Death Penalties

by Paula Gosling

  Soame didn’t seem to see the dangerous course Abbott’s questions were taking. He stared at him blankly, then shrugged. ‘Perhaps I arrived later than I thought. Or the search took longer than I thought. Christ, what does it matter? I found her, and she was alive.’

  ‘Yes. That was fortunate, wasn’t it? The way the racks fell just so. They are extremely heavy, but luckily – very luckily – Mrs Leland was only trapped under them. Not badly hurt.’

  ‘Would you rather she had been crushed to death?’ ‘Obviously not.’

  Soame scowled. ‘Do you think she arranged for the racks to fall on her like that?’

  ‘I think somebody could have.’

  ‘But not Tess . . . Mrs Leland. Why should she?’

  ‘Indeed, why should she? You see, Mr Soame, I can make a case for Mrs Leland creating this situation – either consciously or unconsciously – to call attention to herself.’ ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘It’s been known.’

  ‘She’s not that kind of woman.’

  ‘How well do you know her? You, on the other hand, insist that the phone calls, the intruder, the attack on Mrs Leland and now on this house are part of a pattern. Well, I could make a case for you creating that pattern – consciously or unconsciously.’

  Soame’s chin came up. ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘You’ve done it before.’ Abbott’s voice was perfectly calm.

  Soame’s face went paper-white. ‘You —’

  ‘Yes. Sergeant Nightingale has been to Cambridge and asked some questions about you. He got some very interesting answers.’

  Soame looked at Nightingale, shocked and angry. ‘But why?’

  ‘It was necessary,’ Abbott said. ‘He was proceeding sensibly. It was sound investigation. There can be no exceptions in a case as vague yet complex as this – a good officer who senses wrongdoing must suspect everyone.’ Soame turned away, and stood rigid, facing the windows. Although he did not seem to move, both Nightingale and Abbott could sense the struggle he was having with himself. When he turned back, they were both tensed, prepared to cope with any reaction – except the one he showed.

  ‘Quite right,’ he said, quietly. ‘That’s also good scholarship, Nightingale. One really can’t draw a sound conclusion any other way.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  ‘Tim.’

  Sherry stood in the open door, running one hand through her dishevelled hair, and using the other to hold her pale pink terry cloth robe closed. Now she reached behind her for the trailing belt and managed to cover herself properly – but not before Tim had seen she was naked underneath.

  ‘I’m sorry it’s so late,’ he said. ‘Maybe I should have rung first. But you always said—’

  ‘Well . . . yes, of course,’ she said, and stepped back. ‘I thought you were going to Cambridge this weekend.’

  ‘Went and came back,’ he said, proceeding down the hall and into the large sitting-room. ‘Fare was courtesy of the Yard, but everything else I had to pay for myself, and there wasn’t much more I could do. Just as well I came back, too, because there’s been a Development. Any chance of a coffee?’

  She had followed him through and now glanced at the ebony and brass clock on the wall as she closed the sitting-room door behind her. After eleven – she had begun to doze off when the doorbell had roused her again.

  ‘Yes . . . yes, sure.’ She went into the kitchen and reached for two mugs. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink and on the counter – plates, cups, bowls, cutlery – hurriedly rinsed but not yet inserted into the dishwasher. ‘You’ll have to have it black, though – I ran out of milk about three hours ago and was too lazy to go out and get any. I thought I’d pick it up with the Sunday papers.’

  He sat down on the sofa and stretched out his legs. ‘I can do that,’ he said, yawning. ‘You can have a lie-in. Least I can do after waking you up, right?’

  She stood in the kitchen, holding the jar of instant coffee high in the air between cupboard and counter, pausing for a moment before completing its transfer. ‘Mmmmm,’ she said, after a moment, and began to unscrew the top.

  ‘You remember that case I was worried about – the widow and her little boy?’ he said, as he loosened his tie. ‘Mrs Leland?’

  ‘That memory of yours never ceases to amaze,’ he said. ‘Mrs Leland it is. She nearly got herself squashed under about five hundredweight of assorted lumber this afternoon. It all fell on top of her – but she escaped with only scratches, bruises, and possible concussion.’

  ‘Lucky woman.’ The kettle gave its little characteristic internal moan as the water began to simmer within. Sherry added sugar to Tim’s mug and ducked her head to glance in the small hand-mirror set on edge in front of the spice jars on the rack. She made a face at her messy hair and chapped chin, remembered that she had an old lipstick in one of the drawers, and began to root among the spoons for it.

  ‘Maybe.’ He was silent for a moment, listening to the comfortable clatter from behind him. ‘But while she was lying unconscious, somebody tried to lure away her little boy, and when that didn’t work, he vandalized her house.’ ‘How awful!’ she called. ‘Was the boy hurt?’

  ‘No. And neither was his kitten, which was found safely shut in the bathroom.’

  ‘What has a kitten to do with it?’

  ‘I’m not sure. But it bothers me. Why would someone who vandalized a house stop short of hurting a kitten?’ ‘Even killers are kind to their mothers,’ Sherry observed. ‘Maybe the vandal is a cat-lover.’

  ‘Maybe. Or maybe he isn’t a vandal at all.’ He told her some of what he had learned in Cambridge, and some of what he thought about Soame, and Tess Leland. Not all, just some. He also threw in what he knew about Archie McMurdo – whom they had so far been unsuccessful in locating at any hotel. But hotel searches take time, and he was patient. There were so many possibilities to consider. He sensed her coming up behind him, and recalled another more distant aspect of the case. ‘By the way, did you manage to dig up any of the information I asked you to get for me? On Roger Leland’s business?’

  She put the coffee mugs down on the table in front of the sofa, then perched herself opposite in the easy chair. He raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s not very friendly – am I in the doghouse for coming around so late?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘But I feel a bit . . . you know . . . messy and unprepared. Caught with my pants down.’ She heard her own words and raised a hand. ‘No gratuitous remarks – I’m too sleepy to keep up.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ He picked up his coffee and sipped at it, burning his tongue. ‘Ouch.’

  ‘No milk, remember?’ she said.

  He put the mug back onto the table and leaned his head against the back of the sofa, grateful for a little support at last. It had been a long day. ‘Well, did you?’

  She’d been watching him with an odd expression that mingled affection, concern, and something else. ‘Did I what?’

  He lifted his head and looked at her directly. ‘Get any information on Roger Leland’s business?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Quite a bit.’ She untangled her long legs and got up to go over to her desk unit, which obliquely filled one corner of the large flat. Beyond the desk huge windows overlooked the Thames, giving a view rather like that from the bridge of a ship. The building in which Sherry lived had been a sugar warehouse which some clever architect had converted to flats. When she’d invested in it, Tim had protested. He hadn’t much liked the idea of her living down here, where the streets were dark and lonely. But the architect (who still lived on the top floor) had had visions of the area developing one day into some kind of premier riverside village complex. In the event, Tim had been wrong, and the architect had been right. Sherry’s original brave investment would net her a hefty profit when she decided to sell. If she decided to sell.

  She often teased him about m
issing his chance at a similar place and now being stuck renting a tiny flat in Putney. He absorbed these shafts with equanimity because he could, he pointed out, have been right. The odds had been even, and predicting fashion trends – whether in couture or property – was a risky business. Almost as risky as becoming a copper.

  Now she returned from her desk bearing a large folder. ‘Here you go,’ she said, handing it to him.

  ‘My God,’ he said, hefting it. ‘This will take me all tomorrow to get through.’

  ‘It’s Sunday,’ she told him. She glanced at the clock again. ‘Or it will be, in twenty minutes or so.’

  ‘Can’t you give me a précis?’ he pleaded, putting the folder down beside him and trying the coffee again. ‘Better still, can’t we go to bed and you can tell it all to me as a bedtime story?’

  ‘Too many details,’ she said. ‘You have to look at the figures to get the idea.’

  ‘And what is the idea?’

  ‘Well, my idea is that it was a very peculiar public relations company,’ Sherry said, resettling herself in the easy chair, but not looking much at ease in it. ‘On paper it was doing really well. A lot of money was going back and forth between here and the Continent, for example, but there weren’t that many clients.’

  ‘You got that far into it?’

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t difficult. I know a lot of people in the City,’ she said.

  ‘So I remember,’ Tim said.

  She avoided his eyes. ‘Yes. Well, you have to admit, it’s useful. Apparently Roger Leland was a real charmer, shot out creative ideas in all directions, really produced for his clients. There’s no question, in his hands the company was a real goer. You get the feeling from the figures that they would have been in a terrific position when the Common Market really opens up. But there was some talk just before he died – nothing you could put your finger on—’

  ‘Saying what?’

  She shrugged. ‘Odd stuff. That maybe he was losing his edge, or he was ill, or something.’

  Tim raised an eyebrow. There had been no evidence of serious physical illness revealed by the post mortem. ‘You mean mentally ill?’

  ‘Maybe. It was more like terminally pissed-off.’

  ‘With his partner?’

  ‘I don’t think so. More like with the world. You know – ratty, irritable, slamming phones down, storming out of meetings, that kind of thing. For no apparent reason. I think that was what worried the people over at Philadelphia Mutual.’

  Tim made a dismissive sound. ‘Typical insurance company, balking at paying out a measly few thousands to a widow.’

  ‘More like half a million. But it wasn’t to the widow – it was to Richard Hendricks. Partnership insurance.’

  ‘Half a million?’ Tim said, incredulously.

  ‘It was based on Leland’s “unique creative ability”, apparently. They paid in the end, but not without a fight. They raised the question of suicide, based on Leland’s apparent “depression”.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. But it was pointed out to them that suicide was pretty unlikely, because Leland’s son had been in the car with him, and it was decided a devoted father like Leland would never have risked injuring or killing the boy.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Anyway, once Hendricks got the money out of PM he closed down the old business, which was really built around Leland’s talent, and used the insurance as seed money for his new company, which, by the way, is called Salescan. It specializes in profiling prospective international markets. It’s doing all right, but it doesn’t have anything like the potential his partnership with Roger Leland had. Hendricks is respected but not particularly well-liked. A good numbers man, but not a genius.’

  ‘Yes.’ Tim was still absorbing the fact that Richard Hendricks had been paid off handsomely for Roger Leland’s death, but his widow had been nearly impoverished. Of course, Hendricks was under no obligation to give her any of the partnership insurance money – that had been a normal business arrangement. But it wouldn’t have hurt him to drop her a few thousand, would it? On the other hand, maybe he had, and she was hiding it – say from someone in Leland’s family? Or from his past? A former wife, perhaps? He knew so little about the dead man, but he did know that in any victim’s personality or lifestyle or history there were always the clues to why someone wanted him dead. The trouble was, they were often buried deeper than the victim himself.

  ‘Well, that insurance pay off gives us a motive for Hendricks.’

  Sherry shook her head. ‘Not really, Roger Leland alive was a lot more valuable to Hendricks than he was dead. In the long run, anyway.’

  ‘Maybe Hendricks needed money fast, for some other reason.’

  Again, she shook her head. ‘The man is fairly solid in his own right. He could have managed to finance the new company out of his own pocket – it just made good business sense to use the insurance payout. That’s what it’s for, Tim.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ He scowled. ‘And then there’s Soame.’ ‘The nutty professor?’

  ‘Yes.’ He scowled.

  ‘You like him.’

  ‘Yes, I like him, but . . . ’ He paused. ‘I like Tess Leland, too,’ he murmured, half to himself, as he idly turned the first few pages in the folder. ‘Good Lord.’

  ‘What?’ Sherry leaned forward slightly.

  ‘It says here that Leland and Hendricks part-owned Brevitt Interiors.’

  ‘I told you, Hendricks is a good numbers man. He knew the value of outside assets, especially for a firm that was so dependent on the talents of one man.’

  ‘What would have happened to that interest when Hendricks closed down the company?’

  ‘He could have transferred the asset to the new company, or sold the interest to someone else – any number of things. It may be in there, somewhere.’

  ‘Could he have brought any kind of pressure on the people in Brevitt Interiors?’

  ‘Pressure to do what? And why? L&H’s interest wasn’t the major one, from the look of it. Maybe it was sentimental. It wasn’t a big asset, and certainly not their only asset. It wouldn’t be worth the bother, I shouldn’t have thought.’ ‘Unless there was something else there. Say maybe that Brevitt Interiors had hidden assets of its own. Do you know anything about them?’

  Sherry laughed. ‘Good God, Tim, you must think I’m omniscient or something. I only know what’s listed there – their name, their value, and the amount of L&H’s investment. You said to look into Leland and Hendricks, not investigate everyone else in the City or out of it. It would take weeks to check them all out. I do know Adrian Brevitt is considered sound, rather than flashy. His boyfriend was the flashy one – but they’ve split up, of course.’

  ‘Oh? When was that?’

  ‘A few months ago, I think.’

  ‘About the time Roger Leland died?’

  She stared at him, and shook her head. ‘That’s pretty far-fetched, Tim. What possible connection could there be between that and Mrs Leland? You sound like a man grasping at straws.’

  ‘Got it in one,’ Tim said. ‘But Mrs Leland now works for Brevitt Interiors. She worked for them before she was married, too. Brevitt took her back eagerly – I gather she’s pretty good on restorations.’

  ‘And all this kerfuffle, all this “case” you’re trying to shape, revolves around her, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And now somebody tried to squash her – she says.’

  ‘It was a pretty lucky escape.’

  ‘Luck – or careful planning?’

  ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know. I can’t see any advantage to anyone for persecuting her in the way she claims, yet I do believe someone is.’

  ‘And why do you believe that?’ she asked, playing devil’s advocate.

  ‘Because she believes it, I suppo
se.’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  He thought back. ‘Scared. Tired. Defiant. Stubborn. A little naive.’ He paused. ‘And innocent, damn it. If I ignore her, or dismiss it all as Soame’s paranoia, and I’m wrong, I’ll never be able to forgive myself.’

  Sherry shook her head. ‘I told you when you left Lloyds, and I’ll say it again – you’ve got too much damn conscience to be a cop.’

  ‘And you’re a cynic.’

  She sighed, and glanced again at the clock. ‘Never denied it, love.’ There was a shade of something in her voice that was almost bitterness, and it surprised him. ‘Most of us vote the straight bitch ticket, these days,’ she said. ‘That’s the price for getting what you want.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Tim asked, in some confusion. What was it about her? She was looking nervy, and seemed restless. Somehow exasperated with him. Somehow – uneasy? ‘Look, maybe I should have left this until morning,’ he said, getting slowly to his feet. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you up.’

  She stood up too. ‘Oh, you didn’t wake me. I was just lying there, thinking,’ she said. Now he got what the sound in her voice was – some brand of sadness he hadn’t encountered there before. She glanced towards the closed sitting-room door. When she spoke again her voice was soft, but very clear. ‘You didn’t wake either of us, Tim.’

  He looked at her for a long time, and she let him look, meeting his eyes levelly, waiting. After a while he edged out between the sofa and the low table, went down the hall to the bedroom door and opened it, very quietly. He looked in, then closed the door again. Very quietly. He came back to the sitting-room and, without looking at her, picked up his jacket, put it on, then leaned over and collected the folder containing the information she’d gathered about Roger Leland’s business life.

  Only then did he look at her.

  Her face was pale, and there were tears in her eyes, but her chin was high. ‘I’m really sorry,’ she said. ‘But I think I’m going to marry him, Tim.’