*
The flight on Monday was one that Alvarez would never forget. Halfway through, when the first of the lunch trays was being collected, there was an announcement over the speaker system asking passengers to fasten their seat-belts as there was the possibility of turbulence ahead. For ten minutes nothing happened. Then, with not even a preliminary lurch, the plane had — at least, in his fevered imagination — looped-the-loop, performed a couple of Immelmann turns, and cartwheeled across the sky like a fourteen-year-old in the Olympic gymnastics. When it was finally over, he didn’t praise the designers and builders who’d put such strength into the plane, he cursed them. In a trembling voice, he called for a double brandy. The air hostess who brought it said, in her calm-the-passenger voice, that that had been rather fun, hadn’t it? For the first time in his life, he was sorely tempted to strike a woman.
They arrived at Heathrow, this being an Iberia flight, and such was the measure of what he’d already been through that the actual landing caused him no further distress.
*
He’d been booked into a small hotel, run by Spaniards from Galicia, which was in South Kensington and catered exclusively for package tours from Spain. The husband, his manner polite but cold, showed him to his room; the husband had left Spain many years before, when the police were to be feared and avoided at all costs.
Alvarez washed his face in the handbasin, then crossed to the window and looked out. It had recently been raining heavily and the road was glistening and the heavy traffic was throwing up dirty spray; pedestrians were wearing mackintoshes or carrying umbrellas. Although it was barely six hours since he’d stepped out of the house in Calle Juan Rives into harsh sunshine, he knew a sudden and bitter homesickness.
Detective-Sergeant Jennings arrived at the hotel at a quarter to five and they settled in the small reading-room that was otherwise empty. He offered a pack of Senior Service. ‘I hope we can help you on this one,’ he said, as he held out a lighter. He was a tall, rangy man, with a round face in which were lines of humour. ‘But frankly, I’m not quite clear what it is you’re after?’
‘I have to confess, señor, that no more am I.’
‘Then we’re off to a good start!’ Jennings’s smile robbed the words of any possible offence.
A waiter entered and, in Spanish, asked them if they’d like anything; Alvarez ordered coffee. Then, when they were once more on their own, he gave a brief résumé of the Cullom case. The waiter returned with coffee and rather sickly-looking individual cakes as Alvarez finished speaking.
Jennings poured himself a coffee after filling Alvarez’s cup. ‘It’s all ifs and buts, isn’t it?’
‘I am afraid so.’
‘But as you say, the point to start at is the accident to Basil Cullom last year. Have you a note of his address, whether he was married, and the date of the crash?’
‘He was married, but he’d no children.’ Alvarez brought a notebook out of the pocket of his coat and opened it. ‘He lived at Brecton Cottage, Astonwater, near Keswick. I’ve spoken to Amelia Hart and she says that his widow has continued to live there after his death.’
‘And the date of the crash?’
‘I can’t say any more exactly than that it was about the beginning of March of last year.’
‘That should be good enough.’ Jennings finished writing and looked up. ‘And you think it wasn’t a straight accidental crash?’
‘I know nothing for certain. Amelia Hart says he lived up a fairly steep hill and something went wrong with the car when he was driving down. She and her husband very nearly crashed in Mallorca in February of this year when the brakes of their car failed on a hill. The owner of the garage where the car was repaired called me in because he reckoned the brake line might have been sabotaged. At the time, the Harts said that that was impossible. But … ’
‘But now you’re thinking that this is the kind of coincidence that stinks!’
*
Tuesday was a cloudy day, but at least there was no rain. Alvarez walked out of the hotel at half past ten the following morning and took the tube to Tower Hill. There was a long queue to enter the Tower of London; left to himself, he would have turned back, but Dolores had been quite definite. For years and years she had longed to visit the Tower of London, walk across London Bridge, and stand outside Buckingham Palace. Since she believed she would never have the chance to do any of those things, he was to do them for her and then report to her every last detail.
Two and half hours later he left, limping slightly and his right hip sore from the careless charge of an eight-year-old with a pointed parcel. Halfway up the slightly rising road was a free seat and gratefully he settled on it. He stared across the road at a crowd of children around an ice-cream stall. All bridges were, he decided, basically the same and therefore there was no need actually to walk across London Bridge to describe what it was like to walk across it. And Buckingham Palace could be viewed just as clearly from the inside of a taxi as from the pavement …
He wondered how far away was the nearest pub and whether the unbelievable laws allowed it to serve drinks at this time of day?
*
Jennings telephoned the hotel at nine the next morning and expressed relief at catching Alvarez before he left: Alvarez did not bother to mention that he was still in bed.
‘I’ve some news, but rather than give it to you right now I’d like to come along to the hotel to discuss it. OK if I arrive in about half an hour?’
The reading-room was empty and they went in there again.
‘I had a word with an opposite number in the Cumbrian force,’ Jennings said, ‘and asked him to make a few discreet inquiries. He got back on to me earlier this morning. Basil Cullom owned an old Ford and according to his garage there was quite a problem in getting it through its last test. In fact, they advised him to buy a new one, but he said he couldn’t afford to.
‘His house is halfway up a fair-sized hill. The road’s steep and there’s a right-hand bend that’s sharp. He left home on the way to work, drove off down the hill and failed to take the bend. It’s only a minor road, serving half a dozen houses in all, and there was no efficient barrier except on the actual apex of the bend, and even then it wasn’t a strong one. Off the road there’s a slope which soon becomes precipitous. He wasn’t wearing the seat-belt and the car slammed into a boulder at the bottom. Death was instantaneous.
‘The question of insurance arose and the insurance company demanded a mechanical inspection of the wreck. If you ask me, they hoped they’d discover that the last test had been fudged and the car hadn’t been roadworthy, freeing them from all responsibility. Anyway, the car was checked and it was discovered that the brakes were defective. But it wasn’t wear and tear, it was a fractured brake line. There was doubt about the cause and the police were called in. They made inquiries, but these convinced them that as there was no known reason for anyone to have sabotaged the car, and as the fault could have been caused by a sharp stone thrown up by a front tyre, the cause of the failure was accidental. That was that. The insurance company had to pay up.’
‘The facts are the same!’ said Alvarez, his voice excited. ‘Now there are too many coincidences, even for my superior chief.’
His excitement was replaced by familiar bewilderment. ‘But why murder Basil Cullom? What is to be gained by his death? Or do we have one cousin so filled with hate and envy that he’s blindly killing or wrecking the lives of his other cousins?’
‘Could it be that?’
‘No. I’m sure it couldn’t. They didn’t like each other — Amelia Hart was an exception — but surely none of them could be so stupid? No!’ He slammed his hand down on the table. He failed to note Jennings’s quick smile. ‘The motive is the money.’
‘But you told me that under the existing will that virtually all goes to Alan Cullom; while under the draft will, never executed, it would all have gone to the wife-to-be.’
‘Which makes it ridiculous, unless Alan
Cullom is the murderer of Steven. But if he is, why murder Basil? Why try and murder Amelia?’
‘A man who murders his brother, even where that sort of money is concerned, surely has to be round the bend in the ordinary sense of the word? If so, maybe he’s working off his spite even though doing so isn’t to his financial advantage in every case. Are you so certain that Alan Cullom didn’t murder his brother?’
‘Yes.’ But was he? How far had emotion submerged logic? He didn’t know. He wouldn’t let himself know.
‘I’ve been having a think or two.’Jennings paused, then said: ‘Something began to stir at the back of my mind.’
‘What kind of something?’
‘I’d rather not answer that directly because I could be so hopelessly wrong. But what I suggest is that we go along now to my place and have a word with a bloke there who’s a legal pundit as well as a copper. He might be able to tell us if there is anything in the idea.’
They left the hotel and went by taxi to the modern slab concrete and glass building which now housed Scotland Yard. A lift took them up to the ninth floor and a short walk brought them to an office in which were three desks, a couple of filing cabinets, and a large bookcase filled with text books. Only one man was present and Jennings introduced him. Inspector Wheeldon.
They placed two chairs in front of the centre desk, then sat. Jennings said: ‘Inspector Alvarez has come along with a load of facts that obviously point to something, but neither of us can work out what. I thought you might be able to help, sir.’
‘I very much doubt it,’ replied Wheeldon with cheerful pessimism. ‘But let’s find out.’
Alvarez detailed concisely all that had happened. At the conclusion, Wheeldon laced his fingers together and then revolved his thumbs around each other. He smiled briefly. ‘Couldn’t you add a few more complications?’
‘Señor,’ began Alvarez, ‘I am very sorry … ’
‘No need to be. As a matter of fact, I rather go for something like this instead of the usual trouble where the facts are banal and the law’s obvious. Tell me something: just how certain are you that Alan Cullom is not guilty of murdering his brother?’
‘I am positive. But as I’ve just said, the evidence seems to point conclusively to his guilt.’
Wheeldon abruptly unlocked his hands, swivelled the chair round, and reached out to open the right-hand door of the bookcase. He brought out a book, laid this down on the desk, checked the index, found the page he wanted. He read for a few minutes and as he did so he hummed. He brought out a second book and consulted that. The humming rose, then stopped abruptly as he sat back. ‘I can offer a solution. How valid it is depends on the answers to one or two questions … In this country we have a law, common I believe to many countries, which lays it down that a person convicted of a crime may not be allowed to enjoy the fruits of that crime. In this case, if Alan Cullom is convicted of murdering his brother, he will not be allowed to inherit under his brother’s will.
‘When a bequest fails in this manner, unless there is a clause which covers the eventuality, the testator is held to have died intestate as to that amount. Apart from the bequests to charity, then, the whole of Steven Cullom’s English estate will be held to be subject to the rules of intestacy.
‘These rules are quite clear. The order of succession is, surviving spouse, children, father or mother, brothers and sisters of the whole blood, brothers and sisters of the half blood, grandparents, uncles and aunts of the whole blood, and so on.’ He said to Alvarez: ‘Now, you’ve said that Steven Cullom’s wife died some time ago. At the time of his death was he survived by children, parents, brothers and sisters other than Alan, grandparents, or aunts and uncles?’
‘He had no children and his parents died before his wife. Alan was his sole brother. His only other living relations were his cousins.’
‘That’s clear enough. Referring back to the laws governing succession under intestacy, persons lose their right to inherit unless they or their issue survive the intestate and reach the age of eighteen. Succession then is per stirpes, which means inheritance by family, not per caput.
‘Summing up, if Alan is found guilty of murder, Steven’s wealth will be shared out among those of his cousins who were alive at his death.’
Alvarez knew that faith, not reason, had been correct.
CHAPTER 22
The house was in a row of semi-detacheds, each with a tiny front garden and a slightly larger back one. Some had garages, some didn’t; they’d been built at a time when car ownership had still been confined to those who were, relatively speaking, reasonably well off. No. 14 differed from its neighbours only in that it had had a garage and this had been altered to provide a further bedroom.
Edith Ackroyd had a long, thin, angular face and a long, thin body. It was difficult to imagine that even in the first bloom of her youth she’d been physically attractive, but the warmth of her character was unmistakable. ‘Maurice? He’s not back from work for lunch, yet, but he shouldn’t be long.’ She looked curiously at them. ‘Would you like to wait?’
‘If we may, Mrs Ackroyd,’ said Mather, the detective-constable from the local force who’d driven Alvarez out from the centre of Oxford.
‘Then come along into the sitting-room. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to excuse the mess; I haven’t yet got round to tidying it up. We’ve four children at school and getting them off, shopping, and preparing lunch for Maurice who comes back every day, takes up so much time that it’s quite often the afternoon before I get around to tidying the house.’ Her tone suggested she wouldn’t have it any other way.
The sitting-room was clean but certainly untidy. Pages from a newspaper were lying on the sofa, four magazines straddled the floor, the TV Times was draped over the top of the TV set, an empty beer can was on the mantelpiece, and a radio cassette, with several tapes heaped up at its side, was on a small table on which were also a couple of opened paperbacks.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘My family can turn a room into a bear garden in no time flat.’ She began to collect up the pages of the newspaper.
‘It doesn’t look like your kids can match up to mine,’ said the detective-constable. ‘When I sat down last night I collected a half-eaten toffee which the youngest had spat out when he got fed up with it. Took the wife quite a time to clean my trousers.’
‘Ours have got past that stage, thank goodness. But I do keep remembering a friend who said that the older they get, the more trouble they become.’
‘Don’t let my wife hear that. The only thing that’s keeping her going at the moment is the thought that one of ’em will be off to school shortly.’
Edith put the newspaper and magazines down on the table after stacking the cassettes and closing the paperbacks. ‘Do sit down, now there’s a little room.’ She saw the beer can and hurried over, picked it up from the mantelpiece. ‘If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a dozen times, beer cans belong in the dustbin. There’s nothing looks so sordid the next morning.’
They heard the click of the front gate.
‘That must be Maurice now.’ She left the room, closing the door behind her.
A couple of minutes later, Ackroyd entered the sitting-room. ‘I gather you’re the law and you’d like a word about something?’ he said cheerfully.
‘That’s right. I’m Detective-Constable Mather and this is Inspector Alvarez, from Mallorca.’
‘From Mallorca? You’re a long way from home! … Something to do with Steve?’
‘Yes, señor.’
‘Amelia rang to say things seemed to be becoming complicated.’ He paused, then said: ‘What exactly has brought you over?’
‘It was not an accident.’
‘Does that mean he was definitely murdered?’
‘Yes, señor.’
‘Good God! … Who the hell would have done a thing like that?’
‘I am hoping you will be able to help me answer that. You knew him well?’
‘No, I
didn’t.’
‘Even though you were cousins?’
‘We don’t keep the same tight relationships that you do. And in any case … Well, the hard fact is that the Cullom cousins, with one exception, just didn’t get on together. Amelia’s the exception. You’ve probably met her?’
‘Yes, several times.’
‘She’s an astonishing woman, as you may have realized. Every time I see her, I understand that all the things I normally worry about — taxes, rates, the mortgage — really aren’t of the slightest account.’ He smiled sardonically. ‘Of course, such a mood of non-self doesn’t long survive my goodbye to her and soon I’m back with the taxes, rates, and mortgage … Anyway, all that aside, she’s managed to be friendly with the rest of us which is quite some feat. I call her the St Francis of go-betweens.’
‘You did not meet Steven Cullom very often?’
‘Perhaps three times in the past ten years. He didn’t even come to our wedding. And, of course, when he became so wealthy he entered a different plane and no longer knew we existed.’ He tried to speak with a sense of mocking humour, but his bitterness became obvious.
‘You have recently been to Mallorca?’
‘That’s quite right. Amelia, bless her heart, asked me out again and Edith, may she go straight to heaven but not for a long time yet, said she’d cope with the family on her own for a week.’
‘Did you visit the señor’s house at Santa Victoria?’
‘Amelia insisted we all ought to meet and rang Steve to try to arrange something. Thankfully, he made some ridiculous excuse. We did see each other at a cocktail-party, but we carefully didn’t get near enough to have to speak.’
‘When was your previous visit to Mallorca?’
‘That was back in January. Amelia had been been lent the house by Steve — probably to prove he’d got two houses — and she said to have a week with them. I went on my own, of course. With four kids to bring up, there’s no way we can have a holiday together unless we go camping … Look, why all these questions about what I’ve been doing?’
Layers of Deceit (An Inspector Alvarez Mystery Book 9) Page 16