Death Penalties

by Paula Gosling

  ‘And what was Peters like?’

  ‘I gather he was a reasonable old man, “very brainy”,’ she said.’

  ‘He retired from the Met in sixty-five,’ Nightingale said, again indicating the framed certificate. ‘Sergeant.’

  ‘Really?’ Abbott said, going over to look for himself. ‘Well, what do you know? I suppose we’d better notify somebody about it, then. They usually like to do something in the way of a memorial – flowers, representation at the funeral, that kind of thing.’ He made a note in his book.

  ‘Did the landlady say anything else about him?’

  Abbott shook his head. ‘She says his daughter was always after him to come and live with her, but he liked keeping his own hours, doing his own thing. He’d lived in the area all his life, and he felt comfortable here, even though it had changed so much. And he was fussy about his food, claimed the daughter’s cooking was full of garlic and what he called “twigs”. Herbs, I guess he meant. So he lived here and cooked for himself and watched his television and read and met his friends at the local day centre and generally was pretty happy, she said. Or had been until a few months ago. She finally admitted Peters had been unwell lately, not eating or looking after himself properly. Seemed to feel she should have done something about it, but hadn’t. She said he’d been like that since the accident,’ Abbott said, gazing down at the old man.

  Tim frowned. ‘The doctor said something about that.’

  Cartwright stirred. He’d been waiting for an opportunity to interrupt Abbott’s flow of words. ‘Self-neglect,’ he observed, brusquely. ‘The old story. I see it every day. Delayed shock is more than enough to finish a man his age. Sudden shock even more so. But he certainly wasn’t murdered,’ Cartwright said, firmly. He picked up his hat and clapped it on his head. ‘I’m finished here. You’ll have to hang on until they come for the body, I’m afraid. I’ve got another elderly unattended death waiting in Ealing. God, I hate winter.’ He left them to it.

  ‘Did the old man have many visitors?’ Tim asked Abbott.

  ‘His daughter, two or three times a week, sometimes a friend from the local old people’s day centre came around to play chess,’ Abbott said, putting his notebook away. ‘I expect that’s who it was, last night. I took his name, but there’s not much point.’

  ‘We could go and ask him, just to round things off,’ Nightingale said, eagerly.

  Abbott shook his head. ‘You heard him. Natural causes. That’s it as far as we’re concerned. No crime, no investigation.’

  Nightingale nodded and looked down at the old man. ‘We can’t just leave him there like that,’ he said.

  Abbott looked, too. ‘Because he was one of us, you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Tim said, uneasily. ‘It just doesn’t seem right.’

  ‘It never ceases to amaze me that you young ones still have some kind of cock-eyed romantic notion about the Job,’ Abbott said. ‘I understand you’ve done three years uniformed in some of the roughest districts, you’ve been beaten up twice and stabbed once, you were even assigned to football crowd control for three months to knock the stars out of your eyes, and still you think there’s something splendid about being a copper.’ He looked at Nightingale and Nightingale looked back at him. Abbott wasn’t fooling him any more than he was fooling himself. This was a lecture from Abbott’s mouth, not his heart.

  Tim knew Abbott had been temporarily seconded back to the Met from the West Country, and was not happy about it. Tim, too, had been born to fields and hedgerows, and found the gritty grind of metropolitan life both confining and depressing. They shared that bond – but it was stretched thinly across the chasm of rank.

  Tim had heard through the grapevine that Abbott was a good detective and a fair-minded man, but he and the other more junior officers had had to take that on trust. Ever since he’d arrived in London, Abbott had been short-tempered and ill at ease. It had been many years since the chief inspector had served in the Met – years he had thankfully put behind him. While he’d been endeavouring to re-assume the hard manner that armoured the city police, it was a cloak that did not settle easily on his shoulders.

  ‘Oh, hell, come on,’ Abbott said, impatiently. Together they picked up the thin, fragile body and carried it to the bed. Rigor had set in, so they couldn’t make him look more comfortable, but they laid him gently on his side and drew the duvet over him.

  ‘The daughter will be coming, soon,’ Abbott said, as if to explain why they should have done this simple, decent thing.

  ‘I guess it doesn’t take much when you’re old and alone,’ Tim said, softly. He looked down at the small mound under the duvet, and suddenly felt sad. He knew nothing about this old man, and yet was an official witness to his end. He’d had a family, a career, a life of nearly eighty years, and yet he’d died alone, with no-one to hear his final testament. It seemed unfair. Tim had an irrational desire to wake the old man up, ask him to talk about all the things he had seen and been and done, so they wouldn’t be lost for ever.

  But it was too late for that, now. And it was not the kind of attitude encouraged in a detective sergeant of the Metropolitan Police. Sentimentality was allowed, off-duty, but there were too many sad stories in London – and everywhere else – for him to spend the limited coinage of his emotions on every one. Save it for a rainy day, he told himself. For a dead child or a lost dog. At least Mr Ivor Peters had done it his way. Not so terrible, dying in your own home, even if it is on the floor with your pipe unsmoked. Better than in some institution, propped up in a nodding circle.

  ‘I have to get back to the station,’ Abbott said, glancing at his watch. He turned. ‘Do you mind hanging on here until they come for him?’

  ‘No,’ Tim said, truthfully. ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘Right.’ Abbott headed for the door, slowed, then turned to look at his new sergeant with some curiosity. ‘Why does your willingness to perform this lowly duty worry me?’ he asked.

  Tim smiled and shrugged. ‘I have no idea,’ he said.

  Abbott continued to look at him with a raised eyebrow. ‘It was natural causes,’ he said, pointedly.

  ‘Of course,’ Nightingale agreed, blandly. ‘Natural causes,’

  Abbott stared at him a moment longer, then went out, just managing to hide the smile that came unbidden and unwelcome. As if he’d heard it announced, he knew what Nightingale was thinking. He knew how hungry he was to find ‘his’ first good case. But policing was a team effort, and a solitary explorer often stumbled into areas that weren’t friendly to intruders. Nightingale’s curiosity was something that could lead to trouble, and Abbott knew he should have ordered him away from the scene, assigned him quickly to something else, and finished it.

  He clattered down the stairs, shaking his head. It probably wouldn’t make any difference. And he felt no loyalty to the Met any more. The whole secondment had been a mistake, some Home Office psychologist’s bright idea, no doubt, and he resented it deeply. The DCI who had changed places with him had been on the phone regularly, complaining. They were both out of place and functioning badly as a result. The hell with it, just put in your time and go through the motions, he told himself. Only another four months to go in London, and then you can go back to the Cotswolds, where you belong. You understand the people there, and they understand you. Nightingale’s hopes and ambitions aren’t really your problem.

  Abbott opened the door and went out into the bluster of the day, lifting his face to the stink of exhaust fumes and the wet slap of the rain. God, he thought, for ten pence I’d just turn west and keep walking. The rain is soft there, and the wind smells of cut grass and woodsmoke. He teetered for a moment, imagining he could do that, pretending it was a real possibility, a matter of simple choice. Then he turned up his coat collar and climbed into the waiting police car.

  As soon as he heard the downstairs door slam shut, Nightingale was acro
ss the room. He pulled out the swivel chair and seated himself in front of the cluttered roll-top desk.

  He was still there half an hour later when the woman from the basement flat appeared in the doorway, bearing a tray. ‘Mrs Finch says would you like a cup of tea while you’re waiting?’ she asked, nervously, trying not to look at the bed and its forever silent occupant.

  Tim smiled. ‘Thank you,’ he said, clearing a fresh space on the desk. ‘That would be very welcome.’

  THREE

  The hospital room was warm, and the single bed in the centre seemed far too large for its occupant. Outside, the scene was one of seasonal conflict. Autumn signalled its supremacy with flags as the breeze-churned branches waved ragged banners of umber, acid yellow, and red. In opposition, the sky was bright blue, fleeced with occasional clouds, attempting an illusion of summer against all the evidence of barometer, thermometer, calendar, and disappearing foliage.

  But on this side of the glass, despite the comfort of central heating, Tess Leland felt winter in her bones. She stared down at her son, restless and feverish in the hospital bed, and shivered. Max was moaning with distress and his breathing was harsh and ragged.

  She’d raced for a train as soon as the call had come from the school. It was not the kind of place that would panic easily, and the fact that they’d admitted him to hospital before calling her had made the whole thing even more of a nightmare.

  The door opened behind her and she turned, startled. ‘Oh, Richard,’ she said, and was infuriated to feel relief flood through her. Why should she be glad to see him? Wasn’t she capable of handling this alone? Hadn’t she handled everything else herself?

  Richard Hendricks was pale as he crossed the room and put his arms around her. His normally angular face seemed to have gone slightly flaccid and blank, rather than tighter, with worry. ‘My secretary tracked me down,’ he said. ‘How is he?’

  Tess took a deep breath. ‘It’s rheumatic fever,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady, but achieving only the unpredictable flutes and wavers of an adolescent boy. She cleared her throat and tried again. ‘He had a cold a few weeks ago, but it seemed just the ordinary—’ Her voice seized, suddenly grown too large for her throat. ‘The doctor says—’ She couldn’t go on, decided not even to try, and gestured helplessly.

  ‘Come outside for a moment,’ Richard suggested.

  The corridor was long and impersonal, with pale green walls and scuffed mock-marble linoleum. Benches were spaced along it at regular intervals, and nurses with rubber- soled shoes squeaked past carrying trays and bowls and mysteriously-shrouded objects. In the distance a trolley rattled, and someone laughed, the sound strangely distorted and somehow out of place. Richard sat down, took Tess’s hand in his, and patted it awkwardly. ‘Take a deep breath and then tell me all about it.’

  She took the deep breath, and retrieved her hand. ‘They’re giving him antibiotics and other drugs, apparently, which will overcome the initial infection in a few days. There’s no reason to think that he won’t get through it all right – he’s always been a very fit little boy. But . . . but . . . there may be heart damage.’ She stopped for a moment, kept control, and went on. ‘If he’s very unlucky he may even have to have operations later on —’ valve replacements . . . She felt the tears coming, tears she had held back before. Damn it. Stop this at once, she ordered. But it was no good. Old habits die hard, even when kicked hard, and knowing someone else was there to share the burden betrayed her into the old familiar reactions.

  Her late husband’s will had named Richard as co-guardian, so it had been only polite to notify him that Max was ill, but she had never expected him to appear like this.

  Any more than she had expected to start crying.

  Sit up, she commanded. Behave yourself.

  But the troops were rebellious.

  Damn. Damn.

  When she eventually lifted her drooping head, she saw Richard deep in conversation with the doctor. She cleared her throat, and they both turned. ‘Feeling better?’ Richard smiled.

  Don’t patronize me, she thought. And smiled back. ‘Fine, thanks,’ she said.

  His tone had implied failure on her part. Well, it hadn’t been a faint, or anything like it. Just a moment of quiet reflection, that’s all. A little rest, a gathering of loose threads, nothing more. What could have happened of importance in the world during those few minutes? What had she missed? Probably nothing at all.

  Richard really did look concerned, and she felt momentarily ashamed of her resentment, but she was cross at him for rushing up here like some self-appointed knight in armour. She wanted to face this alone. It was so much easier to control yourself among strangers. Friends supplied too many excuses to the weak of will.

  The consultant had glanced at the clock on the wall as covertly as possible, but it was obvious he had other things to do. ‘Do you feel well enough to discuss Max’s prognosis now?’ he asked, tentatively.

  ‘Yes,’ Tess said, firmly. ‘I want to know exactly where we are.’

  The consultant nodded, approvingly, and came over to sit beside her. He had blue eyes, and one wayward grey hair curling out of his left sideburn, like a cat’s whisker, giving the impression he was listening in to other worlds, receiving other messages. But his glance was direct and his voice was perfectly, wonderfully calm. ‘A good convalescence will make all the difference to Max. A matter of damage limitation, I suppose you could say.’ He carefully explained exactly what rheumatic fever was, how he would be treating Max for it, and what would be needed, once the crisis had passed.

  Richard scowled when it came to the details of the boy’s convalescence. ‘That may not be as simple as it sounds. Tess is a widow on her own. She has a career as an interior designer and can’t nurse Max during the day. Naturally, Max should have the best possible care, and I’ll be glad to arrange it. If you could recommend a suitable nursing home, I’ll—’

  Tess interrupted, in a voice perhaps more icy than she intended. ‘That’s a very kind offer, Richard, but once Dr Shaw says Max can leave hospital, he’s coming home. He’s my son, not a parcel to be posted off to strangers.’

  Richard had flushed at her rebuke. ‘You try to do too much, Tess,’ he said, impatiently. ‘I wish you’d let me help you more, take some of the burden from your shoulders.’

  It was a point of honour with him, as much as anything. Richard Hendricks had been her husband’s business partner in what had been a most successful international public relations firm. But after Roger had been killed in that horrible car crash, it immediately became apparent that most of the company’s success had stemmed from his brilliant creative abilities. Richard Hendricks’ business expertise alone hadn’t been enough to hang on to their clients – in PR it was ideas that counted. He’d practically wept when he’d had to tell her that the business was going to be wound up, and there would be almost no money from it for her and Max.

  ‘I know you want to help, and I appreciate it,’ she continued, using almost the same words she had used then. And almost the same mixture of feelings rose in her as she looked at his anxious, familiar face. Damn it, why did he have to look so worried? Why didn’t he and everyone else just leave her alone to get on with things? Guilt, her constant companion these days, came to sit beside her.

  It was Roger’s fault, of course.

  Blithe spirit, lately flown.

  Oh, he’d made a will.

  Once. When drunk. On a form from the stationers.

  Everything to my dear wife.

  Including all the responsibilities.

  She had developed an inexpressible rage towards her late husband in the weeks following his death. As a grieving widow, how could she admit that, as each new problem presented itself, her secret anger grew at his intransigence, his grasshopper views on finance, his refusal to worry about tomorrow, his selfish determination to ‘live for today�
��, his casual assumption that he could take care of everything, manage anything, and would be around to do it for ever.

  Because in the end – he wasn’t.

  It was true that when he died, the mortgage had automatically been paid off. For that she was undoubtedly indebted to some anonymous stranger at their building society rather than Roger himself. There proved to be two life insurance policies in Roger’s desk. One, very small, had been taken out when he was still a student and subsequently left to the vagaries of the standing order system. It had barely covered the funeral expenses and their outstanding bills.

  The other insurance policy had been taken out the day Max was born – to pay his school fees at Roger’s old school. A typical Roger gesture. But fees were only the beginning. When Roger had won a place there, his parents had gone without so that he could dress well, take part in sports, go on school trips, and generally keep up appearances with the other boys. She’d been trying to do the same for Max, for he loved the school and would undoubtedly want to go back when he was better.

  Tess had lived in England for fourteen years, but she had been born and brought up in Amity, Iowa, and her conscience was still nagged by stringent, contrary Iowa standards. Because she was an American, everything in her rebelled at the thought of élitist education. Equally, because she was American, something in her was impressed by traditional ways. And, because she was a mother, she conceded the undoubted advantages such an education gave to her child as he progressed from snotty-nosed schoolboy to future prime minister.

  But, lately, she’d been losing both the moral and the financial battle.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I’d been wondering whether I was right to send Max back to school so soon after his father’s death,’ Tess said, lifting her chin and keeping her voice firm. ‘His housemaster has written to me several times about his nightmares. He’s been very unsettled this term.’ She thought of Max’s face, flushed and small on the pillow, his mouse-brown hair clinging damply to his forehead. Damn it, Max was her son.