The Woods Murder

by Roy Lewis

  ‘Good morning, Crow. How are things going?’

  ‘Well enough, sir, but it’s early days, of course.’

  ‘Ahuh. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’ve come to ask for your assistance, Chief Superintendent.’

  Hugh Simpson’s heavy head was still. His eyes narrowed slightly as he stared at Crow and he opened his mouth as though to say something, then closed it again. Crow gained the impression that Simpson was on the point of telling the inspector that he had no intention of meddling, but changed his mind because of the fact that assistance was being openly asked for. It flattered the man’s ego. After a moment he relaxed and settled massively back in his chair with a certain air of quiet satisfaction. Crow made no attempt to deny him his triumph.

  ‘I’ll do anything I can,’ said Simpson pontifically, stroking a hammer of a fist against his dark-bristled chin. ‘Sit down for a moment, Inspector.’

  Crow sat down and contemplated his long, bony legs. ‘There are a couple of things you can help me on . . . you’ve considerable knowledge of the town and the people, and I haven’t.’

  ‘You’d like to know what I can tell you about Charles Lendon, for instance.’

  ‘That’ll do for a start.’

  ‘Lendon was a sound businessman, stood no nonsense, and was pretty straight in his dealings. Too straight for some; you know, people don’t like to feel in the wrong all the time and there was that chance if you dealt with Lendon. His one big weakness was women, but of recent years he went about things more quietly, I gather.’

  ‘Any current girl-friend?’

  ‘Ah, well . . . heard of a feller called Charlton?’

  ‘Indeed. An enquiry agent who died recently.’

  ‘Don’t waste time checking his death. I already have. When one of those bloody irregulars dies on my patch I want to know. The thing is, Lendon hired him.’

  ‘For someone called Kent, I gather.’

  ‘That’s right. You might find Lendon’s girl-friend was Kent’s wife.’

  Crow thought quietly for a moment.

  ‘Would Kent have engaged a solicitor who was having an affair with his wife?’

  ‘It’s a matter of timing. Maybe Lendon looked into her background for the husband and then got interested in her himself. Charlton had certainly been checking on Mrs Kent to back divorce proceedings. Charlton’s files, which I’ve seen, make it clear that Mrs Kent has been involved with a professional gentleman in Canthorpe. I presume he gave that information to Lendon, but Mr Kent never acted upon it.’

  ‘Because Lendon never gave it to him.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Lendon’s file on Kent simply contains a letter to Kent informing him that enquiries by Charlton had been fruitless.’

  Simpson leaned forward and grimaced.

  ‘Lendon suppressed the information, eh? So much for my straight businessman!’

  ‘You did say he had a weakness for women,’ Crow said quietly. ‘Anyway, I’d like to have any further details on the Charlton involvement, please.’

  ‘I’ll let you have all the papers.’ Simpson laid a hard, horny hand on the desk. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘There’s a Miss Tennant—’

  Simpson extracted a file from his desk. ‘I got a breakdown on everyone in that office within three hours of finding Lendon’s corpse at the Old Mill. Now then . . . here we are. Catherine Tennant: twenty years old, mother dead, father lives in Stanely, she came to Lendon as an articled clerk nearly three years ago, takes her finals next summer. Stepping out with . . . ah yes, interesting . . . with Michael Enson. Now then, Crow, the name Enson rings a bell. I’m pretty sure there was bad blood between Enson and Lendon . . .’

  Simpson rose and paced slowly across the room, his big hands locked behind his back. ‘I think it involved Enson’s father . . . I’ll get one of the constables to check the records.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Mmm. And that chap Carson — you’ll have a crack at him, of course. Damned nuisance. He was around here again this morning telling me I ought to watch the woods, telling me my business! I sent him packing I can tell you, and—’

  The telephone cut across his outburst. A brief conversation and he turned to Crow.

  ‘The chief constable wants me. Stay here in the building. I’ll only be ten minutes or so. See you shortly.’

  Simpson led the way out of the office. Crow could see that the chief superintendent was in good spirits: being asked for advice and assistance by Crow had uplifted him. It obviously made him feel more secure, made him feel that his stand in the first instance had been justified, and perhaps even convinced him that he could have done the job better than the man from the murder squad anyway. Crow smiled quietly to himself. He didn’t mind Simpson’s euphoria: as long as it brought results, and made easier the working relationship in which they found themselves, that was all that mattered. But Carson’s visit this morning; he must try to find out from Simpson what it was about. Obviously it would be connected with Jenny Carson’s death, but Carson was also hovering on the fringe of the Lendon enquiry, and it would be as well to keep all ends neatly tied.

  Crow walked into the room where Wilson and two other officers were still sifting through the material obtained from Lendon’s house.

  ‘The lads are looking at the general stuff,’ Wilson explained, ‘and I’ve got what appear to be Lendon’s personal papers here. I’ll give you a whistle, sir, as soon as I find anything.’

  Crow checked his watch. Simpson should be out in ten minutes or so. He walked back towards the desk sergeant. The sergeant raised his head as Crow approached and there was a wary look in his eye. Perhaps it was a look he reserved for all CID men, or perhaps just for outsiders.

  ‘Have you got a map of the Kenton Wood area, in detail ?’

  The sergeant looked doubtful, but a fresh-faced young constable sitting over a report and a typewriter looked up and said:

  ‘Jenkins drew a special one for the super a week ago, Sarge.’

  ‘Where can I get a look at it?’

  ‘I think it’s in the super’s office, but if you ask Jenkins he’ll tell you, sir. That’s him over there, in front of the interview room.’

  Jenkins was sure it would be all right for Crow’s purposes and led the way into Simpson’s room.

  ‘It’s over here, sir.’

  Jenkins walked across to the table in the corner of the room and pulled open a drawer. He extracted a folded sheet of drawing paper and spread it out on the table. It was an ink drawing traced from an ordnance survey map, with various points marked on it. Crow put his finger on one of the points.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘That marks the spot where little Jenny Carson’s body was found, sir.’

  ‘I see. And this is the Old Mill, up here, where Lendon was murdered . . . What’s this building here?’

  ‘That’s the Bear Inn, sir, and this area here is Kenton Wood. You can see that it runs along the side of the hill here for almost three miles, but is about three-quarters of a mile wide, and takes in, at its edge, Mr Lendon’s property.’

  Crow nodded. His mind was shifting to James Carson. ‘Tell me, Jenkins, what exactly was all this fuss about the right of way through Woodrow Lane? You know, the cause of the trouble between Lendon and Carson?’

  The burly young constable shrugged.

  ‘Well, sir, it was like this. If you take a look at this map you’ll see that there’s a big council estate south of Lendon’s house. Now there’s a bus service that runs through the estate, but sometimes kids who have missed the bus, or want to save the bus money they’ve been given so that they can buy sweets with it, will walk to school. The school lies here, north of Lendon’s property, and across the main road.’

  ‘I see. And if children miss the bus they could take the shortest distance to the main road, along Woodrow Lane.’

  ‘That’s what they used to do, sir, but there was a bit of vandalism in the lane and Mr Len
don closed it to them. There was a heck of a rumpus about it, but Mr Lendon insisted that he was within his rights, and it seemed that he was. There was no legal right of way through Woodrow Lane.’

  ‘So what happened then?’

  ‘Simply that kids missing the bus would have to go the long way round through the estate — or they could take a short cut, even shorter than the Woodrow Lane one, through the Kenton Wood to the main road.’

  ‘And that’s what Jenny Carson did.’

  ‘Seems like, sir. The morning was dark. She didn’t take the bus, she walked through the wood and someone murdered her. We didn’t find the body until early next morning. You’ll see that she was dragged some distance from what would be the natural way through the wood.’

  Crow grimaced. He had an unpleasant feeling at the pit of his stomach at the thought of that poor terrified child in the half-morning light, and he remembered James Carson’s veiled, pain-ridden eyes when he had spoken to him at the Carson house.

  ‘You’ll have checked all known sex-offenders in the locality, of course.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Within twenty-four hours of finding the body we’d checked them all. Ever since, we’ve been taking statements . . . you know, we must have hundreds, thousands of the damn things to go through here in the station. You know the drill, sir, checking for discrepancies and all that. But it’ll take months—’

  ‘And while it continues Woodrow Lane has remained closed, and pressure was still being brought upon Charles Lendon,’ mused Crow. ‘But you still haven’t produced any positive leads on the Carson child killing, and children are still running the risk of sexual assault and murder in the woods.’

  He was not really talking to Jenkins at all; his words were spoken in a low tone, almost to himself, for his mind was drifting on his own problems, seeking the half-sighted truths, and he was not consciously concerning himself with the Jenny Carson murder. But preoccupied as he was, he could not fail to notice the cold silence which fell upon the room after his remarks. He looked up from the map at Jenkins, and the young constable’s face was white. Even as Crow turned to look in the direction in which Jenkins was staring, Simpson’s voice cut harshly across the room.

  ‘All right, Jenkins, that will do!’

  The constable stumbled out as quickly as he could. A little puzzled, Crow stared at the chief superintendent, standing just inside the door of the room with the chief constable chubbily unhappy behind him. Simpson’s previous good humour had evaporated; his brow was now thunderous and his jaw granite-hard. Crow opened his mouth to speak, but Simpson beat him to it.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re up to?’

  Crow’s immediate reaction was surprise but it was short-lived; his heart sank as he thought of the low tones in which he had spoken those last words to Jenkins. Reflective they had been, conspiratorial they had not, but to Simpson, entering the room and finding Crow and the constable poring over the map prepared in connection with the Carson murder, the inference would not be an unreasonable one to make.

  ‘I think I should explain—’ began Crow, but Simpson interrupted him furiously, stalking forward into the room. His face was ugly with anger, and his fists were balled.

  ‘You’re damned right you’d better explain! What the hell do you think you’re doing? You’re in my room, going over a map prepared for me, concerned with the Carson investigation, and you’re discussing the conduct of that investigation with a junior officer!’

  ‘I was not doing that,’ Crow said defensively. ‘At least, I know that was what it looked like, but in fact the only reason I wanted to see the map was because I wanted some idea of the argument that had developed between Lendon and Carson and—’

  ‘Then why the hell were you discussing my investigation?’ Simpson was beside himself in his fury. ‘Let’s get one thing straight, Crow! You came in here this morning and asked for my assistance. All right. I gave it freely. If you want to know, it even gave me pleasure to give you information: it just proved to me that I was right and I could have handled the whole damn thing myself in the first instance!’

  ‘Hugh—’ The chief constable attempted to break in, but Simpson was launched and would not be restrained.

  ‘The fact that I was prepared to give you information and assistance, and the fact that I was prepared to look in on the investigation that you are conducting, Inspector, does not mean that I need your assistance in the Carson investigation in return, does not mean that I can condone your pumping my officers, does not mean that I want you poking your nose into an enquiry which I’m conducting!’

  ‘Superintendent!’ The chief constable’s tone was hard.

  ‘No, sir!’ Simpson, with a furious shake of his head was determined to have his say. ‘You called in the Mets, and Chief Inspector Crow is handling his investigation. Fine. If he wants to run to me, again, fine. But I know my job, and I’m handling it as I see fit. I’m not having any irate parent like Carson interfering and I’m not having any damned superior-nosed character from the murder squad telling me how to run my business!’

  Crow felt anger arising in his own veins at the injustice of the accusation.

  ‘I am not interfering in your investigation at all, Superintendent! I have already attempted to explain just what I was doing—’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh!’

  ‘Your emotions,’ Crow said coldly, ‘are as irrelevant to me as is your sense of humour. I have a job to do, and like you I’m doing it to the best of my ability. But I repeat, I was not interfering in your case!’

  ‘Inspector!’ The chief constable had heard quite enough. ‘And Superintendent Simpson! I think this childish display has gone far enough. You are two senior officers. It is ridiculous that you should behave in this way. I think the whole thing should be taken no further.’

  Simpson glared at Crow angrily.

  ‘I’ve said my piece. I’ve nothing to add, anyway.’

  Crow opened his mouth to make an angry retort, but bit back the words. He looked at the chief constable, but there was nothing to be read in the chubby face. Rogers wasn’t taking sides. He was just ending a petty squabble.

  Which was just what it had been, thought Crow as he lurched away unhappily outside Simpson’s room. A pointless, petty squabble that had arisen largely because Simpson had in the first instance been touchy about the murder squad being called in at all. But it had soured relationships when they seemed to be improving.

  Crow cursed. He’d wanted to talk informally with Simpson, raise the question of John Barnes’s alibi, for there was something about the man that didn’t ring true. But Crow could imagine Hugh Simpson’s reaction if he mentioned it now. All right, it was Simpson’s responsibility, the child murder. The hell with it; it wasn’t for Crow to interfere.

  He returned to the operations room to see Wilson staring thoughtfully at one of Lendon’s red files. ‘Sergeant Turner left this, sir.’

  The file was marked Barstow in Lendon’s bold hand. ‘The Charlton file had nothing about Mrs Kent,’ Wilson said, ‘but this file does. Mrs Kent’s been having it off with Dr Barstow, according to Charlton’s report.’

  ‘And Lendon didn’t tell Mr Kent . . . We’d better see Dr Barstow and Mrs Kent tomorrow. Mmm . . . And I also want records to check on Michael Enson. I understand he and Lendon didn’t get on.’

  ‘I think you’d better look at this also, sir.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s the last will and testament of one Charles Lendon, deceased.’

  Chapter 13

  Just before lunch on Wednesday Maxwell, the assistant solicitor, stuck his head around the door in Cathy’s room and pulled a face.

  ‘I’ve just come from reception,’ he said, elongating the grimace. ‘One of your fans is out there, and says he’d like to have a word with you in Lendon’s room.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Wilson. Detective-Sergeant, no less.’

  The realization that it was the police rather than
Mike slowed her pulse somewhat, and she felt almost relieved: she did not want to face Mike in the office. Or anywhere for that matter, at the moment, in the churning turmoil of her mind. She was vacillating, swinging wildly into indecision, unable to make up her mind or square her actions with her conscience or her conscience with her love. Yet the next moment the panic returned: the sergeant’s visit could have something to do with Mike, after all, and that was almost as bad as having Mike out there in the office. Perhaps worse, in the long term.

  Cathy took a quick look at herself in the mirror she extracted from her handbag. She looked reasonably presentable: reasonably only, for the sleepless nights were taking their toll and under her eyes were displayed tell-tale patches, dark beneath her light make-up. She snapped her handbag shut, went to leave it on the desk, and then had second thoughts. She decided to take it with her.

  She took her time walking along to the room that had been Lendon’s. The door was slightly ajar; she opened it and looked in. Wilson stood at the window, his stocky frame turned away from her, looking out into the street.

  ‘Good morning, Sergeant. I gather you wanted to see me?’

  Wilson turned quickly, a brief smile lighting up his serious face. He waved to a chair. ‘Ah, hello, Miss Tennant. Just want a chat for a few minutes. Would you like to sit down?’ She did as he suggested and he took Lendon’s seat behind the desk. He had a folder in front of him.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you again, but there’s just a few things we want a check on.’

  ‘I’ll do anything I can to help, Sergeant.’

  He did not seem to detect anything untoward in her tone, which she herself felt was devastating in its insincerity. Her nerves screamed, Liar! even as she spoke.

  ‘Well,’ Wilson said heavily, ‘we’re still pursuing the line of enquiry we mentioned, about Mr Lendon’s current girl-friends, and the possibility that he might have been meeting a woman on the afternoons unaccounted for. As you know, Inspector Crow regards your judgment as of some value, and he’s suggested that I come around and put a few points to you, just in case you might be able to help us.’