And here were the damned police, even as I thought it. Only one of them, though, Inspector Oliver Simpson. Didn’t they work in pairs when it came to the serious stuff? Wasn’t I entitled to a WPC, to hold my hand if they reduced me to tears?
This was a very concerned and solemn Oliver Simpson, even harassed. He seemed a little embarrassed, too, the way he said, ‘And how’re you feeling today?’
‘Perfectly all right — I think.’ I could read his eyes. Not distraught with grief, I thought. ‘I’d kind of got used to it, you know. Graham being dead.’
‘But you said you couldn’t accept that. You insisted he was alive.’ Already he was challenging every word I said. A definite change had taken place.
‘He could well have been alive…then. What I mean is —’
‘I know what you mean.’
There was a long, cool silence. Something stood between us, an uncertainty. Then I broke it.
‘Why don’t you sit down?’
‘I think I’d rather stand, if you don’t mind.’ Then he smiled, that glorious open smile that caught at my throat. ‘Then I can walk up and down and not have to watch your face all the time.’
‘This is official, then?’
‘On the contrary. If that were so I’d not be alone, and I wouldn’t take my eyes from your face for a second. That’s fate for you. Unofficial and warm, and I daren’t watch your reactions. Official and cold, and I’d have to.’
‘Warm, Oliver?’ I asked, seizing on the important word.
‘At this stage, yes. I’ve been recalled on to the case — which is now positively murder, by the way — but at the moment I’m off duty. Having been on all night.’
‘You haven’t had any rest?’ I asked in concern. There had been something bright and brittle in his eyes.
‘I’ll catch up.’
‘And — you say — now definitely murder?’
‘One, at least, must be. Why don’t you sit down, Philipa?’
So I sat. One of them had to be! I needed to sit. ‘Can you explain that? One has to be murder.’
He went to stare out of the window. For a moment I watched him with concern. He was tensed, full of nervous energy. He turned.
‘Either the man in the car killed Graham, and then died, by accident or suicide, or Graham killed him, and later took his own life.’
‘But surely…’ I stopped. Surely? Nothing was sure and certain.
‘Yes?’
‘Well, surely Graham must have…must have taken his own life, having killed the other man. And the very sequence of the deaths… Graham must’ve died a couple or more days — a week or so — after the other one.’
‘And yet, we’ve been unable to show how that other man could’ve been killed in the way he died. And yes, before you say it, we’ve searched for a rope that could’ve been used to tie the car back. What d’you think we’ve been doing all night — still are doing? And we’ve found nothing.’
‘That…that…’ I shook my head clear. Face it. No way round it. ‘That rope in the farmhouse — couldn’t that have been used?’
He walked around a little. He stared again at the fascinating street. Empty street. It was a Sunday. ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘I quite agree. That’s the obvious thing, and it would’ve tied things up nicely.’ He gave a tiny snap of a laugh. ‘Kind of a pun there.’ He ran a hand over his head. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit lightheaded. But as I say, that would have been the obvious solution. Unfortunately, it doesn’t fit.’
‘Yes. Go on.’ Because he’d stopped.
‘Well, that rope in the farmhouse…it must have been the tow-rope out of the Volvo. Do you remember it?’
‘Oh yes. It was in the boot for years, and never used. Blue nylon rope, about half an…’
‘…inch thick, yes.’ He was jumping in with nervous impatience. ‘But — do you remember the ends?’
‘Ends? Not particularly.’
‘Nylon unravels, you see. It’s like that. When a length’s made up as a specific thing, such as a tow-rope, then they seal the ends by binding round the last inch or so and bonding the ends with heat. It kind of melts into itself. And that rope was intact. It’d been thrown over an exposed beam, and a sort of slip-knot put in one end and pulled tight…’
‘Yes, Oliver.’
‘Then a sort of rudimentary noose tied in the other.’
‘All right.’
‘And put round his neck.’
‘All right, Oliver!’
He grunted, then walked away from me, prowled round the room a couple of times, paused to make a gesture of frustration, then did another circuit.
‘You might as well say it,’ I told him.
‘I suppose so. It’s driving me crazy. That rope couldn’t have been used as a restraint for the Volvo. It would’ve done the trick, held the car on a slippy slope while you got back up to the lane and cut it. But cut it, you see. Nobody could’ve untied it, with that load on it. And that length of rope was intact. Nothing cut. It’s like a conjuring trick, where you see him cut the string, and then there’s no cut. Driving me clean up the wall, it is.’
‘But Oliver, it doesn’t have to mean —’
‘I know. I know.’ His gestures were becoming wild now. ‘Just because we haven’t found a length of rope with a knot in it, and with cut ends, it doesn’t mean there wasn’t one. Damn it, it could be in the quarry pool right now. But, as of this moment, we haven’t been able to produce a method by which that man in the car could’ve been killed deliberately. And it would have to be simple, you see. Nothing too complex. Simple.’
He was silent. This was the first time I could recall him being so talkative. It was frustration that was tearing him apart.
‘You ought to be getting some rest,’ I told him.
Might just as well talk to a wall.
‘And look at the other end of it, Phil. Just look at the suicide.’
Something I didn’t want to do, look at the suicide. Most definitely not. ‘What about it?’
‘Are we going to assume that Graham tied that rope to the cross beam, put a noose round his own neck, then jumped up and down on that rotten floor till he went through! I ask you! Can you see it? Oh Christ, Phil, I’m sorry. I got carried away. I’d better leave you.’
‘No! Finish it. Don’t leave me now.’ With that image, me alone with that in my room?
‘It’s bizarre, that’s what it is. Just not acceptable. So you see what you get — a murder that couldn’t have been done as a murder, and a suicide that’s just too plain fantastic to accept as suicide.’
‘Get some rest, Oliver.’
‘Is there any tea left in that pot?’
‘Stone cold now.’
‘A right splendid hostess you are.’ He distorted a pout into a grin. ‘I’m just ruining your day.’
‘It wasn’t exactly inspiring before. I’ll ring down for something.’
But he wasn’t listening, had decided to sit, squatted on that same stool, then bounced from it like the grasshopper he’d resembled. ‘There’s more,’ he said gloomily.
‘Do I need to know?’
‘Only you can answer that. Lost interest, have you?’
‘I need to know,’ I agreed. ‘Know what?’
‘We need no longer call him the man in the car. We now know the name of that man. It’s Ephraim Benjamin Costello. There was a hired car hidden away in one of those barns. Clearly his. A battered suitcase on the back seat. And his identification. Driving licence, that sort of thing. As I said: Ephraim Benjamin Costello. Mean anything to you? No, I can see it doesn’t. But he was completely equipped — his whole existence was in that car, so he’d been on the move, not staying anywhere.’ He waved his hand violently in the air.
‘Now you’re padding it out. There’s something else — isn’t there?’
‘His watch. His wrist watch was on the passenger’s seat. A cheap quartz thing. You can see why he’d want to switch to an expensive Omega.’
He was wandering the room,
though now with some purpose. He was tidying my clothes, the jogging suit and shoes I’d discarded, the slacks and definitely tatty anorak and the rest that Nel had strewn around. It’s the sort of thing I find irritating. I’m not a tidy person, and when people tidy me up I feel it to be a criticism.
‘And?’ I asked tightly, because he was doing it, as he’d said, so as not to look me in the eyes.
‘There were,’ he told me, ‘traces on Graham’s wrists. You know the way a stretch bracelet will leave little parallel marks on the skin? Well, they were still there.’
Still there! Even after death, he’d meant.
‘And what does that mean?’
‘I checked, you see. Something was strange, so I checked with the manifest on Costello. Any dead body arriving at the morgue, they have to make a complete list of details as they remove them.’
‘I can see,’ I jerked out, ‘that it would be necessary.’
‘Tell me…’ And now he was looking directly at me. ‘How did Graham wear his watch and his ring?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘On which wrist and which finger?’
‘Oh yes. I see. The watch on his left wrist — doesn’t everybody? — and his ring on the third finger, the same hand.’
‘Everybody doesn’t,’ he assured me. ‘I believe it’s something to do with being left-handed or right-handed. You wear a watch on the wrist other than the one that does most work. Or so the psychologists say, but frankly I haven’t got much faith —’
‘You’re wandering again,’ I cut in quickly. ‘What’s left-handed got to do with anything?’
‘Nothing, of course. It’s just that the manifest shows the Omega watch was on Costello’s right wrist, and the ring on his left pinky.’
‘Pinky?’
‘Little finger. It seems he had fat fingers. It wouldn’t have gone on any of the others. And that,’ he declared, ‘is what’s driving me plain crazy.’
‘I don’t see…’ And then I did. ‘Oh!’
‘Exactly — oh. Assume Graham wanted to fake this man’s death as his own. Assume he had an unconscious body to deal with. And please don’t interrupt and tell me Graham couldn’t have driven the Volvo, with or without an unconscious body in it. Just assume he might have intended to. In that case it’s acceptable he would switch the watch and ring on to Costello’s wrist and finger. But he wouldn’t have got it wrong. The ring, perhaps. If it wouldn’t go on Costello’s third finger, the pinky would have to do. But he wouldn’t have put the watch on the right wrist. Never. Or assume he gave his watch and ring to Costello. Here you are, old chap, have a present from me. And Costello put them on where he wanted them to be. How bizarre again. It’s be as good as shouting out: I want your corpse to be mistaken for mine. It just doesn’t bloody well make any sort of sense. Nothing does.’
‘There, there,’ I said stupidly.
He waved a jogging shoe at me. ‘And I’m expected to go back to my little room — and sleep. Sleep! My God.’
‘You sleep, and I’ll do the worrying for you.’
‘And that’s another thing. Why I came. I wanted to tell you that this is probably the last time I’ll be able to talk to you like this, as kind of working on it together. As it is, if my car’s spotted outside I’ll be in trouble. I hope you understand. Next time I’ll be here officially. Or wherever it is. On duty.’
‘And you’ll have at your shoulder a great tough dragon of a WPC, and handcuffs at the ready?’
‘It will not be necessary.’ He eyed me from beneath his eyebrows. ‘I dunno though. It could well be. Kicking and screaming! Yes, I can just see it.’
I laughed. He’d shaken himself from his mood. ‘And my car, Oliver? May I go and collect it?’ I amended that. ‘Do I have to go there and collect it?’
‘No need for that.’ He moved towards the door. A lot of the flexibility had gone from his step. ‘I’ve arranged for somebody to drive it back. They’ll leave it in the car park here.’
‘With the briefcase?’
‘Exactly where it was.’
‘You looked inside?’
‘Naturally.’ His hand was on the doorknob now, and I was afraid he would escape me.
‘And?’
‘It was just as you’d said. Paperwork relating to Graham’s banking affairs. With a vast amount of stretching in all directions, it might be possible to argue that you were at the cottage as an agent for Harvey Remington — as you claimed. In fact, I did think I ought to deliver it directly to him.’
‘Don’t you dare!’
‘But I thought to myself: let her dig into this. It’ll keep her quiet and out of trouble for hours, while I get a bit of sleep.’
On that, he slipped out of the door, leaving me with the impression he had a smirk all over his face, and with the realization that now the only person I had to fall back on was Cornel. Not exactly a broken reed, but certainly creaking in the wind. And it was becoming distinctly breezy, a cold one at that.
Four o’clock. Sunday afternoon. I looked out of the window. Bleak, empty streets, darkening now. Having eaten breakfast at two, my stomach didn’t know where it was. If I went down and had a pot of tea in the lounge — probably deserted — and a couple of cakes and a sandwich, that’d be my dinner ruined. I should’ve brought my knitting! I might have gone out and bought a jigsaw puzzle or a paperback, but everywhere was shut. Frustration. Rest, they’d said. Get over the shock. Wasn’t I supposed to be getting a reaction about now, a relapse setting in? I couldn’t even go out and get a bottle of aspirins.
Bottle? I could ring down for a bottle of something and get stoned. A lot of good that’d do. Bottle! Why did my thoughts naturally turn to Nel? I’d forgotten him. I went along and knocked at his door, but there was no reply. Now what? I began to worry. Hell, cut that out! Haven’t you got enough?
And where was my car, where was the briefcase? That would give me something to occupy my mind.
I rang reception, in case it’d already been left there. But no. I asked for a pot of tea to be sent up. Nothing to eat, thank you. Relax, I’d been advised. Oh merry me — how the devil did I do that? Watch the tele? What a depressing idea.
They brought up my tray of tea. I barely had the door closed when there was another tap on it. I opened up, the tray balanced with one hand. ‘Yes?’
A trim and bright young woman, a busty red-head, stood there. I hadn’t really needed to ask, because she was carrying my briefcase.
‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘Is that mine? Come in, will you. I’ve just got some tea.’
She came in. Unobtrusively, her eyes had taken in every inch of me. Unobtrusively, I’d watched her do it.
‘Inspector Simpson asked me to bring you this,’ she told me, plopping it on the bed. ‘I’m Jennie Lyons. Constable.’
‘On duty in plain clothes, or off and not in uniform?’ I asked. ‘Sit down if you like. I could do with a bit of company. I’m going crazy in here.’
‘I can’t stay. I’m in the CID, and I’ve just come off duty. I left your car round the back.’
I sat on the bed, possessively close to the briefcase. ‘You were up there?’ I asked. ‘Last night.’
‘Yes. Just got away.’
‘Oh Lor’. You must be exhausted. You don’t show it.’
‘I feel a mess. And you, Ms Lowe? You had a terrible experience.’
‘Yes. I think I’m over it now, though. You sure you won’t have some tea?’
‘There’s only one cup,’ she pointed out. ‘And no — I must be off. Four hours, I’ve got. He’s a bloody slavedriver.’
‘Who?’
‘Simpson. That Inspector of yours.’
So it was getting around. That Inspector of mine! And hadn’t there been just a crackle in her voice when she said it?
‘Lord,’ she said, ‘look at the time!’ Not looking at it, though. ‘I must be off.’
Then, with a whisk and a swish she was out of the door, leaving me staring at its blank surfa
ce.
Already, Oliver was being connected with me. It wouldn’t do. His authority would be undermined, and with any suggestion of bias involved he’d be off the case in a flash. This was something else for me to worry about.
But for now… I had the briefcase. I up-ended it on the bed. The paperwork spread itself out.
12
For a few moments I sat there, the memory flooding over me of what I’d gone through in order to get this far. If all this paperwork revealed nothing, the let-down would undermine me drastically. But there was no avoiding it. I had to face it, and if there’s anything I loathe it’s clerical labour. I fetched the stool across and sat facing the bed. I would need a large area on which to work.
Seven separate piles of bank statements. They related to the five imaginary names — I had to assume — and to Graham’s current account and his deposit one. Already, I knew that the five anonymous ones held small amounts, as of a week or two before. I fetched my list that Harvey had supplied, which brought it all up-to-date.
I had paying-in books for all seven accounts, carefully annotated by Graham. He had, after all, been an accountant, and would maintain meticulously accurate figures. There were six separate cheque books, covering the six separate current accounts. Strangely, in each case, one book of fifty cheques covered the complete seven-year period, since it had all begun. There had not been much activity.
The account book, which I’d thought would reveal the truth in a flash, did nothing but puzzle me. It indicated only an income, this being, apparently, in Graham’s deposit account. In fact, when I compared it with the bank statements, the one was nearly a copy of the other, except for the fact that the bank added the interest that had accrued. And such luscious sums, too, particularly at the end. His deposit, at this time being over £200,000, was attracting £20,000 a year in interest. £400 a week, that was. I’d been here, how long? Three days? It had gained nearly £200 in that time. How splendid!
Right at the bottom of the briefcase, I discovered when ferreting out the last item of paper, there was a screwed-up invoice or bill of sale. I put it to one side.
Then I got down to it, getting hotel stationery from the dressing table drawer, and trying to cross-reference everything. I’m a personnel officer; my degree is in psychology. I’m not an accountant, and figures baffle me. It soon became clear that even an accountant would’ve expected to spend a week on this lot.
Hung in the Balance (Simpson & Lowe Detective series Book 1) Page 15