The Woods Murder

by Roy Lewis

  Cathy was conscious of the subtle implication behind their remarks. She was perfectly aware that if she as much as flickered an eyelid in the direction of either young bachelor he would have taken his chance with both hands.

  Literally, she thought.

  Cathy was surprised to see Brian Philips at the office that first morning after the solicitor’s body was discovered. Philips had not returned to the firm since he had relinquished his share in the partnership; Cathy suspected that he had quarrelled with Lendon. Now he stuck his head around Cathy’s door and said in his characteristic quiet tones:

  ‘Hallo, Cathy. You’ll have heard the news, of course.’

  ‘Who hasn’t?’

  The office itself had buzzed all morning and no work had been done. All the office staff had expected a sudden deluge of policemen armed with notebooks, but it was now almost mid-day and none had arrived. The effervescent excitement had remained, if a little flat at the edges and less frothy, but it was with a certain sense of anticlimax that Cathy spoke to Philips.

  He came in and sat down. His mousy hair dipped over his forehead in a manner quite foreign to him: he was usually so careful about his personal appearance, but the events of the morning had obviously had their effect upon him.

  ‘I’ve just got back from the police station,’ he said, flickering a nervous smile in Cathy’s direction. ‘As soon as I heard this morning that Charles had been found murdered up at Insterley, I thought I’d better go straight around to the station to see what information I could offer.’

  ‘Do they have any idea-?’

  ‘None at all, as far as I know.’ Philips shook his head in a curious, birdlike manner. ‘And it would seem they’re not going to handle it themselves. They’re going to call in a man from Scotland Yard. I suppose in a way it’s better; you know, a fresh, objective look at a community can lead to things being seen that an insider wouldn’t perceive. I mean, you, Cathy, you probably have a clearer idea as to what goes on around here in Canthorpe than have many residents with forty or fifty years chalked up. You’ve lived here, what? . . . Two, three years? Ever since you came here as an articled clerk, isn’t it? You’ve brought with you the sort of outsider’s vision that people like me lack.’

  He looked miserably down at his hands.

  ‘Poor Charles . . . A meat skewer. You know, he would have hated the crudity of that.’ The suspicion of a smile hovered over his lips and it brought her up with a jolt. Brian.

  Philips remained in the room with her for almost another fifteen minutes but she was hardly aware of him, hardly aware of what he talked about. The thought and the memory of that secret smile remained with her while he talked.

  ‘Of course, all this puts you people in a difficult position. I mean, Charles was the sole partner, and now you’ll be without a principal. Parnell and Maxwell will carry on for a while I suppose, but they can’t be regarded as your employers. Maybe they’ll set up on their own account, perhaps take this place over, buy it from Charles’s executors. I wonder who he left it to . . . he made a will, I suppose. However . . .’ His eyes flickered away from Cathy and he looked around the room. ‘I’ve not been back here for some time now . . .’

  He jumped suddenly as the door opened. Parnell looked in. ‘Police’ve arrived. They’ll be wanting a chat with each of us later.’

  ‘I’ll be on my way now then,’ Philips murmured. He left quietly, but she remembered his remark about Charles Lendon long after he’d gone and, in some unaccountable way, it saddened her.

  It was no use trying to explain it to Mike when they sat in the car on Tarlock Hill that evening.

  ‘I don’t see why you have to cry over Charles Lendon! You’ll be almost alone if you do.’

  ‘That’s not a pleasant thing to say. Charles Lendon was an efficient man and—’

  ‘And always right. They’re the most uncomfortable kind to deal with. But you sound as though you’re a member of the Lendon Fan Club.’

  Cathy struggled free of his encircling arm. ‘I don’t understand you. Why are you so bitter about him?’

  ‘I’m not. He’s dead. Some will say good riddance.’

  ‘But he was murdered, Mike. How can you say that?’

  ‘The fact that he was murdered simply illustrates that someone hated his guts, hated him enough to remove him.’

  The venom in his tone disturbed her; to cover her confusion she asked him for a cigarette. They sat side by side and the glow of their cigarettes dimly lit the interior of the car.

  ‘Did the police come to the office this morning?’

  ‘A detective-constable came in and looked around Lendon’s room, locked it and took the key.’

  ‘No questions?’

  ‘No questions. I gather a detective will be in tomorrow to do that. A man from Scotland Yard. They’re waiting for him.’

  Mike laughed. There was an uncharacteristic harshness about the sound. ‘I wonder when he’ll get around to questioning me.’

  ‘You? What would they do that for?’

  Mike laughed again but it was still not a natural laugh. ‘Nothing, really. But . . . well, I did know Lendon and I made no secret of my dislike for him, so I suppose they’ll get around to grilling me eventually.’

  ‘Grilling you?’

  He was suddenly impatient. ‘Aw, the hell with it, Cathy! I’m not saying I’ve anything to tell them, I’m just saying they might want to question me! It was an innocent remark — don’t harp on it! They’ll want to see you too won’t they?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘No buts. In a murder investigation policemen behave like ferrets. They start poking their narrow little noses down all sorts of burrows, they sniff out all sorts of secrets, they ask all kinds of questions. And some of the questions will hurt because they’ll drag out into the open old dead quarrels, and quarrels not so dead, too. Muck gets raked up. Dirt gets stirred. The whole thing can be bloody unpleasant, particularly when what’s stirred up has no real relevance to the murder enquiry anyway.’

  It wasn’t merely impatience, Cathy suddenly realized. It was fear.

  Chapter 6

  The unfortunate thing about knees was that when they were bent they presented a bony appearance. This could be doubly unfortunate when the knees in question were extremely bony to begin with. But Detective Chief Inspector Crow had long ago finished worrying about his knees or indeed about his general appearance. He was perfectly well aware of the impression that he made when entering a room full of strangers. He was more than used to the turning heads, the lull in the conversation, and the occasional nervous giggle. In a way he didn’t mind this, for he saw himself in the mirror each morning and he was forced to admit that his domed skull did present a most unprepossessing sight, and when it was allied to the jutting, prominent nose, the deep-set eyes, and supported by the scrawny neck and tall thin framework of his body, upon which clothes dangled rather than were worn, he could hardly expect people to behave otherwise than rudely.

  Chief Constable Rogers was of the old school, however, thought Crow to himself. Rogers didn’t even blink when Crow walked in; he simply extended his hand and indulged in small talk as naturally as though he were dealing with an old friend.

  ‘And have you got your hotel?’

  ‘Thank you, yes,’ Crow replied with a smile. ‘Wilson and I are staying at the Warwick Arms. It seems more than comfortable.’

  ‘You’ll appreciate what I mean when I say that I hope your stay won’t be extended.’

  ‘Quite.’

  Crow observed the chubby chief constable warily. He would not have a great deal to do with the man, for the Lendon investigation was Crow’s responsibility and both he and Rogers knew that interference would be unthinkable. Nevertheless, Crow felt it was necessary to get to know Rogers reasonably well; when one of the murder squad came into a provincial area like this it could cause friction, and it would have to be the chief constable who would be keeping his men in check. Rogers was worried, that was ob
vious, but at the moment Crow was prepared to accept that the cause of his anxiety would simply be that he had two unsolved murders on his patch. . . and that was two too many.

  ‘It’s been kind of you to see me so soon,’ Crow said, rising to his feet to tower over the chief constable, ‘I’ll detain you no longer, sir. I’ll get on with what we have—’

  ‘I’ve asked Chief Superintendent Simpson to hang on in his office for a word with you. He’ll have told the scene-of-crime unit to stand by for your orders, and I expect he’ll have been on to forensics as well.’

  ‘I imagine,’ Crow said quietly, ‘that Detective-Sergeant Wilson will already have detailed the unit. I’ll be spending the morning down at Lendon’s office, myself. I can leave the scene-of-crime stuff to Wilson. But I’d like to meet the chief superintendent, sir. I imagine he’s handling the other murder on your hands.’

  ‘The Jenny Carson case, yes,’ muttered Rogers. ‘All right. Look, I’ll take you through to Hugh Simpson’s office and you can have a quick word with him there. Oh, damn!’

  The telephone on his desk was jangling. The chief constable grabbed it, listened, then made a face at Crow. He covered the mouthpiece and said: ‘Can you find your own way there, Inspector?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Crow withdrew, leaving Rogers to his telephone conversation. The officer at the desk pointed out the chief superintendent’s room and Crow, declining his offer of an escort, knocked on the door. Hearing no reply, he knocked a second time, opened the door and looked in.

  The big man behind the desk had a glass of water in his hand and his head was thrown back so that the cord-like veins stood out in his thick neck. He was red in the face. A gargling sound issued from his throat. As he saw Crow he swallowed the liquid, and swung around in his chair with a curse.

  ‘What the hell do you want? Don’t you believe in knocking?’

  Crow paused, as he noted that the chief superintendent was not of the Rogers school: the man’s eyes grew round with disbelief as he took in the details of Crow’s hairless skull.

  ‘I am Detective Chief Inspector Crow.’

  ‘Good God!’

  It was only with an effort that Simpson pulled himself together. Crow was not offended: he had no illusions about his appearance though he obviously preferred the reaction of Rogers to the undisciplined lack of control of Simpson. The chief superintendent rubbed a hand over his throat and scowled. The expression deepened the lines of his craggy face and drew his bushy eyebrows together.

  ‘Come in, Crow. Siddown. I’ve got a sore throat. Out all yesterday evening.’

  ‘The Carson murder?’

  Simpson’s face darkened, unpredictably. ‘Why do you ask?’

  Take off my dumping boots, Crow thought to himself. We have to tread warily; there are tender toes here. Before he had time to frame his reply, Simpson continued:

  ‘No, it was Lendon, in fact. Someone had to sort things out up there. You weren’t around to do it. Someone had to get things organized.’

  ‘Yes.’ Crow sat down, and Simpson peered at him with overt suspicion. ‘Anyway,’ he grumbled, ‘it’s your pigeon now.’

  ‘That’s right. It’s my pigeon.’

  Crow looked carefully at the chief superintendent, sitting there caressing his throat. He decided that he’d better sound out the waters somewhat.

  ‘The Lendon murder, coming on top of this other enquiry, will have occasioned some publicity problems, no doubt. I imagine that you’ll have had the press breathing down your neck on the—’

  Simpson swung his chair to face Crow squarely. His lips were set in a thin line, and his eyes were hard as he glared at Crow.

  ‘I think we’d better get things clear, Chief Inspector. Right from the start. I’m tied up with the Carson enquiry but I can handle it, and I could have handled the Lendon case too, with one hand tied behind my back. I didn’t want the Mets called in, but they were, and you’re here, and it’s your pigeon. If you’re worried about public pressure, I’m not. If you can’t face the newspaper hounds, hard luck. But it’s your problem, the whole Lendon thing. Your problem, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘You will, of course, offer the customary assistance.’ Crow’s expression was bland.

  ‘Of course. Office, two men assigned, use of lab people and scene-of-crime unit. But remember, Crow, they’ve got another case on their hands too. My case. And they’re my boys, so it’s as well that they know what their priorities must be, from the start. They’ve got to work for me, and it’s a case then of devil take the hindmost.’

  Crow sat very still.

  ‘You make it sound like a race.’

  It was possible that Simpson was misled by the quietness of Crow’s reply. He didn’t know Crow well enough to understand the significance of the mild tones used by the murder squad man.

  ‘You can damn well regard it in that light or any other,’ Simpson said with confidence. ‘All I’m emphasizing is that if you want any of the force other than the two assigned you’d better come through me and then I’ll clear it for them.’

  ‘And what of emergencies?’

  ‘I can’t see any emergencies arising where it’ll be necessary to act otherwise than through me. If you’ll just make your request—’

  ‘I’m sorry, that won’t do.’

  ‘What won’t do?’

  Crow ignored the belligerence in Simpson’s tone. ‘The arrangements that you suggest will not be acceptable. I’m afraid that I cannot possibly act through you. I require the usual services from the force in this investigation. I’m extremely grateful for the two men assigned, but I’ve no doubt I’ll need others from time to time and particularly to begin with. I appreciate that you will need to exercise a co-ordinating function, but I cannot possibly come through you for everything I need.’

  ‘Well, you’ll bloody well have to!’

  ‘We differ in our assessment of the situation, I fear.’

  There was a short silence in the room. Simpson was staring at Crow as though he could hardly believe his ears. Slowly the chief superintendent rose and took advantage of the fact to stand over Crow.

  ‘I think,’ he said thickly, ‘we need to get a few things sorted out.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘Such as the fact that you are acting under a provincial—’

  ‘I’m sorry, you meant with, rather than under, didn’t you?’

  Simpson’s face was reddening; the flush spread like a slow-moving stain across the rough skin of his face.

  ‘The first thing I have to do, obviously, Inspector Crow, is remind you of my rank!’

  ‘No, sir. The first thing that you have to do is to remind yourself that your rank is irrelevant: I am in charge of the Lendon investigation, at the request of this division. I shall require the usual courtesies, the usual assistance. I shall conduct the investigation. I shall answer in no way to you for its conduct and I shall in no way work through you. I appreciate that the force is involved in two murder cases; I shall bear this in mind in my demands upon the manpower available. But I cannot place myself in the position where I have to come cap in hand every time I want to make use of the force.’

  Crow received the impression that it was a long time since a subordinate in rank had addressed Simpson in a critical fashion, for the chief superintendent was so taken aback that he was unable to reply. Crow took the opportunity presented and rose.

  ‘Furthermore, you mentioned the question of priorities. In fact, I would imagine that for a week or so it’s the Lendon case that can be given some priority: after all, I need hardly tell you it’s the first two or three days which count in a murder investigation. Things begin to cool thereafter. You’ve had two months on the Carson investigation: the needs there are hardly so pressing now: you’ll have obtained a large number of statements and so on and you’ll be going through these, I have no doubt. So there should be little problem in releasing men to assist me.’

  Simpson had recovered himself, and was st
aring at Crow from beneath lowered eyebrows. There was an unpleasant twist to his thick lips. ‘I have an idea that we’re not going to get on, Inspector Crow.’

  ‘A similar thought had crossed my mind,’ Crow said coolly, ‘but I was sufficiently inhibited to deny myself the pleasure of saying it, sir. However, I’ll take up no more of your time. I called in only at the chief constable’s request, to pay my respects.’

  ‘Assume them duly paid,’ Simpson replied.

  As Crow neared the door Simpson added sarcastically: ‘You will, of course, have the courtesy to keep me informed of developments?’

  ‘In so far as they affect you, yes, sir.’

  As the door closed behind him Crow cursed under his breath. He had handled the whole thing badly. It was stupid to cross Simpson in that way: Crow had seen the danger signals immediately he’d met the chief superintendent and should have played the whole thing more coolly. Instead, he had lost his temper and his control. Maybe Simpson wouldn’t have realized it, for Crow was aware that few people recognized the signs in him — a mildness, a quiet tone was the prelude to sharp words — but nevertheless Simpson would certainly now be more aggressively against the whole Lendon operation. He would not obstruct: he was too conscientious an officer for that, but Simpson would simply make sure that Crow’s path wasn’t eased.

  In a cold anger against himself Crow made his way across to the room placed at his disposal for the duration of the Lendon enquiry. It was time he got down to some work.

  Detective-Sergeant Wilson was in the room, preparing to leave. He had one burly arm in the sleeve of his raincoat. ‘I’m just off, sir. I’ve had a word with the sergeant attached to the scene-of-crime unit. He’ll be driving me out to the Old Mill: the unit is still out there now.’

  ‘Good. I shall probably take a look out there myself later. Been in touch with the forensic laboratory yet?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The liaison officer is called Roberts. He’ll be making lab facilities available as soon as anything comes in.’

  Wilson shrugged into his coat and began to do up the buttons. He was a young officer, and a good one. He had been a constable with Crow, when Crow had first obtained promotion to inspector. It could not be too long before Wilson must be off on his own: Crow had put in two reports on the last two cases which would inevitably mark Wilson out for swift promotion to inspector. A little impetuous . . . maybe so, but a good hard Yorkshire head.