‘Graham…’
‘I told you — to consider his death as suicide would be too bizarre. There’s now more information on that. To start with, he was dead before that business with the noose and the flooring at the farmhouse. That, anyway, is a bit of a comfort. Don’t you think?’
He was trying to lessen the impact. I was trying to smile in response. Our attempts collided in mid-air, and left us with a sudden void of embarrassment. I did my best to satisfy him.
‘That depends how,’ I whispered.
‘It was something very sudden and unexpected. A blow to the back of his head that rendered him unconscious, or even killed him outright. Now…you can assume he was struck, and then an attempt was made to make it look like suicide. But certainly he didn’t do that himself. And it was a very strange way to fake a suicide, when you come to think of it. I mean…why there? Does it mean the blow on the head occurred there, or was he taken there afterwards for the suicide to be rigged? The rope used was obviously from the Volvo’s boot, so it seems he was driven up there in the Volvo. All right — but the date of death — we’ll be lucky if they tie it down to an actual day — but it does seem to link to the day when Anna said the Volvo wouldn’t start, the day she said he disappeared.’
‘I do wish you wouldn’t go on and on, Oliver,’ I interrupted. ‘I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to give me time to recover, but it’s a bit too much for me to take in.’
‘Sorry. I’d have left it to another time, but there might not be another time.’ He noticed my abrupt, surprised glance. ‘I mean, another time to get together like this. I’m officially not supposed to speak to anyone involved. Not privately.’
‘You mean — not speak to a suspect?’
‘No. Involved.’
We were silent for a few moments, then we both spoke together.
‘The car, Oliver…’ ‘But the car’s the trouble…’
We laughed. It was like a mist lifting to reveal the sun.
‘You carry it on,’ he offered.
‘The Volvo, I was going to say. Anna suggested Graham had rigged it so that she couldn’t use it. If Costello was expected, by Graham then the implication is that they were going to need the Volvo. In fact, Costello was in the driving seat when it went into the quarry. So — did Costello come on foot and by bus? Did they drive up to the farmhouse, where Costello killed him? If so — why? And how did Costello’s car get up there, anyway? Did he drive it there, then leave it and walk back to the cottage? If so, why? And how —’
‘Hold it. Hold it.’ He was laughing freely now, not at my reconstructions, but at their proliferation.
‘You can go on all day with whys and hows,’ he assured me. ‘I’ve done it. Covered page after page with possible implications and theories. And every last one of them comes up against a stone wall.’
‘Which is?’
‘Two stone walls. The watch and the ring.’
‘Oh.’ I thought about that. ‘If Graham was killed —’
‘He was. It was not suicide. Get that firmly into your head. There were piles of bricks in that cellar, scattered on the floor. Bricks and plaster. The plaster you could accept, but not the bricks. The nearest loose ones were from the outbuildings, which’re collapsing. It’s obvious. His body was dragged into the centre of the room. The flooring was just strong enough to take the weight of two people. It’d be a bit scary, though, creaking and sagging. Rig the rope over the beam above, etc.…etc…then bricks were tossed around him, from a few feet away, until the weight took it all through. It would’ve been quite a job. Probably taken dozens of trips across the yard. Hours, possibly. What an extraordinary amount of effort to rig a suicide, at that particular place, when the result would be seen as fantastic — almost unacceptable.’
‘It must,’ I murmured, ‘have been the only possible thing to do. No other way.’
‘Yes.’ Yet he sounded doubtful.
I thought about that for a few moments, then shook myself free of it. ‘The watch and the ring, you said. Are you trying to tell me that Costello took them from Graham’s hand, and wore them for four days — possibly more — it’s ridiculous.’
‘Isn’t it?’ he agreed placidly.
‘But Costello was wearing them!’
‘Exactly. No even remotely sensible person would take the risk…and did he wear them for four whole days? That’s crazy. And when you consider he was an ex-copper…’
‘Was he?’ I asked. ‘A copper?’
‘Yes.’ He shrugged, dismissing it. ‘They usually are. Whatever he’d been, when he died he was a private investigator, so you can be damned sure he wouldn’t be stupid enough to go round wearing a watch and a ring he’d taken from somebody he’d killed.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Yes, I suppose.’ It was too much for my poor, weary brain.
‘Suppose what?’
‘I don’t know. I’m thinking.’
‘Well, think of the other possibility. If somebody other than Costello killed Graham, is it at all conceivable that they’d take the watch and the ring from him, and somehow persuade Costello to wear them — just in order to fake his death as Graham’s suicide, when so much work had already been done at the farmhouse to fake exactly the same thing? There…’ He sat back, a little breathless. ‘There it is, and all in one sentence.’
He seemed rather more cheerful than his presentation deserved. Falsely cheerful, knee-slapping and emptily cheerful.
‘And that’s it?’ I asked. ‘What about if they were put on him…oh.’ I stopped.
‘Exactly. Finish it now.’
‘If the watch and ring had been put on him by somebody else, who’d killed Graham, they wouldn’t get it wrong, would they?’
‘They would not,’ he agreed.
‘Hmm!’
So nothing had changed. We were no nearer the truth, faced still by contradictions. He was paying for the breakfasts, saying cheerio to Kay, shouting cheerio to the son. It was all forced; he felt as miserable as I did, obviously.
‘Give me five minutes to get clear,’ he said.
It was all too abrupt. I needed time to absorb it, to prepare a few responses to his propositions. He bent over the table.
‘I’ll see you again,’ he said quietly in my ear.
‘I thought you said,’ but he’d turned away, ‘that we wouldn’t be able to meet again,’ I finished in a whisper.
I stared after him. In so much of a hurry to get away!
Kay smiled as I gave him the full five minutes and turned to leave. ‘Lovely man,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
I went out into the street, wondering what I’d intended to do that morning.
13
Whatever it was — but of course, the trip to Birmingham — I didn’t get around to doing it. I entered The Carlton just as Nel came scampering down the stairs for breakfast.
‘You weren’t in your room —’
‘I’ve had breakfast, Nel. I’m just off to my room to…to…’ To try to ease my mind down to manageable speed and make sense out of something.
‘See y’ later, then.’
Absently, I watched him go, his eyes searching for company. Catriona Steele came out of the dining room past him, looking pale and distraught. I nodded to her, but she didn’t see me, and headed for the lounge. Nor would Nel be able to continue his taunting of Maguire, who came out a few seconds later.
I turned away. If there was any chance at all that Maguire might want to speak to me, I didn’t intend to offer him any encouragement.
I was uncertain what to do, how to start on it. When I hesitated at the foot of the stairs, I caught just a glimpse of Maguire, after peering around, going into the lounge. For a minute or two I lingered. There had been something purposeful in Maguire’s walk, something hinting at flight in Catriona’s expression.
The lounge at The Carlton is small. I imagined it would, at the best of times, be very thinly used. At breakfast time, not at all. It not only presented a
quiet retreat in which to talk, but, with its arch entrance and red velvet drapes drawn back, it also made a wonderful place from which to eavesdrop. Having already been subjected to a large number of indignities, I no longer felt any shame in sidling sideways amongst the drape of curtains, where I was very nearly concealed from all directions.
At first I could hear no more than a sibilance of whispers. Behind me there was the bustle of movement that never seemed to cease in the lobby. I had to hope I wouldn’t be observed, and tuned my hearing away from it until I heard words, and could understand them.
Maguire’s voice was tight with suppressed anger. ‘…stupid little idiot to come here in the first place.’
‘I hadn’t… I didn’t know. I heard he was dead.’
‘What good could you do?’ he demanded. That tone was as good as a slap.
‘We were going…away together,’ she whispered. ‘He loved me. I didn’t care any more about the silly money.’
‘Going away!’ It was a sneer.
‘He said. He promised. Don’t you see — I believed him. I do believe he meant it truly —’
This was cut short by a slap. It could have been Maguire’s palm on a table surface. But there was a whimper of fear. He spoke heavily, separating the words for emphasis.
‘Leave this to people who know. Do…you…hear…me?’
‘Yes.’ So tiny that was that I barely caught it.
‘Your father was a fool, and you’ve taken after him. Suicide! The idiot! Get back to your mother, you ridiculous child. Today. Now. Go home, damn you.’
I heard the movement of a chair. It gave me time to turn away before Catriona rushed past me, a handkerchief to her mouth. Straight into the ladies. Fortunate for me, that was. I turned, and was nearly at the bend of the stairs when Maguire bustled out of the lounge.
It was stupid to turn my head and look back. I should have continued onwards and upwards in a stately manner. But I did turn, and he was staring up after me. There was such an expression on his face, the thin lips, the flaring eyes, that my hands were still shaking when I got my door shut and leaned back against it.
Nothing had changed. The room was beginning to depress me. I’d seen too much of the inside of it, and for a moment my heart went out to commercial travellers, who spend their lives with such rooms as the framework of their days, sleeping in them, working in them…
I had to be purposeful, I decided. Make decisions. The first one was a luxurious bath. Then I sorted through whatever clothes I had left that were reasonable. The grey slacks were amongst Marietta’s choice, a blouse I rather liked, though the lacy bit at the neck wasn’t really me, and the short, darker grey jacket. I looked out of the window. Would I need a coat for Birmingham? Would it be better to use the car, or take the train? Train perhaps. Parking in Birmingham had been difficult when I’d last been there, probably impossible now. Yes, the train.
I fetched my portrait from the drawer and wondered about the method of carrying it. The paper was not stiff enough to allow it to be handled easily flat, and a little too stiff to be rolled up small without buckling. In the end, I eased it into a six inch diameter roll, which, after a struggle, I managed to trap with three rubber bands. All set now. I’d just need to wait for Nel to finish his breakfast.
For one second I had a fleeting thought about the watch and the ring, but then it was way back, jumbled in a tangle of other thoughts. But I knew that these two items held the truth of what had happened.
At first I didn’t respond to the tap on the door, assuming it was Nel. But there was no accompanying shout. The tap came again. I went across and opened it.
WDC Jennie Lyons stood in the hall. She smiled. ‘May I come in?’
‘Of course. Sorry.’ I stepped back. ‘What is it?’
She closed the door behind her. ‘It’s just that Superintendent Grossman would like to have a word with you.’
‘I was just on my way out. Will it do later?’
‘He seemed to be expecting you. Waiting for you, in fact.’
There was no feeling of pressure or of threat. It was no more than a simple request. I crossed casually to the window and looked down. There was a dark car parked on the street, with a large, dark shape behind the wheel.
‘It’s really most inconvenient,’ I told her, turning back. ‘What’s it about? Did he say?’
Again that smile. I saw now that it could hide something much harder, more experienced. ‘He doesn’t tell me things like that, but I’d guess, after what happened the other night, that he’ll want a statement from you.’
‘But surely you could…’ Then I saw it was no good arguing. She was an inch shorter than me, but she seemed huge in her thinly disguised persona. This was a young lady who’d probably seen a lot of violence, and handled it. The fact that it didn’t show was a bad sign. ‘Very well. But I’ll have to leave a message.’
She inclined her head. I grabbed up my shoulder bag and we went out into the hallway. I locked up. And there was no need, after all, to leave a message for Nel, because there he was, striding along from the stairs.
‘Just comin’ for y’, blossom.’ His eyes switched from one to the other of us. ‘What’s this?’
Making light of it, I told him I’d been asked to go along to the police station. This, to an American, has different connotations from ours, something much more sinister involving Mirandas — whatever they are, warnings or something — and heavy pressure from a large squad of tough men. I saw his eyes narrow, his fists clench, then he relaxed.
‘It’s all right, Nel.’
‘I’ll come —’
‘No.’
‘Can I come?’ he asked Jennie.
‘Why not?’
‘Right. I’m comin’ then. Gotta see fair play. Phoned your lawyer, have you, kiddo?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Nel.’
Thus arguing we went down to the car, Jennie and me getting in the back and Nel in front with the driver, a ginger-haired man in a grey suit, who said not a word.
It was not far, barely beyond the High Street, erected on the site of the old Wesleyan chapel. The car swept round the back and into their parking area. Jennie said, ‘See you, Tom,’ and led us up the back stairs, along a corridor, tapped on an obscured glass panel, and took us into the Superintendent’s office.
It was a new office, but he’d deliberately aged it, bringing in a battered oak table as his desk, an ancient swivel chair that squeaked, for himself, and a mixture of other chairs for visitors. The filing cabinet was wooden and small, and I supposed he’d have somebody else filing his stuff elsewhere. The low bookcase held a tattered assortment of legal volumes, and a row of P. G. Wodehouse. You could like such a man, I thought. He relaxed you. But…beware of relaxing.
‘Miss Lowe,’ he said, not Ms. ‘Hello. I’m Superintendent Grossman, and Inspector Simpson you know.’ Oliver was seated beside him, behind the desk. He did no more than incline his head. If there was anything in his eyes it was a warning.
‘And who is this?’ Grossman asked.
‘Cornel Schmidt,’ I told him. ‘My partner in New York. He wanted to come.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Grossman extended his hand over the desk, and Nel took it tenderly, suspiciously. This was certainly not New York. An education for Nel.
‘But sit down, sit down,’ Grossman said, gesturing to chairs, and somehow I seemed to get the one directly facing him. Nel was now to one side of me and a little further back.
Already, I realized that this was in no way a simple matter of statement taking. I’d learned a lot from my father. This was very close to an interrogation, but the surroundings and the atmosphere were out-of-phase for that. It was all too relaxed and cosy. So was Grossman, a dapper man of around fifty-five, not bulky, but what there was of it was hard. Yet his face was round and cheerful, his manner benign, his smile encouraging. There was nothing on his desk surface but his elbows, above which he tented his fingers and gazed at me as though I was a long-l
ost daughter come home to poppa.
‘I knew your father,’ he told me. ‘You have his eyes. Your mother’s hair, though. Yes. Ah. Now… I wanted just to hear from you what happened the other evening. I’ve heard various versions, the main one from Inspector Simpson, here. I’d like to get it down as a statement, so I’ll just switch on our tape recorder, and the girls can type something up, and you can sign it. Some time or other. And amend wherever you like. Is that all right?’
I indicated that it was. He’d clearly intimated that the statement aspect of this meeting was a minor issue. He reached behind him to the tape deck on the window sill. I wondered where the mike was. Oliver looked down at his hands.
‘Now,’ went on Grossman, smiling as though it had all been a fun-filled adventure. ‘Now…my understanding is that you had gone back to Hawthorne Cottage to retrieve a briefcase. I’m very uncertain of this. I can’t understand what a briefcase was doing there, hidden in the bushes at the back, and why it needed retrieving. Can you explain that, to start with.’
This was the first time I’d been able to say a relevant word. A fine statement this was!
‘I’d been there earlier,’ I told him. ‘There were papers at the cottage. I was certain of this, and I thought I knew where to find them.’
‘And,’ he picked up with benevolent understanding, ‘you still had the key to the cottage, and you saw no reason why you shouldn’t use it, in spite of the fact that these were enclosed premises and the occupier was not there? In spite of the fact, too, that I’m sure your father would’ve told you enough for you to know you were committing an offence?’ Such a gentle reproach, that was. My father would not have approved. Naughty, naughty!
I tried to assert myself. ‘You may not know that my husband’s will left me that cottage. In effect, it’s my property.’
‘Of course!’ he cried, forcing his hands apart, clapping them together again. ‘How foolish of me. But I suppose, legally, this right of access would not occur until the will is probated. Never mind, it was a good try.’
What the hell did he mean — a good try? His or mine? I didn’t dare waste time on sorting it out.
Hung in the Balance (Simpson & Lowe Detective series Book 1) Page 17