Relatively Dangerous

by Roderic Jeffries

  Alvarez perplexedly looked at it.

  ‘I have never before seen such slovenly untidiness. Have you forgotten the maxim, ex nihilo nihil fit?’

  ‘Er . . .’

  ‘In future your desk will be tidy at all times and your papers up-to-date and correctly filed. One more point; when you have occasion to pursue an investigation before reporting here in the morning, you will tell the duty guard so that he can inform anyone who inquires where you are. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, señor.’

  ‘I do not expect to have to refer to the matter again. Now, you fly to England tomorrow morning . . .’

  ‘I what?’

  ‘Kindly do not interrupt me. It is necessary for you to go because they stubbornly refuse to accept that it was Steven Taylor who died on this island last Wednesday week. Quite clearly, they are both unwilling and unable to accept that their own investigations of three years ago were incompetently handled. In consequence, you will now prepare a report on Taylor’s death, detailing the facts in such a manner that they, despite their ludicrous pride, can no longer claim that they are right and we are wrong.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Thanks to your initial lateness, I am now going to have great difficulty in arriving on time for my appointment.’ He walked over to the door, put his hand on the handle, stopped. ‘It occurs to me that it would be best if I read through your report before you leave so that the necessary corrections can be made. Your plane takes off at eleven, which calls for you to check-in by ten . . . Be at my office at eight-thirty.’

  ‘But. . .’

  ‘Well?’

  Alvarez realized that it would not be politic to point out that that would mean his leaving home at some quite ungodly hour. ‘Nothing, señor.’

  ‘It would clearly help you more closely to emulate justum et tenacem propositi virum.’

  ‘Yes, señor.’

  The comisario opened the door and left.

  The main CID room at Brackleigh Divisional HQ was very large and it contained a dozen desks; at the far end, a space was partitioned off to form the detective-sergeant’s room. Detective-Sergeant Wallace, a round, cheerful man, with the beginning of a double chin, finished reading the report which Alvarez had translated into English. He leaned back in his chair. ‘I’ve got to admit that that seems definite. The son identified the father. So that presents us with the interesting question: Who did we bury?’ He reached over for a folder and read one of the loose pages inside. ‘How much do you know about our end of things?’

  ‘Very little, señor.’

  ‘Let’s cut out this señor talk. I’m Ian and you’re . . .?’

  ‘Enrique.’

  ‘Right . . . I’ll fill you in. When your initial request about tracing the next-of-kin of Steven Thompson came in, we shunted it to the passport people. As you know, they came back with the news that the passport had been pinched some four years back. That rang the alarm bells and we asked you for further details. You then identified Steven Thompson as Steven Arthur Taylor, late of Keene House, Middle Cross. Because he’d been travelling on a stolen passport, we put his name through the computer and that came up with the information that he’d one conviction for fraud and was dead.’

  He turned over a page, read for a while. ‘His style of fraud wasn’t original, but he was extraordinarily successful at it. I gather that basically it’s a simple scheme and if the operator is very careful, not even illegal. He buys a load of shares which are quoted very low and sets out to sell them for considerably more than he paid for them. Obviously, this calls for a seller with the gift of the gab and a buyer who’s either a natural sucker or else has a streak of larceny in his make-up and who, when presented with a share he’s told he can buy cheaply only because someone else is being tricked into selling before discovering it’s worth many times its quoted price, rushes to buy . . . Taylor only ran into trouble when he let his tongue run too far ahead of the facts —drunk on his own verbosity. The judge at the trial— which was quite some time ago now—was an old fool who was gullible enough to believe Taylor’s fervent promises to reform and so handed out a suspended sentence instead of sending him to jail . . .

  ‘This brings us to a little over three years ago. Word reached us that he was back to his old tricks and had overstepped the line again. We started making inquiries and eventually discovered it was true and the papers were sent to the DPP for his decision on whether to prosecute; the point at issue was, were Taylor’s actions just legal or had they slipped into being illegal? It was a very abstruse point, the kind that makes a lawyer break open a celebratory bottle of champagne. Things were at that stage when he was involved in a car crash which killed him.

  ‘Obviously, when someone under investigation has a car crash and his body is so badly burned that it is not immediately recognizable, we need to be convinced that it is his body . . . What did we have here? The car was his. It had skidded off a wet road, gone through a stone parapet and crashed below, bursting into flames. The road wasn’t a busy one and it was several minutes before another car came along. The driver of this raced off to the nearest house to raise the alarm and while he was away the burning car exploded.

  ‘When it was possible, the wreck was examined. The body had fallen on to its left-hand side and because part was pressed against solid metal, we had a section of clothing and flesh which escaped burning. This gave us points to check with the wife. When he’d left the house, he’d been wearing a sports coat which she described in some detail and a blue shirt; the section of unburned coat matched her description and the shirt was blue. She told us he’d a crescent-shaped scar on his left leg, a few inches above the knee; the corpse showed signs of a crescent-shaped scar above the left knee. He’d worn dentures; we contacted his dentist who identified the dentures from the corpse as his. There was an autopsy. The deceased had not been murdered, he had died from a massive coronary thrombosis. Finally, there was not one person recently reported missing who could possibly have been the dead man.’

  ‘That would normally seem conclusive,’ said Alvarez.

  ‘You can say that again. But now you tell us that he died in Majorca almost a fortnight ago, identified by his son, so that the corpse in the car was not his. Which raises the sixty-four thousand dollar question, how and where did he find a dead man, near enough his own age and build to be passed off as him (the evidence about the scar shows his wife was an accomplice—which in turn suggests why she sold up and left the country soon afterwards), who died a natural death and whose disappearance created no disturbance?’

  ‘An undertaker?’

  ‘I’d say that that’s it in one. What’s more, it would need to be a busy undertaker in order to provide the wide choice there would have to be for him to find a suitable candidate. And even then, it would still take time for the exact combination to turn up, which explains why he didn’t fake his death when he first realized we were on to him, but waited until the last moment. He couldn’t do anything else.’

  They were silent for a moment, thinking about what had just been said. Wallace was the first to speak. ‘I seem to remember that your report mentioned he might have been on the island on business. Was he working the same old game with the expats there?’

  ‘I haven’t been able to find out exactly what he was doing. Even his own son did not . . . That is, I believed the son when he said he did not know what his father was doing on the island, but now I begin to wonder.’

  ‘He may have known, or guessed, but been too ashamed to speak?’

  ‘That must be very possible. The son’s relationship with his father was obviously a very stormy one, but there was still natural love. A son would always want to defend his father’s reputation.’

  CHAPTER 12

  Brackleigh was a market town set among well-wooded countryside, some eight miles back from the coast. Not on any direct road route to London, its railway a branch line with a poor service, it had never become a commuters’ town and had thereby escaped much of the sad devel
opment which had scarred so many other towns in the county.

  The undertaker’s premises were to the west of, and on the edge of, the town, a very convenient location since both churches were also to the west, while the crematorium was three miles further out. Wallace led the way into the reception area. A middle-aged woman asked them in a hushed voice how she could help them and Wallace said he’d like a word with Mr Gates, if free. A moment or two later, she escorted them through the Hall of Loving Care, where half a dozen coffins in different styles were tastefully on view, and into a large office.

  Gates was tall, broad-shouldered, slim-waisted. He had a wide, rubbery face, an air of solicitude, and a voice with treacly undertones. He was dressed in black coat, stiff collar and black tie, and striped trousers. He shook hands with a firm, but moist grip. ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. I am delighted to make your acquaintances. Miss Carol, would you be kind enough to provide two chairs?’

  She had already set one chair in front of the desk and now she put a second one alongside it. She left, without a word.

  ‘Miss Carol,’ said Gates, as he returned round the desk and sat, ‘informed me that you wished to ask me certain questions. I shall be delighted to assist in any way I can.’

  Tine,’ said Wallace, who’d taken an instinctive and immediate dislike to the undertaker, but was trying not to show this. ‘I think I’m right in saying that your firm conducted the funeral of Steven Arthur Taylor, of Keene House, Middle Cross, three years ago last March?’

  ‘Who did you say?’ asked Gates, inclining his head as if to hear more clearly, although previously he had shown no signs of deafness.

  ‘Steven Arthur Taylor.’

  ‘I do not immediately recognize the name as one of our passed-ons, but you will, I know, understand that we conduct so many laying-to-rests that it is not possible for me to remember all the names.’

  ‘But you’ll keep records?’

  ‘Since the day this firm was founded the name of every passed-on has been recorded in the Book of Loving Remembrance.’

  ‘Then will you check?’

  Gates gestured with his plump, very white, smooth right hand. ‘Naturally, I am eager to accede to your request. But will you first acquaint me with the reason for it? If you will excuse the little conceit, I regard myself as the guardian of the memories of those whose layings-at-rest I have conducted and I would not like to think that I have in any way betrayed that guardianship.’

  Wallace said: ‘My companion is Inspector Alvarez, from Majorca.’

  ‘From Mallorca? . . . Please pardon my small correction, but I endeavour always to refer to a country or town in the same style as do the inhabitants; a subtle compliment to them . . . Mallorca. An island of beauty and charm. But no doubt you are well aware of its many virtues?’

  ‘I’ve never been there. Inspector Alvarez has been investigating an accident in which a man died. His name was Steven Arthur Taylor.’

  Gates rested his elbows on the desk, joined the tips of his fingers together to form a triangle, brushed the tips of his middle fingers backwards and forwards across the hairs which grew out of his nostrils. ‘Forgive me, but I fear I have become confused. Did you not previously ask me whether we had laid to rest Mr Steven Arthur Taylor three years ago last March?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I do not understand.’

  ‘I’m wondering if you buried a man who wasn’t dead.’

  ‘Sergeant, surely you cannot begin to believe that we, or any other member of our honourable profession, could possibly lay to rest someone in whom the breath of life still lingers? Such a happening belongs only to the lowest and most disagreeable fiction.’

  ‘That’s good news for anyone in a coma, only it’s not what I’m talking about. But before we go any further, suppose you check if you did handle his funeral?’

  Gates, his expression pained, used the intercom to ask for the Book of Loving Remembrance to be brought in. A moment later, Miss Carol carried in a large, leather-bound ledger and carefully laid this on the desk. She left, again without a word. Gates put on a pair of spectacles and opened the ledger. After a while, he looked up. ‘Steven Arthur Taylor, who had resided at Keene House, Middle Cross, was laid to rest on the sixteenth of March, three years ago.’

  ‘Then how come he was buried a fortnight ago in Majorca?’

  Gates sat back and interlocked his fingers across his lower chest. ‘That is quite impossible.’

  ‘It is what happened,’ said Alvarez.

  ‘No, señor. It cannot be what happened.’

  ‘His body was exhumed and his son identified it.’

  Then I can only suggest. . .’

  ‘Come off it,’ said Wallace crudely. ‘Where’s your body buried?’

  ‘Are you referring to Steven Arthur Taylor who passed on three years ago last March?’

  ‘I’m referring to the man you buried, who most certainly wasn’t Steven Arthur Taylor. Which cemetery is his grave in?’

  ‘He was not laid to rest in a cemetery. His family wished him to be welcomed by the divine flame.’

  ‘What’s that mean—cremated?’

  Gates inclined his head.

  ‘How very convenient.’

  ‘For those who do not subscribe to tradition . . .’

  ‘For those who don’t want an exhumation.’

  ‘All the proper certificates were presented.’

  ‘I’m sure they were.’

  Gates’s expression was blandly patient, but he could not quite hide the sharp watchfulness of his deep brown eyes.

  ‘What other male funerals did you carry out during the previous week?’

  ‘I do not think I am at liberty to answer that. As the guardian . . .’

  ‘Then I’ll get a warrant.’

  Gates sighed. ‘I fear, Sergeant, that you are not of a sympathetic nature.’

  ‘In this case, you’re right, I’m not. Now, do I get the names, or do I get a warrant?’

  Gates leaned forward, adjusted his spectacles, read, and then slowly and reverently named ten people.

  ‘Which of those was in his forties and died from coronary thrombosis?’

  ‘I cannot possibly answer.’

  ‘You must have seen the death certificates.’

  ‘Of course. But I never record such details since when one has passed on, one’s mortal . . .’

  ‘Give me the names again, this time with the dates of the funerals. I’ll check ‘em out.’ Wallace wrote down the list. ‘Which were buried and which cremated?’

  Gates provided these further details, then said very earnestly: ‘Sergeant, may I ask that if you insist on disturbing their memories, that at least you conduct your inquiries with all due decorum?’

  Wallace arrived at the hotel at which Alvarez was staying at six-thirty that evening and suggested they had a drink at a country pub he knew and liked. During the drive, Alvarez stared at the lush, green pastures and heavy crops and mentally compared them with those at home where, unless there was water for irrigation, pastures were burned off by the sun and crops were light. Then he stared up at the cloud-covered sky which had been threatening rain for hours and he ceased to envy the farmers whose lands promised such wealth.

  The Five Legged Horse stood on crossroads, opposite what had once been the village shop, but was now a private house. The pub, reputedly an old smugglers’ cottage— history, however, did not record any period of great smuggling activity in the area—had been modernized several years previously, but this had been done with taste and a happy lack of plastics, chrome, and humorous drawings.

  ‘What’ll it be. then?’ asked Wallace.

  Alvarez would have liked a brandy, but knew from experience that the size of an English tot would have shamed even a Basque, while its cost would be beyond disbelief.

  ‘A lager, if they have one,’ he answered, choosing to be safe.

  They sat at one of the small, round tables. Wallace opened a bag of crisps and pushed this acros
s, raised his glass. ‘The first today and all the sweeter for that.’ He drank, put the glass down, helped himself to a couple of crisps, munched those as he brought a sheet of paper from the breast pocket of his sports coat. ‘I got one of my DCs to check out the death certificates; here’s the result.’

  Alvarez read down the list. ‘The only real possibility is this man of forty-nine who was also cremated.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But is there any way of being certain?’

  ‘I’d say we can be certain. The question is: Can we ever prove it? I suppose we might be able to trace out the evidence of the money Gates was paid to work the switch, but I doubt it. If you want my opinion, he’s so bloody fly that only an insecticide will ever fix him.’ Wallace contained a belch. ‘Excuse me. Indigestion. The missus says it’s because I eat too much fried food. I tell her, if the canteen didn’t fry the food, we wouldn’t be able to eat it.’ He reached down to a pocket and brought out a small pack of tablets, one of which he swallowed. ‘I’ve never read the instructions, in case they say, not to be taken with alcohol!’

  Wallace’s actions and his words recalled a scene for Alvarez. He remembered Higham’s description of the meal in the restaurant up in the mountains and how Taylor had hardly drunk anything because to do so might be to trigger off the attack of migraine which the pill was meant to prevent . . . And how the subsequent violent illness had, according to himself, resembled no other attack of migraine he had ever endured . . .