Death of an Innocent (Richard and Amelia Patton)

by Roger Ormerod

  ‘I’m getting very, very tired of this, Richard. You’re now charging me —’

  ‘Not charging, Philip. I haven’t the authority. Accusing.’

  ‘I would have had absolutely no reason to kill Nancy. Mark, yes. Oh, don’t worry, I thought about that. But Nancy! Pure fantasy.’

  ‘Is it, though? As you say, you’d been driven to the point where you could consider killing Mark. You’d gone quite a way, you know. Then all of a sudden, there is Nancy on the scene. Another one come to haunt you, bedevil you, threaten you. So even if you killed Mark, there would still be Nancy, waiting to take his place in Olivia’s affections. So you’d have gained nothing. You couldn’t even get rid of Mark by exposing him as a cheat and a liar, because that would still have introduced Nancy on to the scene. So you were in dead trouble. You’d have to go as far as considering two killings, one after the other. But that would be too dangerous, quite apart from the fact that you wouldn’t be able to face that. You’re not psychotic, Philip.’

  I paused for a moment there. Not psychotic, no, but I suspected he was paranoiac. His persecution complex indicated that, his calmness under pressure, this self-assurance of his superior intellect. I decided to take that no further. He was staring at his hands.

  ‘But I’d suggest, Philip, that by now it’d changed itself into a scenario. Like the plot of one of Olivia’s books — not too real. You were thinking only that this was an insufferable intrusion you’d got to fight off. So...remove Nancy first...and how would that leave things?’ Out of the corner of my eye I saw Malcolm’s head jerk up. Tony was quietly moving in. ‘Nancy first, and you could see how that could be made to achieve two things. It might, of itself, frighten Mark away. But in reserve you’d thought out a way in which you could scare Mark off with the photographs.’

  I paused again, to give him time to say something, for some-body to interrupt. But the silence was clammy when my voice ceased to roam round the room, and Philip’s face looked back at me with an expression of pity for my continuing stupidity.

  With a great effort, I went on. I understood him now. Any moment he would crumble. ‘So you would ask her to come here. On Friday. You could arrange appointments for Olivia, and have the house to yourself. And then...it would be all welcome and friendly chat, and Nancy loved the water, and you had a boat, so that you could offer to show her a water route out of this very quiet inlet. I suggest she died in the boathouse. Held under. Yes? And her body was taken to where it was found much later, days later, because, to anybody, it is a shattering thing to take a life deliberately.’

  I could see it in his eyes. He could still fight back. He could have demanded proof, and I had none. But that final description recalled the deed. The memory of what if had cost him drained the blood from his cheeks. With a set face he stared at me. Then he turned on his heel and walked, head high, towards the door, where Tony once again intercepted and refused to move, though this time Tony had no smile. Then, as Olivia had done, Philip turned on his heel and marched back to stand at the open window beside me. But he was facing Olivia now, staring at her, as though hypnotized.

  At last she stirred. Shock had held her, but now she emerged from it with a whimper, which shuddered up to the heights of a full-blown scream, breaking through all her resources and her mental energy. With her hands, she forced herself out of the chair and hurled herself across the room at Philip, launching her full weight at him, hands extended, nails, already bloodied, aimed for his eyes. What had been a scream crumbled into insane cries of fury.

  He whirled round and flung himself through the open french window. In a second he was in full flight. Melanie threw herself sideways, forgetting Malcolm in her way. He was rising with clumsy but explosive energy, like a wakening bear, and the two of them fell full-length in front of me. I stumbled over them, falling heavily and painfully across the sill. Amelia was shouting out: ‘Livia! Livia!’ She must have rushed in, jumping clear over me, though I don’t remember that. Whatever she did, Olivia didn’t reach me. Amelia’s voice came from inside the room, and they couldn’t have been in Tony’s direct line, because in one bound he cleared our tangle of bodies and was away in great strides after Philip.

  I got myself to my knees. Melanie used my shoulder to heave herself up, but Malcolm was already thrusting himself forward, his penetrating howl chasing after Philip and Tony. Neither of them stood a chance. The boathouse had an end door, and Philip was inside at a flat run, and had only to shut the door behind him and throw a bolt, and they couldn’t get to him. Tony tried splashing into the water beside the shed, but the bank fell away steeper than he’d expected, and he was up to his chest inside six feet, and tangled in weeds. From the open end of the boathouse Philip emerged, hand-paddling his little boat until he was clear.

  But Malcolm, slower on his feet but with a few more seconds in which to think, took one great leap from the bank on to the top of the boathouse, three strides across its corrugated iron roof, and launched himself with a yell of triumph at the boat. His fingers caught the stern, just as Philip moved to swing down the outboard motor. Malcolm’s hands clasped the stern, and for a second Philip hesitated. Then he slammed down the shaft and propeller into Malcolm’s face. The fingers opened, and Malcolm disappeared beneath the water. Philip was snatching savagely at the starter cord as Malcolm’s blood-streaming face reappeared. But the engine fired and the water spluttered back into Malcolm’s face. His reaching fingers were a foot short as the boat rode clear.

  Tony was trying to get back up the bank, Melanie lying full-length and reaching a hand. Malcolm was in trouble, and I shouted out to Tony. By turning, he could reach a free hand to Malcolm, so that Melanie and Tony were a bridge to Malcolm. But his weight was sliding Melanie down the slimy bank.

  The two constables had done nothing. They stood at my shoulder. ‘Do something!’ I snapped at them, then I threw myself down on to Melanie, arms round her waist, toes digging in.

  What the constables did was to grab one of my legs each and haul us in, one at a time. Malcolm was close to passing out as he lay on the bank. The constables were the only ones not covered in mud or blood and not soaked to the skin.

  I didn’t hold out much hope for their futures when Melanie finished with them, but at the moment she showed her strength of character by doing no more than stare at them, then turning to the immediate problems.

  Malcolm had a gash across one eyebrow, and was retching up water, Tony merely soaked, Melanie muddied, me uncomfortable.

  She walked quickly to the french window, looked inside, then turned and snapped out: ‘Ambulance. And fast.’

  One of the men ran off. The other was bending over Malcolm as I followed Melanie into the room.

  Amelia had been unable to lift Olivia into her chair. Olivia had collapsed on the floor, but now Amelia had her sitting with her back against the chair’s arm, and was kneeling helplessly in front of her. As we approached, Amelia lifted her face, grey with distress.

  ‘Listen, Richard!’ she said softly.

  Olivia’s face had collapsed. Saliva ran from the corners of her mouth and down her chin. Her blouse was torn apart, where she’d struck at herself, unable to vent her fury on Philip. What she was saying had no meaning, was no more than sound bubbling up from inside. Occasionally, caught on her tongue and spat out, there was the phrase:

  ‘He killed my little girl. My Nancy.’

  From time to time it was repeated, only to be submerged again in her bubbling jumbled miseries.

  Melanie, on her knees beside her, looked up. Her face was stiff with shock, at the suddenness that had taken her so much by surprise.

  ‘Tony, look for blankets. Get those clothes off...’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘It’s only mud. Where’s Mr Ruston?’

  The constable was bringing him in and steering him to a chair. Wide-eyed, the constable said: ‘The first aid kit...the car...’

  ‘Get it,’ she said, no force now in her voice.

 
He ran off. Tony went looking for supplies of blankets, and Amelia again said urgently: ‘Listen! Listen!’

  As we bent over, Olivia shuddered, then for a few moments her red and streaming face seemed to hold intelligence. But her eyes were dull. When she spoke the words were clear, if lifeless.

  ‘He lied. Lied. He told me it was Mark, and all the time it was Philip.’ She reached over and clutched at Amelia. ‘Oh, Mellie, help me, help me.’

  And my poor Amelia buried her face in her hands and wept for her own distress.

  After that, I sat and smoked and allowed it to happen all round me. Amelia, now silent in the other chair, watched me in misery, and also waited.

  An ambulance came. I thought Melanie had intended it for Malcolm, but now, plastered and bandaged, he refused, and was allowed to stump off to his pick-up. But by this time it was clear that Olivia had gone well past the stage where a sedative and a long rest would restore her. So the ambulance took her away.

  Tony, blankets flapping, ran Melanie’s errands with alacrity, his clothes drying off on a radiator. Philip couldn’t get away, said Melanie confidently, coming back from her car. The river banks were too marshy to offer escape on foot, and she had him shut off with police motor boats.

  At one point, the Great Dane and the two Spaniels came in to see what was happening, sensed human misery, and slunk out. They gave Amelia something else to worry about.

  Eventually we were driven back to the station to pick up our car. Melanie had said not a word. She must have spoken to Tony, though, because he said he had instructions to tell Larry he could go home. I went down to the cells with him, Tony in his now dry crumpled suit, determined to give myself the pleasure of telling Larry he was free.

  ‘I knew you’d do something,’ he told me.

  ‘It was touch and go. Come on, there’s a police car waiting to take you home.’

  ‘Ma’ll love that.’

  ‘You’re forgetting your book.’

  ‘Oh, that. A load of rubbish. Women don’t understand these things.’

  ‘Then it’s up to us to teach ‘em gently, Larry, isn’t it,’ I said solemnly.

  ‘Too right. I’ve had enough of Lovella Treat.’ He chattered on up the stairs. ‘Will he use his flasher and his siren?’

  ‘You’d better ask him.’

  Tony and I grimaced at each other as he galloped out through the reception area. He didn’t even notice Amelia, as she rose from one of the seats.

  ‘Can we leave now, Richard?’

  I think they were the first unemotional words she’d said since Olivia collapsed.

  ‘Yes, we can leave.’

  But leave-taking absorbs time. We had to say goodbye to Melanie. She was depressed at the outcome, but quietly elated at the success.

  ‘I didn’t expect it,’ she admitted. ‘Did you know where you were heading?’

  ‘The negatives, yes, I thought I could see what those meant. But I had to force him into a dead-end, then he’d produce his alibi. That was the clincher.’

  ‘I didn’t expect to get both murders solved.’

  ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘It was obvious it had to be Philip who took the photos, but I couldn’t see beyond that.’

  ‘Nor me, really.’

  ‘But it’s all so clear now. Philip’s obviously unhinged, and removing Nancy would have seemed logical to him. What a pity for him that Mark managed to get hold of the negatives! It put Mark right back in the running as principal pest, and when you came along, stirring up the mud...that really upset things.’

  ‘It certainly did.’

  ‘And it left Philip with no alternative but to remove Mark as well.’

  ‘I hadn’t seen as far as that,’ I admitted.

  She shook my hand, kissed me on the cheek. ‘You’re only saying that. Thank you for your help, Richard.’

  Then, apart from saying goodbye to Tony, and apart from the two women pressing cheeks, we were free to go.

  I drove away. Amelia, emotionally exhausted, was asleep inside the first mile.

  18

  Aching for news, yet too fearful to enquire because of what it might be, I tried to return to routine. For a fortnight there was nothing but gloom in the house. The evening television news made no mention of an arrest involving Philip.

  Then Tony came again. He said he’d waited until there was nothing new coming in, and now he was here to bring us up to date.

  Philip had not been found, either alive or dead. His boat, capsized, had been discovered, but no Philip. I said nothing to this. My guess was that Malcolm, whose knowledge of the waterways was no doubt unsurpassed, had beaten the police to it in the search for Philip. I hoped that long submersion would hide any thumb marks on his throat.

  ‘And Melanie’s completed her report on it?’ I asked.

  Tony nodded. ‘And been commended.’

  ‘Olivia?’ Amelia asked breathlessly.

  Tony smiled. ‘They sent her home after a couple of days. I don’t think she’s working yet. But here’s a strange thing. The Rustons went and collected the dogs, and have been looking after them, and for some reason it seems to have brought them together, the Rustons and Olivia. Isn’t that strange, Richard?’

  I cocked my head. No, it didn’t seem strange to me. I smiled. ‘It’s to be hoped they find something to hang on to, together.’

  Amelia was looking at me with speculation. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I’m a little surprised at Olivia, that’s all. Maybe a psychologist could explain it.’

  ‘Richard...’

  I grinned at the warning note in her voice. ‘Don’t you remember what she said? “He told me it was Mark, and all the time it was Philip.” It’s just the strange wording. Most people would’ve said: “all the time it was himself.” But perhaps she didn’t mean that.’

  ‘Then what?’ she demanded, leaning forward in her chair.

  ‘Perhaps the “he” involved wasn’t Philip. Perhaps it was Larry. I mean...Melanie told us he’d listened to our scene with Mark in his office. Larry himself told me he’d been thinking of a way to kill Mark, but didn’t want to see it happen. What better way to do it than to take the whole story to Olivia? With all that to think of...’

  ‘Do you mean that she —’

  ‘Killed Mark? Of course. He’d cheated and lied, and he’d killed her Nancy. And how could Philip have told her about Nancy? He wouldn’t have dared to mention her. Of course it was Olivia.’

  Amelia and Tony sat and thought about that. I gave them five minutes, then I said:

  ‘I wonder if they ever meet, Olivia and Larry, at the boatyard, he knowing it was she who killed Mark, and she knowing he realizes it. And he knowing that he was wrong, and it was Philip and not Mark who killed Nancy. Perhaps that’s why she goes to the Rustons. They’d be drawn together, Olivia and Larry.’

  Tony slapped his knee. ‘I’d better not tell Melanie.’

  ‘Oh heavens no!’ said Amelia.

  ‘Not,’ I decided, ‘now she’s put in her report. And I’m just wondering...’

  ‘What now?’ she demanded.

  ‘Whether Olivia might, in due course, adopt another false son. I mean, they’ll never dare to lose sight of each other.’

  Then we sat for a long while, silently staring at the fire.

  If you enjoyed reading Death of an Innocent, you might also be interested in Face Value by Roger Ormerod, also published by Endeavour Press.

  Extract from Face Value by Roger Ormerod

  1

  The snow over the moors had been mostly unbroken, and I’d managed to plug along at a steady thirty, but heading down into the valley I lost it once or twice, and felt the tyres beginning to bite again only when the road began to climb. There was a feeling I was getting close. The slope down on the left was much as he’d described.

  I saw his official Allegro first, then the constable himself, standing in the lay-by and staring down towards the copse, slapping his hands together vi
gorously. I drew in behind the police car. He came across and opened the door for me, his breath steaming.

  ‘You made good time, sir.’

  I nodded. ‘Brason, isn’t it? I’m Detective Inspector Patton. What’ve you got for me?’

  He was hesitant, slightly embarrassed. For a burnt-out car he’d probably expected to get a DC, or at the best a sergeant. On a Sunday, particularly. But the test day was mine, and it was none of his business.

  ‘Snow’s bad over the moors,’ he commented. He was eager, reaching for an explanation. I smiled, then went to stand by the gate, and let him work on it.

  The air was clean and crisp, the view spectacular. Farm buildings were spread on the other side of the valley, almost beyond the far rise. The copse was snuggling low, immediately below us, and there was a dark flash of water between the bare trees. Up along the road, the farmer had cut back his layered thorn hedge for fifty yards and erected an angled pine fence, then stuck his five-barred gate in the middle. It made a lay-by that just held the two cars.

  I got out the old, knobbly black pipe and ran my thumb over it. ‘Was the gate open?’

  ‘Not when I got here, sir. The kids would’ve shut it, anyway.’

  ‘Kids?’

  ‘The ones who found the car. They’d been tobogganing. See...’ He pointed to the right. There were footprints, and lines of sled runners down the slope. ‘That was this morning. The snow came last night.’

  I was fumbling flake into the bowl, my fingers already aching. I looked down to check they were working, then up again. The slope had been skimmed by the wind, leaving ridges and tufts showing through.

  ‘You’ve been down?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘No sign of anyone who could’ve been in it when it went down?’

  ‘No footprints. But it would’ve gone down yesterday, before the snow, ‘cause there’re no tyre tracks.’

  ‘Hmm!’ I thought. ‘Anybody touched it?’

  ‘No, sir. The kids just looked, then came running to me.’