A Mind to Kill

by Brian Freemantle

  Burden immediately called Bentley, who made a movement as if coming forward but in fact didn’t, because there was no room. He recited the memorized oath and then, unprompted, said that at three-thirty the previous afternoon he had responded to a 999 call to the commodity trading offices of Enco-Corps Inc. in Leaden-hall Street. There, in a third-floor office, he had found the body of an American, Gerald James Lomax.

  ‘There were extensive injuries. There were at least fifteen stab wounds, as well as a number of deep cuts – slash wounds – to the face, neck and body. There had been a considerable loss of blood and the office, which I ascertained to be that of Lomax, was heavily blood-stained. Mrs Lomax, who was also bleeding extensively from knife injuries, was slumped on the floor, against an internal window. In my opinion she was close to unconsciousness. She was removed to this hospital, where I saw her at six forty-five last evening. At seven-thirty I formally charged Mrs Lomax with the murder of her husband…’ Bentley paused, looking expectantly towards Burden.

  Prompted, the prosecuting solicitor said, ‘There are a number of other enquiries to be made before this matter can be proceeded with and I would formally ask, madam, for a remand in custody. I have no objection to that remand initially being here, in this hospital. I understand from the doctor he considers Mrs Lomax should remain under observation for several more days…’

  It was as if she didn’t exist, thought Jennifer, outraged. They were talking about her and across her but no-one was even looking at her!

  ‘Mr Perry?’ invited the magistrate.

  ‘I have no objection to that course, madam. At a later date, in view of Mrs Lomax’s injuries and other matters that need consideration, I would ask for any further remands to be in a hospital wing of a prison-’

  ‘What about my objections!’ Everyone looked at Jennifer as if for the first time, visibly stunned by the outburst. Before there was any other reaction, Jennifer said, ‘I am not guilty! I want everyone to know that.’

  ‘Mr Perry?’ demanded the woman.

  ‘ Tell the bitch to shut up and let you speak! ’

  ‘Shut up! Let me speak…’ blurted Jennifer. Then, ‘No! Oh no! Damn! Damn! Damn!’

  ‘ Caught you. Forgot I was here, didn’t you? ’

  ‘Now, now,’ soothed the doctor, almost unseen.

  ‘Don’t patronize me as if I were mad! None of you!’

  ‘I apologize,’ said Perry, hurriedly. ‘As I said, there are other matters to be pursued… medical and specialist examinations-’

  ‘I said don’t patronize me,’ Jennifer screamed at her lawyer. Then, still shouting, to Bentley, ‘Tell them what I said when you charged me!’

  ‘Mrs Lomax… please…’ tried Perry.

  ‘Tell them!’ yelled Jennifer.

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Gillian Heathcote, nodding to the detective.

  ‘ The frumpy cow is patronizing you worst of all! ’

  ‘Don’t patro-’ started Jennifer, then stopped.

  ‘ Say it! ’

  ‘She says you’re patronizing me worst of all.’

  ‘She says?’ demanded the magistrate, bewildered.

  ‘When I charged Mrs Lomax she said she hadn’t killed her husband. That it was Jane…’ Bentley paused, in a rare moment of embarrassment. ‘Jane Lomax was the first wife of the murdered man.’

  Gillian Heathcote smiled, bleakly, turning to Perry. ‘I understand.’

  ‘I want everyone to understand,’ said Jennifer, her voice cracked from shouting. She came forward on her pillows, wincing as the drip needle bit into her arm. She couldn’t support herself and at once fell back against the pillows, aware the magistrate had instinctively retreated at the movement. Jennifer tried to prevent it but she couldn’t stop the crying. ‘I didn’t kill him. I loved him!’

  ‘I think we can bring this quickly to an end,’ said the magistrate, anxiously. ‘I agree to a formal remand, for seven days…’ She remained half standing, looking at Perry again. ‘… I fully understand your problems but I think you should do all you can at future hearings to keep your client under some sort of control.’

  ‘ God, this is fun. This really is so much fun! ’

  Jeremy Hall came hesitantly into his uncle’s rooms, momentarily stopping completely when he saw Bert Feltham comfortably seated beside Sir Richard’s desk. Proudfoot himself was framed against the window overlooking the Inner Temple and the manicured grass leading down towards the Thames.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ encouraged the older barrister. ‘Interesting case to discuss.’

  ‘The Lomax killing,’ said Feltham, uninvited. ‘You read about it in the papers?’

  ‘Briefly,’ said Hall. He was a big man, the height accentuated by a build developed at Cambridge where he’d gained a rowing Blue: anxious that it wouldn’t turn to fat he tried to scull as many weekends as possible. He appeared far too big for the chair towards which Proudfoot gestured him.

  ‘It’s going to be a high-profile case. Get your name in the papers,’ encouraged the older man. He was tall, too, the greying hair swept back but worn comparatively long to fashion into two distinct wings, on either side of his head. He affected a slow, measured delivery when he spoke, either in court or out. That afternoon’s stance was a favourite, too: hands clasped behind his back, winged head slightly forward, a lecturing pose.

  ‘From the papers it looked like a simple domestic,’ said Hall. After only nine months in chambers he wasn’t in a position to argue against any brief but there wasn’t any reason unquestionably to accept whatever he was presented with. There was still some lingering regret at having had to join his uncle’s practice in the first place, instead of being able to make his way independently in a rival chambers, although he reassured himself there was even less reason to let pride outweigh the practical reality of earning a decent living after working so bloody hard for so bloody long getting a Double First as well as his rowing Blue and the pass marks he had in the Bar examinations. That and the fact he’d had no alternative. As his mother had told him at his father’s funeral, beggars couldn’t be choosers. He didn’t enjoy being a beggar.

  ‘It’ll be a guilty, to manslaughter,’ said Feltham, confidently. ‘Diminished responsibility.’

  ‘So it comes down to a plea of mitigation,’ said Hall. ‘What’s that going to be?’

  ‘Humphrey Perry’s instructing. Arranging the usual psychiatric things.’

  ‘Short, sharp but extremely profitable,’ said Proudfoot, from the window. ‘It won’t do the chambers – or you – any harm. In fact I’m anxious for you to do it. We’ve had a long run of wins. Wrong for a practice to appear only to take the ones they’re sure of. And this won’t be a loss. It’ll be a brilliant plea…’ He smiled. ‘… Which I know-it will be, for a sad, sick woman.’

  Proudfoot finished what he was saying at an open cabinet and, as he leaned forward to accept the sherry his uncle offered, Hall was suddenly curious why such a case had to be pressed upon him over sherry by the chamber’s head, even if it was his uncle. According to office lore, Feltham would have already accepted the brief anyway. Still unwilling to accept a fait accompli, Hall said, ‘I’ll be by myself?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ confirmed Proudfoot.

  To Feltham, Hall said, ‘She’s mad? No other reason or motive?’

  ‘Police haven’t finished yet, but there doesn’t seem to be any doubt. Cut her husband to pieces in front of sixteen people and then stood there laughing. I’ve fixed a meeting for you with Perry for tomorrow.’

  So much for the pretence of discussion before acceptance, thought Hall. Pointedly – confident he could do it because Proudfoot was his uncle – Hall said, ‘There’s nothing else to it, is there?’

  ‘Nothing else?’ said Proudfoot. ‘I don’t understand the question.’

  ‘It seems almost…’ Hall paused. ‘Almost too mundane: too small compared to most of the things we do.’

  ‘I’ve explained my thinking on that,’ said Proudfoot.
r />   ‘I understand,’ capitulated Hall, detecting the older man’s irritation. He was being railroaded, Hall realized.

  ‘Eleven tomorrow morning OK, here in chambers?’ said Feltham, who already knew it would be because he maintained the appointment diaries and knew Hall’s was hungrily empty.

  ‘Fine,’ agreed Hall.

  ‘A well publicized murder’s the best fast track for a reputation,’ confided the chief clerk. ‘This could be a good beginning.’

  ‘It’ll be my first murder,’ admitted Hall.

  ‘But not the last, if you handle this one right.’

  As Proudfoot served him his second whisky, after Hall had left the room, Feltham said, ‘That was a sharp question, about a hidden agenda.’

  ‘His ability was more important than his relationship to me,’ insisted Proudfoot. ‘He’s damned clever.’ The man added to his own glass, disdaining the earlier sherry. ‘Perry wouldn’t do anything underhand about the copper thing, would he?’

  Feltham shook his head, smiling. ‘There isn’t a solicitor in London who’d try to cheat me. Certainly not one who’d get half a chance to do it a second time. It’s more than their job’s worth.’

  ‘That’s good to hear,’ said Proudfoot. ‘We’re not wasting our time on a tuppenny murder for nothing.’

  Patricia Boxall didn’t really want the relationship to end but knew it was inevitable. So, she suspected, did Jeremy. If it came down to a straight comparison Jeremy had more going for him than Alexander: he was adventurous in bed and made her laugh a lot. But she wanted more than Chinese take-aways and Spanish plonk in front of the television watching videos of old Oxford and Cambridge boat races. Alexander had an independent income and belonged to all the good clubs. She had been just two tables away from Mick Jagger the night before last.

  ‘That was a hell of a race,’ Hall said.

  ‘You showed me before.’

  ‘We were drunk for a week after that.’

  Patricia wondered who’d paid. ‘Must have been fun.’

  ‘I got a case today. The murder that’s in all the papers.’

  ‘She’s mad, isn’t she?’

  ‘Seems that way.’

  ‘What can you do?’

  ‘Enter a sympathy plea.’

  ‘Any money in it?’

  ‘Not a lot, I wouldn’t think. It won’t last long.’

  ‘Why do it then?’

  ‘I haven’t been offered anything else,’ admitted Hall. ‘And I don’t like having to watch old videos of boat races because I’m broke, any more than you do.’

  ‘Let’s go to bed then.’

  ‘Well!’ said John Bentley, triumphantly.

  ‘No-one’s admitted anything yet,’ cautioned Rodgers.

  ‘Wait,’ cautioned Bentley. ‘Just you wait.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘An hour.’

  ‘Five pounds says it’ll take more than one session.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  Chapter Seven

  Rebecca Nicholls was slim and blond and enjoyed the effect she had upon men, particularly upon those to whom she was clearly unavailable, as she was to this overconfident policeman who’d emphasized his rank and held the handshake too long and dressed like an upmarket car salesman. In other circumstances she might have amused herself with this encounter but this afternoon these most definitely weren’t the circumstances. Not that she was nervous. She could handle it. But she wished there hadn’t been the feeling of uncertainty. She wasn’t an uncertain person.

  Rebecca allowed the open admiration of her legs when she crossed them, otherwise sitting demurely with her hands in her lap in the secretary’s side office, inwardly-steeling herself against looking in the direction of Lomax’s adjoining room. Plastic sheeting had been draped completely over the outsides of the vast windows, hiding everything, but she didn’t need any reminder of the scene inside that still needed the police release to be cleaned.

  She hoped she didn’t break down, although there was a perfectly understandable reason if she did, having witnessed a murder and now being questioned about it for a second time. Like it was perfectly understandable for her to have shivered when she’d entered, so close to the unseen horror. They shouldn’t have done this here, in the building itself. If they had to do it at all it should have been somewhere outside, a police station even.

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you again.’ Bentley, who prided himself on his adjustable interrogation technique, was sure he knew just how to handle this haughty bitch. Nice legs though, all the way up to her ass: good tits, too.

  ‘I’ve already told your sergeant what I saw.’

  ‘Inspector,’ corrected Bentley, nodding sideways to the other man. ‘Rodgers is an inspector, not a sergeant.’

  Rebecca sighed. ‘Inspector then.’

  ‘I’m just filling in the gaps: trying to fit things together,’ said Bentley, the tone still apologetic.

  ‘What is it you want to know?’ demanded Rebecca, impatiently.

  ‘You’re very busy, of course?’

  ‘Of course. But I want to help if I can. Although I don’t see how.’

  Bentley appeared to study Rebecca’s initial statement, open before him. ‘You’ve been at Enco-Corps now for…?’

  ‘Ten years,’ Rebecca supplied, when the pause stretched.

  ‘… Quite so, ten years.’ Bentley smiled up. ‘You’re American?’

  ‘I transferred from the New York office six years ago. I’ve already told your inspector this, as well.’ Bentley – Detective Superintendent Bentley – was thick, all mouth and trousers: it wasn’t going to be too difficult at all.

  ‘Indeed you have. Did you know Gerald Lomax in New York, before he came here?’

  Rebecca hesitated. ‘Not before he transferred here to run the operation, no.’

  ‘But you did know him?’

  ‘We met during his home visits.’

  ‘Home visits meaning when he went back to New York?’

  ‘Is this important?’ There was another sigh.

  Bentley regarded her blank faced. ‘What, Ms Nicholls?’

  ‘I don’t see what relevance there might be upon his murder in how and when I met Gerald.’ She shouldn’t have made the challenge.

  ‘Gerald?’

  ‘What?’ Smart-assed fucking car salesman.

  ‘Is that what you called him, Gerald? He was your boss.’

  Rebecca uncrossed her legs, knowing she was in control. ‘You ever been to America, Superintendent? ’ It was silly using his sort of emphasis on the rank but she couldn’t help it.

  ‘Wonderful country.’

  ‘But you haven’t noticed that in America people call each other by their given names?’

  Bentley smiled, contentedly. ‘Slipped my mind. But hasn’t how and when you met Gerald any relevance, Miss Nicholls?’ She wouldn’t be haughty in bed: probably went like a steam train.

  ‘I’ve told you, I can’t see any.’

  ‘Everything is relevant in a murder investigation, Ms Nicholls.’

  Rebecca was disconcerted by the way the man kept stressing the ‘Ms’. ‘I would have hardly thought what happened here yesterday requires much investigation: we’ve all told you what we saw.’ She shivered again.

  ‘Like I said, I’m just fitting the parts together.’

  Rebecca breathed out again, heavily. ‘I’ve worked for Enco-Corps for a total of ten years. Quite obviously I would meet Gerald Lomax during his trips to New York. He was a colleague.’ The bastard was groping: maybe guessing- maybe someone down below had an inclination – but that’s all there was. All there could have been. They were waiting for her to admit something and there was no way she was going to do that.

  ‘Gerald Lomax came to London nine years ago?’

  ‘I’m not sure of the precise date.’

  ‘You’re not?’ queried Bentley, appearing surprised.

  ‘I told you I wasn’t.’

  Bentley paused, looking down at
the scattered papers on the desk in front of him. ‘Gerald Lomax was transferred from New York?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘You’re not sure of that, either?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You worked for Enco-Corps for ten years and Gerald Lomax was only transferred nine years ago. Surely there was a year’s overlap in New York, when you would have worked together?’

  Rebecca smiled, stretching the indulgent pause as long as possible. Patiently, speaking slowly as if for someone who needed simple words to understand simple things, she said, ‘I joined Enco-Corps in their Paris office. I worked there for two years before going to New York. By which time Gerald Lomax had been moved here. I worked in New York for two years before coming to London. Does that fit your parts together?’

  Bentley made an expansive gesture with spread-apart hands. ‘Perfectly. So you met first during his visits to New York?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘A business colleague?’

  ‘What else?’ Rebecca’s growing confidence dipped.

  ‘There weren’t any social occasions?’

  She shrugged. ‘There may have been situations in New York that could be described as social. Business receptions, things like that.’

  ‘May have been? None that you can specifically remember?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about Mrs Lomax?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Do you know Mrs Lomax?’

  Rebecca gestured behind her, to the trading area below. ‘We worked on the floor together before she married Gerald.’

  ‘So you knew her as a business colleague, like you knew Mr Lomax?’

  ‘We were friends.’

  ‘ Were? ’

  ‘Are. We don’t – haven’t – seen as much of each other since she had Emily and moved to the country.’

  ‘You’re Emily’s godmother, aren’t you?’

  ‘Who told you that?’ demanded the woman, actually turning to stare down at the working floor.

  Bentley made a vague gesture. ‘Someone said it, in one of the statements. You are, aren’t you?’