Death Penalties

by Paula Gosling

  ‘I think they would let it pass,’ the big one said.

  ‘But Mrs Leland has been threatened,’ Soame protested.

  Interest flared momentarily in their eyes. ‘Oh?’ the big one said. ‘Have you reported this?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tess said.

  ‘No,’ Soame said.

  She looked at him. ‘But I thought you said you went to the local police,’ she said.

  He looked uncomfortable. ‘I rang them up and explained the situation, but I didn’t give your name or go in to make a formal complaint. They didn’t seem very interested, you see.’

  ‘This a person you know making threats?’ the smaller policeman asked.

  ‘Well, no,’ Tess said, hesitantly. ‘It’s phone calls, really. Silent ones at first. Then he spoke, but it wasn’t what he said, more the tone. He demanded some money – I didn’t know what he meant, though. And then there was the confetti and the cranberries.’ She told them about the wardrobe. Even as she was speaking she understood what Soame had been up against, it sounded so feeble and foolish. ‘Actually, he hasn’t called for some days. Maybe he won’t now.’

  ‘And maybe he will,’ the big one said.

  ‘Maybe,’ the smaller one said. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Then you do believe me?’ Tess asked.

  The smaller one smiled. ‘Of course I believe you, Mrs Leland. We can ask the exchange to intercept your calls, or to change your number. Would you like us to do that?’

  She was momentarily taken aback. ‘Well, changing numbers is such a big fuss, notifying everyone and . . . all that.’

  The big policeman and the smaller policeman exchanged a glance. ‘It’s up to you, Mrs Leland,’ the smaller one said.

  ‘I think you should,’ Soame said. ‘I know it costs money, but I think you should do something to put your mind at rest. It would be worth the expense, really.’

  ‘Change the number and keep a list of the people you tell,’ the big policeman advised. ‘That way you can narrow it down if this geezer calls again, see?’

  ‘Y . . . y . . . yes,’ Tess nodded. ‘All right.’

  ‘It would be faster if you did it yourself,’ the smaller policeman said. ‘Tell the phone people to call us if they want confirmation or anything like that. Here, I’ll give you our names.’ He took out a notebook, wrote, tore out the sheet and handed it to her. ‘Tell them either Constable Sims or Constable Cole – or Sergeant Reeder. We’ll leave details with him at the station. All right?’

  ‘Yes, all right. Thank you,’ Tess said.

  They gave her a pamphlet on home security, suggested a few improvements concerning locks and routines, and then they got another call. When they had gone, she sank into her rocker and closed her eyes. ‘They didn’t believe me,’ she said. ‘They were just humouring me.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Soame said. ‘It’s all paperwork for them. If they made some kind of official request for your phone number to be changed or calls to be intercepted it would probably take days and days to go through. I’m sure they were right, it will be quicker for us to request it.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  The telephone rang. From the darkness of the hall its jangle cut through Tess’s words like a knife, a cold sharp knife. She glanced at the big old store clock on the wall: two a.m.

  ‘It’s him,’ she said. She knew it as surely as she’d ever known anything. ‘I know it’s him.’

  ‘I’ll answer it,’ Soame said. ‘I’ll put a stop to this.’

  ‘No!’ Tess sprang to her feet. ‘He’ll just hang up on you. Let me answer it – you listen.’

  He stood beside her, reassuringly close, as she picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’ she quavered. She tipped the earpiece away from her slightly so Soame could hear, too.

  There was only silence. Soame stirred beside her. ‘Hello? Who is this? Answer me!’

  Silence.

  Tears of frustration started into her eyes, and she balled her fist and stamped her foot. ‘Answer me!’

  Soame took the phone from her. ‘Mrs Leland has no money of her own or anyone else’s. There is no point to this persecution when . . . ’ He stopped. His shoulders slumped, and he put the receiver back in its cradle. ‘Gone,’ he said.

  ‘You shouldn’t have interfered,’ Tess said, wildly. ‘He might have said something if you hadn’t interfered. Now it will just go on and on until I go crazy!’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry,’ Soame said. ‘It was just the look on your face . . . if you could have seen your expression . . . ’

  She shivered. ‘I’m cold,’ she said, wearily. ‘I’m going back to bed.’

  ‘I really didn’t mean to—’ Soame said.

  ‘I know, I know.’ She managed a smile. ‘I expect I looked pretty desperate, at that. Blame Clark Kent, again, I suppose.’

  He flushed. ‘Perhaps I’ve never really grown out of hoping to be a hero to someone, someday. On the evidence so far, I think I’d better stick to printed history.’

  She wanted to say something reassuring, but nothing came. ‘Good night,’ she said.

  Warmth came from the electric blanket, but it was a specious warmth, and did not reach her bones. She took a deep breath, sighed a long sigh, and shivered.

  You wanted to be independent, you wanted to prove you could run your own life, she told herself. Do it.

  After a few minutes of this inner pep talk, she fell into a restless sleep, and awoke the next morning with a headache. Never mind, she thought, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed and reaching for the paracetamol. We have no time for headaches, Mrs Leland. We have to Get On.

  And the first thing we are going to do is call that detective who came to see us in the hospital, aren’t we?

  Atta girl.

  Mrs Grimble conducted Nightingale and Murray to the kitchen. She scowled at them each, in turn, and then went out of the room. Moments later, the roar and clatter of the old vacuum cleaner started up in the dining-room. Vigorous sweeping sounds could be heard, along with an obbligato of muttering.

  Nightingale and his partner dutifully peered at the splintered wood beside the lock, looked at the lock itself, inspected the garden, and then looked at Tess.

  ‘You seem to have been very lucky, Mrs Leland,’ Nightingale said, accepting a mug of coffee. ‘If your boy hadn’t shouted out with his nightmare, you might have lost some more valuables.’ He took a swallow of the coffee. He’d risen too late for a decent breakfast, and had left a fresh, steaming cup of tea and a jam doughnut on his desk. Now, having rushed out without his mac, and proceeding unvictualled, his turn round the garden had left him chilled.

  ‘The local police seemed to think we should be used to this sort of thing, count it in a day’s expectations,’ Tess said. ‘Do you? I mean, considering everything?’

  ‘By everything I suppose you mean your husband’s death, the burglary, those phone calls you mentioned?’

  ‘Yes. You said you were suspicious about Roger’s death—’

  ‘Indirectly, yes, I was.’

  She caught the past tense. ‘But you aren’t, any more?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. Not exactly. It’s just – well – it’s difficult for me at the moment.’

  ‘We have a lot of work on at the moment,’ Murray put in, trying to be helpful. He wasn’t certain why Tim had dragged him along on this – whatever it was – but he felt he should say something. Anything.

  ‘Oh.’ Tess felt deflated. ‘I’m sorry, then, to have called you out here. I remember now, you said you were doing it on your own time, didn’t you?’ She blinked quickly, and stood up. ‘I hope I haven’t made any difficulties for you, calling you at your office and everything

  ‘Not at all. You see—’

  The kitchen door swung open. John Soame stood there, hair still uncombed, shirt half tucked into his trousers, and w
earing mis-matched socks. He held a coffee mug in one hand and a slightly-burned piece of toast in the other. ‘Mrs Grimble told me the police are back,’ he said. ‘Have they come up with anything?’

  Nightingale turned. The two men stared at one another.

  ‘I know you,’ Soame said, peering at him.

  ‘Yes, you do,’ Nightingale agreed.

  ‘Why do I know you?’

  ‘Because I used to ask awkward questions,’ Nightingale said. ‘If it helps, I usually sat in the front row, on the right. Your left, of course.’

  Soame considered him. ‘You had a beard?’

  ‘For my sins. A beard, a moustache, and a chip on my shoulder.’

  ‘But you weren’t in my tutor group.’

  ‘No. In Jon Chappel’s. For his sins.’

  ‘And now you’re a police officer?’ It seemed almost too much for Soame to take in. Sometimes, Nightingale thought, it was too much for him to take in, too. All those cloistered years, all those dreaming spires, and now this. His parents, were they still alive, would be startled, too, he supposed. Chappel, when he’d bumped into him a year or so ago, had been stupefied.

  ‘I am.’

  Tom Murray smiled, grimly. ‘For everyone’s sins.’

  ‘I see. Well, you’ve seen the damage?’ As Soame gestured towards the rear door, a few crumbs flew out from his toast and a spot of marmalade fell to the floor beside his left shoe. ‘Of course, you’ve realized this wasn’t a burglary attempt at all, but a further example of what has been going on all along. Somebody is systematically trying to frighten Mrs Leland into handing over money. It’s obvious.’

  Nightingale raised an eyebrow. ‘Is it?’

  ‘Come along, you were taught better than that by Chappel if no-one else,’ John protested. ‘Examine the evidence, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘I have, sir,’ he said. He kept his face neutral, but winced within. The situation might be clear to Professor Soame, but it was far from clear in police terms. About as clear, in fact, as his own position. Officially, he was not connected with this at all. Officially this had been logged locally as a burglary attempt. Officially, he was at his desk in New Scotland Yard drinking tea and wishing himself back in the country.

  Unofficially, of course, he was up to his ears in it.

  ‘What is your place in this, sir?’ Murray asked as politely as he could, while eyeing Soame’s state of dishabille. ‘Are you a relative of Mrs Leland?’

  Tess Leland explained, and as she did, Nightingale covertly examined John Soame. His being here was another coincidence, of course, but surely not one related to the case at hand. If there was a case. Soame must have faced thousands of undergraduates in his time. That he should re-encounter one of them as an investigating officer was not all that startling. He just wished he could remember more about Soame than he did. Wasn’t there something about him having an unsuitable wife, somewhere?

  ‘I’m sure Mrs Leland is glad to have you on hand, sir,’ Tim said, politely.

  ‘I’m not so certain of that, myself,’ Soame said. ‘I seem to have frightened off the phantom caller last night, before he could even speak.’

  ‘I see,’ Tim said. That was interesting.

  So many interesting things.

  He glanced at the broken door jamb. Was this just an attempted burglary, thwarted by a child’s thin cry of fright in the darkness? The local men were quite correct. This neighbourhood, marginal, semi-residential, showed quite lively statistics in the fields of car-theft, burglary, assault, and assorted mayhem. And this was just the kind of house a thief on the prowl for the quick chance would fancy – single occupancy, slightly up-market, potentially filled with the kind of small, portable shinies that could be quickly and easily exchanged for cash across a pub table, no questions asked. After all, it had already happened once.

  There might be a pattern, yes. But it also might be that, in their twitchy state, this woman and Soame were imposing a pattern on events that were really quite unconnected.

  What was worse, he might be doing the same thing himself.

  Leaping to the wrong conclusion now might mean manpower being expended to no good end, hours wasted, resources drained, all in looking for a little man who wasn’t there. And on his recommendation. Very bad for the record. Especially the unwritten record.

  His problem was simple: was there a problem?

  Murray looked uncomfortable, as well he might. He hadn’t the least idea what was going on – Tim had carefully refrained from telling him anything on the way over. He wanted clear first impressions from a disinterested party. From Murray’s expression, dragging him in on this would cost Tim a lunch, at least.

  He looked around the kitchen. A nice room, with the comfortable cluttered feeling of something that had grown organically over many years of various family requirements rather than something that had been imposed according to an ideal of modern efficiency. What little wallpaper there was showed a simple red on white pattern of small flowers. The many glass-fronted cupboards on the wall were, he thought, contemporary with the building itself. Beside the splintered rear entrance door was another door, slightly open, through which he could see liberally-stacked marble cold shelves – an old fashioned larder, then, still enthusiastically in use and so far unconverted to the omnipresent ‘downstairs loo’. The sink was stainless steel, the taps modern, but the whole unit had been dropped into the existing structure of battered floor cupboards. Their original tops had been covered with butcher blocking, which had the effect of raising the actual work surfaces higher than the ordinary. That made sense – both Mrs Leland and the loony cleaning lady he’d met on the way in were taller than average. All the cupboards, high and low, had been painted a pale cream with red accent lines, but it had been done some time ago. Scars showed, dents and bruises, and the chips thus incurred showed many layers of old paint beneath. There was a big pine table in the centre of the room, scrubbed clean but heavily scarred, with four chairs placed around it. There were plump red printed cushions tied to each one, but the chairs themselves – although of pine and roughly similar in size – didn’t match.

  What did all this tell him?

  That Mrs Leland, although a professional interior designer, was one of those rare people who knew the value of not rushing in, of staying her hand, of letting be. She’d probably moved in, made the changes in her new kitchen that were necessary for efficient and pleasant function, and had then done no more. Perhaps she was not a dedicated cook and milkbottle washer. A practical woman who kept the more modish aspects of her imagination for her work. Even, possibly, a lazy one. Would such a woman imagine dragons where none existed? Worse, would she manufacture them, either consciously or subconsciously?

  He drank more coffee and looked at her over the rim of the mug. Now that the burden of the child’s illness had been lifted she looked younger than she had in hospital. A pretty woman, once, who could be again, given time and love and security. Not, he thought, over-emotional, but not invulnerable either. She would stand up to a great deal – but only for a certain time. Watching him quietly, standing up to his inspection and concomitant calculation, she was waiting for his verdict on her, and on her predicament.

  If there was simply an attempt here at frightening Mrs Leland – and she was obviously frightened, for whatever reason – then finding and scaring the hell out of the person responsible might be all that was necessary. With the young, the half-hearted and the amateur, realization that the authorities ‘knew’ of their efforts was often sufficient to stop them from continuing a campaign of intimidation against their chosen victim. If the little man was there, a brisk outline of the possible consequences resulting from prosecution might do it.

  But who was the little man?

  And, most importantly of all, was he the same man who had chased Roger Leland to his death, and – still a conjecture – frightened Ivor Peters
into a heart attack when he’d got too close?

  In all things criminal, evidence – usable evidence – was the prime factor. If a chargeable offence was committed, then it came down to whether the charge could be proven. Going off half-cocked more often than not provided the defence with all they needed to get a case thrown out before it even came to full trial. The Force knew all it wanted to know about that kind of case.

  ‘I can see what you’re getting at—’ he began, cautiously.

  ‘Well, then, what are you going to do about it?’

  ‘John, please.’ Tess could see that Nightingale was having an internal struggle of some kind, and she felt embarrassed by John’s insistence on immediate action. ‘Perhaps there’s nothing Sergeant Nightingale can do.’ She felt a wave of desolation sweep over her. Perhaps there was nothing anyone could do, she thought. You are alone. This is not your country, many things are strange to you here. And you are seen as a stranger, too. There is no-one. Accept it. Live with it. Get on with it.

  Nightingale saw the defeat in her eyes, and wished there was a way to remove it. ‘While all these things are unpleasant, there is no proof that they’re connected in any way. Not necessarily.’

  ‘It would be an amazing coincidence if they weren’t,’ Soame muttered.

  ‘Not amazing at all. Coincidences do happen, and frequently. Mrs Leland says she has no enemies that she knows about. Mrs Leland says she has been threatened, but the threats have not been followed up. Nothing at all has come of it. No lines of communication have been arranged, no instructions issued, nothing specific has been indicated or requested.’

  ‘What about the break-in last night?’

  ‘What about it?’ Nightingale countered. ‘A broken doorjamb isn’t enough to convince a judge, much less a jury.’ ‘But there was another call last night, within minutes of the police leaving the house,’ Soame said. ‘Someone must have been watching the place, waiting for the right moment. It’s a campaign of intimidation, I tell you.’ His voice rose up, verged on – something. Desperation?