‘Charles?’
Charles sits up further, trying to collect his wits. For a second he can’t work out where he is, but then realises that he must have fallen asleep in front of the TV. It’s dark outside the floor-to-ceiling window.
‘Yes?’
‘Sorry, did I wake you?’
‘No, not really.’ He reaches to turn off the TV, the scotch tumbler falling off his lap to the floor. ‘How are you, Davie?’ he asks. ‘And Sonia?’
‘We’re both very well, thank you. And you? I wondered if perhaps you were on a case out of town.’
‘No, I’m here. And fine.’ Charles draws a deep breath. He’d been meaning to call his younger brother for several weeks but had been finding excuses to put it off.
‘So…?’
‘I’m sorry, David, I know I’ve been a bit…’
‘What’s going on, Charles? Ever since you and Sally split up, you’ve become some sort of recluse.’
Charles starts to offer denials, but gives up. ‘I couldn’t face it. Sorry.’
‘Face what?’
‘The knowledge that I’d let mum and dad down. Yet again.’
‘You haven’t let them down. It’s all in your head.’
‘Really? So I imagined that sad, wistful shaking of the head I got from mum last time, did I? Two hours of sighing and tutting?’
‘You know what she’s like. She just wants you to be happy.’
‘Oh, is that what it is?’ says Charles wearily.
David watched his older brother and his mother fight throughout his childhood. The arguments, shouting, tears and recriminations were constant until Charles volunteered for the RAF and left home. Charles couldn’t have blamed David had his younger brother been jealous, for Millie Horowitz and her elder son were so locked in battle that David was frequently neglected.
Fortunately, David was blessed with a sunny disposition and an understanding heart and always saw the best in everyone. In his quiet and respectful way, he stood up for Charles against the constant drip-drip of their mother’s bitterness which, for as long as he could remember, had been directed at the older brother he admired so much, and over the years found himself cast in the role of the family peacekeeper.
‘Look,’ says David. ‘Forget mum for the moment. Sonia and I would like to invite you to us for Friday night supper. It’s important.’
‘Are they coming?’ asks Charles. ‘Because I don’t think I can face another evening like the last.’
‘I’ve invited them, but on the strict condition that mum tries to be nice.’
‘Oh, well, that’s OK then,’ replies Charles with thick sarcasm. ‘A great time is guaranteed for one and all.’
‘Please, Charlie?’
Charles pauses, trying to find a way to decline without hurting David’s feelings.
He and David were very close as youngsters. That ended abruptly during Charles’s second year at Cambridge, when his parents learned he’d married Henrietta. They convened the entire family and friends from their congregation and “sat shiva” in their front room — held seven days of prayers to mourn Charles’s death. Thereafter his name was no longer mentioned.
Following Henrietta’s murder, a tense reconciliation had been brokered and Charles is no longer entirely persona non grata, but by an unspoken accord neither he nor David had found it necessary to inform their mother that they met occasionally for lunch when both were in London. Charles’s name could still produce thin-lipped moodiness from Millie Horowitz.
‘Important, huh?’ asks Charles.
‘We haven’t seen you for ages. So, yes, it’s important for me and Sonia,’ replies David, although there is something in his tone which makes Charles wonder if there isn’t something more. Charles’s brother and sister-in-law, married a couple of years, are blissfully happy, and although David’s a very private man and wouldn’t discuss it even with Charles, Charles suspects they’ve been trying for a baby. In which case, they might have an announcement.
‘Fine. I shall be delighted to accept.’
‘Good. Mum and dad will make their own way.’
Millie and Harry Horovitz are strictly observant and would never consider travelling in a vehicle on the Sabbath, even if Charles offered to collect them from Golders Green on his way north from the city, but they are still capable of making the twenty-minute walk to David and Sonia’s house in Hendon.
‘See you Friday, then,’ says Charles.
CHAPTER 8
The unmarked police car draws up outside the dark house. The night is warm and still; barely a breath of wind stirs the tops of the trees surrounding the building. The house is set back from the road with its own drive, but it’s not ostentatious. The swing and a discarded football in the front garden reveal it as a family home and the car in the drive, although a Mercedes, is six years old.
The tall thin man in the passenger seat flicks off the torch by which he has been reading the papers on his lap, and looks up.
‘I expected something rather more substantial,’ he says.
The driver, known by Charles as “Smith” but who is in fact Detective Inspector Spencer Carr, doesn’t answer. Carr is still wondering what the hell he’s doing in rural Kent in the middle of the night, four hundred miles from his home force in Cumberland, and when he hasn’t slept for over twenty-four hours. Having established the identity of the deceased and where she met her death, the investigation would normally pass entirely to the local police force, the Kent County Constabulary. His boss had managed to get off the hook; somehow he hadn’t. So, apparently in the cause of continuity and liaison, he is stuck on a case that is now based the length of the country away from his heavily pregnant wife, and one where there’s a high risk that he and his colleagues will end up with egg on their faces.
Right now, he can see no upside. And to cap it all, this new Superintendent Hook, who point-blank refused Jones’s suggestion that he be re-christened “Superintendent Green” for the purposes of this investigation (and what a fucking joke that was!) is now polluting his car with cigarette smoke without permission. Carr only managed to stop smoking a month ago.
‘Here we go then,’ says Hook as he gets out. ‘Leave the talking to me.’
Carr follows him and they crunch together down the gravel drive to the house. As they approach, they trigger an electronic beam and bright light floods the garden, shining directly into their faces and forcing them to shield their eyes from the glare. The interior of the house remains in darkness. Hook rings the bell. It takes a second ring to elicit a response, but an upstairs light is finally illuminated. A few seconds later, a figure can be seen through the obscured glass struggling into a dressing gown as it descends the staircase, and the door is opened.
The Superintendent recognises Steele immediately from the photographs he has just placed on the passenger seat of the car, but he hadn’t appreciated how tall the man was. Superintendent Hook is himself over six feet in height, but even in his slippers the judge is half a head taller. Further, the black and white file photographs didn’t reveal how intensely blue were his eyes, made all the more penetrating for being framed by very fair eyebrows. Steele also squints against the brightness of the floodlit garden.
‘Yes?’ he asks.
‘Sorry to trouble you, sir,’ says Hook, showing his warrant card to Steele as he introduces himself. ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Hook from the Kent County Constabulary, and this is Inspector Carr from Cumberland and Westmoreland.’
‘And?’
Carr hears irritation in the judge’s voice but no suggestion of nervousness. If being woken in the middle of the night by police officers from two different forces, one four hundred miles away and in an area where he might have dumped his wife’s body, makes the judge nervous, there’s no sign of it in his response.
‘You really shouldn’t have opened the door to me like that, sir. Didn’t Special Branch give you instructions when you were … what? … promoted?’
‘Th
e phrase is “made up”, superintendent, and the answer is yes they did, but one forgets in a village like this. And would you mind telling me what the bloody hell you’re doing giving me lessons in home security in the middle of the night?’
‘Sorry, sir. Can we come in? We have some news for you.’
‘Won’t it wait till a more civilised hour? We’re all asleep.’
‘I’m afraid not.’
Steele sighs. ‘You’d better come in then.’
A woman appears at the head of the stairs. Carr looks up at her, approving of the way the light behind her shows off her full figure through her thin nightdress. She is, he guesses, in her late thirties, perhaps forty, but she is extremely handsome, with very long light brown hair flecked with grey that reaches her waist. Steele sees the direction of Carr’s glance and turns to the woman.
‘It’s all right, Jenny,’ he says, ‘a police matter. Why don’t you go back to bed?’
Jenny does as she is bidden without speaking.
‘Your wife, sir?’ asks Hook.
Carr casts a swift glance at the superintendent, unsure if the question is designed to elicit a response in the judge or if Hook simply hasn’t read the papers fully in the short time available to him.
‘No. The children’s nanny. Go into the lounge.’
Steele points to a room to the right and closes the front door. Carr finds the light switch and the two police officers sit in armchairs facing the door. Steele follows and takes a seat facing them.
‘Right. What’s up?’ he asks.
‘Yes, sir. Now, this may come as a shock.’ Hook pauses. ‘We have found the body of a woman. It seems to be that of your wife.’
The police officers’ scrutiny of the tall man sitting opposite them intensifies as this news is delivered. His eyes widen slightly and his mouth falls slightly open. ‘Good God! After all this time.’
There is surprise there, thinks Carr, but no fear.
‘Yes sir,’ says Hook.
‘Are you asking me to identify her? Is that possible after, what, twelve years?’
‘Closer to thirteen, actually, sir, but no, it’s not that. When I said “it seems to be your wife” I wasn’t being really accurate. There’s no doubt it’s your wife. Dental records confirm it beyond any doubt.’
‘Then what do you want from me?’
‘Well, sir, there are a few matters that require further clarification.’
‘Surely it’ll wait till the morning? She’s been gone years. One night won’t make any difference, will it?’
‘I have instructions to take you to Maidstone police station tonight. We’ve set up an incident room there.’
‘I see.’ Steele pauses, his elegant hands pressed together before his lips as if in prayer. If he killed her, thinks Carr, he’s as cold as ice. There hasn’t been the slightest flicker of fear from the second we identified ourselves. ‘What are you saying to me? Am I under arrest?’
‘I’d hope to have your co-operation.’
‘But if I refuse?’
Superintendent Hook leans forward, meets Steele’s gaze, and holds it. ‘Then I would have no alternative but to arrest you.’
‘And, in that eventuality, what would the charge be? You have to tell me of what I am suspected, you know.’ Steele is smiling, leaning back in his chair, perfectly relaxed, as if debating an interesting point of law.
‘I do know that, sir. The charge would be suspected murder, my Lord.’
There is a gasp, but not from Steele. Both men look up. Jenny is standing in the doorway, now dressed in a bathrobe. She obviously heard the last exchange. Steele turns back to the policemen.
‘No, it’s only “My Lord” in court, superintendent; “sir” will do fine.’ He unfolds his long legs, rises and addresses Jenny. ‘You heard that, I gather. It seems that I shall be “helping police with their enquiries”.’
Carr is still looking at the woman standing by the door, her eyes wide with fear and her hands clasped to her mouth. That gesture, in which a hand is apparently employed to stifle the organ of speech, has always intrigued him. He continues to look at the woman, something about her reaction, something that he can’t quite define, bothering him.
The judge is still speaking. ‘I’d better get dressed. Will you get these men a cup of tea, my dear? I’m sure they’d appreciate it. And when you’ve done that, please would you see if you can get hold of Mr Bell? I assume I am entitled to contact my solicitor?’ he asks.
Carr tears his eyes from Jenny. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very well. I shall not detain you long.’
Steele walks swiftly from the room. Hook is about to turn to the nanny when she too slips silently through the open doorway. The policemen hear a fluorescent light bulb hum and click into life and bright light is thrown into the hallway. Hook indicates with his head that Inspector Carr should follow her.
Carr takes a deep breath and hauls himself out of the comfortable chair, his body aching with fatigue, and follows the woman. He finds himself in a large kitchen with a scrubbed pine table in its centre. Someone’s homework, exercise books, a set-square and protractor are tidied neatly at one end, and the other end is already laid for breakfast. The room’s curtains, bright and colourful, are closed, and Carr can smell the previous night’s cooking. The wooden floor is covered in rugs and along one wall is a comfortably worn sofa. A cuckoo clock on the wall above the table ticks reassuringly. Carr is surprised at the warmth and cosiness of the room, unexpected for a house inhabited by a single professional man and his children. He guesses that the nanny had a hand in the choice of furnishings and the ornaments that line the window sills. Jenny is standing at the sink, filling the kettle.
‘I’m sorry you’ve been disturbed so late,’ ventures Carr.
‘Keep your voice down, please,’ she replies sharply. ‘The least you can do is let Bobby sleep.’
‘Sorry,’ replies Carr. ‘I don’t have children,’ he offers by way of excuse. ‘Do you?’
‘What do you mean? Of course I do.’
‘No, I meant children of your own.’
‘Sir Anthony’s children have had no mother but me since they were very small.’
‘Yes, of course. You’ve been part of the family for a long time. Did you know Mrs Steele?’
‘Of course.’
‘Did you get on with her?’
She turns sharply towards him. ‘Are you going to arrest me too?’
‘No, of course not —’
‘Am I “helping you with your enquiries” too?’
‘No, I was just —’
‘Then, if you don’t mind, I don’t want to talk to you. You can pour the water in when the kettle boils,’ and she indicates a teapot. She walks swiftly past him and he listens to her light footsteps going up the staircase.
CHAPTER 9
By the time the judge is dressed (and, the policemen note, shaved) it is almost 2.00 a.m. Steele walks down the gravel drive towards the waiting car, the policemen flanking him. As he ducks to get into the rear seat, Steele turns to look back at the house and waves to Jenny whose silhouette can be seen in the upstairs window. Carr notices the judge’s movement and also turns to look up, but by the time he does so there is nothing to be seen except the bedroom curtains swinging gently.
The traffic on the road to Maidstone is almost non-existent and the journey takes no more than an hour. Steele is silent throughout which, thinks Carr, is just as well. Every word spoken to and by Lord Justice Steele, Sir Anthony Steele, QC, during the course of this investigation is to be faithfully recorded, and Hook has given strict instructions: no small talk. It’s an instruction for which Carr is grateful. A displaced Geordie lad from a terraced house in Newcastle whose hobbies include fishing, soccer and real ale has little conversation to share with a knight and a justice of the Supreme Court.
The police station is also quiet. Steele is directed to wait on an empty bench as Hook engages in a hurried whispered conversation with the desk serg
eant who has a “No one told me anything about this” expression, and appears to have been completely unaware that the day shift had allocated space for an incident room. Carr also waits, as lost in this unfamiliar police station as his suspect. Eventually, they are shown to an empty interview room and Hook rushes off somewhere.
‘Take a seat, sir,’ says Carr. ‘We’ll start shortly. I’m going to find someone who’ll make us a drink. Would you like something? A cup of tea perhaps?’
‘Tea?’ asks Steele, looking up as if distracted. ‘Yes, please.’
Carr slips out of the room, leaving a police woman standing uneasily by the door. She tries not to look at the man sitting only arm’s reach from her, but finds it difficult. His manicured hands, silver-grey hair, freshly-pressed cotton shirt and elegant Savile Row suit are completely out of place in the grubby room usually inhabited by sweating policemen and lank-haired suspects. Steele seems unaware of his surroundings. He sits comfortably on the wooden chair, his legs crossed and his hands resting in his lap. His eyes are closed. The door opens briefly a few minutes later for another young officer to place a china mug containing steaming brown liquid on the table before Steele, who doesn’t open his eyes. A glance passes between the two police officers before the newcomer departs.
Twenty minutes later, the door opens and Superintendent Hook enters followed by Inspector Carr. Hook places two manila files on the table and the policemen sit. Both take out pens and notebooks.
‘You understand that you’re not under arrest?’ confirms Hook.
‘I do.’
‘You may therefore leave at any time, if you wish. I hope, however, that you’ll assist us in answering a few questions.’
‘I shall do my duty as a responsible citizen.’
‘Firstly, however, you asked at your home about contacting a solicitor. Has that been done?’
‘Jenny tried but, of course, there was no answer. I don’t have his home number. But further attempts are being made on my behalf.’
The Waxwork Corpse: A legal thriller with a chilling twist (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers Book 5) Page 7