A Fall from Grace

by Robert Barnard

  “So what do you think the motivation was?”

  “She had a gift and a taste for creating mayhem, particularly the sort of mayhem that gave her a sense of power. Power over someone. The persecution of Ken Warburton, the young teacher I mentioned, was a case in point. But Rupert was a much less obvious victim.”

  “Older, more experienced, more a man of the world?”

  “Yes, and with no loved ones to protect. Though with this terrible blindness that robbed him of his judgment. His aim would certainly be to use Anne as a sort of slavey—work in the house, garden, errands, shopping. But we still don’t think there was any sexual component in the relationship. Anne Michaels was apparently promiscuous with boys of her own age, but this was something else. It was Rupert’s profession, his gifts, she decided to use.”

  “Writing? Did she become his slavering fan?”

  “Not exactly. Rupert said that she was his inspiration. It sounds rather an old-fashioned idea—turn of the century, my wife says. Oscar Wilde could have called Lord Alfred Douglas that, and probably did. Ibsen had a succession of young girls, and even Dickens had one. Rupert was often old-fashioned, sometimes claiming a special, almost sacred position for The Writer. That’s not just corny, its antediluvian—that’s my wife speaking through me again.”

  “I’m beginning to recognize her voice.”

  Charlie gathered his thoughts as they turned off the Bradford road in the direction of Halifax.

  “But in the case of Anne,” he began again, “he seems to have had a quite specific reason for calling her that. She was giving him ideas for books. She thought he should stop writing for ‘old biddies,’ as she called them, and aim instead for the younger generation. The idea had the advantage of targeting an audience with what you might call staying power: they have a lot of buying time ahead of them, and the old biddies have little. There was a disadvantage in that Rupert’s knowledge of the younger generation was hazy in the extreme, but Anne was to be his link with them, would help him with the dialogue, and above all feed him ideas. Anne was pretty forward for her age, and sexually experienced, as I’ve said. But I don’t think what she was feeding him was stuff about sex among the early teens.”

  “What then?”

  They were driving through an endless desert of suburban housing, each subdivision bearing a deadening kinship with the others. Charlie shifted in his seat.

  “There was something else that Anne had already shown an interest in. I’ve mentioned her then-friend, Rachel Pickles. For a time, probably last summer, they were very close, and tended to get together in Rachel’s room in the family home. It was on the corner of Luddenden and Forsythia Avenues.”

  “Near where your father-in-law lived.”

  “Yes, but he wasn’t the point of interest at that time. There was a house up for sale in Forsythia Avenue. For a time, while it was on the market, it seems to have been a place of rendezvous for two people who used to arrive regularly and separately, both with keys. This was pretty obviously a series of meetings for sex, and the two were obviously not any sort of couple. I would guess that both had a regular partner, and the relationships were pretty stable. This was, apparently, sex on the side.”

  “But the knowledge gave Anne the possibility of blackmail, or just the enjoyment of the power it gave her over the pair?”

  “Exactly. Now the couple, clearly, could be almost anyone. I think it would be helpful to get Rachel Pickles in and get descriptions from her. I don’t think she’d be reluctant. It might be interesting to talk to the only estate agent in Slepton, Blackett and Podmore, though of course the house could have been handled by one of the Halifax firms. It’s quite possible someone there made the key available, for some present or future advantage.”

  “Very possible. But why should the Halifax police force investigate two consenting adults having a bit of clandestine nooky?”

  Still the endless, grim suburbs persisted. Charlie slowed down, though. He was getting to the difficult bit, which would take time.

  “I think I can answer that, though it is with a hunch, or what you might call an informed guess. The arrangements of this couple don’t have the air of high romance: no hazy pink glow to them. Purely an arrangement for sex, then? Or could it be something more: an arrangement to produce a child? You know about the Carlsons, I suppose.”

  “The ‘Me for Mayor’ man? Oh yes.”

  “Chris and his wife have been wanting a child for a long time. He told me about it on our first meeting. He blamed their failure on the emotional tensions of working in an overstretched hospital—he was a consultant, but threw in his job and moved up here, where he paints and hawks the results around the country. He was quite clear that working in the Health Service had produced tensions that affected him psychologically and physically. One thing he didn’t tell me is that, while he was working in Belchester Royal Hospital in Warwickshire, there was a bad mistake made in his department caused by an X-ray mix-up between two patients. He took responsibility for the mistake and resigned—possibly to shield the technician, who was a young man with a family.”

  “Not one of the bad guys, then?”

  “Definitely not. There are no bad guys in this, or only one. Chris attributes his success in getting his wife pregnant to his new relaxation and happiness. But he has actually been living this new life for over two years. I think it’s possible that Alison Carlson has gone to someone else to produce the child they both desperately want. She met Ben Costello at self-defense classes, where I imagine he was the instructor. No doubt as a doctor’s wife she took care at the very least to find someone in the right blood group. There was no reason to believe any closer checks on paternity would ever be necessary.”

  They were beginning the descent into Halifax, the valley which in the old days never saw the sun. Trench was thoughtful, and just said, “You tell me a good story.”

  “Here is a fact,” said Charlie, swallowing. “There have been rumors in Slepton that Ben and Belle Costello are moving—not moving away, but in the area. My wife assumed this was because Belle had been seen going to or coming away from the house in Forsythia Avenue. I wonder whether it wasn’t Ben who was seen.” He shot a glance at Trench, whose face was a total blank. “The assumption that the couple was moving would be natural. And I’ve bumped into him coming out of Blackett and Podmore’s.”

  “Go on. I’m saying nothing, but I’m listening.”

  “Ben has worried me a lot recently, from the moment my father-in-law’s death became a case. There was a scarcely disguised hostility, and an overinsistence that I could have nothing to do with the investigation—something I was, of course, perfectly aware of. But above all there was Costello’s insistence right from the start, and before there was any medical examination come through, that the most likely explanation for Rupert’s death was that it was accidental—maybe a heart attack that led to his fall to the bottom of the quarry.”

  “Have you considered whether this isn’t, in fact, the obvious conclusion?”

  “Yes. I’d even go so far as to agree that it is. But do you remember the time when you were a newly promoted inspector, sir?”

  “Just, young man. Just.”

  “Sorry, sir. What was it you most wanted to happen to you?”

  “A nice, juicy case. Maybe a murder. Anyway, something that would hit the headlines.”

  “Exactly. Costello and I are in roughly similar positions, professionally. He is a new inspector, moved to your force as a result of promotion. I’ve been promoted within my own force. I don’t think we, or the young you, sir, are any different from most other policemen: we have thoughts of further promotion, and therefore of high-profile cases. High-profile means press interest. Here was a possible murder involving a prolific if not sensationally successful novelist. Costello was likely to get no better chance of making his name in his inspectorship. But what was his reaction? Not a glimmer of interest in exploring the possibility of foul play. He seemed, almost, to be hoping for
a medical report that could not distinguish any injury inflicted by human agency. He has wanted the whole business shut away and accepted as accidental.”

  “That could just be premature jumping to conclusions.”

  “It could be. I’d just like you to keep in mind a darker possibility. Costello has got his way. The matter has been accepted as almost certainly accidental death, and soon a coroner’s inquest may set the seal on that. I can only put this to you, as a policeman: that is unwise at this stage, and could result in a murder or manslaughter going undetected. What we have at the moment is two apparently unconnected matters: a policeman who may have engaged in unwise sexual activities, continuing a pattern he set in his previous job—”

  Trench grunted, and Charlie saw from his face that his guess had hit the mark. “Go on,” Trench said.

  “And secondly, a young woman who has become close to an aging author, becoming his ‘inspiration,’ and supplying him with suggestions of more up-to-date subject matter.”

  “That being a conjecture of yours, of course. But what do you suggest is the connection?”

  “There could be all sorts of connection, including one between Costello and Anne Michaels, though he surely wouldn’t be so unwise.”

  Trench shifted in his seat.

  “He was know in his old job as ‘Warren Beatty’ or ‘the baby-maker.’ ”

  “I’d like to suggest another possible link, which could provide a neat pattern, but also a credible one. As I say, I can’t see Rupert Coggenhoe jumping at plots centered on early-teenage sex. He would have been inviting ridicule, and ridicule always drove him mad with rage. But Anne had another interest: the meetings in the vacant house. Slepton is a small place. She could very easily, by the time of the mur—death—have found out who the man and the woman were. And she could have learned very easily that Alison Carlson was pregnant after years of marriage, and she could have made a guess at how.”

  “Agreed—provided we are still in the realm of supported conjecture.”

  “I think the idea of a novel in which sex takes place purely to produce a child which will reduce tensions in an otherwise happy marriage is one that would have seemed to Rupert a modern situation that he could deal with convincingly. The situation could be developed interestingly in a variety of ways. For Anne the next step would be when to make the people concerned aware that their activities were going to be the subject of a novel. That was when her pleasure began.”

  “And began to be dangerous. If I’d been her I’d have approached the woman in the case, not the man.”

  “But Anne is only a teenager, and she exudes self-confidence: she felt she could handle the situation, she found having a man at her mercy more piquant than a woman and she was in charge! She and Coggenhoe had a meeting in the church during the carol service. It was noticed, and she probably wanted it to be noticed. In particular she may have seen Ben Costello’s policeman’s reaction—watching the scene, watching people’s behavior and so on. She may have decided to strike while the iron was hot and talk to Ben at once—after the service, or the next morning. She bearded him when he was on his own. He’s a pretty abrasive character, not at all matey, and I think she’d get particular pleasure in telling someone like him that she knew of the assignations with Alison, knew of the reason behind them, and was collaborating with poor old Rupert in a novel based on the situation.”

  “Why should he be concerned?”

  “I think you told me that yourself, sir. I’d had a hint earlier from Harridance that Costello is what used to be called a ladies’ man.”

  “Good Lord—I’d forgotten that expression. Now we just say he ‘sleeps around.’ ”

  “The message seems to be that Costello was a real sexual predator while he was serving on the Northampton force. Several young Northamptonians owe their existence to him, as you obviously already know. Why that should be in this day and age, I don’t know, but perhaps they gave him visible proof of virility that his wife can’t supply him with. I’m not asking for information you can’t give me, sir, but I’d guess that when he got the job here he was given an ultimatum: change your habits or face the sack.”

  “There have been too many cases recently of policemen engaged in unsavory sexual activities,” muttered Trench.

  “Too right. So the message was that his would have to stop, and a sharp eye would be kept on him.” There was an almost imperceptible nod from Trench. “I think Ben’s promotion to inspector was important to him, and he was anxious that it should be the beginning of a further steady rise in the hierarchy.”

  There was silence in the car. Then Trench said, “Drive round for a bit.”

  Charlie took two turns and started away from the center of Halifax to the heights of Southowram. “Have you got more? How do you think it happened? Did it just happen, or was it brought about?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I can’t see it happening by chance. Costello is a three-times-a-week gym man, I would guess, not a walking one. Perhaps he phoned Rupert and suggested they meet and talk. Perhaps he cruised around the area—it’s where he lives—and when he saw Rupert starting out on a walk he left his car and followed, or maybe went round the quarry the other way. Ironically, walking was something Rupert sometimes did when one of his plots needed sorting out.”

  “It was sorted out, all right,” said Trench grimly.

  “Yes. So they met up, and Ben said he’d heard of Rupert’s plans for his next novel, and he strongly objected to being used in this way. It would ruin his and a lady’s reputation in Slepton, and it would harm his career.”

  “The argument could have got heated.”

  “I think it did, and that was the worst that could happen, because Coggenhoe always reacted to anger and threats with unbearable pomposity. At some point Ben’s anger ignited—his fuse is very low-level—and he hit Coggenhoe. He fell over the side and to the bottom of the quarry.”

  “And why didn’t Ben go down and ‘find’ him?”

  “It would have put him in the spotlight. And if he was not dead it would give him a terrible moral dilemma. He thought the best thing to do was to get away fast and wait for the body to be found. In fact the call came quite quickly—the walker who found him had a mobile—and from then on Costello was in the driving seat. All his actions tally well with the conjectures I’ve just made.”

  Trench sat thinking. Then he said, “You can go back to town now.”

  Charlie turned the car again, and went back to headquarters in Halifax.

  “I can’t say what I shall do,” said Trench gruffly. “But I can say I shan’t forget what you’ve told me, and what you’ve conjectured.”

  “I don’t ask for any more,” said Charlie. “I think those two girls—”

  Trench held up his hand.

  “You can fill me in on all sorts of gaps in my knowledge,” he said, “but for God’s sake don’t try to teach me my job.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Here we are. I’ve enjoyed our talk, in a sort of way. Now you can sit back and do what you were supposed to do from the start: nothing. Can I rely on you for that?”

  “Yes, you can.”

  As he drove off Charlie felt mildly snubbed, but also that he had been fairly listened to, and taken seriously. He was conscious that in some respects he had held back, keen—in order to be believed—to give Costello the benefit of the doubt whenever he could. Was it just chance that the probable encounter between Rupert and Costello took place at the top of the steepest side of the quarry? Was it lucky chance that the blow that connected with the victim had landed on the part of the body least likely to identify it as the work of a human being rather than rocks and tree stumps on the way down?

  He remembered the last line of one of his favorite films: “Nobody’s perfect.” In police work no case, no outcome of an investigation was ever perfect, or answered all the questions. He felt convinced that his series of conjectures was as close as he could come to the truth, and also had a chance of
being followed up by Superintendent Trench.

  But until he knew it was being followed up, the case was not closed.

  CHAPTER 17

  New Beginnings

  It was four or five days after he had his talk with Superintendent Trench before Charlie saw the Carlsons again, at least to speak to. He saw Chris now and then, pounding the streets house by house (he typically stuck with old-fashioned methods of campaigning, because they put the emphasis on the candidate meeting the people). Charlie also saw him twice speaking on the village green, with Alison in tow, by now looking very pregnant. Charlie guessed that an obviously pregnant wife was a campaign plus, then kicked himself for his cynicism. So when he, Felicity and Carola dropped in on them the following Sunday it was with little hope of finding Chris at home. But there he was, pondering an asinine question for The Times’ Questions Answered column.

  “What is the origin of the term ‘raining cats and dogs’?” he mused aloud. “That might do.”

  “Won’t someone have asked it before?” said Charlie. “They seem to have an itch to find an explanation for every common-or-garden expression.”

  “Maybe,” said Chris. “Do you think they have someone who goes through all the columns to avoid repetition?”

  “I should think they put them all on a computer,” said Charlie. “Everything else is.”

  “What about, ‘Has anyone ever trained a dog to shut the door behind him?’ ”

  “It sounds ideal,” said Charlie. “A question no one but an idiot would ask. Why the obsession with dogs and cats?”

  “We’re thinking of getting one of each for Junior when he comes.”

  “Is this jigsaw all right for Carola?” asked Alison. “I should think it’s about her age group.”

  “It’ll be ages before the baby can do it,” said Carola with satisfaction.