Dead on Arrival

by Dorothy Simpson

  But Carpenter was waving his hand dismissively. ‘You needn’t bother. I remember it quite clearly, and in any case it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to deny anything, now or later. I killed Long, it’s as simple as that. And I can’t pretend I’m anything but glad.’

  Thanet wondered what Carpenter’s reaction would be, when he discovered that he had murdered the wrong man.

  ‘Do you want to tell us about it?’

  Carpenter nodded. ‘It’ll make it more real. Until today it’s all been so … fragmented, in my mind. At times I’ve even wondered if it was all a dream …’

  ‘But you don’t think so any longer?’

  ‘No. When I woke up this morning, I had a clear memory of what had happened, for the first time.’

  There was little that was new in Carpenter’s story. Thanet had already worked most of it out for himself.

  Carpenter had arrived in Hamilton Road at around a quarter past six. He thought that Long would probably be home from work by then. He knew where Long lived, even knew which was his flat, because at one point during the long months of waiting for Chrissie to regain consciousness he had gone to Hamilton Road with the intention of venting his anger and grief upon the man responsible for her condition. But Long had been out, Carpenter had come away unsatisfied, and the impulse which had driven him there had not returned – until Tuesday, after Chrissie’s death. On that occasion his purpose had been much more deadly. Quite simply, he had been bent on murder.

  ‘I’m sorry, may I interrupt for a moment, there?’ said Thanet.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How, exactly, did you intend to kill Mr Long?’

  ‘You may not believe this, Inspector, but I really hadn’t thought. I suppose I imagined I was going to choke the life out of him with my bare hands, or something like that … Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? The truth is, I was crazy, I suppose. I was just in a daze of grief and misery. When I got home from the hospital after my daughter … When I got home from the hospital I took a couple of Valium …’

  ‘What time was that?’ said Thanet, sharply.

  Carpenter frowned. ‘I’m not sure. Mid-afternoon, I suppose. Why?’

  ‘When we picked you up you’d obviously been drinking heavily. Whisky. Did you have anything to drink before you went to Hamilton Road?’

  ‘I’d certainly had a few, I admit.’

  ‘A few? What time did you start drinking, do you remember?’

  Carpenter frowned.

  ‘Around five, I should think.’

  ‘Thank you. Go on … You were saying that you got there at around a quarter past six.’

  ‘Somewhere around then.’

  He had just pulled up when in the light from the street-lamp he saw Long come running along the pavement and turn in to the driveway of number 3. Because of the combined effect of tranquillisers and alcohol his reaction was slow. Long had disappeared into the house before Carpenter had really registered who it was.

  Thanet and Lineham exchanged glances. That was Geoff. Steve was already home.

  Carpenter had taken one final long slug of whisky before getting out of the car and entering the house. As he came into the hall a door slammed at the back of the house, but he had paid no attention and had made his way up the stairs to Long’s flat. The door was ajar and Long was sitting on the settee, with his back to him. As Carpenter pushed the door open with his elbow Long turned his head, revealing himself in profile, and said, ‘You really are a bloody fool, you know.’ The words were a match to gunpowder. All Carpenter’s despair, suppressed by force of will throughout the long months of hope of Chrissie’s eventual recovery, erupted now in an explosion of anger against the man he saw as the murderer of his wife and child. With just enough sense left to realise that in his condition he was no match for a much younger and presumably fitter man, he had looked around wildly for a weapon. The ashtray had been to hand and he had grasped it, staggered forward the necessary couple of paces and brought it down on Long’s head with all the strength he could muster. Long had toppled forward and sprawled on the hearthrug. Carpenter had not waited to check that he was dead. Having done what he had set out to do, all he wanted now was to get away. Dropping the ashtray he had retreated back down the stairs and returned to his car.

  His story told, Carpenter lifted his hands and dropped them in his lap with a gesture of finality. ‘And that’s it, Inspector. After that, I can remember practically nothing.’

  But it wasn’t quite as simple as that, thought Thanet. Now they were coming to the really difficult part.

  ‘When you went into the room and the man said, “You really are a bloody fool, you know,” you assumed he was talking to you, personally?’

  ‘Yes, I did … Oh …’ Carpenter broke off and stared at Thanet, obviously taking his point. ‘I suppose he couldn’t have been. He didn’t actually turn his head far enough around to see who I was.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘I was pretty drunk, of course, and it simply didn’t occur to me that he could have been addressing someone else. There was no one else in the room.’

  ‘But the door was open, you remember. Didn’t that strike you as odd on a cold November evening?’

  Carpenter shook his head. ‘I can’t say it did. I’m sorry, Inspector, but I really wasn’t thinking logically … You’re implying, of course, that he was expecting someone.’

  ‘Expecting someone back, actually.’

  Thanet’s tone must have conveyed to Carpenter something of his reluctance to proceed beyond this point, because Carpenter looked at him sharply and said, ‘You’re working up to telling me something, aren’t you, Inspector. What?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Carpenter. There’s no way I can diminish the pain I’m going to cause you, when I tell you … He was expecting his twin back.’

  ‘His … twin?’

  Carpenter’s face went blank as he stared at Thanet and realised the implication of what Thanet had just said.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ he whispered at last. ‘You’re not trying to say …’

  ‘I’m afraid so. You killed the wrong man.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Thanet put an arm around Bridget’s shoulders and gave her a brief hug. ‘Good luck, then.’

  The South-East regional heats of the Junior Chef of the Year competition were about to get under way.

  The Fletcher Hall at the Black Swan, Sturrenden’s premier venue for wedding receptions, Ladies’ Nights and the glossier public functions, had been transformed for the occasion into something resembling the Domestic Science room of a well-equipped comprehensive school: gleaming electric cookers (by courtesy of the South-East Electricity Board), each with its surrounding island of work surfaces and basic cooking equipment, were spaced out along one side. Chairs for the audience waited expectantly, with reserved notices for the judges in the front row. It was now half past nine and doors would open to the public at ten thirty. The competitors had all arrived and were left to unpack their ingredients and equipment. Pairs of anxious parents were drifting towards the door, the Thanets among them. Ben was not there, having been picked for the school football team for the first time, to play in an away match.

  ‘She looks quite cheerful, don’t you think?’ said Thanet, with one last backward glance over his shoulder.

  Joan took his arm and smiled. ‘If practice makes perfect, she should be able to get through the whole thing blindfolded.’

  ‘She’s never done it with an audience before, though. It’s quite different.’

  ‘She’ll be all right.’ Joan gave Thanet’s arm a little shake. ‘Don’t worry, darling. I think you’re more nervous than she is.’

  ‘And you, of course, couldn’t care less.’

  She grinned back at him. ‘I just hide it better, that’s all.’

  ‘What on earth are we going to do for the next hour? It’s too early for coffee.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful morning. Let’s walk down to the river.’

  ‘Why
not?’

  It was still too early for the Saturday morning crowds to have arrived and they both enjoyed the novel experience of a leisurely stroll along Sturrenden’s picturesque High Street. At the bottom, near the river, it widens out into a broad, cobbled area called Market Square, and it was in a tranquil little Victorian cul-de-sac nearby that the Linehams lived.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ said Joan, glancing in that direction. ‘I forgot to tell you. I ran into Louise yesterday afternoon and they’ve got a reprieve.’

  ‘You mean, Mrs Lineham didn’t get the house?’

  ‘That’s right. Apparently the vendor had agreed that Mrs Lineham could have it provided no one came along with the ready money before the negotiations were too far advanced. Mrs Lineham, of course, has to wait to sell her own house. Anyway, she was unlucky. Some people who’ve been living abroad turned up, cash in hand, so to speak. So that was that.’

  ‘What a relief, eh? Perhaps it’ll compensate a bit for the disappointment over the promotion.’

  They strolled in silence for a few minutes and then Joan said, ‘You didn’t have a chance to tell me properly what Superintendent Parker said, about Mr Hines’s complaint.’

  After Carpenter’s arrest yesterday, there had been much to do. Thanet had managed to get home to supper and tell Joan the gist of what had happened, but it had been difficult with the children about, and she had long been in bed and asleep when he eventually got home in the early hours. He had been determined to clear up as much of the paperwork as possible in order to be free this morning.

  ‘Ah, yes. Well, it was most impressive, really. I’m still not sure how he did it, but he somehow managed to reprimand me and compliment me at the same time. And he persuaded Hines to let the matter drop. Reading between the lines I got the impression that he’d hinted that it was Hines who’d come off worst if he pursued the matter – be made to look a bit of a fool. And of course Hines wouldn’t enjoy that one little bit.’

  ‘Odious man,’ said Joan, with feeling.

  ‘Not my favourite policeman, I agree.’

  They had reached the bridge now and they descended the long flight of stone steps to the paved walkway along the river bank. It was another perfect late autumn day: bright sunshine, cloudless sky and crisp, cool air still tinged with a breath of early-morning frost. There was no wind, and the bare branches of the cherry trees hung in motionless contemplation of their mirror-images in the water below. A pair of swans and a gaggle of assorted ducks converged on the Thanets, eyeing them hopefully.

  ‘We should have brought some bread,’ said Joan.

  ‘We didn’t know we’d be coming down to the river, did we?’

  ‘Luke, last night, after you’d gone back to work, I was thinking about the case … How did Steve react, when he knew his plan had failed? Was he angry?’

  ‘Strangely enough, no. Initially I think he felt defeated, fed up, and then he was, well, just resigned, I suppose. It was as if, all along, he never really believed he could pull it off.’

  ‘That fits. Nothing’s ever gone right for him, has it? By now it would be surprising if he didn’t automatically expect things to go wrong. What about his family? How did they feel, when they heard the news?’

  Thanet grimaced. ‘I don’t think they knew what they felt, especially as they heard at the same time that he was under arrest for the murder of Marge Jackson. To be honest, I think his mother and two brothers would have been relieved if he’d stayed “dead”. I don’t think any of them cares tuppence about him. Sharon, of course, is a different matter. I think she’s genuinely fond of him, but finds it impossible to cope with him.’ Thanet shook his head. ‘It’s difficult to tell how she feels. I don’t think she really knows, herself. Relieved … Appalled … Sorry for him … Of course, as far as he’s concerned, the one good thing about having been found out is that, theoretically at least, he now has a chance of edging his way back into her life.’

  ‘I still find it difficult to believe that she identified the body as Steve, when it was Geoff. Oh I know you’ll say they were identical twins, but even so … her husband … And she still insisted that it was Steve, even after you’d put to her the possibility that it might be Geoff.’

  ‘Yes, but you’ve got to remember that people in that particular situation don’t look very carefully. They are in a highly emotional state, and they see what they expect to see. They expect the dead body to look different from the live person they knew. And in this instance, Sharon had been told that her husband had been found dead in his flat, therefore she expected to see Steve’s body in the mortuary. So she did. Why on earth should she think it was his twin brother? Even after I suggested the possibility, it would have seemed a very bizarre notion to her.’

  ‘Yes, I see what you mean …’

  They walked in silence for a minute or two and then Joan said, ‘What I don’t see, though, is how you made the connection between the two cases.’

  ‘Ah, now that’s much more difficult to explain. But I’ll try. You remember the night we sat up late, talking? Well, afterwards, I found it impossible to get to sleep, so for a while I read that book Doc Mallard lent me. Then I just lay there, thinking – trying to relate what I’d been reading to Steve and Geoff, and going over everything that had happened during the day. And suddenly it all just … coalesced.’

  ‘But how? Why?’

  ‘It was simply a matter of a lot of apparently unrelated little facts coming together and making sense. As I say, I’d been thinking of Geoff and Steve, and how Geoff was the only person in the family who had even bothered to send Steve a birthday card. And I suppose it crossed my mind to wonder if he’d given him a present, too. Then I was thinking about the murder weapon, the ashtray, and wondering where it was, thinking it had probably been dumped somewhere, like the jacket in Hines’s case. And I thought about the jacket itself, with that very unusual design on the back, the red dragon, and suddenly I remembered that when I’d gone to Geoff’s house, in amongst all the stuff he was in the process of packing, I’d seen two brand-new Welsh blankets, still in their polythene bags. I recognised them because of the distinctive pattern that’s woven into them – if you remember, your mother brought one back when she went to Wales on holiday last year. And suddenly I thought, of course! The red dragon – the national emblem of Wales! What if the jacket had been bought in Wales? What if Geoff had bought it, at the same time as the blankets, and had given it to Steve, as a birthday present? What if Steve was the murderer of Mrs Jackson?

  ‘It seemed such a wild idea that at first I didn’t know whether to take it seriously, but the more I thought about it, the more I came to believe it could, just possibly, be true.’ Thanet grinned. ‘I didn’t tell you, but I sat up half the night, in the kitchen, thinking about it. Because once I’d decided it could be true I started to work out how it might affect our investigation, and I realised at once that it could provide a missing link. Up until then we could see no reason why Geoff should have murdered Steve, or vice versa. But now, if Geoff had given that jacket to Steve, and had seen the television appeal, if that was why he went to see Steve early on Tuesday evening – to persuade him to give himself up … If Steve had refused, then lost his temper, killed him and then changed places with him, to save his own skin …’

  ‘An awful lot of “ifs”.’

  ‘I know. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you who I thought the murderer was, yesterday morning. I wanted to check one or two things first – whether or not Geoff had in fact given Steve the jacket, and whether or not that leg injury which Steve had had as a child was the kind to show up in an adult. If so, I knew I had him. The body which was supposed to be Steve’s had no such injury. But the more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that I was right, and Steve had taken Geoff’s place. There were various things which backed up the idea.’

  Briefly, Thanet explained about Steve’s left-handedness, about the weight difference, and about Steve’s reputed ability to mimic Geoff.
‘Debbie, Frank May’s wife, had told me that Steve had made them laugh by “taking Geoff off”.’

  ‘Ah, I did wonder,’ said Joan. ‘I must admit I thought it a bit unlikely that Steve, who’d had to leave school at sixteen, would be able to imitate convincingly the vocabulary and speech patterns of a graduate.’ She spotted a crust of bread lying on the grass, a leftover from the previous day’s largesse. She stooped to pick it up, then broke it into several pieces and tossed it into the ever-hopeful little flotilla of ducks which had been cruising along, keeping pace with them. For a few moments there was flapping, squawking bedlam.

  ‘Pity we haven’t got any more,’ she said.

  ‘Do you think ducks like lemon flummery?’ said Thanet. ‘We could always pop down after the competition’s over.’

  They both laughed. ‘I’m not sure Sprig would appreciate that,’ said Joan. ‘And talking about the competition, what’s the time?’

  Thanet consulted his watch. ‘Ten o’clock. Better be getting back.’

  They turned, unconsciously speeding up a little.

  ‘No,’ said Thanet, picking up the thread of their coversation again. ‘I think – well, in fact I know – that you’re underestimating Steve. The IQ of twins is very similar, and the findings in the book were quite positive. There might be some personality differences owing to dissimilar environmental influences, but there was still an astonishing resemblance between identical twins brought up apart, in terms of voice, habits, mannerisms … I’m not saying it would have been easy for Steve to step into Geoff’s shoes, but he had a better chance of succeeding than most, especially as the adoptive mother was dead. He had a lot to lose if he was found out, remember, and I should think the thought of a murder charge would be enough to make anyone give the performance of his life …

  ‘No, I think the impersonation was feasible, but a strain. It was interesting how quickly he reverted to his own accent once he knew that I could actually prove he was Steve. Where I went wrong was in jumping to the conclusion that if Steve had taken Geoff’s place, then he was also the one who killed him.’