by Faith Martin
Trudy forced yet another smile. ‘Thank you.’ She wished the coroner wasn’t being so friendly and informal. She wanted to get this bit over and done with and leave as quickly as possible.
‘Did anything strike you as odd about the case, Dr Ryder?’ she asked, finally looking up from notebook and for the first time, properly meeting his eye. She felt herself flush as she recognised both concern and bafflement in his look.
It was obvious that he was picking up on her reticence and she quickly looked away again, quashing a feeling of irritation. It wasn’t as if she’d asked to be put in this position!
‘No, I can’t say as it did. Not at the time,’ he added, making her blink.
‘That sounds as if you’ve had second thoughts, sir. Any particular reason?’ she asked eagerly, pencil poised.
Clement shrugged. ‘I read the papers, along with most of the city. I have to say, the Tribune’s contribution did take me by surprise a bit. It almost felt as if the writer had been taking things a bit too personally. But you know the old saying – where there’s smoke there’s fire. So I did just wonder if something more might be afoot. I take it the headlines in the Tribune are what lit the fire under the powers that be over at your station?’
Trudy opened her mouth to deny it, then realised there was very little point.
‘When certain … accusations are made, they have to be investigated as you know.’
‘Quite right too – and by us, no less. Well, it’s about time we had another case, isn’t it?’ He leaned forward to pick up his telephone and Trudy watched in horror as he rang through to his secretary. ‘Ah, yes, Jean. I’m afraid I’m not going to be in the office quite as often as I thought this week, so you can please cancel any non-urgent appointments and re-arrange my schedule to leave me, say, three hours free every day until further notice.’
He hung up and beamed at Trudy, who continued to gape at him, appalled.
‘Is something wrong, Constable Loveday?’ Clement asked mildly, deciding abruptly to take the bull by the horns.
She gulped, knowing that she was going to have to tell him that she would be working this one alone and didn’t need his input. Why oh why, she wondered desperately, had he assumed that she’d come to him to ask for his help?
She saw him lean back with a happy and content smile on his face, and felt her heart fall even further. She sat up a little straighter, searching to find the right words that would let him down without hurting his feelings.
Clement, aware of the lengthening silence and something of the mental battle that was obviously waging behind her face, watched her with unfathomable, grey eyes. ‘Is there a problem?’ he asked mildly.
Trudy nodded, relieved to have such a perfect opening to set things straight dropped right into her lap. But even as she opened her mouth to tell him that he wasn’t needed, she felt the words dry up.
Apart from anything else, she suddenly realised that it wasn’t actually true. She knew (none better) how intelligent this man was. How experienced, and how thorough – and just how much of an asset he’d be. For another thing, nobody knew the case better than this man, who’d have any relevant details already at his fingertips.
So why was she so determined not to work this case with him? It didn’t make sense … until suddenly, in a blinding flash of awful self-awareness, it did, and she knew just why she was feeling as jittery as she was.
Since Easter, she’d been doing her job and slowly dealing with her inner demons. She’d found the courage to walk her beat alone again, and stalk purse-snatchers, and question witnesses, and do all the daily routine things that she’d once feared might be beyond her. After each of the little milestones that she set for herself had been successfully reached and passed, she’d come to believe that the crisis was over. Her self-belief and self-confidence had been restored, and everything was all right again.
But now, as she sat here in this room, she had to acknowledge that only half the battle had been won. For completing her regular police duties was only a part of her professional life and career. Her cases with Dr Clement Ryder were something entirely different.
On their last case, she’d nearly lost her life. And until she worked with him again on another case, she could never be truly sure that she had – once and for all – conquered all her demons. What’s more, the time had now come when she had to do just that. No wonder she felt as if she was all over the place!
She felt her heart thumping in her chest and swallowed hard. She took a deep breath and said – not quite truthfully – ‘Of course there’s not a problem. Everything’s fine, Dr Ryder. And thank you for agreeing to help me.’
In his chair, Clement felt his shoulders suddenly relax. For a second there, he’d wondered if she was actually going to reject his offer of help. Not that it took a genius to figure out why she might have felt reluctant to take on another case with him. The attack they’d both suffered during their last case had shaken even him, and he had served in the war!
He’d wanted, many times over the past months, to call on her and see how she was doing, but instinct – and experience – told him that it might not be a good idea. Sometimes, life’s hardest lessons had to be learned alone – or they were never learned at all.
But he’d always known that Trudy was a woman of rare courage as well as brains and ambition, and he’d had faith in her – faith that was now being justified.
But even as he picked up the telephone again to ask his secretary to bring him the Hughes file, something else began to worry him.
What if something else was making WPC Trudy Loveday question whether or not she wanted to work with him again? Was it possible that she had, in fact, guessed that he had a serious illness?
Once or twice in the past he’d wondered if she had noticed some of the physical symptoms of a person with Parkinson’s disease. Although he was still in the early stages, he sometimes stumbled, and from time to time his hands trembled uncontrollably.
And Trudy was a trained observer.
On more than one occasion in the past, Clement had wondered if she was going to ask him outright about the state of his health. He’d been prepared to lie to her face and tell her that he was fine.
In the end though, she hadn’t asked. Perhaps it was out of respect for him, or perhaps she simply hadn’t been confident enough of the accuracy of her observations. But did she still secretly wonder about him? Did she wonder or fear that he wasn’t up to another case?
The thought made him go cold.
Because if that was so, he’d have to make sure that he gave her no cause to regret bringing him in on this latest investigation.
Trudy, blissfully unaware of her mentor’s state of mind, looked up with a resigned sigh as his secretary deposited the Hughes file on his desk.
All right, so she was feeling a certain amount of trepidation about working with the coroner again. But really, she was just being silly. It was not as if there was any rational cause for it. She’d done some research before leaving the station, and she knew that the likelihood of anything truly sinister having happened in the Hughes’s family back garden last Bonfire Night had to be virtually nil. It had been a tragic and awful event, yes, but nothing about it suggested that a crime had been committed.
Just because, so far, each time she and Dr Ryder had joined forces it had turned out to be a case of murder, it didn’t mean that it would always be so. Especially on such a flimsy case as this! As Dr Ryder himself had just pointed out, her superior officers only wanted the case looked into at all because some silly man writing for the papers had been doing some muck-raking.
No, surely they’d just do a quick but thorough investigation, she’d write up her report for DI Jennings and that would be it. It would probably take only a few days at most and turn out to be downright boring!
Duncan Gillingham read his article again and smiled grimly. Although it was nice to see his byline in print, and to know he’d made a bit of a splash and put the cat amongst the p
igeons, for once it wasn’t the appeasement of his vanity that was giving him cause for satisfaction.
He’d just got off the phone with a somewhat disgruntled Superintendent Maltings, who’d been forced to confirm that the police were indeed taking a deeper look into the Hughes affair.
Which was just what he’d wanted and schemed for all along. Because, although they didn’t know it yet, he had one distinct advantage over the police, when it came to the Thomas Hughes affair.
He already knew that there was a killer amongst the Hughes family circle.
And he was determined to see that someone suffer …
With that in mind, he began to write the leader for tomorrow’s article, confirming that the police had come around to the Tribune’s way of thinking at last and had re-opened the case. The newspaper (and its readers) now awaited their results with bated breath, and were sure that the constabulary – now that they were actually investigating the affair properly – would soon get to the real truth behind Thomas Hughes’s death.
The reporter smiled over his trusty black and gold Remington typewriter.
No doubt, when a certain person read of that particular development over their morning cup of tea, it would ruin their appetite for breakfast.
And nor would it end there. For the Tribune’s bloodhound of a reporter would, naturally, be out and about, asking questions of his own. And the results of his endeavours would be splashed across the front pages of the newspaper for some time to come!
As he re-read his text, Duncan Gillingham smiled wolfishly.
Sooner or later, a nasty little worm that thought it was safely wriggling around unseen and safe in the camouflaging dirt would be dragged out into the cold hard light of day and the full glare of publicity.
And if, in the process, he made a name for himself and forced Sir Basil to at last acknowledge that his soon-to-be son-in-law did actually know his trade, well then, that was just an added bonus, wasn’t it?
Chapter 6
‘So who do you want to talk to first?’ Trudy asked curiously. She’d been in the office for nearly an hour and after reading the case file thoroughly, had found one or two points she wanted cleared up. Which, needless to say, Clement Ryder had been able to accomplish with ease.
She was, in fact, feeling much happier now. In spite of her earlier doubts about meeting up with him again, they had quickly fallen back into their old pattern of working; they had been busily discussing and tossing around the facts and coming up with some items of interest. She had to admit, it did feel good to be slowly getting back to their old, comfortable and familiar ways.
And already their collaboration was giving her some leads to follow.
Both of them, for instance, agreed that it was perhaps a little odd that no member of the dead man’s family seemed to have noticed exactly when or how the shed had caught fire.
True, it was dark, and most of the women at least had probably been paying more attention to the children. Even so, it seemed strange, and they would need to talk to everyone there that night – including the children.
It was also of significant interest that the dead man seemed to have a somewhat ambiguous reputation when it came to his business dealings. Although Trudy had pointed out that she couldn’t see how that might be relevant. After all, it seemed highly unlikely that any disgruntled shareholder in one of the victim’s defunct business enterprises could have sneaked into the family back garden that night and set light to the shed without one of the Hughes family spotting him or her. Even though it had been dark, the bonfire had been lit and surely a stranger would have been quickly spotted?
So it seemed certain that the answer to the conundrum – if indeed there was any conundrum about the man’s death in the first place – had to lie within the dead man’s family.
Hence Trudy’s leading question.
‘Well, there’s little point in starting with the two family members who gave evidence at the inquest,’ Clement mused. ‘Not when we can get a fresh perspective from some of the others. If need be, we can always come back to the Wilcoxes later. So, it has to be one of the other Hughes offspring. Do you have any preference?’
Trudy shrugged. ‘Why not start with the youngest daughter, Caroline Benham? It’s often the youngest girl and baby of the family who’s closest to their father, isn’t it?’
Clement, who had two children, one boy and one girl who had both long since left the nest, smiled. ‘So they say. All right, Caroline it is. I take it you’ve done some preliminary research on the family already?’
Trudy admitted that she had. They walked outside to his car, and as he drove northwards up the Banbury Road, heading towards the village of Kidlington where Caroline lived and worked, Trudy filled him in on what she’d learned so far.
‘Caroline’s twenty-one, and recently divorced,’ she began, glancing at her notebook, just to refresh her memory.
Clement, steering his ‘Auntie’ Rover around a rather haphazard cyclist, grunted slightly. He didn’t altogether approve of divorce, or the increasing ease with which people could get one, regarding its growing prevalence as a disease of modern society. His generation were the kind that stuck together through thick and thin. Although his own wife had been dead for some years, he had no doubt that they’d still be together, had she still been alive. ‘She can’t have been married long,’ he pointed out a shade testily.
Trudy frowned. ‘No. And she married young,’ she added, checking the dates in her notebook. ‘She was only just eighteen. So they were together for only three years or so.’
Clement sighed. ‘Perhaps that was the problem. You can be too young to be married.’
Trudy, who at twenty, hadn’t even given marriage a serious thought yet, shrugged. ‘She works in a solicitor’s office, as a secretary. I think she and her ex-husband must have either sold or vacated the family home, because she’s listed as sharing a flat with another woman. I suppose it helps her to be able to split the rent.’
Trudy glanced at her watch thoughtfully. ‘At this time of day, she’s more likely to be at work than at her flat, isn’t she?’
Clement nodded assent, and some fifteen minutes later, he found a parking space at the back of the library, opposite a two-storey building of yellowish brick, where the firm of Brearley, Pierce, Pike and Brearley were located.
But before they got out of the car, Clement said, ‘So, how much of the bile and innuendo in the newspaper article is true do you think?’
‘Well, the bit about Thomas Hughes’s chequered financial history is certainly true,’ Trudy said, gazing out of the window at the sodden autumn leaves piled at the roadside. ‘It was one of the things that struck me the most about the article. Since it was one of the most easily confirmed or denied aspects of the accusations, I spent some time in the files.’
‘Oh? So our captain of industry wasn’t all he was cracked up to be?’ Clement mused.
‘Well, yes he was. But no, he wasn’t.’
‘Well, that’s as clear as mud!’ Clement said. He was feeling relieved that whatever doubts his friend had obviously had, they were now quickly settling down into a familiar routine. The atmosphere between them was getting lighter and friendlier by the minute.
‘Sorry,’ Trudy said. ‘Mr Hughes made a lot of money, all right, and was very successful for most of his life, with his own companies. But when he hit sixty, he sold off most of his assets – the mainstay of his fortune – and semi-retired, I suppose you might say. He set up various small ventures, some of which worked and made the investors a lot of money – and one or two that didn’t, and lost them a lot of money. But the thing is, he never invested any of his own money very heavily in the more, shall we say, speculative ventures?’
‘Hmm. Well, it’s something to bear in mind, I suppose,’ he said, as they finally made their way towards the solicitor’s offices.
The receptionist looked surprised to see a police officer come through the door, and Clement surmised that the firm was one of
those that restricted themselves to wills, divorces and other non-criminal specialities.
‘Hello, I was wondering if I could have a word with Mrs Benham?’ Trudy said with a smile. ‘It’s nothing to be alarmed about – strictly routine.’
‘Oh – is it about her poor father?’ The receptionist, a motherly-looking woman in her early fifties, stood up and looked from Clement to Trudy uncertainly. ‘It was such a shock when we heard about it. But Caro … Mrs Benham insisted on coming back to work right away. I’ll just go and tell her you’re here. She’s taking dictation from Mr Pike at the moment, but I’m sure he won’t mind.’
They waited in the reception room as the older woman disappeared into the back of the building. On the windowsill, a Parma violet flowered with the gusto of a pot-plant that had been well looked after. Wooden filing cabinets lined the cream-painted walls, and one or two hunting prints attempted to give the anteroom a less business-like air.
Outside, Trudy could hear the sing-song voices of some children playing with a skipping rope. ‘See saw, Margery Daw, Johnny shall have a new maaaaa-ster, He shall earn but a penny a day, because he can’t go any faaaa-ster.’
She smiled, remembering the song from her own childhood.
There was a stir in the inner doorway and the receptionist and another woman appeared, quickly chasing away Trudy’s moment of nostalgia.
The dead man’s youngest daughter was a rather plain woman, about five feet nine inches tall, with thick but not very well-cut brown hair. Her large hazel eyes were probably her prettiest feature, but right now they were regarding Trudy and Clement warily.
‘Yes, I’m Mrs Benham. Celia tells me you’re here about my father?’ Her voice sounded doubtful, as if she was half-convinced they were lying to her.
Trudy held out her police identification card, which the other woman took and read doubtfully. ‘Is there someplace we could talk privately for a few minutes, Mrs Benham?’ she asked gently. ‘We just need to ask you a few questions about the night your father … About Bonfire Night.’