Paniatowski shook her head in admiration. ‘Did Margaret tell you all this?’ she asked.
‘There you go – back to the romantic novels,’ Clara Trotwood said. ‘Margaret no more confided in me when she came back from university than she did before she went away. But you mustn’t think that because I live all of seven miles away from Whitebridge I know nothing of what goes on there. I knew the Hartley family, and if Margaret had asked me – which she didn’t – I’d have told her that Rob was a nice enough lad, but he’d never amount to much.’
‘What about his sister Helen?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘She was a different kettle of fish altogether. She had more than her share of the family’s backbone, did Helen.’
‘And Fred Dodds?’
‘I can’t help you there. He didn’t even come to Whitebridge until he was in his twenties.’
‘Do you think Margaret would have been capable of killing him?’
‘I’ll say this about the Jeffries women. They were all, in their own ways, very determined characters. Edith couldn’t dissuade her husband from entering the Church, but she did everything she could to see that Margaret didn’t suffer what she saw as the consequences of it. And just look at Jane! I was reading in the paper that she’s one of the most important lawyers in England. You can’t tell me that she got to that position without sheer hard work and determination.’
‘You haven’t answered my question,’ Paniatowski said.
‘That’s because I don’t know how to, exactly,’ Clara Trotwood said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘If you asked me whether she had a natural inclination towards violence, then I’d have to say no. But if you asked me if she’d kill to get something that had become really important to her, well then I’d be less sure of my ground.’
Paniatowski glanced down at her watch. ‘You’ve really been very helpful, Miss Trotwood.’
‘Is that it?’ the other woman asked, surprised.
‘Well, yes, I think it is.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought a smart girl like you would leave without asking me one more question.’
Paniatowski smiled. ‘And what question might that be?’
‘Why didn’t you ask me about Margaret’s relationship with her father?’
A good point, Paniatowski thought uncomfortably. She certainly should have asked, and it wasn’t like her not to. Was she starting to develop a blind spot to father-daughter relationships?
‘I suppose I didn’t think I needed to ask,’ she said, explaining her reasons to herself as much as she was explaining it to Clara Trotwood. ‘After all, you’ve told me about how the mother and daughter got on, and about how the mother and father got on, so I assumed––’
‘And you think it’s as simple as that, do you?’ Clara Trotwood asked, with an amused twinkle in her eye. ‘Do you really believe it’s just like drawing a triangle? Do you imagine that, because you can already see two of the lines on the page, all you have to do is join up the unattached ends in order to be able to see the third side?’ She shook her head. ‘Human relationships are more complicated than that, my dear. Much more complicated.’
‘I know,’ Paniatowski said humbly. ‘Or at least, if I don’t, I certainly should. What kind of relationship did Mr Jeffries and his daughter have, Mrs Trotwood?’
‘They didn’t talk much, because they knew that would only be causing trouble,’ Clara Trotwood said. ‘But they understood each other. He loved her – and she worshipped him.’
Seventeen
Most of the early morning traffic was flowing from the suburbs into downtown Toronto, so the man in the unmarked police car travelling in the opposite direction had no excuse for clamping a siren to his roof – even though he really wanted to.
Sergeant Bill Paxton enjoyed being a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. He liked the work, and he liked the power that it gave him over other people. What he didn’t like was being introduced to new people and watching the shit-kicking grins form on their faces as they invariably said, ‘A Mountie always gets his man.’
A Mountie always gets his man! What kind of half-assed motto was that, for Christ’s sake?
Leaving aside the fact that it simply wasn’t true – as the wanted notices pinned up on the station-house notice-board amply proved – it conjured up all the wrong kinds of images. Say ‘Mountie’ and people thought of policemen on horseback, men who crossed frozen wastes and hunted down guys who wore furs and had bottles of moonshine whiskey in their pockets. That wasn’t how Paxton saw himself at all. He was a Dragnet man, a Naked City man – a street-smart, hard-boiled city cop who couldn’t build a shelter in the snow to save his life, but who sure-as-hell knew how to get the better of any suspect who wore a suit and necktie.
The prosperous-looking house was located on a quiet, leafy street, surrounded by other prosperous-looking houses. The front yard had the appearance of being professionally cared for, and there were two cars in the garage.
People who lived in houses like these never pulled an unwanted night shift, Paxton thought sourly. They never had to answer to their superiors for the complaints that members of the so-called ‘public’ had filed against them. They had it easy – real easy.
As he got out of his car, he knew he was scowling, and didn’t care. After all, what the hell else was a hard-boiled cop like him supposed to do, but scowl?
He walked up to the front door of the target house and rapped imperiously on it with his knuckles. In a place like this he would not have been the least surprised if his knock had been answered by some kind of uniformed flunkey, but in fact the door was opened by a man wearing a silk dressing gown.
‘Yes?’ the man said, stifling a yawn.
He loved these early morning calls, Paxton thought happily as he reached into his pocket for his identification.
The other man examined the document, then handed it back. ‘What’s this all about, Sergeant?’ he asked.
‘I need to speak to Mr Cuthburtson,’ Paxton said in a voice that almost came close to the one that Jack Webb used when he was playing Sergeant Joe Friday.
‘Need to speak to Mr Cuthburtson?’ the man in silk dressing gown asked. ‘Don’t you mean, would like to?’
He was trying to sound self-assured and in control, but he didn’t quite make it. Paxton turn his steely-eyed cop gaze full on the man. Mid-forties. Limp pale hair carefully brushed over to disguise a bald patch. Weak chin. Slow twitch in right eye. Intimidation quotient? Low to non-existent! This was going to be fun!
‘No, I wouldn’t like to see him,’ Paxton said. ‘I like to see my friends. But as an officer of the law, I need to speak to him.’
‘Concerning what?’ the other man asked defeatedly.
‘Official business,’ Paxton snapped. ‘Is he in?’
‘I’m Mr Cuthburtson.’
‘Maybe you are a Mr Cuthburtson, but it’s the chairman of Cuthburtson Import-Export I want to see.’
‘That’s me.’
He didn’t look like he had the personality be the chairman of anything, Paxton thought. Besides, he was too young to be the man that the long cable from Lancashire had inquired about. Still, there was no harm in milking a little bit more out of the game, was there?
‘You’re Mr Benjamin Cuthburtson?’ Paxton asked sceptically.
‘No. That was my father.’
‘Was?’
‘He’s been dead for over three years now. I’m Ernest Cuthburtson.’
‘Then I suppose you’ll have to do,’ Paxton said offhandedly. ‘Mind if I come in?’
‘Well––’ Cuthburtson began.
‘Thank you,’ Paxton interrupted, barging past him.
Paxton disliked men he could dominate almost as much as he disliked men who could dominate him, and the fact that Cuthburtson’s lounge was furnished so obviously expensively made him even more inclined to give the other man a rough ride.
Sitting down – uninvited – he pulled out
his notebook and shot Cuthburtson a hostile gaze.
‘You weren’t born in this country, were you?’ he asked accusingly.
‘No, I––’
‘Are you a Canadian citizen now?’
‘Yes. Yes, I am.’
Damn, Paxton thought. Non-citizens were always more insecure, and hence easier to bully. Not that he thought he’d have much of a problem bullying this particular chinless wonder.
‘What made you emigrate to this country?’ he asked.
Cuthburtson gave him a weak smile, as if he still considered it possible to get on Paxton’s good side. ‘I didn’t have much choice in the matter. I was only a child at the time.’
‘All right! What made your father emigrate?’
‘It wasn’t a question I thought to ask,’ Cuthburtson said, looking away.
‘How old were you when you came to Canada? Twelve?’
‘Yes.’
‘And a twelve-year-old boy didn’t “think to ask”? Who do you think you’re trying to fool here?’
‘If I did ask, then I’ve forgotten the answer.’
Leaving aside the obvious lie as something he could go back to later, Paxton consulted his notebook again.
‘When you lived in England, your father was in partnership with a Fredrick Dodds in a town called Whitebridge, Lancashire,’ he said. ‘Are all those details correct?’
‘How did you––?’
‘Just answer the question, if you don’t mind, sir.’
A look hardly strong enough to be called defiance came into Cuthburtson’s eyes.
‘Before you go any further with your questioning, I demand to know what this is all about,’ he said.
‘I’m afraid all that I can reveal at this point is that I’m running a joint operation with the Lancashire Constabulary,’ Paxton said. ‘Fredrick Dodds was your father’s partner? Is that correct?’
‘It’s correct.’
‘So you must have known him well.’
‘He was a grown-up; I was a child. I couldn’t swear that I ever even met him.’
It was all going even more beautifully than he could have imagined Paxton thought. He consulted his notebook again. ‘Couldn’t swear that you ever even met him?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘But according to my information, he used to come to your house every Sunday for lunch. And not only that, but the whole family used to go on excursions with him.’
Cuthburtson bowed his head, but said nothing.
‘Well?’ Paxton demanded.
‘You’re right, of course.’
‘So why did you lie to me?’
Cuthburtson shrugged. ‘Habit, I suppose. When we first arrived in Canada my father said that none of us was ever to mention Fred Dodds’ name again. He said as far as the family was concerned, Dodds had never existed. We followed that rule for the last twenty-seven years of my father’s life. There didn’t seem to be much point in breaking it now that he’s passed away.’
‘Did your father go back to England often?’ Paxton asked.
‘Now and again. For business reasons.’
‘Did he happen to go back in the summer of 1934?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘We can easily check up on it, you know. There’ll be records of his journeys somewhere.’
‘I still have no idea.’
‘What caused the partnership to break up? How did Dodds suddenly turn from close family friend into a guy whose name should never be spoken?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Was it money? Did Dodds try to cheat your father?’
‘If he did, my father never said so.’
‘Or have I got it the wrong way round? Was it your father who tried to cheat Dodds?’
‘My father would never have tried to cheat anybody. Ask any of his Canadian business associates.’
‘So it was Dodds who was trying to cheat him?’
‘I didn’t say that. I couldn’t be expected to know. As I’ve already said, I was only twelve years old at the time.’
‘In this country, we take our kids hunting when they’re twelve. We think of twelve as being almost a man.’
‘I very much doubt that’s true. But even if it is, I’m only Canadian by adoption.’
The bastard was getting better at defending himself, Paxton thought. Like a rat trapped in a corner, he was starting to fight back.
‘So your father didn’t tell you about it when you were twelve. I’ll accept that,’ he conceded. ‘But he must have explained it to you when you were older.’
‘I’ve told you, once we’d set foot on Canadian soil, we never discussed Fred Dodds at all!’
Paxton shook his head, disbelievingly. He recognized that psychology was not his strongest point, but a man like Cuthburtson was as easy for him to read as an open book.
Maybe Cuthburtson’s father hadn’t told him why he was dissolving the partnership at the time. Maybe he hadn’t even explained his reasons when his son had joined him in the business. But at some time – possibly just before he died – the old man had to have come clean. So now that knowledge was locked inside the weak son’s brain – and it shouldn’t take too much of an effort to force that brain open and discover the truth.
‘There’s two ways we can do this – the easy way and the hard way,’ Paxton said, his voice now more Sgt Frank Arcaro than it was Sgt Joe Friday. ‘The easy way is that you tell everything I need to know here and now. The hard way is that––’
‘There are eight million stories in the Naked City, and this had been one of them,’ said a mocking voice from the doorway.
Paxton turned to face the new arrival. It was a woman, possibly a few years younger than Cuthburtson. The family resemblance was unmistakable, but there were clear differences, too. His chin was weak, hers determined. His eyes were watery with indecision, hers burned with the fires of anger. He might be the chairman of Cuthburtson Import-Export, but there was no doubt about who was actually running the company.
‘Sergeant Paxton, my . . . my sister Louise,’ Cuthburtson stuttered.
‘Pleased to meet you, Sergeant – now bugger off before I call a policeman,’ Louise Cuthburtson said.
Paxton stood up and stretched to his full height so that he towered over the woman. ‘I am a policeman,’ he said witheringly.
Louise Cuthburtson threw back her head and laughed contemptuously. ‘You’re not a policeman,’ she said. ‘You’re nothing but an errand boy with a warrant card.’
‘I’m a sergeant!’ Paxton protested, outraged.
‘A senior errand boy, then. It still doesn’t give you any right to talk to the grown-ups.’
‘Listen to me––’ Paxton began.
‘No, you listen to me,’ Louise Cuthburtson said commandingly. ‘My brother is of a nervous disposition. He’s been that way since before we moved to Canada. He’s––’
‘It wasn’t my fault,’ Ernest Cuthburtson said in a voice that was almost a moan.
Louise Cuthburtson abandoned her attack on Paxton, and turned towards her brother. ‘Of course it wasn’t your fault,’ she said soothingly.
‘He was older than me. He should have known better,’ Ernest said, as tears began to form in his eyes.
‘Nobody ever blamed you,’ Louise told him. ‘Daddy didn’t when he was alive, and I’m certainly not doing it now.’
‘What’s he talking about?’ Paxton asked.
Louise whipped round to face the Mountie again. ‘You see what you’ve done to him?’ she demanded. ‘See the state you’ve driven him to. It’s been years since he’s been anything like this. Years!’
‘I only asked him––’ Paxton began.
‘Why don’t you go to your room, Ernie?’ Louise Cuthburtson said. ‘Why don’t you go to your room, and have a nice lie down.’
‘Will you come and see me?’ her brother asked pathetically.
‘Yes, I promise I’ll come and see you as soon as I’ve got rid of our unwanted
visitor.’
‘Now just a minute––’ Paxton said.
‘Go on, Ernie. Go to your room,’ Louise Cuthburtson coaxed.
The man in the silk dressing gown headed towards the door, walking with the shuffling steps of a man twice his age. Paxton considered stopping him, but somehow couldn’t quite bring himself to.
The moment her brother had left the room, Louise Cuthburtson turned on the policeman with all the ferocity of a wounded mountain cat.
‘I will not have my brother bullied by an insensitive thug like you,’ she spat. ‘You don’t know what he’s been through. You have no comprehension of how much he’s suffered.’
‘Does this have anything to do with why you left England?’ Paxton asked.
‘You surely don’t think I’m going to answer any more of your questions, do you?’ Louise Cuthburtson said incredulously.
‘I’m here on official business and––’
‘And I’m a personal friend of your commissioner. If you don’t get out of this house right now, I’ll personally see to it that you spend the rest of your career in Inuvik, with only a dog team to keep you company. Am I making myself clear?’
‘You can’t talk to me like that,’ Paxton protested.
But she already had – and he did not doubt for a minute that she had sufficient influence to see her threat carried through. Though he was almost exploding with frustration and humiliation – though nothing would have given him greater satisfaction than to pistol-whip the bitch – he saw no alternative but to do as Louise Cuthburtson had instructed.
‘I’m going now – but I may be back,’ he said, trying to save a little face from this desperate situation.
‘You know where the door is. See yourself out,’ Louise told him.
Paxton walked slowly to his car, deep in thought. What had Ernest Cuthburtson done that he claimed hadn’t been his fault? the policeman wondered. Who was older than him, and should have known better? Was what he’d done the reason that the family moved to Canada? And was he a mental wreck because of what he’d done, or had he only done it – whatever ‘it’ was – because he was a mental wreck?
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