‘Read the highlighted bits.’ They did and then they looked up at him.
‘Broken hyoids,’ Jacquie said. ‘And bruises to show it was pre- or at worst peri-mortem.’
‘Yes,’ Hall said. ‘And I’ll tell you something else, and the trouble here is that it is just something that I saw myself – there is no report on it.’ He looked at Jacquie. ‘Any ideas what it might be?’
She looked at him. She hardly dare say it. ‘Is it that … Mrs Troubridge has a bruise on her neck as well?’
‘Well done,’ he said calmly. ‘Totally correct.’
Fran Brannon was confused. Who was this person and why had Henry Hall been looking at her neck?
‘The problem is,’ he said, ‘that because she is alive …’ he saw Jacquie’s expression and qualified the statement, ‘because the blow wasn’t fatal and luckily Mrs Troubridge is alive, the bruise is practically gone. The hyoid being cartilage, damage to it doesn’t show up on X-ray and an ultrasound isn’t really justified at the moment and in her rather fragile state.’ He gathered up his file and got up to go. ‘Interesting, though, isn’t it?’ he said and walked out of the room.
There was a silence, then Jacquie also stood up. ‘I think I want to go home now,’ she said to Fran. ‘I’ll just OK it with the DCI. If you want to work in here, where it’s quiet, then knock yourself out. Bye.’ And she was gone. Rules or no rules, promotion or no promotion, she had to talk to Max.