Death of an Innocent (Richard and Amelia Patton)

by Roger Ormerod

  ‘CID,’ said the familiar voice. ‘Sergeant Brason. Who’s this, please?’

  ‘It’s Richard. Didn’t he say?’

  ‘Richard! Great to hear from you...’ And more of the same. He sounded chipper, on top of things. Again, more chat, until eventually I got round to it.

  ‘A favour, Tony, if you would.’

  ‘Ask away.’

  ‘I’m in Norfolk, near Cromer. I’ve come across something strange, and it’s not sufficiently criminal to get rid of with a simple report to the local police. I need a contact. Somebody discreet in the country force. Somebody who won’t ask questions. Not too many, anyway.’

  ‘Let me think,’ he said, thinking while he said it because he went straight on. ‘I attended a special course on terrorism. There was this Detective Inspector on the county force. Yes. Should suit you fine. Name of Poole. Very smart and bright. Inclined to be friendly,’ he said pensively.

  ‘I’ll phone —’

  ‘No, let me do that, Richard. What number are you on?’

  ‘We’re at an old posting inn called The Bull, near Cromer. It’s 5182913. Room 7.’

  ‘We? Amelia’s with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I thought I heard him chuckle. ‘Wait for a call,’ he said. Be seeing you. Give my love to Amelia.’

  We hung up. ‘We wait,’ I told her. There’s always a lot of waiting involved. It was nowhere near lunchtime.

  ‘What’re you up to?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m trying to get a possible trace on our burglar.’

  ‘That’s optimistic, surely.’

  ‘Not at all. He deliberately left his tea bags.’

  We waited. It was impossible to consider a stroll along the coast road or across the scrub grass to what seemed to be low cliffs. Quite apart from expecting a phone call, the wind thumped against the window and I could see in the distance the spume whipped from the tops of the waves.

  An hour. The phone rang. There was someone waiting for me in the lounge. I said thank you, I’d be down.

  ‘That was quick. He’s come himself. D’you want to...’ I raised my eyebrows, wishing really to be alone on this.

  ‘No,’ she decided. ‘See him yourself. You’ll be on your own ground.’

  ‘On his ground. That could make it awkward.’

  Taking my packet of tea bags, I went down to the lobby, which was deserted, and discovered the lounge, dim with its tiny windows and its low, beamed ceiling, in which there was only one person, a woman, sitting quietly smoking. I half turned away before I realized that she was getting to her feet.

  ‘Richard Patton?’ she asked. ‘I’m Melanie Poole. Tony phoned.’

  I felt I had to apologize for my initial reaction. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t expect —’

  ‘A woman? Tony didn’t tell you?’ She laughed, a deep and throaty sound. ‘His bit of fun, I suppose. Disappointed, Mr Patton?’ She cocked her head.

  No, not disappointed. Somewhat discomposed, perhaps, by her poise and confidence, and the fact that she seemed too young to be an Inspector. Not yet thirty, I guessed. But they were all younger, now, in the force. She’d probably come in on a good degree, and had a mind like a man-trap, never letting go. Her informal dress was almost a challenge, a rejection of the authority she wielded. Jeans and a T-shirt, with a blouson over it. Flat-heeled shoes and a commodious shoulder bag. Even in the flat heels, she stood five feet ten, slim with it, but with a solidity of stance that indicated she would expect no nonsense from anybody. She had her hair cut short, auburn, practical. A redder shade than Amelia’s. No ear-rings, not much make-up, but her bone structure was so fine that she didn’t need any. She had high cheekbones, a pointed chin, a wide mouth, and eyes that danced, probed and seemed to vary from grey to blue and back again.

  All this I put together later. At the moment, I was too busy countering her probing query, wondering how to answer.

  ‘Disappointed?’ I asked. ‘Shall we say disconcerted. I expected a man. I could perhaps have bluffed my way through it with a man. But now...’ I pursed my lips and shook my head.

  She smiled, a gamin sort of smile. She couldn’t control it. Either you got the lot, or nothing.

  ‘Candour could in itself be a bluff,’ she said. ‘You’re trying to disarm me, Mr Patton.’

  ‘Only if you came armed, Inspector. I’m wondering why you came at all. I expected a phone call. Nothing more.’

  She lowered herself to the settle she’d occupied. ‘It intrigued me.

  I saw that we were getting along far too well. Not two colleagues, but man and woman. I wondered whether Tony had mentioned Amelia. So I shrugged, tried to look as though annoyed with Tony, and said: ‘It’s too dreary down here. Why not come up to our room?’

  She was on it like a flash. ‘You’re not alone?’

  ‘My wife. Amelia.’

  ‘I’d love to meet her.’ She came to her feet in one smooth, lithe movement. Her smile told me nothing.

  On the way up to room 7, I asked: ‘What was it that intrigued you? I didn’t tell Tony what it is.’

  ‘What Tony said about you — that was what intrigued me.’

  Amelia had the door open before we even reached it. I introduced them. Melanie topped my wife by five inches. They smiled at each other. Amelia said she’d ordered coffee. At my expression, she added: ‘Tony phoned. I guessed you’d bring her up.’

  With pride, I beamed at Inspector Poole, who produced her smile again.

  There was only one chair, so I sat there and the other two sat side by side on the edge of the bed. The coffee arrived. Good, it saved a pause in the proceedings. The scene was almost informal. It was by no means all questions from me. Melanie Poole threw in her own, briskly, as necessary.

  I produced the tea bags. She untied the knot, looked in, and sniffed.

  ‘Mean anything to you?’

  She looked up. ‘Yes. But I thought he’d retired.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The man I’m thinking about. Tell me where you got them.’

  ‘They were left behind at a house that’d been illegally entered.’

  ‘Where?’ she pounced.

  ‘I’d rather not say.’

  ‘If there’s been a crime —’

  ‘Nothing was stolen.’

  She was suspicious. ‘Nothing?’

  ‘So I’ve been assured.’

  ‘But you don’t believe that any more than I do?’

  I agreed, smiling. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  She tapped her teeth with a finger nail. ‘Tell me whatever you feel you can trust me with.’ Her eyes were big and round and mocking.

  ‘A friend of my wife phoned us at home. She and her husband were worried. They’d had a break-in, but they tell me nothing had been stolen. There was also no sign of forced or unforced entry. So I looked around, and discovered how he’d got in.’

  She nodded. ‘The roof?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s his speciality. Damn him, he promised me he’d retired.’

  ‘Promised?’

  ‘I did him a favour. Never mind what. You were saying?’

  ‘Then the teabags were produced. In my day, I’ve come across burglars who made themselves a meal, but nothing so distinctive as Earl Grey tea bags.’

  ‘He’s always done that. Sort of a game he played with us. Thought of himself as Raffles, I suppose. Nothing else was ever left. Not a fingerprint, not a footprint. And how could we take a tea bag into Court as our only evidence? No stolen property was ever traced back to him. He’s always known what he was after and went for it. Discreet. Not too often. Of course, he always worked under contract — somebody wanting a specific item.’

  ‘Which is just what I want to get my hands on — that item.’

  She shook her head. The hair flew loose in auburn flames, then settled back to a sultry glow. ‘Not a chance. How long ago was this?’

  ‘Over a month.’

  ‘Then he’ll have unloaded it.
Probably the day after. Keeping in the clear.’

  ‘Hmm!’ I stared at my pipe, then looked up. ‘Then he might be persuaded to tell me what it was. At least.’

  ‘Why should he? It’d be an admission.’

  ‘Tell me, I said. Not you. I’m a civilian.’

  ‘With an extendable purse?’

  ‘To some extent.’

  ‘And you, Mr Patton? Are you on contract too?’

  ‘If you mean am I getting paid for this, the answer’s no.’

  ‘Then what’s your interest?’

  I wondered about that. I couldn’t simply admit that I was quite incapable of releasing an unsolved problem, that it would nag and nag at me, giving me no rest. It was a weakness I didn’t care to admit to her. Amelia rescued me.

  ‘She’s my friend. We were at college together. And she’s changed terribly. You would have had to be there, at the house. The atmosphere was all crawly with tension, and she was distressed. I wouldn’t want to leave her alone with it, when Richard can perhaps help her.’

  ‘By recovering what she claims wasn’t even stolen?’ asked Inspector Poole, friendlily, easily, her eyes now on the warm side of grey.

  But Amelia was still prickly with the memory of the tension, and came back sharply.

  ‘If we knew what it was, we’d at least understand what the problem is.’

  Melanie nodded, accepting that. ‘Of course. I see your point. But Mr Patton...’ She turned back to me. ‘You surely wouldn’t expect me to give you a name and address, and leave it to you?’

  I rubbed the back of my neck. ‘I suppose not.’ But it was what I’d been hoping for.

  ‘You suppose quite correctly, my friend. I’ll make a bargain with you. Clearly, there doesn’t appear to be a case in this for me. If the householders insist nothing was taken...’ She waved a slim hand expressively. ‘But I’d like to know, just as much as you do, what was taken, and I’m willing to do a bit of off-duty work on that with you. We will see him together. No, let me finish. We’ll arrange it so that he realizes you’re unofficial. Then we’ll see what happens. All this on one condition. Whatever you get from it, I see. If it’s important, and seems to involve a crime, then I take over and you’re out of it. All right?’ Her face was set in an uncompromising expression.

  Then she fumbled in her shoulder bag, giving me time to make up my mind. I looked at Amelia for guidance, though she would not appreciate where that arrangement might lead. It all depended on what had been stolen. Judging by the atmosphere at Mansfield Park, it could well be something very important, even the possessing of it being illegal, and involving Philip and Olivia. By agreeing, I might be landing them in deep trouble. I’m relying on you, Richard, she had said. Was I going to risk betraying that?

  But I had not been taken into their confidence. I think Amelia saw that, and made her judgement on that consideration. She nodded to me. Really, I had no choice. It was that, or we were at a dead end, and might as well go home.

  ‘I agree,’ I said. ‘When?’

  She seemed surprised. ‘Now.’

  ‘What about lunch first?’ I suggested. ‘We owe you a lunch.’

  She swept flowingly to her feet. ‘We don’t know yet who owes what to whom. Can we get lunch here?’

  ‘Certainly we can.’

  And we did. It was quite excellent, considering that the kitchen seemed to be cooking for only us and a couple in a far corner. The conversation was general. Inspector Poole had been, as I had, in the same district all her official life. So she knew what went on. She had her contacts. She was, in other words, a competent police officer. Amelia, realizing that this was for me alone, said she would go for a walk while we were away.

  ‘In this wind!’ I said.

  ‘I like a sea breeze. Bracing, they call it round here.’

  That meant you had to brace yourself not to land flat on your back.

  So when Amelia had gone upstairs to put on something suitable for facing the challenge, Inspector Poole and I went out to our cars. Her little blue Metro was parked next to the Granada.

  ‘Better take yours, I think,’ she decided. ‘It’s coast road all the way, and yours is heavier.’

  I drove the car out into the force of the wind, and at once appreciated what she meant. The car swayed and heaved, and as we hit the coast road south I was busy every second correcting our line. The sea spray was carried further inland than I would have believed, and I had to leave the wipers working.

  ‘Is it always like this in the winter?’ I asked.

  I didn’t think I would get used to driving in apparent rain, when the wind had taken the clouds inland and left the sky clear. Bright, sharp sunlight winked in the spray on the glass.

  ‘His name,’ she said, ‘is Harvey Cole. As I said, he’s supposed to be retired. In any event, he seems to live comfortably off his past crimes, and of course he’s never been in any way violent or destructive. Even without the tea bags he left behind, you could always tell one of his jobs the moment you walked through a front door. Not a mark, not a scratch anywhere. If he spilled his tea, he’d clean it up carefully. Very considerate, he’s always been. You’ll like him.’

  I couldn’t spare a sideways glance. The wind was lifting the wipers away from the glass. ‘And you? What’re your feelings?’

  I felt her shrug. ‘I admire a true professional. Harvey’s an artist in his own line. It’s just a pity it had to be illegal, it puts us on opposite sides of the law. We never once got anything on him we could take to court.’

  I drove in silence for a couple of miles. The road was never far from the sea, and there was at no time any protection from the wind.

  ‘How much further?’

  ‘Another four or five miles. We turn inland at Happisburgh.’ She pronounced it Haysborough. ‘You’ll spot the lighthouse.’

  That was my marker. I saw it long before we reached the village, a white finger with a red band.

  ‘Past the garage and turn right,’ she instructed.

  There was a garage, an hotel, and what looked like a block of holiday chalets. I turned right, and instantly there was silence. The wind that had slapped and thumped at the side of the car was now behind, urging us forward quietly, our own speed depleting the force of it. The road was narrow, but well signposted. Around us there was nothing but flat distance. I saw areas of reeds.

  ‘Is this part of the Broads?’

  ‘Not really. They’re a bit further south. All this is probably swampy. Not enough water to float a boat in. Turn left at this fork, then right again. He’s got a cottage called Honesty.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘Not at all. It’s named after the weeds in his garden. Blue flowers and round seed pods.’

  ‘I know it. Can’t wait to meet him.’

  It was a stone-and-flint cottage with a thatched roof. There were certainly enough reeds around to supply a new roof, if this one blew off. But it seemed firm. I wondered how he would get in through a thatched roof, and decided to ask him. We drew up. There was a tiny gate in the fence, but a wide opening to one side. A drive, rough-looking, headed towards a garage, outside which a car was parked. It was a BMW, one of the 500 series, I thought.

  Harvey Cole had seen us arrive, and had the door open as we walked up the path.

  ‘Well!’ he said. ‘Inspector Poole, as ever was.’

  ‘May we come in and talk, Harvey?’

  ‘Yes, and make it sharp-like, I can hardly hold this door.’

  We walked past him into the narrow, dim hallway. The cottage was simply designed, two rooms, one each side of the hall, and probably two more behind them. A modest home for a successful villain. He led us through to the room on the right. From this window he had seen our arrival.

  The room itself dispelled any illusions. He lived in quiet and muted luxury. The walls were the original base blocks, and undecorated, solid, on which his pictures were splendidly displayed. I didn’t need to check that they were originals. In his ch
ina cabinet there was a set of porcelain, which would most certainly not have been stolen. A professional doesn’t waste his working hours on his own home. It’s the plumber whose taps always drip. His easy chair, to one side of a large fireplace, now with a large fire whipped to fury by the wind, was a leather-studded recliner. His carpet was something foreign and exotic. I was probably walking on a year’s salary for an Inspector.

  But he’d been sitting at the window. He had an embroidery frame set up, and had been working on a tapestry. Seeing my interest, he explained.

  ‘It’s a set of covers for the seats of my dining chairs. Just the hobby for a retired man, don’t you think?’

  ‘You’re not retired, Harvey,’ said Melanie Poole severely. ‘You’re a liar.’

  He raised his fluffy white eyebrows at her and smiled gently. ‘Come now, Miss Poole. Strong words.’

  She relaxed. ‘I’ve brought somebody to meet you. Richard Patton. This is Harvey Cole, Richard.’

  He took my big paw in his small hand, and I felt the strength in his fingers. His smile was still easy and relaxed. ‘A new Sergeant you’re breaking in? Introducing him to all your treasured friends?’

  ‘He’s not in the police, Harvey. We just want a few words with you.’

  For a moment he stood there, his eyes going from one to the other of us, considering, deciding. I could now observe him and try to weigh him up. He must have been in his sixties. His hair was a careless shock of pure white, his face still smooth and pink and placid, but his chin had a firm set to it, and his bright brown eyes, so light they almost appeared yellow, were wide and full of mischief. He was short, around five-four, with the slim build of a professional jockey, but also with a jockey’s muscle tone and balance. His movements were smooth. Nothing sudden. In a stranger’s house, it would be necessary for him to move discreetly.

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ he said at last.

  ‘No, Harvey. Don’t trouble. How can we talk, if you’re in the kitchen?’

  ‘I’ve got some nice tea. It’s Darjeeling. You’d like it.’

  She spoke firmly. ‘Sit down, Harvey. It’s Earl Grey we want to talk about.’

  He shrugged, and went to sit at his tapestry frame, knees together and his hands on them, like a naughty boy.