Murder is Suspected (C.I.D. Room Book 10)

by Roderic Jeffries

  “Of course.”

  He showed his surprise.

  “D’you think I couldn’t read him after being married to him for twenty-four years?” She began to cry, but her voice remained steady. “He needed something, some physical or emotional happening which he couldn’t force himself to ask me for. I tried to get him to tell me what it was, but he was always too ashamed. Whatever it was, no matter how awful, I’d have given it to him… He found the other woman because she gave him this something and he could spare me.” She twisted the small diamond-chip ring on her engagement finger. Suddenly she looked up. “Do you know what it was he so desperately needed?”

  “I think so, Mrs Drake. He wanted to be treated with contempt.”

  “He… he wanted just that? Nothing else? Nothing so disgusting that even to think about it…?”

  “Nothing more than that.”

  “Oh, God! The poor, poor fool,” she said, turning the words into an endearment.

  Fusil hoped that she would never fully appreciate the bitter irony which had been at play. Drake had always needed to be dominated by a stronger character. He had married a stronger one, but her strength had come from love, and in this context, and this only, that strength had been a fatal weakness. “Mrs Drake, your husband was spending on this woman far more money than he was earning — have you any idea where that extra money came from?”

  “No.”

  “Can you tell me who paid for your holiday to Rhodes last July?”

  “He did, of course.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “Goodbye.”

  She did not acknowledge his departure.

  *

  Kerr returned to the travel agent in Bank Street. The manager, with mournful facetiousness, said: “You don’t have to tell me. The wife took one look at the brochures and decided on a month in Bermuda.”

  “That’s right,” replied Kerr breezily. “Only the hotels all looked too cheap and nasty, so I’ve come to see if you’ve something better. Can we go along to your room for a couple of minutes? There’s something more I want to know.”

  The manager led the way into his office. A number of bulky packages had been stacked on the floor to the right of the filing cabinet. He pointed to them. “They’re for the winter holidays and we’ve got to start selling them now. Never seems natural.” He sat down behind his desk.

  “I’m trying to find out how the Drake’s holiday was paid for. Can you help me on that one?”

  The manager thought about the question. “I don’t know how much further I can go along with you in this matter. I’ve the customer relationship to remember.”

  “I’m afraid this is one relationship you’ve lost. He committed suicide during the night.”

  “Good God!”

  “We need to know why he did it and the question of how that holiday was paid for could be the answer. One thing’s for sure — he didn’t pay by his own cheque.”

  The manager stood up, went over to the filing cabinet, and pulled open the middle drawer. He found the relevant filing card. “The account was paid in cash.”

  “By him?”

  “I can’t tell you that — we’re talking about nearly a year ago, don’t forget.” He looked back at the card. “Hang on, though, there is something here which might just help. The total cash was two thousand one hundred and eleven, sixty. So obviously, other holidays were paid for at the same time.” He sighed. “Now I suppose you want me to look through all the records to try to find out about these other holidays?”

  “You’re reading my mind like a large print book.”

  The manager checked through a number of other filing cards and after several minutes, he said: “This looks like it. Two thousand one hundred and eleven, sixty in cash, for four holidays in Greece at three seventy-five, thirty, each… That makes roughly fifteen hundred odd, which leaves the six hundred and ten. Yes, this is it.”

  “Who went on this other junket?”

  “Mr and Mrs Jenson and Mr and Mrs Middleton.”

  At that moment the names meant nothing to Kerr.

  *

  Fusil said sharply: “James Middleton?”

  Kerr looked down at his notebook and realised he had failed to ask the manager of the travel agent for the Christian names or initials. “I’m afraid I don’t know, sir.”

  Fusil merely said: “Get on the phone and find out.”

  Kerr was astonished by Fusil’s reactions, or lack of them, and wondered who Middleton was. He found the travel agent’s number and dialled it. “It’s D.C. Kerr. Can you give me the Christian names of the four people who went on the holiday to Greece?”

  “Hang on.” There was a longish pause. “James and Brunhilda Middleton… I know Brunhilda doesn’t sound feasible, but that’s what’s written down. And Mr and Mrs Gerald Jenson. I haven’t her Christian name.”

  After ringing off, Kerr reported to Fusil. “James and Brunhilda Middleton, sir.”

  *

  Kywood sat on the edge of the desk in his new office and he thought with vain pleasure that a month ago whenever he was in this room he had either stood or sat very upright in one of the chairs: now he lolled about as he wanted. There was a knock on the door and Fusil entered.

  “Morning, Bob. You said over the phone you’d something very important to discuss so I’ve put off an appointment, but make it short, will you?”

  “You’ll remember, sir, telling me to pursue the investigations concerning Drake, following the death of Finch?”

  “Of course. Have you found Drake was in the dope racket?”

  “I’ve established beyond any doubt that he wasn’t.”

  “Then he wasn’t connected with Finch’s death?”

  “No, he wasn’t.”

  “Then I suppose the case must now finally be put on ice?”

  “That one, yes. But Drake’s provided us with a new one. My report won’t have reached you yet, so I don’t suppose you’ve heard that he committed suicide during the night?”

  “Was this after you’d interrogated him?”

  “Some few hours afterwards, yes.”

  “Goddamn it, I hope you didn’t take it so roughly you’ll be blamed for his death?”

  “Not directly, no. But he knew that I’d established that although he wasn’t connected with drugs, he was mixed up with a bribery racket.”

  Kywood slid off the desk and went round his chair to sit down.

  “Drake worked for the council, in the housing division. I haven’t had time to uncover the details, but it’s reasonable to assume that he was being bribed to see a certain firm got certain work.”

  Kywood sucked in his lower lip. “What’s the proof?”

  “At the moment, circumstantial. He was spending far more money than he earned and last July he and his wife went out on an expensive holiday for which he didn’t pay. That was paid for in cash by someone who also bought four holidays to Greece. Two of these holidays were taken by Mr and Mrs Jenson. Since he owns a very large building firm I don’t think we need look any further to find out who was doing the bribing.”

  Kywood’s expression became very gloomy. “Jenson’s one of the biggest businessmen in town. He’s a close friend of the mayor and has given more to charity each year than you or I make… Are you certain?”

  “Certain he went on holiday, yes. Certain Drake’s holiday was paid for by the same person who paid for his, yes.”

  Kywood spoke with petulant self-pity. “Why the hell’s it got to break now, just after I’ve taken over? What a mess!”

  “I haven’t come to the real stink yet. The couple who went to Greece with the Jensons were Mr and Mrs James Middleton.”

  “You… you’ve got to be wrong. Or it’s another James Middleton.”

  “James and Brunhilda Middleton.”

  “Oh, my God!” he whispered.

  *

  The Middletons received Kywood and Fusil in the blue sitting room. Middleton asked them what they’d like to drink and whilst he was
pouring out those drinks his wife talked to the two detectives about their wives and children.

  Middleton handed the glasses round. “Well, Kywood, now you can tell me what’s brought you here?”

  Kywood promptly passed the buck. “I think, sir, the detective inspector had better explain. He’s been in charge of the case.”

  “Well, Fusil?” said Middleton, making it tactfully clear that he didn’t want too much of his evening upset by this unexpected visit.

  “Should I leave you if it’s some kind of business?” suggested his wife.

  “It might be a good idea, Mrs Middleton,” said Fusil, showing a complete lack of tact.

  Middleton showed his annoyance at such gauche behaviour. “There’s really no need for you to go, dear.” His tone became colder. “Fusil, just say what you’ve come to say.”

  “Very well, sir.” Fusil put down his glass. “We’ve been investigating a case of possible homicide and in the course of this had occasion to check up on a man called Edward Drake. He committed suicide last night. We’d discovered he was accepting bribes and since he worked in the housing department of the council we’re assuming that he was bribed to make certain one particular firm got the work.”

  “I see. Am I right in presuming the firm concerned is in this town?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can you name it at this stage of the case?”

  “Jenson and Company.”

  “Good heavens!” said Mrs Middleton, “you can’t possibly be right. Gerry would never allow anyone in his business to do something like that…”

  Her husband interrupted her. “It looks, Bruny, as if the inspector was right. You should have left.”

  Her cheeks reddened, but her voice remained calm when she said: “Very well.” She stood up and crossed to the door, walking with conscious dignity. “I’ll go upstairs and then you can be certain I shan’t hear a word.”

  Middleton waited until she had shut the door behind herself before he said: “Are you quite sure?”

  “We do not yet have sufficient proof to think in terms of a prosecution, sir. But there can be no reasonable doubt that we’ll eventually uncover that proof.”

  He finished the sherry in two quick swallows.

  “One of the acts of bribery was undoubtedly to pay for a holiday which Mr and Mrs Drake had last year in Rhodes,” said Fusil.

  He walked over to the cabinet, picked up the cut-glass decanter of sherry, and refilled his glass.

  “Four other holidays were paid for, in cash, at the same time. Mr and Mrs Jenson went to Greece for a fortnight.”

  “And my wife and I went with them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Middleton faced them. “Your investigations are obviously going to have to be very far reaching.”

  Kywood said: “I can’t see how we can hope to avoid that, sir…”

  “Of course it can’t be avoided,” snapped Middleton. He drank his sherry. “In the course of your investigations you will examine my financial position exhaustively. I will give you the name of my accountants.

  “I hope it is not necessary to say that at no time have I ever attempted to take advantage of my position as chairman of the watch committee, nor have I ever received a penny in bribes… However, the inference will be drawn by those who wish to draw it that I have gained an illegal advantage. Even if that were not so, through a serious error of judgement I’ve allowed myself to fall into an untenable position. Would you not agree with that, Fusil?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m glad you’re not a man to beat about the bush.” He refilled his glass again. “I shall, of course, resign immediately. And I think I shall give full reasons for my resignation, subject to legal advice, and not wait for them to become publicised during the hearing.”

  Kywood said: “Couldn’t you try…” And then stopped abruptly when Middleton looked at him with contemptuous annoyance.

  “Thank you for coming here to tell me.”

  As they drove on to the road, Kywood said, “Why? Why the hell did a man in his position, rolling with money, allow someone else to pay for his holiday?”

  Not even the rich, thought Fusil, could resist the lure of something for nothing.

  Chapter 17

  The consequences of James Middleton’s resignation were neither as immediate nor as dramatic as many had expected. But this did not make them any the less far reaching in the long run. People who wanted to believe the worst, who destructively envied power and wealth wherever found, people who perversely gained a feeling of self-aggrandisement from denigrating others, talked about the way the rich could always cover up and how there was never smoke without a fire. Like the stone being worn away by dripping water, truth was eroded little by little until it was generally ‘known’ that justice had been bribed and this because the borough force was a small one, open to all pressures…

  A petition, signed by thousands, most of whom had small conception of the true and full meaning of what they were signing, was sent to the county council and to the Home Secretary, asking that for the sake of justice the borough force be amalgamated with the county one. The bureaucrats were delighted. Now freedom of choice could be destroyed in the name of freedom, democratic rights in the name of democracy. Bureaucrats often fervently prayed on bended knees for less than that.

  At long last, Charles the Second could be exorcised.

  *

  Kywood sat behind the desk and stared at the paintings and photographs of past chief constables. Grant’s photograph might be added, to complete history, but that would be the last.

  He felt hopelessly bewildered. He had rightly done all he could to prevent a scandal which would have involved Duncan Grant, but Fusil, too sharp as always, had gone on and on trying to land Duncan and so had gained reason to believe Finch might have been murdered. That possibility had led him to Drake and evidence of bribery. Drake’s acceptance of bribes had resulted in the exposure of James Middleton’s misjudgement which had led to the coming amalgamation of the borough force and the abolition of the position of chief constable… How, Kywood asked himself with bitter self-pity, could fate be so perversely bloody-minded towards him, a man who had always done his best in life?

  He stood up, moved over to the nearest window, turned, stared at the desk. Anyone who saw that desk would know that the person behind it was important and powerful. What kind of a desk was he going to have to move to? A small, stained, chipped desk in some overcrowded room in county H.Q.?

  *

  Fusil swore as he stared at yet another memorandum which had just arrived from county H.Q. He leaned back in his chair. Josephine kept asking him how the change would affect his career and then becoming exasperated when he answered that he just didn’t know and wasn’t prepared to guess. But this was the truth. The chances of promotion would be far greater (even remembering that previously there had been movement from force to force), but would those from the borough force be at an unspoken, unacknowledged disadvantage? How would he fit into the far larger organisation? Would his new superiors resent his sense of sharp independence?

  Braddon came in. “Morning, sir. I hear the latest buzz says that the amalgamation will go through in September?”

  “Then the buzz knows far more about it than I do. If it is that soon, I’ll be surprised.”

  Braddon sighed. “I’ll be sorry when it happens.” He sat, for once not waiting to be asked.

  “You’ll have been a long time here, won’t you?”

  “Twenty-five years next month. Maybe county will pension me off straight away.”

  “Then you’ll be able to get a job in a private security firm and earn twice as much for half the work.”

  Braddon smiled briefly. “I’ll not say no to either… There’s a bit of news come along. D’you remember some hands from county have been sent along to make up our numbers?”

  “Of course.”

  “One of the county P.C.s had a word with me earlier on.” Braddon pa
used for a while as he thought about what he was going to say. “He’s one of those blokes who can really get on one’s wick because he does everything exactly according to the rules, even when that’s being stupid. Know what I mean?”

  “I get the picture.”

  “He’s begun by checking through a whole load of past orders and notes to see how we do things in this force.”

  “I thought it was us who’d got to learn how county work?”

  “But we’ll keep doing things our way until the amalgamation, so he reckons he’s got to conform exactly. He came across a copy of our V.R.N. on a white hatchback, one stop light, registration number PU M or N. He said he’d seen and noted that car when he was on a country beat in Halerton.”

  “When? Where? Why?”

  “He can’t remember all the details. He was out one evening on his noddy bike, around dusk, and a white hatchback passed him and braked. He saw it had only one brake light working so he noted down the number, which he does remember. I’ve checked it out. It was the Grant’s car.”

  “What was it doing he should bother to record it?”

  “It wasn’t doing anything, but the regulations say all cars must have two working brake lights. You, me, and most anyone else, see a car with only one brake light working and if that’s all, we forget it. But he carefully writes down everything in his little black book.”

  “Tell him to find out the date, location, and exact time.”

  “Right, sir. Would you like a word with him?”

  “After your description of him? Not bloody likely.”

  Braddon smiled.

  *

  Braddon entered Fusil’s room. “D’you remember that P.C. from county I told you about. The one who saw the Grant’s car…”

  Fusil interrupted him. “Why in the hell do you always assume I’ve got a bad memory?”

  “Must be experience, sir.” Three months before, Braddon would not have spoken like that. But because the borough force was doomed there had been engendered amongst the members a new sense of identity, as if they were all members of an exclusive club and so could permit themselves a few minor familiarities.

  “What’s your paragon of efficiency got to tell us?”