by Jack Higgins
“Mrs. Phillips must be pretty ill to need a thing like that.”
“Cancer.”
There was a moment of silence as if darkness had drifted into the room. Miller took a deep breath and went on, “Does Harold know?”
“She doesn’t know herself. She’s had bronchial trouble for years. She thinks this is the same thing she gets every winter only a little worse than usual. She’ll go very quickly. Any time, any day.”
“What kind of an effect would the Canbutal have—can she be awakened, for example?”
“That would depend on the amount taken. Mrs. Phillips is on a dosage of two each night. She visits me once a week and I give her a prescription for a week’s supply. As a matter of fact I saw her yesterday morning.”
“But she definitely could be awakened even an hour or two after having taken a couple of these things?”
“Certainly. Mind you, it depends on what you mean by awakened. What took place might seem like a dream to her afterwards—there might not even be a memory of it.”
Miller got to his feet. “Very helpful—very helpful indeed.”
They went out into the hall and Das opened the door for him. “Do you intend to arrest young Phillips? Is there really a case against him?”
“I’ve been ordered to take him in again for further questioning,” Miller said. “I can’t be more definite than that. I suppose you’ve heard that Grant’s in hospital after a car accident? That means the Scotland Yard man, Chief Superintendent Mallory, is in charge. If you want to go any further with this, he’s the man to see.”
“I’m concerned with one thing only,” Das said. “The welfare of Mrs. Phillips. I would hope that you could keep the seriousness of this business from her until the last possible moment. If you intend to question her then I think I should be there.”
“As I said, I’m going round to pick up her son now,” Miller told him. “And there are obviously certain questions I must put to his mother. You’re perfectly at liberty to come with me. In fact I’d welcome it.”
“Very well,” Das said. “I’ll follow in my own car. You’ll wait for me before entering?”
“Certainly,” Miller said and he went down the steps to the Mini-Cooper and drove away.
Brady was standing in the doorway of a newsagent’s shop just round the corner from Narcia Street and he ran across the road through the heavy rain and scrambled into the Mini-Cooper as Miller slowed.
“Not bad timing,” he said. “I’ve only just got here.” He produced the gloves. “The girl’s father recognised these straightaway. He bought them for her as a birthday present. She was with him at the time. He even remembers the shop. That boutique place in Grove Square.”
“Good enough,” Miller said. “I’ve seen Das. He tells me you only prescribe Canbutal when a patient can’t sleep because of pain.”
“So the old girl’s in a bad way?”
“You could say that. Das is following on behind, by the way. He’s coming in with us, just in case she gets a funny turn or anything.”
“Good enough,” Brady said.
A horn sounded behind them as Das arrived. Miller moved into gear, drove round the corner into Narcia Street and pulled up outside number ten.
When Harold opened the door there was a momentary expression of dismay on his face that was replaced in an instant by a brave smile.
“Back again then?” he said to Brady.
“This is Detective Sergeant Miller,” Brady said formally. “He’d like a few words with you.”
“Oh, yes.” Harold glanced at Das curiously. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m interested in one thing only,” Das said. “Your mother’s welfare. In her present state of health she can’t stand shocks so I thought it better to be on hand.”
They all went into the living-room and Miller said, “I wonder whether you’d mind getting dressed, sir? We’d like you to come down to Central C.I.D. with us.”
“I’ve already been there once,” Harold said. “What is this?”
“Nothing to get excited about, son,” Brady said kindly. “One or two new facts have come up about the girl and Chief Superintendent Mallory thinks you might be able to help him, that’s all.”
“All right then,” Harold said. “Give me five minutes.”
He went out and Brady picked up the box of Canbutal capsules from the mantelpiece. “These are what she’s been taking,” he said, holding them out to Miller.
Das took the box, opened it and spilled the capsules out on his palm. He frowned. “I gave her the prescription for these at two-thirty yesterday afternoon. She’s taken three since then.” He put the capsules back into the box. “I think I’d better go up and see her.”
“All right,” Miller said. “I’ll come with you.”
“Is that absolutely necessary?”
Miller nodded. “I must ask her to confirm Harold’s story—can’t avoid it. Better with you here surely.”
“I suppose so. It might help for the present if you could handle it other than as a police enquiry though. Is there really any need to upset her at this stage?”
“I’ll do what I can.”
Das obviously knew his way. They went up the stairs and he opened the door that stood directly opposite. The curtains were still half-drawn and the room was grey and sombre. The furniture was many years old, mainly heavy Victorian mahogany and the brass bed had now become a collector’s item if only its occupant had realised that fact.
She was propped against the pillows, eyes closed, head turned slightly to one side, the flesh drawn and tight across the bones of her face. Someone on the way out. Miller had seen it before and he knew the signs. Death was a tangible presence, waiting over there in the shadows to take her out of her misery like a good friend.
Das sat on the bed and gently touched her shoulder. “Mrs. Phillips?”
The eyes fluttered open, gazed at him blindly, closed. She took several deep breaths, opened her eyes again and smiled weakly. “Doctor Das.”
“How are you today, Mrs. Phillips. Little bit better?”
The Indian’s slightly sing-song voice was incredibly soothing carrying with it all the compassion and kindness in the world.
“What day is it, Doctor?” She was obviously muddled and bewildered, the effects of the drug Miller surmised.
“Sunday, my dear. Sunday morning.”
She blinked and focussed her eyes on Miller. “Who—who are you?”
Miller came forward and smiled. “I’m a friend of Harold’s, Mrs. Phillips. He was supposed to meet me last night, but he didn’t turn up. I thought I’d better call and see if everything was all right.”
“He’s about somewhere,” she said in a dead voice. “A good boy, Harold. He brought me some tea when he came in.”
“When would that be, Mrs. Phillips?” Miller said softly.
“When?” She frowned, trying to concentrate. “Last night, I think. That’s right—it was last night when he came in.” She shook her head. “It gets harder to remember.”
“Did Harold tell you that he brought you tea last night, Mrs. Phillips?”
“I don’t know—I don’t remember. He’s a good boy.” Her eyes closed. “A good boy.”
Behind them the door opened and Harold appeared. “What’s going on here?” he demanded angrily.
“Your mother is very ill,” Das said. “I must make arrangements to have her admitted to hospital at once.” He held up the box of Canbutal capsules. “Did you know she has been increasing her dosage? Didn’t I warn you that the effects could be disastrous?”
Harold had turned very pale. Brady appeared behind him and took his arm. “Come on, son,” he said. “Let’s go.”
They moved to the head of the stairs and Miller went after them. “Are those the clothes you were wearing last night?” he asked Harold.
Harold turned, answering in a kind of reflex action, “Sure.” Then it dawned on him and fear showed in his eyes. “Here, what is this
?”
“Take him down,” Miller said and turned away.
Das closed the bedroom door quietly. “Things don’t look too good for him, do they?”
“He’s in for a bad time, that’s as much as I can say at the moment. What about her? Anything I can do?”
“Don’t worry. They have a telephone next door. I’ll ring for an ambulance and stay with her till it comes. You’ll keep me posted?”
Miller nodded and they went downstairs. When he opened the door, rain drifted to meet him, pushed across the slimy cobbles by the wind. He looked down towards the Mini-Cooper where Harold sat in the rear with Brady.
“Sunday morning,” he said. “What a hell of a way to make a living.”
“We all have a choice, Sergeant,” Das told him.
Miller glanced at him sharply, but nothing showed in that brown, enigmatic face. He nodded formally. “I’ll be in touch,” and moved out into the rain.
14
When they reached Central C.I.D. they took Harold to the Interrogation Room where, in spite of his angry protests, he was relieved of his trousers.
“What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” he demanded. “I’ve got my rights, just like anyone else.”
“Our lab boys just want to run a few tests, son, that’s all,” Brady informed him. “If they come out right, you’ll be completely eliminated from the whole enquiry. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“You go to hell,” Harold shouted furiously. “And you can knock off the Father Christmas act.”
There was a knock on the door and a constable entered carrying a pair of police uniform trousers. “Better get into those and do as you’re told,” Miller said, tossing them across. “You’ll make it a lot easier on yourself in the long run.” He turned to Brady. “I’ve got things to do. I’ll see you later.”
The medical report on Faulkner which C.R.O. had promised was waiting on his desk. He read it through quickly, then again, taking his time. When he was finished, he sat there for a while, staring into space, a frown on his face. He finally got up and crossed to Mallory’s office taking the report with him.
The Chief Superintendent was seated at his desk examining a file and glanced up impatiently. “Took you long enough. What’s going on then?”
“Brady’s got him in the Interrogation Room now, sir. His trousers have gone over to Forensic for examination. I understand Inspector Wade’s got one of the Medical School serologists to come in. You should get a quick result.”
“You saw the mother?”
Miller told him what had taken place at Narcia Street.
“From the looks of her, I wouldn’t give her long.”
Mallory nodded. “So Master Harold could have awakened her at any time with that cup of tea, that seems to be what it comes down to. From what the doctor says she wouldn’t know whether it was yesterday or today in her condition.”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“Good show.” Mallory rubbed his hands together. “I’ll let him stew for a while then get to work. I don’t think he’ll last long.”
“You sound pretty certain.”
“You’re a smart lad, Miller, so I’m going to tell you something for your own good. You don’t know what it’s all about up here in the sticks. I’ve been on more murder investigations than you’ve had hot dinners. You get an instinct for these things, believe me. Harold Phillips killed that girl—I’d stake my reputation on it.”
“And what about Faulkner? He’s still a strong possibility in my book. Have you read Constable Dwyer’s report yet on what happened last night?”
“I know what you’re going to say,” Mallory said. “He saw Faulkner at a coffee stall in Regent Square just before the murder took place.”
“Something he conveniently forgot to mention to us when we questioned him.”
“Perfectly understandable in the circumstances.”
Miller produced the gloves and tossed them down on the desk. “Those belonged to Grace Packard. Faulkner left them at the coffee stall by mistake.”
Mallory picked them up, frowning. “You mean you’ve been there this morning?”
“That’s right. Brady told me about Dwyer’s report. I thought I might as well call at the coffee stall on my way to pick young Phillips up, just to see what the proprietor had to say.”
“I thought I told you I wanted Phillips picked up right away?” Mallory demanded harshly.
“So I wasted ten minutes. Would it interest you to know that when those gloves dropped out of Faulkner’s pocket he told the owner of the coffee stall they belonged to his fiancée? Now why would he do that?”
Mallory laughed in his face. “Because he didn’t want him to know he’d been out with another woman or is that too simple for you?”
“But a great many people already knew he’d been in Grace Packard’s company that night. Everyone at the party saw him leave with her. Why tell the bloke at the coffee stall such a silly lie at this stage?”
“I think you’re placing far too much importance on a very minor incident.”
“But is it minor, sir? Inspector Wade reminded us earlier that in every other incident the Rainlover had taken some item or another from the victim. He said that didn’t seem to have happened in this case. Can we be certain of that knowing about these gloves?”
“So we’re back to the Rainlover again?” Mallory shook his head. “It won’t fit, Miller. There are too many other differences.”
“All right,” Miller said. “But I still think Faulkner has a lot of explaining to do. To start with he was in the girl’s company and his reasons for taking her back to the flat were eccentric enough to be highly suspect.”
“Not at all,” Mallory countered. “Typical behaviour according to his friends and past record.”
“He was in the immediate area of the murder only minutes before it took place, we’ve two witnesses to that. And he lied about the girl’s gloves to Harkness.”
“Why did he visit the coffee stall? Did Harkness tell you that?”
“To buy cigarettes.”
“Was this the first time?”
“No, he frequently appeared at odd hours for the same reason.”
“Can you imagine what a good defence counsel would do with that?”
“All right,” Miller said. “It’s circumstantial—all of it, but there are too many contributing factors to ignore. Take this pattern of violence for example. Unusual in a man of his background. I’ve got the medical report on him here.”
He handed it across and Mallory shook his head. “I haven’t got time. Tell me the facts.”
“It’s simple enough. He was involved in a serious car accident about six years ago—racing at Brand’s Hatch. His skull was badly fractured, bone fragments in the brain and so on. He was damned lucky to pull through. His extreme aggressiveness has been a development since then. The psychiatrists who examined him at Wandsworth were definitely of the opinion that the behaviour pattern was a direct result of the brain damage, probably made worse by the fragments of bone which the surgeons had been unable to remove. The pattern of violence grew worse during his sentence. He was involved in several fights with prisoners and attacked a prison officer. He was advised to enter an institution for treatment on his discharge, but refused.”
“All right, Miller, all right.” Mallory held up both hands defensively. “You go and see him—do anything you like. I’ll handle Harold.”
“Thank you, sir,” Miller said formally.
He got the door half-open and Mallory added, “One more thing, Miller. A quid says Harold Phillips murdered Grace Packard.”
“Fair enough, sir.”
“And I’ll give you odds of five-to-one against Bruno Faulkner.”
“Well, I don’t really like to take the money, but if you insist, sir.” Miller grinned and gently closed the door.
It was at that precise moment in another part of the city that the man known as the Rainlover opened his Sunday n
ewspaper and found Sean Doyle staring out at him from the middle of page two. He recognised him instantly and sat there staring at the picture for a long moment, remembering the girl standing in the lighted doorway and the darkness and the rain falling.
He had unfinished business there, but first it would be necessary to get rid of the man. Of course he could always telephone the police anonymously, give them the address, tell them that Doyle was in hiding there. On the other hand, they would probably arrest the girl also for harbouring him.
The solution, when it came, was so simple that he laughed out loud. He was still laughing when he put on his hat and coat and went out into the rain.
Miller got no reply to his persistent knocking at Faulkner’s door and finally went down the stairs to the flat below where someone was playing a tenor, cool and clear, so pure that it hurt a little.
The instrumentalist turned out to be an amiable West Indian in dark glasses and a neat fringe beard. He took off the glasses and grinned hugely.
“Aint’s I seen you play piano at Chuck Lazer’s club?”
“Could be,” Miller told him.
“Man, you were the most. Someone told me you was a John.” He shook his head. “I tell you, man, you get some real crazy cats around these nights. Sick in the head. They’ll say anything. You coming in?”
“I’m looking for Bruno Faulkner. Any idea where he might be? I can’t get a reply.”
The West Indian chuckled. “Sunday’s his brick smashing day.”
“Come again?”
“Karate, man. He goes to the Kardon Judo Centre every Sunday morning for a workout. Of course if he can’t find any bricks to smash he’d just as soon smash people.” He tapped his head. “Nutty as a fruit cake. He don’t need the stuff, man. He’s already there.”
“Thanks for the information,” Miller said. “See you sometime.”
“The original wild man from Borneo,” the West Indian called as he went down the stairs. “That the best you Western European civilisation cats can do? The day is coming, man! The day is coming!”