A Mind to Kill

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘You kept Mrs Lomax’s house like this?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘What about Mrs Lomax?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘As far as you were concerned she wasn’t careless about her medication. Did she rely upon you to keep her house like this…’ Hall swept his hand admiringly around the room. ‘Or was she messy?’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘How often did you arrive in the morning to find the remains of a dinner like the one described at the inquest?’

  ‘Never. Not even when there’d been a party. They always brought in caterers, so nothing was ever left. Sometimes things were put away wrongly in the kitchen. Mrs Lomax would tell me about it the following day. How she’d had to put it in the right place.’

  ‘In the right place,’ echoed Hall, letting his thoughts coalesce. ‘Did you come into the house on the Saturday, the day after the tragedy?’

  ‘Not the day after. The same day. Mr Lomax came to the house the night it happened. Asked me to come in to clear up. Actually drove me there in his car.’

  Momentarily Hall closed his eyes in despair. Thar would have been what time.’

  ‘Just before seven. George and I were settling down to listen to The Archers on the radio. It hadn’t started.’

  ‘Four hours after he’d found Mrs Lomax unconscious and she’d been taken to hospital?’

  ‘I can’t tell you how shocked I was. It was terrible.’

  ‘The bed was soiled?’

  ‘Poor love.’

  ‘You changed it?’

  ‘Of course I did,’ said Elspeth, with a trace of indignation. ‘Mr Lomax didn’t intend to sleep there, of course. He slept in another room.’

  ‘What else had to be done, to Mrs Lomax’s bedroom, to tidy it up?’

  ‘There were things all over the cabinet. A syringe and ampoules. I knew what they were, of course.’

  ‘But you’d never seen them before, not scattered about like that?’

  ‘No.’

  Another idea came abruptly to Hall. ‘Tell me about the bed itself. Was it a double, in which they slept together? Or two singles?’

  The woman pursed her lips, as if she was reluctant to disclose an intimacy, which he was sure she’d never been. ‘Double.’

  ‘Which you made, every day?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘On what side did Mrs Lomax sleep, left or right?’

  She frowned. ‘Left.’

  ‘So it would have been with her left hand that she reached out for anything on the bedside cabinet?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘What about the clothes Mrs Lomax had worn… it would have been the Thursday, the day you were there, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘A grey dress with a very faint yellow pattern,’ remembered the housekeeper. ‘Doesn’t sound like it but it was beautiful. It was hung up in the closet.’

  ‘She always hung her clothes up?’

  ‘I told you, she liked things neat and tidy almost as much as I do.’

  ‘What about underclothes?’

  ‘Where they always were, in the laundry basket in the bathroom.’

  ‘Put away?’

  She frowned. ‘That’s what you do with dirty underclothes: put it away to be washed.’

  ‘Did you see much of Mr Lomax, when you were back at the house that night?’

  ‘He was lost. Devastated. He just wandered about, from room to room, not knowing what to do.’

  ‘How did you see a lot of him if he wandered about from room to room and you were working in two specific places: the bedroom and the kitchen?’

  The question surprised the woman. ‘Because he was always where I was, I suppose. I hadn’t thought about it.’

  ‘How long were you back at the house?’

  ‘Not very long. There really wasn’t much to do but obviously he didn’t want to do it himself. No more than an hour, I suppose.’

  ‘Mr Lomax had taken you there. Did he drive you home?’

  She shook her head. ‘He was too upset. He got a taxi for me. Fred Knowland. Works out of Alton. He was the man Mr Lomax always called: took people to the station at Winchester or Alton, things like that. All the way to London sometimes.’

  Briefly, believing he could indulge himself, Hall tried to imagine what the carnation button-holed Superintendent John Bentley, the hitherto successful investigator of every murder, would have done now.

  Elspeth, the gossip to whom any verbal silence was torture, said, ‘It was funny, about Fred.’

  ‘What was?’ said Hall.

  ‘He collects cars. Knows about them. He’s got an old open-topped bus he restored and hires out for weddings. It’s ever so popular. He saw the mister’s car, when he picked me up – it was one of those big American ones then – and said it was unusual for him to be home so much during the week and that he’d seen him arriving the previous night.’

  Hall looked steadily at the woman. The previous night? You mean the Thursday?’

  ‘That’s what he said. He was working a contract, picking up someone from Winchester station, and he’d seen the mister’s car turning off the M3.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘That he had to be mistaken. That the mister had been in London that night, like always – Mrs Lomax told me he was going to be, before I left – and that he never came home on the M3 anyway. He always said the A3 was quicker and there weren’t so many cars.’

  ‘Did you tell anyone this? Harry Elroyd?’

  ‘Why should I have done? It wasn’t right because I knew the mister was in London. It was daft.’

  That’s how Knowland described it – ‘bloody daft: had to be, didn’t it?’ – when he responded to Elspeth Simpson’s call. The man’s recognition was instant – the reaction bright-eyed greed – and Hall immediately guessed Fred Knowland had profited hugely from the press invasion of the area and imagined even greater financial benefit from this encounter. The man, fat from sitting permanently in a driving seat, sparse-haired and quick to smile, asked as many questions as he answered and Hall didn’t doubt he would alert the press posse before he’d had time to get back to Winchester station. Elspeth was visibly distressed at having another chair seat dented, picking up and moving ornaments and picture frames and then putting them back in their original place.

  ‘It was exactly that, a mistake,’ she said, more than once, trying to hurry things on so she could polish and tidy away their intrusion.

  ‘What car was it?’ Hall persisted.

  ‘Cadillac de Ville,’ said Knowland. ‘Beautiful car. Had one once. Sorry I got rid of it.’

  ‘What colour?’

  ‘Mr Lomax’s? Black.’

  ‘You must have known the number?’

  ‘The system’s funny. The filter off the M3 is from a roundabout on to the road to get into Winchester. I was actually going in the opposite direction, on to the roundabout, as this car came off. I was never in a position to see a number. It was dark – it was past ten: I was going to pick up a contract customer – and it was raining. I just recognized the shape of the car: knew it immediately.’

  ‘As Mr Lomax’s?’

  ‘Why is it important?’

  ‘I’m clearing up the estate: there’s some dispute about whether it was a company car or personally owned,’ lied Hall, improvising.

  ‘No,’ responded Knowland, answering the question. ‘I recognized it as a de Ville.’

  ‘How many people were in it?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with whether it was a company car or not?’

  ‘Mr Lomax would have been alone, wouldn’t he? If there were several people it couldn’t have been his.’

  ‘It was by me in a second. But one person, I think.’

  ‘You must know most of the unusual cars around here, driving all the time as you do? And having the interest?’

  The man smiled. ‘Not many I don’t see.’

  ‘So around th
e time we’re talking about how many other Cadillac de Villes were there in the area?’

  The smile went. ‘None, as far as I know. That’s why I thought at first it had to be Mr Lomax. Until I talked to Elspeth.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ agreed Hall. ‘I’ve been wasting my time.’ Knowland would obviously lead the media horde to Elspeth Simpson, who was looking visibly confused at his questions about the car. It was going to be a confused story.

  ‘Far to go?’ asked Knowland.

  ‘London.’

  ‘I could drive you back. Drove people around a lot for Mr Lomax. I could tell you a few stories.’

  All of which had already been told and re-told and embellished, Hall was sure. ‘I’ve got a return ticket.’

  ‘Winchester station taxi?’ said Knowland, showing off his local knowledge and nodding to the retained vehicle outside. ‘He’d understand if you paid him off. It’s more comfortable by car. Give you a company rate, like I used to give Mr Lomax.’

  ‘No. But thanks.’

  ‘You got a number I can call you on, if anything else occurs to me?’

  ‘Sure,’ agreed Hall at once, offering a card with the chamber’s number.

  Knowland’s hand snatched out and enclosed it like a lizard’s tongue capturing an insect. ‘Will you be down again?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  The man’s hand was shaking with excitement as he offered his own card. ‘You need a car, just give me a ring. I’ll meet you anywhere. Come to collect you if you like.’

  ‘I’ll remember that,’ said Hall, accepting it.

  A relieved Elspeth hurried them to the door and said she hoped Mrs Lomax would soon be back in the village and Knowland quickly said the same. He drove out on to the main road ahead of them, risking a barely sufficient gap in front of an approaching lorry, to a blast of protest.

  ‘What’s she like?’ demanded the driver, taking up the earlier conversation as if it had never been interrupted.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The ghost.’

  ‘There’s nothing to see.’

  ‘Can you talk to her.’

  ‘I can’t,’ avoided Hall, unwilling to spend the entire journey under interrogation. ‘She talks to Mrs Lomax.’

  ‘She’s going to have to be locked up for the rest of her life, isn’t she? In an asylum?’

  ‘She’ll be going abroad soon,’ said Hall, the font of all false rumours. ‘To a special place in the sun.’

  ‘I suppose she can afford it with her money,’ agreed the driver, miserably.

  They reached the station ahead of any pursuit. Hall had the fare ready, thrusting it into the driver’s hand and, avoiding the main ticket office, cutting into the underground tunnel to reach the London-bound platform. The train already there hid him from the main entrance opposite. He didn’t go on to the platform but to his right, out into the car park. He drove without direction away from the city, not bothering to look at a map until he reached Stockbridge and was sure there was no pursuit.

  Only then did he begin to review his day, trying to get it into perspective. The circumstantial evidence begged for a proper investigation that could never be carried out now that Gerald Lomax was dead. But Jennifer couldn’t have been involved: he was sure she couldn’t. Or could she, he wondered, remembering a particular phrase in Gerald Lomax’s statement.

  ‘Eleven to one, one to eleven, eleven to one, one to eleven…’ incanted Mason, his voice measured, even, soporific. He held the watch in front of Jennifer, as he had the first time he’d hypnotized her. ‘Eleven to one, one to eleven…!’

  ‘ Why not go along with it? Humour the idiot? Can’t hurt me, after all. Can’t make me go anywhere.’

  ‘Can you hear me, Jennifer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Jane?’

  ‘Yes. She’s not trying to stop me this time.’

  ‘ Help anyway I can, honey.’

  ‘Do you believe we can get rid of Jane?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘ Right! ’

  ‘So you’re not going to try any more?’

  ‘No point.’

  ‘You told me the last time how strong your mind was. Always better than anyone else.’

  ‘Not any more,’

  ‘ Right again! ’

  ‘Do you want to die?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you want to kill yourself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You haven’t lost your strong mind, Jennifer.’

  ‘Jane’s there.’

  ‘So you’re giving your mind over to her? Letting her have it?’

  ‘She already has it.’

  ‘Not if you don’t abandon it to her.’

  ‘Too tired.’

  ‘No you’re not. You fought, in court. Made Jeremy fight. You beat Jane, because you stayed strong-minded. You can beat her again, rid yourself of her, but you must stay strong.’

  ‘ What a load of crap! ’

  ‘I can’t get rid of her. Ever.’

  ‘Do you want Emily?’

  ‘Can’t have her.’

  ‘Won’t you fight to have her?’

  ‘ Don’t listen! ’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you’re not fighting. You’re letting Jane take over.’

  ‘She wants to hurt Emily.’

  ‘She can’t. Emily’s safe. Nothing can happen to her. If Jane wants to hurt Emily, throw Jane out.’

  ‘Don’t know how.’

  ‘Could you believe Mr Dawson?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Jane could believe him, couldn’t she?’

  ‘ Shut up! ’

  When Jennifer didn’t reply the psychiatrist repeated: ‘Couldn’t she?’

  ‘ Don’t bother to listen. It’s crap.’

  ‘She doesn’t want to listen.’

  ‘Because she’s afraid.’

  ‘ Shut up! ’

  ‘She’s getting angry.’

  ‘No, Jennifer. She’s getting scared.’

  Mason was excited, at the animation that was emerging through the hypnotic trance. ‘Try with Dawson, Jennifer. Try as hard as you can.’

  ‘It’s not just that.’

  ‘What then, Jennifer?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘You’ve got to talk about it, if I’m to help you.’

  ‘Too awful.’

  ‘ Oh go on! Shock him.’

  ‘Was it something that happened in prison?’ Mason guessed.

  ‘Don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Were you attacked in prison, sexually?’

  ‘Horrible.’ She physically shuddered.

  ‘You’re not in prison any longer. Never will be, again. What happened can’t hurt you.’

  ‘Jeremy wouldn’t want me if he knew, would he?’

  Hall didn’t try to establish any contact, hurrying directly to his rooms at the clinic to telephone Humphrey Perry before the solicitor left for the day. ‘You’ve got the name? Hemels, Bury Street.’

  ‘There’ll never be a record, after all this time,’ protested Perry.

  ‘We won’t know, until we try to find one. And take a photograph of Jennifer with you.’

  ‘What could it prove, anyway?’

  ‘We don’t know that, either. Anything from America?’

  ‘If there had been I would have told you.’

  ‘You’ve got to admit it was an inadequate inquiry.’

  ‘All right,’ conceded the solicitor, reluctantly. Falling back on his most frequent complaint, he said, ‘But you’re still clutching at straws.’

  ‘And as I keep telling you, that’s what we’ve been doing from the beginning.’

  Hall bumped into the psychiatrist almost immediately outside his door. ‘I was coming to see if you were back,’ said Mason.

  ‘I was just going to see Jennifer.’

  ‘I think you should.’

  ‘I’ve been on all the rides,’ said Emily. ‘Lots of times
. And been in the pool every day.’

  ‘What would you like to do now?’ asked Annabelle.

  ‘Go home to Mummy and Daddy. And go to school with my friends.’

  Chapter Thirty-two

  ‘Is she there?’

  ‘No.’ Jennifer knelt in the chapel, as Dawson told her and bowed her head under the pressure of his hand. The chapel smelled heavily of the incense smouldering in the burners. Despite the softness of the well-padded hassock her knee hurt, where she’d cut it.

  ‘I want to speak to you, Jane,’ declared the priest. When there was nothing he said, ‘Don’t be afraid. You know you don’t have to be afraid of God.’

  When there was still no response he began the exorcism ritual with oil and holy water and salt and said, ‘Hear me, oh Lord, not in the name of this supplicant but in the name of the spirit that possesses her, a spirit in need of release and of your succour…’

  ‘ Stop! ’ Jennifer relayed the word, according to the previous arrangement. Ennui embalmed her.

  ‘Pray with me, Jane.’

  ‘ I don’t want to pray with you.’

  ‘You do. You want to pray for forgiveness for the sins you have committed. To release yourself from the terrible torment of Hell.’

  ‘ I’m not in torment.’

  ‘You’re in terrible torment, to be saying what you are. Behaving and threatening as you do.’

  ‘ Not true. Won’t listen.’

  Dawson sprinkled holy water and intoned, ‘And in Philippians it says, “Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling”.’ The priest hesitated. ‘God exacts his vengeance, Jane. Not mortals.’

  ‘ I’m not mortal,’ she scored. ‘ I’m dead. Killed. Without the chance of salvation.’

  ‘I could save you, if you’d pray with me. Give you absolution.’

  There was nothing for several moments. Jennifer’s knee was throbbing, rhythmically, like a heartbeat.

  ‘ Not for what I’ve done.’

  ‘Yes, Jane!’ said the priest, almost too urgently. The beginning of the Apostles’ Creed was too hurried as well. ‘“I believe in God, the Father Almighty…”’

  ‘ I don’t want to hear it! ’

  The ache wasn’t any longer confined to Jennifer’s injured leg. It was suffusing her entire body, as if she was straining to oppose the man.