Dead on Arrival

by Dorothy Simpson

  ‘Can’t give a final verdict until after the PM, of course,’ said Mallard, ‘but there doesn’t seem to be much doubt about cause of death.’

  ‘The blow to the back of the head?’

  Mallard nodded.

  ‘Any guesses about the murder instrument?’

  Mallard heaved himself to his feet. ‘Something flattish, by the look of it, heavy, with a rim around the base which broke the skin and caused that slight bleeding.’

  ‘An ashtray, perhaps?’

  Mallard shrugged. ‘Possible, if it was weighty enough. One of those heavy glass or pottery ones. Why, have you found it?’

  ‘No, but come and look at this.’

  Thanet led Mallard to the battered oak sideboard which stood against the wall to the right of the door. In the thin layer of dust which covered it was a clean, circular patch about five inches in diameter.

  ‘I can’t see anything in the room to match it. Could have been a heavy vase, I suppose,’ Thanet added.

  ‘It’s about the right size, certainly.’

  ‘I’d like several shots of this,’ Thanet said to the photographer. ‘Make sure you give a clear impression of its size.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘You can turn that fire off, too,’ said Mallard, mopping at his forehead and running his handkerchief over his bald head. ‘Place is like a tropical greenhouse.’

  ‘We left it on because …’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Mallard waved a dismissive hand. ‘But I’ve finished, now. Turn the damned thing off, for God’s sake.’

  Thanet did so, then returned to Mallard, who had finished packing his things away and now closed his bag with a snap.

  ‘Where’s Lineham?’ he said. ‘Unusual not to see him here. Still on maternity leave, so to speak, is he?’

  Lineham’s wife Louise had just given birth to their second child, a daughter this time, and the sergeant had taken ten days of his annual leave to help out.

  ‘No, he’s been back at work for a week now.’ Thanet scowled. ‘He’s on loan to Chief Inspector Hines for the investigation into that murder over at Coddington Woods on Sunday night.’

  ‘Ah yes. Nasty business, that. You realise she was still alive when they found her, on Monday morning?’

  Thanet grimaced. ‘So I heard. Died in the ambulance on the way to hospital. I understand they think she was thrown out of a car and cracked her head on a big stone at the side of the road.’

  ‘Having been half-strangled first,’ said Mallard.

  ‘I didn’t know that. Anyway, Mr Hines is rather short-handed at the moment, and as things were very quiet here, I agreed to let him borrow Lineham. I’m kicking myself now, of course.’

  ‘You’ll get him back, though, surely.’

  ‘I certainly shall,’ said Thanet. With difficulty.

  Mallard was putting on his coat.

  ‘There’s just one more question, Doc.’

  Mallard frowned at Thanet over his half-moon spectacles. ‘Don’t tell me. The usual. Time of death.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Impossible to be accurate, in the circumstances. The temperature in here would have affected the cooling of the body considerably, and as it’s lying right in front of the fire … Well, you can see the problem for yourself.’

  ‘Could you hazard a guess?’

  ‘Not really. I’m sorry, Luke, I’m usually prepared to stick my neck out, as you know …’

  Normally, Thanet would have left it there, but Mallard’s unusually amiable mood encouraged him not to give up just yet. ‘Some time this evening, anyway?’

  Mallard gave a mischievous smile. ‘Some time today, I’d say. And I refuse to commit myself any further.’

  Thanet had to leave it at that. He had expected something of the sort and it certainly wouldn’t help. But it wasn’t the doctor’s fault and he simply nodded his thanks and escorted him to the front door, wondering why Mallard had been so relatively civil this evening. The police surgeon’s ill-humour was a legend in the force. Thanet did his best to ignore it, having known Mallard in the days before his wife had died a slow, lingering death from cancer, many years ago. The little doctor had never managed to come to terms with his grief and his irascibility was his way of venting upon the world the anger and despair he still felt at her loss. Lineham would certainly have noticed this change in Mallard’s behaviour, and together they would have speculated as to its significance. Once again Thanet wished that the sergeant were present, and decided that he would make that phone call his first priority.

  They had just reached the front door when it burst open: Brent, one of the new young DCs.

  Mallard staggered a little and Thanet put a hand under his elbow to steady him. ‘For God’s sake, man, be careful.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. Sorry, Doc. Sir …’ Brent’s eyes were sparking with excitement.

  ‘Take a deep breath and count to five. Then tell me.’

  Brent did as he was told, but even so the words tumbled out in his haste. ‘Sir, there’s a car parked just along the road. It’s been there all evening, I gather. We were just checking it, as a matter of routine, and we found a man inside, half sozz … pretty drunk, sir. He’s mumbling threats against Long. And he’s crying.’

  TWO

  Until now the other inhabitants of the house had reluctantly obeyed orders and stayed in their rooms, but DC Brent’s precipitous entry had created a new surge of curiosity. Thanet was aware of doors opening, of murmured conversations, and of people peering down into the hall.

  He and Mallard exchanged glances.

  ‘You want me to hang on for a few minutes?’ said the little doctor in a low voice.

  ‘Thanks, yes. Just till we see what sort of state this man’s in. Where is he, Brent? Still in the car?’

  ‘At the moment, yes, sir. We didn’t know if you’d want him brought in here or taken back to the station.’

  ‘From what you say it doesn’t sound as though I’ll get much sense out of him, but I’d better have a quick word with him, then you can take him back to the station.’ But where to talk in privacy, that was the problem? He couldn’t conduct an interview here, in the hall, it was much too public, and Long’s room was out of the question.

  Thanet glanced around. The door to the right of the stairs remained shut, but a middle-aged couple was peering curiously from the one on the left and at the back of the hall, arms akimbo, wrapped in a brilliant scarlet kimono with a gold dragon emblazoned from shoulder to hem, stood a squat little figure squinting at them through the smoke from the cigarette hanging from her lower lip; Mrs Bence, presumably.

  There appeared to be no choice.

  Thanet turned back to Brent. ‘Bring him in. But first I want all these people back inside their rooms again. And make sure they stay there, this time.’

  Thanet and Mallard waited while these orders were carried out and within minutes the newcomer was half-led, half-carried into the house and propped against the wall, supported by a man on either side.

  He was in his late forties, Thanet guessed, short, burly, and dressed in a good-quality dark grey worsted suit, blue and white striped shirt and blue silk tie. There were well-defined creases in his raincoat, as if he had been sitting in the same position for some hours. He looked like a successful businessman, but somewhere along the way something had gone badly wrong: the skin of his face was the colour of dough, his eyes red-veined and puffy with recent tears. A sour reek of whisky hung in the air. He seemed unaware of his surroundings.

  ‘Could you give me your name, sir?’

  Somewhere at the back of the man’s eyes awareness flickered briefly, and was extinguished.

  ‘Sir?’

  Still no response.

  Thanet stepped forward and gently removed the man’s wallet from his inside pocket. There was no reaction.

  Thanet flicked through it and extracted a driving licence: Harry Ronald Carpenter; address: Smallwood, Benenden Drive, Sturrenden. Benenden Drive was an exclusiv
e residential area of large, relatively new detached houses on the far side of town.

  Thanet frowned. Carpenter … The name rang a bell, but Thanet couldn’t think why.

  ‘You were talking about Mr Long, sir …’

  The man’s body jerked, as if an electric current had been passed through it. His head lifted, his eyes narrowed, his mouth twisted. ‘Bastard,’ he said thickly. ‘Kill him …’

  ‘Why?’ said Thanet. ‘Why should you want to kill him, Mr Carpenter?’

  ‘Kill him,’ repeated Carpenter. ‘Kill him. Only thing to do.’ Suddenly he began to struggle, working his shoulders up and down to release himself from the restricting grip on his arms. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He’s dead, Mr Carpenter. Upstairs.’

  Carpenter stopped struggling as abruptly as he had begun and peered at Thanet as if he were trying to see clearly in dense fog.

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Yes. Upstairs.’

  Carpenter’s eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed, his sudden dead weight causing the men to stagger. They lowered him gently to the floor and Mallard squatted to examine him.

  ‘Passed out,’ he said, after a moment.

  ‘Heart attack?’

  Mallard shook his head. ‘I don’t think it’s anything serious. Just a shock, on top of too much to drink. But to be on the safe side I think we’d better put him into hospital for the night.’

  ‘Ambulance outside?’ said Thanet to one of the men.

  ‘Yes, sir. Waiting to remove the body. It arrived some time ago.’

  ‘Good. It can take Mr Carpenter first, then come back. Stay with him and let me know the moment he’s fit for questioning.’

  When Carpenter had been removed and Mallard had left, Thanet glanced at his watch: twelve thirty. Was it too late to make that phone call about Lineham? Hines had probably gone home by now. But even if he hadn’t it might be better not to arouse his antagonism unnecessarily by breaking the news of Lineham’s imminent withdrawal at this hour of the night. The little patience Hines possessed would be at its lowest ebb. Reluctantly, Thanet decided to wait until morning.

  So, what now?

  As soon as the SOCOs were finished upstairs, Thanet wanted to take a really good look at Stephen Long’s room, but meanwhile it might prove fruitful to have a chat with Mrs Bence. According to Carson she had known the Longs quite well. And Thanet had been intrigued by that brief glimpse of her just now.

  He walked along the short passage beside the staircase and raised his hand to knock on her door, but before his knuckles had made contact with wood it had opened. She must have been standing on the other side, listening. ‘Mrs Bence?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  Her grey hair was short, unevenly hacked off just below the ears, and a cigarette still drooped from her lower lip. She was looking him up and down as if he were the prize turkey she wasn’t sure whether to buy for Christmas. But there was no aggression in her gaze, only appraisal, and she must have approved of what she saw because she removed the cigarette and grinned to take the sting out of her words, revealing teeth the colour of old piano keys.

  Thanet introduced himself. ‘I understand you knew the Longs. I’d like to talk to you, if I may.’ Ordinary members of the public, he found, invariably responded well to courtesy.

  Mrs Bence was no exception. She stepped back.

  ‘Come in, ducks. Welcome to my humble abode. And you can call me Dara.’

  ‘Dara,’ repeated Thanet. But he hadn’t taken in the outlandish nature of Mrs Bence’s Christian name; he was too preoccupied with trying to absorb the extraordinary atmosphere of her sitting room.

  Every available inch of wall-space was taken up with posters, hand-bills and photographs large and small. The former all advertised the imminent arrival of BENJY’S, THE GREATEST LITTLE CIRCUS IN THE WORLD. Prominently billed was DARA, THE MOST SENSATIONAL HIGH-WIRE ACT THE WORLD HAS EVER SEEN. The photographs showed Dara, glamorously attired in spangles and tights, at some of the most sensational moments of her act: flying through space with the grace of a swallow, tightly curled up in the now-familiar ball of the triple somersault, suspended by the teeth from a gossamer wire high, high above the upturned faces of the awed spectators.

  ‘Never believe it was the same woman, would you?’

  Thanet turned. She was standing in the middle of the room watching him, enjoying his astonishment and absorption. What could he say? The truth was that no, he could scarcely believe it.

  She waved her hand. ‘Oh, don’t bother to deny it. I don’t want to put you in a spot. ‘Specially as I like the look of you.’ She lowered herself into a huge, sagging leather armchair and lit another cigarette from the stub of the old one. ‘Take a pew.’

  The ‘pew’ was an ancient monster of tan moquette, bald and shiny with years of wear. Seen in a better light the scarlet kimono, too, was stained and faded, a mere reflection of its original splendour.

  ‘Want a fag?’

  Thanet shook his head, his hand unconsciously straying to his pocket.

  ‘Smoke a pipe?’

  He nodded. So she was observant. Good.

  ‘Carry on, then. Light up, if you want to. My old man used to smoke a pipe. I miss it. Used to complain like hell at the time, but now … What d’you think of it all, then?’ And she waved her hand at the display on the walls.

  ‘Amazing,’ said Thanet with sincerity, feeding tobacco into his pipe. ‘Really amazing.’

  ‘Them was the days,’ said Mrs Bence with a sigh. ‘I still miss it, you know. There’s nothing like it in the world – the people, the animals, the atmosphere, the excitement, and above all, the smell …’ She closed her eyes in ecstatic reminiscence. ‘Sweat, sawdust … If Benjy’s hadn’t folded, I’d probably be there still, helping out in some way … But you don’t want to hear all this.’

  ‘On the contrary.’ Thanet paused to apply the first match. ‘It’s fascinating,’ he said, waving his hand to dispel the clouds of smoke.

  She peered at him through the haze. ‘You mean it, don’t yer?’

  Thanet nodded, smiled. ‘All the same, there’s a lot to do. So if you don’t mind …’

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘I’d like you to tell me about the Longs.’

  ‘What sort of things d’you want to hear?’

  ‘Anything. Whatever comes into your head. Then, if there’s anything else I specifically want to know, I’ll ask you.’

  Mrs Bence frowned, lit yet another cigarette. ‘They’ve been here about, let me see, oh it must be eighteen months, now. And I gather from Sharon – that’s his wife – they’d been married about six months before that. If you ask me it’s a miracle she stuck it as long as she did.’

  ‘They’re separated, I gather.’

  ‘Yes. She’s been gone about three weeks now. Found herself another boyfriend.’

  ‘How did Mr Long take that?’

  ‘Didn’t like it one little bit, did he?’ The thought obviously gave her satisfaction. ‘Didn’t realise what he’d got until he’d lost it.’

  ‘You liked Mrs Long, obviously.’

  ‘Yes. Nice little thing. Kind, sweet-natured – she must’ve been, or she’d never have put up with him.’

  ‘But you obviously weren’t too keen on him.’

  ‘He was a real …’ She paused, trying to find a word which would sum Long up to her satisfaction. ‘A real bleeder,’ she concluded triumphantly.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘In every way. You should have seen how he treated that poor girl. Ordered her about as if she was a skivvy. “Do this, fetch that …” And bad-tempered! I’ve had her down here more times than I care to tell, in tears …’

  ‘He was violent?’

  ‘Oh no, I’ll grant him that,’ said Mrs Bence grudgingly. ‘Far as I know he never laid a finger on her. But there’s more ways than one of being cruel, as I’m sure you know full well. I don’t know how she stood it. It wasn’t even as if he brought h
ome the bacon, either – not regular, anyhow. Poor kid didn’t know where she was half the time, far as money was concerned.’

  ‘He was out of work?’

  ‘Not at the moment, no. But he was in and out of jobs like a yo-yo. He was a mechanic – a good one, Sharon says, but unreliable, and people would get fed up with him being late for work or just not turning up, if he fancied a day off … Well, about three weeks ago he lost his job yet again, because he’d been late five days running. He’d been warned, but he just didn’t pay attention … He got himself another one, since, but by then it was too late, she’d gone, and she didn’t come back. She’d had enough, I reckon.’

  ‘What about the boyfriend?’

  Mrs Bence shook her head. ‘Don’t know nothing about him.’ She heaved herself out of her armchair, crossed to the sideboard and held up a bottle enquiringly.

  ‘No, thanks.’ Thanet grinned. ‘Got to keep my head clear.’

  She poured herself a generous half-tumbler of gin, then returned to her chair.

  Thanet re-lit his pipe, which wasn’t drawing very well. ‘Did they have many visitors?’

  ‘No. Not surprising, considering the way he went on. Sharon told me he come from quite a big family, but I never set eyes on any of them.’

  ‘On bad terms with them, was he?’

  ‘Must’ve been.’

  ‘How many brothers and sisters did he have?’

  ‘Not sure. One brother’s a schoolteacher, I think. Don’t know about the rest.’

  ‘What about his wife … er, Sharon?’

  ‘Father’s dead and she’s got one sister. Does she … Anyone broke the news to her, yet?’

  ‘I should think she’s probably heard by now, yes.’

  ‘Poor kid. She’ll be real upset, I expect.’

  ‘Even though they were separated?’