‘No. Once he’s arrested we don’t want him communicating with anyone in that household, the children or the nanny. If it’s just disposal of a corpse, maybe even perverting the course of justice, he’ll still probably get bail.’
‘Therefore…’
‘Arrest him on suspicion of murder.’
‘Sure?’
‘Bloody right I am.’
CHAPTER 12
With perfect synchronicity, Mr Jones and Superintendent Hook descend the court steps, warrants in hand and smiles on faces, just as Inspector Carr, refreshed after a weekend off and two proper nights’ sleep, pulls up outside the judge’s house in Kent with a policewoman he has collected from the station en route. They are to wait there until joined by Hook and Jones, unless Steele tries to leave the house, in which case he is to be intercepted. Having ascertained that he’s at home, Carr moves his vehicle to a discreet distance from the driveway which provides a vantage point from which they can see both the front door and the side entrance.
It takes an hour for the others to arrive in the village. Carr watches in his rear-view mirror as the squad car approaches and the man who is, once again, his boss, descends. The two policemen and the young WPC approach the front door. Steele must have seen the cars outside because it is he who opens the door and he already wears a raincoat and hat. He stands silently on the threshold as Hook formally arrests him and closes the door behind him. Carr takes his handcuffs from his back pocket and puts them on the judge’s wrists. Steele says nothing and is escorted to the waiting police cars.
As bad luck would have it, as Steele is assisted into the back of the police car, Mrs Harrison, the next-door neighbour but two is pushing her bike up the hill from the pond and is passing the end of the drive. Her head turns, open-mouthed, as she follows the judge’s pale face through the window as the car drives off. It takes her less than five minutes to return to her home and another five minutes to finish a hurried telephone call to Tom and Edna Noakes, who, being on the parish council, usually know everything that goes on in the village.
Edna Noakes likes to call herself a realist. Forty years a nurse until her retirement earlier that year, she reckons she’s seen every aspect of human nature, and by and large it isn’t nice. In Edna’s opinion most people are petty, dishonest and malicious to their fellow men. She’d always suspected that the widowed judge and the beautiful nanny were up to no good. She’d accepted the invitation to their parties, of course, like everyone else in the village, but only to confirm her conclusion that the nanny was no better than she ought to be and the judge was obviously keeping secrets.
Tom Noakes doesn’t share his wife’s scepticism of all human nature, but he can think of no reason why the judge should be led unwillingly to a police car and so, curiosity aroused, he walks down to the house to see what’s going on. He is confirmed in his view that something must be, as he is told firmly to go away by a policewoman stationed at the front gate. Sensing a story, he gets onto his brother-in-law who does the ads at the local newspaper, and shortly thereafter a reporter turns up.
By early evening, a large crowd of villagers and reporters from the national press and the BBC have gathered at the front of the house. They watch, fascinated, as numerous police officers and scientists arrive at the property, some departing again armed with plastic bags full of household contents. Then the nanny is led away to a car in tears, and a relative arrives to look after the children.
Inspector Carr is unknown in the area and for a while is able to get through the crowd and in and out of the cordon without attracting too much attention. Eventually, however, he is addressed by one of the local police officers within earshot of the gates, and by the time he emerges again all the reporters have realised that he is one of the officers in charge of the investigation. Microphones and cameras are thrust into his face as he leaves the house.
‘Are you able to give us any information, Inspector?’
‘Is Sir Anthony under arrest?’
‘Has he been charged yet?’
‘Is this anything to do with his wife’s disappearance all those years ago?’ asks one who had taken the trouble to do a little research before getting on the train from London.
Carr says nothing and pushes his way through the questions to his car. He drives back to Maidstone where Jenny is being interviewed by Superintendent Hook. By the time he arrives, the nanny is sitting in the outer office awaiting a lift back to the house. Her eyes are red and heavy and it’s obvious she’s been crying. Carr is buzzed past the counter and taken through to a tiny interview room where Hook is sitting at a table reading a statement.
‘Is that it, sir?’ asks Carr.
‘Yes. We’ve just finished.’
‘Well?’ asks Carr, sitting down.
‘Not much we don’t know already. She says the wife was an absolute bitch, but the judge never laid a hand on her. “He was always extremely patient, even under the greatest of provocation” is how she puts it.’ Hook runs his finger further down the handwritten statement to read another section. ‘“He was a devoted father and I think the only reason he didn’t divorce her was because of the children.” She says the affair with Roddy was an open secret. Everyone in the village knew. That’s about it.’
‘And the events of that afternoon?’
‘She says she was at the park with the children. By the time she returned, the wife wasn’t there, and she got on with making tea.’
‘What did you make of her, sir?’
Hook pauses. ‘Very distressed, more so than I would’ve predicted — for an employee I mean. I know she’s been with them for years, and I expected her to be close to the children, but…’
‘I saw something of that, the night we first went to the house,’ comments Carr.
‘Yes?’
‘I couldn’t put my finger on it at the time. Protectiveness of him, maybe. She acted more like a wife than an employee.’
Hook nods. ‘I’m not really surprised. Think about it. She’s, what? late thirties? Early forties? She’s been with the family for fourteen or fifteen years. She a looker, too. She’s given the best years of her life, her marriageable years, and probably lost the chance of having her own kids. You don’t do that for someone else’s children. Not only for that.’
‘What do you think?’ asks Carr.
‘I think she’s in love with him, that’s what I think.’
‘I agree. Which means she might be protecting him.’
‘Maybe. Maybe they’ve been having an affair for years. Maybe she killed the wife.’
The door opens and a uniformed sergeant puts his head round the door. ‘Something for you, sir; just arrived. Thought you’d like to see it.’
He hands two pages to Hook who takes them and reads them quickly. His thin face creases into a smile as he hands the pages over to Carr. They are the two pages of a further statement by Dr Butcher, the pathologist. After the declaration at the top, it continues:
Further to my first statement, during the post-mortem examination of the body, I removed skin from the forehead and neck of the corpse for microscopic examination. There was found to be a brownish discolouration of the tissue beneath the skin in both of these areas. Microscopic examination of the tissue from each side of the forehead showed deposits of crystalline material which in my opinion is the substance haematoidin, which is produced by the breakdown of haemoglobin, a principal constituent of blood. This indicates that there was bruising of the forehead which would have been produced by a blow. Similarly, there was found a similar brown crystalline material in the tissues near the hyoid bone. This also indicates bruising. Such bruising to the side of the hyoid bone is consistent with, and highly characteristic of, strangulation, especially when it is present on both sides. The discolouration in this case was found only on one side (the left).
However, considering the fact that there was no evidence of organic disease which could have caused or contributed to death, nor any evidence of injury of sufficient
severity to cause death, it is my opinion that the bruising at the site of the hyoid bone demonstrates that death resulted from: manual strangulation.
‘You know, when I first looked at this I thought we’d be wasting our time,’ comments Hook. ‘Seems I might have been wrong. Was the nanny still outside when you came in?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I think we should interview her again. We can’t put any pressure on him, but maybe…’
‘Would you mind if I had a shot at it, sir?’
Hook studies the inspector. ‘Think you can do better than me, do you?’
‘No, sir, not at all. I just think that … maybe … I think I can make a connection with her.’
Hook considers this and then nods in agreement. ‘Fine. I need something to eat anyway. Shall I get the sergeant back?’
‘No. At least, sir, not unless you particularly want him present.’
‘It’s a “her” not a “him”, but it’s your call.’
Jenny is still sitting outside when Carr goes to get her. He explains that there are one or two further questions. She sighs deeply, but rises without speaking and precedes him back to the interview room.
She is a looker though, thinks Carr as Jenny takes a seat opposite him. Even tired and with bloodshot eyes, she is strikingly attractive. Her long hair, which he first saw flowing freely to her waist, is now plaited and tied up in a complicated manner that he finds intriguing and inviting, like a bra strap asking to be undone. And her way of moving. He remarked that on the stairs, an almost imperceptible sway of her rounded hips, not a wiggle which a girl in her twenties might have affected, but a slow, languorous movement that reminds him of a ship rocking gently at anchor. I could get into older women, thinks Carr — rather unjustly, as Jenny is only four years his senior. It is the tenderness with which he is thinking of her that colours his first question and his tone.
‘You’re very fond of him, aren’t you, Jenny? You don’t mind if I call you “Jenny”, do you?’
She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture he finds charming and slightly erotic.
‘I don’t care what you call me. I’m fond of all of them. I’ve been part of the family for fifteen years.’
Her voice is cultured, what he’d have called “very Home Counties”. Normally that would’ve aroused Carr’s lifetime prejudice against all things and all people south of the Watford Gap, but he finds that for her, he’s prepared to make an exception.
‘Aye, sure, but it’s more than that, isn’t it, pet?’
Jenny stares hard at him for a moment and then looks away. ‘That’s none of your business.’
‘Oh, but it is, pet,’ replies Carr, his Geordie accent soft and trustworthy. ‘I don’t think you’re telling us everything you know, you see, because you care for him and think you’re helping him. You don’t realise it but, by trying to help, by holding back, you might very well be harming him.’
She looks at the table. ‘You do love him then?’ he presses, leaning in closer over the small table.
‘I’m not going to discuss that with you, a complete stranger, when I’ve never discussed it with him.’
‘Never discussed it with him? All this time?’ There’s mixed incredulousness and sympathy in his voice. ‘All those nights in the house, all those family holidays? It’s hard to believe.’
‘Believe what you want.’
‘You poor lass! All those years, loving those bairns and their father, the man who might’ve been — should’ve been — your husband.’
‘Don’t patronise me, inspector,’ she says, her voice more sad than angry.
Carr sits back, irritated. Both the ex-wife and the new accuse him of the same offence. ‘Sorry,’ he says, but his voice has lost some of its soft beguiling tone.
‘I’m not your pet or your poor lass, and I don’t want your sympathy.’
She stands.
‘Look, I don’t understand the procedure here, but I was told I could leave at any time, right? Well, it’s getting late and I’m tired. I’ve told you everything I can. I want to go home now. Bobby needs a meal and his cricket whites for tomorrow.’
‘Bobby?’
‘The judge’s younger son.’
‘You’re doing more to help them here, believe me,’ says Carr carelessly.
‘How is that, then?’
‘Think about it. There were only four people living there when Lise Steele disappeared, not counting the baby.’ He pronounces the last word “babby”. ‘We need to know what happened that day. So, I can ask you or … I can ask them.’
‘They were small children! You can’t possibly interview them.’
He shrugs. ‘I can. This is a murder inquiry. So you’d better believe me; I will if I have to.’
Her eyes open wide. ‘Murder? What do you mean? No one said anything about murder.’
‘Perhaps you’d better sit down, Miss Sullivan.’ She slowly resumes her seat. ‘What do you suppose he was arrested for?’
‘No one’s told me. One minute he was sitting in his study and the next he was being bundled out of the house. Then your lot start taking the place to pieces.’
Carr speaks slowly, locking eyes with her. ‘Well, perhaps you should understand now. He’s been arrested for the murder of his wife.’
She stares at the inspector, her eyes and mouth making a triangle of “O”s as she assimilates the information. The strand of hair has escaped again and the Inspector has an urge to tuck it back in place for her. She drops her eyes to the corner of the tiny room, looking unseeingly at the marked linoleum and cigarette ends lying like oblong goldfish on the floor. The Inspector tries to interpret her expression but can discern only distress and indecision.
‘The more information we can obtain elsewhere, in other words from you, the less chance we’ll need to interview the children. No one wants to have them dragged in here. Less still through the courts.’
‘The courts?’
He gives her a few moments to allow that scene to play out in her mind. Jenny shakes her head, her lips open as if she’s going to speak but then close again. Now Carr is almost sure she knows more than she’s said.
‘Tell me what happened?’ he asks directly. She shakes her head again. ‘If he’s innocent, what are you trying to hide?’
Carr watches as the woman’s eyes fill with tears and now he knows. There’s an internal battle raging inside her.
‘I think I need to see a solicitor,’ she concludes.
‘Why’s that then? Have you done something wrong?’
‘I don’t know,’ she says, a fat tear emerging from each of her wide eyes and running down her cheeks. She wipes one away with the back of her hand but the other plops onto the table top. She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a handkerchief.
‘You don’t know?’ he asks, surprised.
He tries to imagine Jenny’s white knuckles squeezing Lise Steele’s neck. He tries to imagine her kneeling over the dying woman fighting for her last breath, hands grabbing and flailing like windmill sails before gradually dropping to her sides. He tries to picture her dragging the bloodied body to an open car boot, bundling it in and fastening it to a concrete kerb.
It’s no use; the pictures refuse to coalesce in his imagination. Whatever this woman did, he’ll need some convincing that it was murder.
‘No, pet,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I don’t think you’ve done much wrong, ’cept maybe loving the wrong man.’
‘The wrong man? He’s not what you think at all,’ insists Jenny vehemently. ‘He couldn’t kill her, or anybody for that matter. It’s just not in him.’
‘That’ll be for a jury to decide.’
‘Are you going to charge him with murdering her?’
‘That won’t be my decision, but I expect so. We now have evidence of strangulation. That plus the blood all over the bedroom … well…’
Carr’s mention of the blood is a deliberate attempt to shock her, but again her resp
onse surprises him. She looks away from the table as if something disgusting had suddenly landed there. Either she didn’t hear him correctly or she already knew about the blood.
‘Well, now,’ he says, his voice soft again, ‘now you really do surprise me. That wasn’t news to you was it, Jenny? If you knew nothing about it, you’d have asked “What blood?”’
Jenny doesn’t answer. Carr lets the silence lengthen. Her tears come thick and fast now. He watches the woman before him crying quietly, twisting and untwisting the now sodden handkerchief gripped tightly in her hands.
‘You’re no good at this, pet. I don’t think lying is something you like doing, or something you’ve any practice in.’
Jenny does not reply.
‘Let it out, Jenny. Believe me, you’ll feel better. Secrets have a way of burrowing in deep. I’ve seen it all me career. They lodge, inside you, and grow. Like a cancer.’
She looks up at him, chewing her lower lip. ‘He didn’t murder her,’ she insists with intensity. ‘I know he didn’t!’
‘How do you know?’
‘I just know.’
‘If you love him and you know he’s innocent, why on earth won’t you tell me what happened? Why are you keeping it to yourself?’
‘I don’t know what to do!’ she cries, tears dripping freely onto the table where they form two slowly expanding pools. ‘Can I talk to him?’ she pleads, her face an agony of indecision.
Carr shakes his head. ‘I want to know what you have to say, not what he wants you to say. If you’ve information to give about what happened on the day Lise Steele left — or was taken out — of the house, you’ve a duty to give it.’
Inspector Carr reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small packet of tissues, placing them on the table before her. She stuffs the useless handkerchief back in her pocket and uses a tissue to blow her nose noisily.
‘Now, what’s it to be? Do you have anything more to say? If not, I’ll have a car take you home, and we’ll bring in Stephen and Charlotte.’
She closes her eyes, forcing herself to breathe deeply. Then she takes three controlled intakes of air, holding each for a count of five before exhaling slowly. He watches her regain control of herself, and it’s an impressive display. She continues to sit with her eyes closed as her breathing calms even more. When she opens her eyes again it is to stare directly at Carr. He sees that a decision has been taken.
The Waxwork Corpse: A legal thriller with a chilling twist (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers Book 5) Page 11