The Punishment She Deserves

by Elizabeth George

  Scannell handed the photos and reports back to them. She tapped Dusty’s arm to get her attention, then pointed to a spot on her head where part of her masses of hair, in her opinion, still apparently needed work. She said to Lynley, “With this kind of suicide—the doorknob bit, I mean—the legs often convulse. Considering where he was, there also might have been some kind of marking on the floor from those convulsions, which there wasn’t. Of course, his legs might not have convulsed or he could have been wearing shoes that don’t leave marks in the first place—most trainers won’t mar a floor—but the lack of marks in and of themselves doesn’t mean much when everything else is in order.”

  Barbara heard this with a sudden surge of energy. She said, “Sir . . . ?” to Lynley, but he was already with her.

  “Do you mean scuff marks?” he asked Dr. Scannell.

  “Yes. They could also be at the site of this kind of suicide. But as I said, convulsions aren’t guaranteed—if you’ll pardon the word—and they could have happened as part of the suicide, without leaving evidence of themselves.”

  Barbara looked at Lynley. He looked at her. Scannell caught the exchange between them, reflected in the mirror. She said, “What is it?”

  Lynley said, “If the man was sitting in a chair, could someone standing above and behind him carry out a crime—a murder—and have it successfully pose as suicide?”

  She said slowly after a moment of reflection, “That would probably put the stole in the right position to leave marks that encouraged a conclusion of suicide, yes. But I can’t see it happening in that location—the office—without a mark on the floor indicating a struggle. And I certainly can’t imagine the poor man sitting there and allowing himself to be done away with. Even with the handcuffs still on him, surely he would have kicked and writhed.”

  “Thus marking the floor,” Lynley said.

  “Thus scuffing the floor,” Barbara added.

  “Marking, scuffing, scoring, whatever.” Nancy Scannell nodded before saying, “Sorry,” to Dusty, who rapped her neatly on the shoulder for the movement. “Yes, I’d say that with that scenario, there would be scuffing on the floor.”

  Bingo, huzzah, and all the rest, Barbara thought. They were back in business.

  WORCESTER

  HEREFORDSHIRE

  It had been an easy matter to switch mobiles with Clover. They charged their phones every night and, as they had identical phones with the same unlocking code in the event one of them needed to use the other’s phone in a pinch, all that was necessary was to make the switch, after first seeing to it that the wallpaper on his phone was the same as hers. That part was easy as well since Clover wasn’t a person to be bothered with selecting some personal and sentimental photo of baby, dog, cat to serve as a backdrop to the very few apps she took the trouble to sign up for. So finding the identical photo of rolling ocean waves in his own smartphone’s offered wallpapers took less than thirty seconds.

  Trevor reckoned she’d work it all out at some point during her day, but he also reckoned that he had enough time to do the snooping that his previous day’s conversation with Gaz Ruddock suggested wanted doing. For Gaz didn’t produce falsehoods as well as he thought he did.

  Immediately after that conversation with the PCSO, Trevor had made a far closer examination of the calls into and out of his own phone. He had easy access to two months’ worth of calls since the phone stored them, and what the list told him was that from March 22 until May 16, calls to Gaz Ruddock and from Gaz Ruddock had been going out and coming in regularly. Like those he’d discovered on his earlier and more cursory examination of the mobile, these calls had been made or had come in at night or very early in the morning. There were days when this occurred only once. There were days when this occurred as many as four times.

  So after looking at what was available on his phone, he’d wanted to know more. While it was true that both Clover and Gaz had already claimed that their calls concerned their secret plan to keep a watch over what Finn got up to in Ludlow, the question was what sort of “watching over” warranted the number of conversations they’d apparently had. Trevor wanted some answers, and he began to assemble them by ringing his mobile’s provider. He gave all the appropriate numbers and code words, telling the faceless and nameless voice at the other end that he wanted to check a few calls that a wayward child of his might have made. Then it was only a matter of waiting for the information to be sent to him.

  The interesting bit was obvious once he had those records. The extensive nature of the Clover-and-Gaz communications via Trevor’s own phone had begun on the first of March. Prior to that and no matter how far back in time he went with the records, there was nothing on his phone to or from Gaz.

  It seemed damned odd that, for someone meant to be watching over Finn, Gaz hadn’t called Trevor’s phone regularly to report to Clover until the late winter. That meant that prior to late winter, he’d either been ringing Clover directly on her own phone, or he’d not been keeping an eye on Finn at all.

  Trevor wanted to make his own determination about that, which was what had led him to make the switch with his wife’s phone. Once he studied her mobile’s history and once he’d gone through the same process he’d used with his own phone to see even further back in time, he knew he couldn’t wait till the evening to speak to Clover. So he rang his own mobile number and when she answered, he said, “Sorry. We’ve done a switch with our phones, love,” in the most casual tone he could manage. “Must’ve happened when we took them from their chargers.”

  “Have we?” she asked. “So that’s why mine’s not been ringing. I thought I’d finally got lucky enough to have a day without disturbances. Usually they start round half past seven and don’t stop. Has my phone rung, by the way?”

  “Once I saw it was yours, I’ve been letting it go to message. But there’ve been enough calls that I realised I ought to let you know about the mix-up. Shall I play them, then? The messages, I mean.”

  “Don’t do that.”

  Was her response rather hasty? he wondered. He said, “Want me to bring it to you? I’ve nothing on at the gym till later. Or we can meet halfway if you’re able.”

  “I’ve one bloody meeting after another.”

  “I’ll bring it to you, then.”

  “That seems like such a bother, Trev.”

  “It’s no trouble. Sh’ll I set off, then?”

  She said that if he would bring the mobile to Hindlip, she’d be ever so grateful. She’d meet him down at the reception building at the edge of the property. That way he’d have no need of going through the routine of sitting there waiting to be admitted. He agreed to this, although he knew that meeting her at that great distance from the administration building also served the purpose of allowing her conversation with her husband—should there be one—to be private.

  When he arrived at police headquarters, she was waiting for him. She emerged from the reception building, lifting her hand in a wave. She carried his mobile in it. He lowered the passenger window once he’d parked. When she came to the car, he said, “Get in.”

  She looked surprised, although his tone hadn’t been unfriendly. She said, “I’ve only a few minutes, Trev.”

  He said, “This won’t take more than that.”

  When she was seated inside the car, she handed over his phone. He hung onto hers. She didn’t fail to notice. She cocked her head curiously.

  He said, “This business with the phones.” When she made no reply, he went on. “It was deliberate. I switched them.”

  He looked over at her. Her expression hadn’t altered. Nor had she moved. She said, “Ah.”

  “Are you going to ask me why?”

  “I assume you’ve come here to tell me. I must say, though, I don’t know why this couldn’t have waited till I got home.”

  That was bravado in action. Trevor wondered why he’d never not
iced the degree to which his wife could dissemble. He should have done. She’d been going at the sex games for years, and in every scenario, her performance had been utterly genuine, which was what had made it so arousing. Schoolgirl, nun, whore, railway ticket agent, deliverer of the post, yoga teacher, hotel maid . . . Clover didn’t pretend. She became. He was going to have to watch her now like a specimen under a microscope.

  “I went along with the lie to the Met as ordered,” he said. “But it made me want to know a bit more about all these phone calls to and from Gaz. I don’t think you can blame me for that. If I’m going to lie to the police, it’s good to have at least a partial idea of what the truth is. Otherwise, it all gets difficult. Keeping everything straight, I mean. But you know this, don’t you, as you’re a cop.”

  “Have we not already dealt with this?”

  “We have, in part. But you know how curiosity works on a person. Could be it’s because I’m married to a copper like I am, but what happened is that my head started working on those calls and I reckoned the best way to get it to stop working was to take a closer look at ’em. I mean, Jesus, Clover, it was like a perpetual motion machine was banging on inside the old bean.”

  Her eyes narrowed. She wasn’t fooled by his casual tone, and he didn’t actually expect her to be. She said, “Yes. That does make sense. A lot has been asked of you.”

  “I’m glad you see it that way. So you’re likely to be on board with my looking at all these calls to and from Gaz, trying to work out why there’ve been so many on my phone.”

  “When Finnegan—”

  “Oh, I’ve got all that. I’ve put an end to it, by the way, this ‘watching over Finn’ business that you and Gaz have going on.” He made air quotes, and she did not fail to pick up on them.

  She said, “Are we going back to that other, then? Me hot and bothered to get Gaz between my legs and Gaz all hot and bothered to be there? The two of us planning our trysts by using your phone?”

  “I’m not saying that, am I, Clover? But here’s what it is: I’m beginning to think you want me to say it.”

  “I don’t want you to say anything except what’s on your mind.”

  “That being the case, what’s Finn done that you don’t want me to know about?”

  She looked away from him. A car had just pulled up to the reception kiosk. She studied it as if searching for a detail she’d been ordered to be on the lookout for. A middle-aged woman got out, carrying a handbag the size of which was going to warrant extreme examination. Were this a prison, she’d have a Victoria sponge inside of it and inside the sponge she’d have a crowbar.

  Clover sighed heavily. “I don’t know what else to say to you, Trev. We seem to keep going round and round. I’ve nothing more to give you on the subject.”

  “Try thinking back to the beginning of March.”

  She turned back to him. She looked genuinely puzzled. He went on.

  “That’s when the night-time phone calls from Gaz started coming in on my mobile and going out from it. So if you and he are having natters about Finn, there’s been at least one each night on my phone since the beginning of March. Now if all these conversations between you and Gaz are called for, and if the reason’s Finn, I want to know what he’s done, and I want to know it now.”

  She grasped the handle of the door, saying as she lifted it, “I don’t know what you’re accusing me of or who you actually think I am, but I think we’ve said enough, Trevor.”

  “Not quite. We haven’t talked about your phone yet.”

  “I don’t see where that’s going to get us.”

  “That’s what you actually believe? I ask because there’re eight calls between you and Gaz Ruddock on your phone, Clover, made on the twenty-sixth and the twenty-seventh of February. Then they stop altogether and start up on my phone. So the way I look at it, either something happened prior to or on the twenty-sixth or you and Gaz came to some sort of arrangement that meant no more ringing each other unless you had access to my mobile.”

  She gave a disgusted shake of her head. “Yes. All right. Have it as you like. We’ve been going at it as often as possible. I need a younger man because you’re not enough. Is that what you want to hear?”

  “What I want to hear is the truth. If Finn’s done something, I want to know what it is.”

  “What on earth could he possibly have done?”

  “Druitt had his concerns, right? Drugs. Alcohol, children, whatever. Is that what’s been going on?”

  “For God’s sake, Trevor, for all you and I know, that’s complete rubbish. Do I need to remind you that we have only Gaz’s word that Ian Druitt wanted to speak with us at all?”

  “Are you saying that Gaz wants Finn stitched up for something?”

  “I don’t know! All I know is that life in Ludlow hasn’t gone as well for Finnegan as he’d like us to believe. He’s been drinking too much and smoking weed and missing lectures and tutorials. He may well have gone on to heavier drugs. Gaz was letting me know about everything as it developed. Then when Ian Druitt died, he began to think . . . whatever it was that he thought, because I wouldn’t let him even say it, all right? But I had to take his calls because of Finnegan. Now do you see the position I’ve been in?”

  He’d been holding back his final piece of information because he didn’t want to think about it, let alone to bring it up. But he saw that he had to do so now. “There were three calls on the night that bloke died, Clover. I checked the dates.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “A call from you to Gaz and two calls from Gaz to you. That same night Ian Druitt died.”

  She stared at him. She did open the door then. He thought she meant to get out without another word, but he was wrong.

  She said, “So you’re suggesting, I take it, that Ian Druitt wasn’t a suicide at all, that he died either at my hand or by my orders. Yes?” She waited. When he said nothing, she went on. “What do you take me for, Trev?”

  The reply came to him absolutely unbidden. “I don’t know,” he said, “and that’s the devil of it, Clover.”

  LUDLOW

  SHROPSHIRE

  “I knew he was dirty,” were Havers’s words as they parked in Temeside, two wheels and most of the Healey Elliott on the pavement. They waited for a moment to let traffic pass before they crossed over the street.

  “I don’t think we can go quite that far, Barbara,” Lynley replied. “He’s soiled, perhaps. Dirty, however? We’re not there yet.”

  “Come on, Inspector. The scuff marks, the chairs, the handcuffs on and the handcuffs off, anonymous phone calls, CCTV cameras that get shut off for twenty seconds and then have their positions switched, college girls being carted round town for whatever reason, pubs being rung, women being bonked . . . What more do we need?”

  “For a start we need to consider the nineteen days that elapsed between that phone call and the death of Ian Druitt. Then we must consider what it means that those nineteen days were brought to an end by Finnegan Freeman’s mother. After that, we must consider what that detail means.”

  “All right. I’ll see your point if I have to. It means Finnegan’s in it. Or his mum. Or his dad. Or Ruddock. But in any case, someone in the DCC’s circle.”

  “Which is why we need to know who, if anyone at all, was with Ruddock in the car park on the night of the murder.”

  “P’rhaps it was Colonel Mustard with the sodding candlestick,” she muttered.

  Lynley chuckled. “I’m glad you see my point.” He glanced at his pocket watch. The day was getting on. Hillier wanted a result, soon. If this went to the Home Secretary’s desk, there was going to be a problem that none of them were going to want to deal with. When his mobile rang, his first thought was that his mind had been read in London. He gave it a look and saw he wasn’t far off wrong. It was Ardery.

  He didn’t want
to get into a conversation with her just now. He knew he ought to answer because of everything he’d learned from Dee Harriman about Isabelle’s condition. But the fact was that he needed to keep his mind on the matter in hand, which was complicated enough already without any intrusion from the DCS. He let it go to message. Havers saw him do it.

  He said, “The DCS again.”

  She said, “Better you than me,” which was when her own mobile rang. She gave it a look and then said, “Bloody hell. Should I . . . ?”

  They could hardly both avoid the DCS. He said, “Assess her condition.”

  “What should I say about you?”

  “I’ve gone wherever I’ve gone and you’ll give me the message when you see me.”

  “And where’ve you gone?”

  “Sergeant, it’s unlike you to fail in the area of creative alternatives at this eleventh hour. If by any chance she’s ringing about the case—which she probably is—let her know we’re closing in.”

  From there, he heard Barbara’s end of the conversation only, which consisted of, “Guv? . . . Just about to have . . . Huh? He’s out and about . . . Got started early. Like I was saying, we’re wanting a chat with whoever happens to be at home in Temeside. Either Finn Freeman or his housemate—that girl Dena?—will . . . Oh. No. Sorry. Manner of speaking. It’s only me . . . He’s gone to—” She apparently saw the problem with a specific place and the possibility of being out of range and hence unable to take Isabelle’s call because she quickly switched to, “He’s tracking down the forensic woman again for . . . Hang on, guv. We’ve already done that twice, me and the inspector . . . Okay. Right. I’ll have another look. I can do it later and give you a ring, okay? . . . Will do, ma’am.”

  She rang off and shot him an aggrieved look. “She sounds like she’s had fifteen cups of coffee. She wants us looking at the SOCO photos another time. And to ring her while we’re doing it. You ask me, she’s trying to tiptoe out of cow dung without her shoe soles stinking.”