“In Boston and the fens, sir. That’s where the murder took place and where people involved live.”
“Are you trying to annoy me, Amos? I know perfectly well where the incident took place. But I gather from Slater here that it wasn’t a murder at all. I see the post mortem took place without my knowledge when I had specifically given instructions that other cases should take priority.”
Here Sir Robert Fletcher shot an accusing glance at Slater.
“However, I will overlook that – and the fact that I was not informed immediately of the outcome – in view of the fortunate chance that important evidence came out of it.”
What on earth was Fletcher on about, Amos wondered. The Chief Constable had not the least interest in post mortems, nor did he ever wish to be informed of the outcome.
“Well?” Fletcher demanded.
“I’m sorry sir, I’m not with you,” Amos blurted out.
“For goodness sake,” Fletcher exploded. “Knowles had terminal cancer. It was obviously suicide. Throwing himself off the top of Boston Stump was the sort of grand gesture he was known for. No-one wanted him dead. Just wrap up the loose ends and we’ll keep this as decently quiet as we can. If only you hadn’t made such a song and dance about this in your stupid and entirely unauthorised television performance. David will have to limit the damage.”
“Simeon Knowles did not commit suicide,” Amos said emphatically. “For a start, he did not know he had cancer. He didn’t know he was dying. And what happened to the knife used to cut the webbing? It was not on his body, or on the ground where he fell. Or in the church or on the stairs going up the tower. He could not have got rid of it. And finally, there were plenty of people who wanted him dead. If you’ll excuse me, I need to go and talk to some more of them.”
Taking the opportunity afforded by the Chief Constable being thrown completely off balance, Amos swept out of the room.
Chapter 39
“Burnside, for you,” Swift announced curtly as Amos returned to CID. “He won’t talk to me.”
Amos, still seething from the encounter with the Chief Constable, nodded to Swift by way of thanks and took the proffered receiver.
“Gerry, yes, you wanted me.”
“We’ve got another body.”
Amos gasped. He had been convinced, without any specific evidence, that Simeon Knowles was a one-off. The whole circumstances of his death suggested that it was an individual case.
“Don’t worry,” Burnside continued cheerfully. “This one’s definitely suicide. He was seen doing it and he left a note.”
Amos suddenly cottoned on.
“By he, do you mean Fred Worthington?”
“The very man. The churchwarden who flitted around like a ghost. Well now he is one.”
“Never mind the black humour, Gerry. I get enough of that from Fletcher. You’d better tell me what happened and when.”
“About ten o’clock last night,” Burnside said. “The two officers who went to the scene hadn’t worked on the Simeon Knowles case and didn’t make the connection. It was only when I came in this morning that I recognised him as one of the main suspects.”
“Did he kill himself at home?” Amos asked impatiently.
“No. Worthington went down to the docks and threw himself in.”
“How the hell did he get into the docks?” Amos asked with incredulity. “Security is tight. Who let him through the gate?”
“Take it easy,” Burnside said. “It was all done legitimately. Worthington was a well-known figure at the docks. Apparently he’d got Viking blood in him. He spoke a decent smattering of Scandinavian languages so he often visited the docks to talk to visiting seamen as part of the parish’s pastoral work.
“The security guard on the gate knew him well enough and didn’t doubt his word when he said something had cropped up that he needed to deal with that night. He didn’t know the something was suicide.”
“So what happened?”
“He walked down into the docks and approached a ship that was coming in to dock. He waited for a few moments as the ship manoeuvred alongside the jetty then calmly stepped off just a second before it crunched up to the side. He was crushed between the ship and the jetty. No-one had a chance to save him. You can’t stop a ship on a sixpence.
“They’d fished him out and laid him on the jetty by the time the police arrived about six minutes after the incident. It was a quiet night and the pubs weren’t throwing out yet so we got a car there pretty quickly.
“Worthington had his driving licence on him so there was no difficulty in identifying him. He also had his insurance certificate with the registration number of his car, which was standing not far from the dock entrance.
“Two officers were despatched to the address on Worthington’s driving licence, taking the house keys from his pocket. They didn’t know if he had family or not. When there was no reply to the doorbell they let themselves in and found the place empty. The suicide letter was on the dining table in a sealed envelope addressed to Dr Austin, so they didn’t realise what it was.
“They brought it back to the office and I took the liberty of opening it carefully so I could reseal it if it was perfectly innocent.”
“What did it say? I take it you’ve got it in front of you.”
“Of course I’ve got it. I’ll read it out to you: ‘I can no longer bear the burden of my many sins. I accept responsibility for what I have done. Do not blame yourself’.”
“The burden of his many sins? Do people really write that stuff?”
“Apparently so. Worthington certainly did. Looks like his handwriting.”
“Take a photostat of the letter, Gerry, then seal the original back in the envelope and pass it on to Dr Austin. Let’s keep her guessing whether we’ve seen it or not. If one of your uniformed officers takes the letter to her it won’t look as if it’s come from the murder team. And for heaven’s sake don’t let the Chief Constable know about the letter.”
Chapter 40
“We need to take stock,” Amos said. “We’re getting nowhere. We need to go through all the original statements taken at the Stump on Saturday to see if we have missed anything.”
Burnside was all for joining Amos and Swift despite the tedium of what Amos proposed but he was called away on a local burglary where the intruders had threatened violence, much to Swift’s relief.
Amos and Swift ploughed through the statements meticulously and silently, breaking only for coffee brought by one of the Boston detective constables.
Finally, Amos said: “Right. Let’s draw up a list of suspects who had the opportunity to tamper with the harness and assess their motives. First, Dr Lesley Austin. She had the best opportunity of all but the least reason to do it, since she knew he was dying. Possible motive jealousy, as he seems to have walked out on the relationship at least twice, some years apart.”
“There’s also the possibility that she feared Knowles would report her to the General Medical Council for having an improper relationship with a patient,” Swift added. “He didn’t seem to care who he trampled on. But she seems to have rounded up people who had a grudge against Knowles before she knew he was dying. Was she hoping that if she goaded them one of them would take the opportunity to kill him?”
“That would tie up with her arranging the peal of bells,” Amos agreed. “It created the opportunity for someone to think they could kill him and get away with it in the confusion. Perhaps the knife was meant for Knowles, not the harness.”
“Could they all have been in it together?” Swift suggested. “Or have I been reading too many crime novels?”
“Let’s move on,” Amos said. “Next up, Fred Worthington, the phantom churchwarden. Motive, revenge for taking Austin away from him then dumping her.”
“He seems to have taken his own rejection with resignation but it’s human nature to feel more outrage for someone you love rather than for yourself,” Swift said. “The suicide note is a clear admission of guil
t.”
“Jonas Tomlinson,” Amos moved on. “Motive, the death of his son. Staging a dramatic death would be adequate retribution for him. It seems likely that whoever killed Knowles wanted him to feel terror, the sort of torment that James Tomlinson must have gone through before he put himself out of his misery.
“The we have Rebecca Dyson. Another wronged woman. Why is it that women are attracted to the worst sort of blokes?”
It struck Amos, as soon as he said it, that Juliet Swift might take offence at this remark, given that her own boyfriend was a thug on the rugby field and a wimp off it, but she failed to make the connection.
“I suppose,” Amos thought, “that she doesn’t see Jason as the wrong kind of bloke.”
“It’s quite possible that she had had enough of being messed about,” Swift said. “I think he tried to control her, telling her what clothes she could wear and deciding where they went out. She seemed to be a trophy rather than a partner.”
“Next, Janet Sutcliffe,” Amos said. “Someone else whose life was made a misery by Knowles, although she seems to have got her life back together.
“And finally Eve German, forced to live a life of penury with her son while the boy’s grandfather was rolling in money. It must have been pretty galling.”
“Could she have hoped to gain from his death?” Swift wondered. “Presumably all the estate goes to Knowles’s daughter, wherever she is.”
“I think we can discard Mr and Mrs Mason as suspects,” Amos continued. “There doesn’t seem to be any real bitterness there, they’ve moved on from their dealings with Knowles and no-one has placed either of them at the Stump.
“Finally, I think we have to consider Herbert Townsend, the chief bell-ringer. He caused the turmoil that allowed the murderer to strike. He could have provided the opportunity for himself. If so, we shall have to work on finding a motive. We don’t have one so far.”
Chapter 41
Amos entered his house that evening to find a suitcase in the hall and the sound of the television emanating from the living room. Mrs Amos was back.
The inspector looked in, only his head appearing round the door as he gauged his wife’s mood.
Mrs Amos looked up and said in a matter-of-fact fashion: “Put my case on the bed in the spare room, please. I’ll unpack in the morning.”
Amos readily did as he was bid. Putting the suitcase on the spare bed meant that bed would not be used that night.
When he returned downstairs, his wife was in the kitchen switching on the oven.
“I’ve put a couple of fish pies in from the supermarket. They’ll have defrosted by now so they’ll only take half an hour. We’ll have frozen peas with them to save bother if that’s all right.”
Amos nodded to indicate that is was indeed all right. As long as he didn’t put his foot in it, the domestic crisis was over – until the next time.
“How was Eileen?” Amos asked, referring to his wife’s sister. This was safe territory.
“Fine,” came the reply. “Never ails anything. Unlike poor Jane.”
Amos looked quizzically. Should he know who Jane was? They knew several Janes.
“You know,” Mrs Amos said irritably. “My old school friend who lives near Eileen. Or did. She’s died of a heart attack. I’ll be going to the funeral when it’s arranged.”
“When did she die?” Amos asked, anxious to make amends for not knowing which Jane it was by showing some interest.
“While I was there. Thank goodness I had the chance to see her before it was too late. She always caught whatever was going round but you wouldn’t have known she was ill to look at her. It just goes to show.”
Amos was not sure what it went to show, but he had a nagging feeling that it went to show something significant.
Mrs Amos spoke about her visit while they ate, then they watched TV. It was only as they were making moves to retire for the night that she asked how the case was going.
“We’ll be making an arrest tomorrow,” Amos said. “I can think straight when you’re about. We’ve been seeing this case entirely the wrong way round.”
Chapter 42
Mrs Amos was surprised to be offered breakfast in bed next morning. She was tempted to ask if her husband was trying to make amends for the cause of their temporary separation but that was against the rules so she simply expressed an interest in porridge.
Amos put the pan of oats and milk onto the small ring on top of the stove and gave the mix a casual stir. He brewed two beakers of tea, making no attempt to coordinate the culmination of his efforts as he did when he was in a hurry.
Thus there was time to take one beaker up to his wife and return to the kitchen in good time to give the porridge a final stir before reaching down the syrup.
“I thought you’d be off bright and early this morning,” Mrs Amos said. “I thought you had a murderer to arrest.”
“There’s no rush,” Amos replied genially. “No-one will be disappearing. No-one but you knows we’ve cracked the case.”
“Not even Juliet?”
“Not even Juliet. You’ll excuse me if I have mine downstairs, I hope. I’d better get this over with, even so.”
Amos neglected to mention the real reason why he was in no hurry. Having had a good night’s sleep to allow his brain to work on the finer points of the case subconsciously, he now needed to think through how he was going to handle the arrest.
He was not at all sure how things would pan out. Much would depend on the reaction of the murderer.
Eventually Amos pulled himself together and set off for headquarters to pick up the unsuspecting Detective Sergeant Juliet Swift. He outlined his intentions to her on the journey south eastwards. The inspector was not one to keep his conclusions to himself. If he dropped down dead or walked in front of a bus the criminal would not get away with it.
Then silence reigned until they pulled up outside Dr Austin’s surgery.
“Go round the back and come in through the exit when the next patient comes out. Be on guard – Dr Austin may try to make a break for it.”
Swift opened her mouth to speak but Amos was already striding towards the front door of the surgery. Rather than address the back of his head, Swift walked briskly round the side of the building to wait patiently at the rear exit.
Two or three minutes later a patient emerged from the rear exit, which could only be opened from the inside, and Swift caught the door before it could close. As she entered, Dr Austin emerged hurriedly from her room and turned as if to escape through the back, only to gasp audibly as she caught sight of Swift.
As Austin hesitated, Amos emerged behind her from the waiting room.
“Shall we talk, Dr Austin. I’ve told your receptionist not to send any more patients through.”
Cornered, the doctor turned back into her room and sat behind her desk, breathing deeply and slowly.
“It’s like this, Dr Austin. Many people felt like killing Simeon Knowles, for all his saintly image, but no-one actually summoned up the courage or commitment to do so. Until last Saturday.
“You seemed to go out of your way to make us suspect you, being devious when you could so easily have cleared your name from the start. I couldn’t work out whether you were the murderer or whether you were trying to protect someone else. Or perhaps you didn’t know who the murderer was but you just wanted to obstruct the inquiry.
“Either way, you were happy for Knowles to be dead and for the perpetrator to get away with it. So you must have really hated Simeon Knowles at the end.”
Amos paused to see the doctor’s reaction. She was listening intently but showed no signs of reaction.
“Shall I continue? At first I was convinced that you had committed the murder yourself and that you were playing a game of double bluff. I had no doubt that you had an affair with Simeon Knowles while he was a patient.
“Then he dumped you, as he jilted the other women in his life, including the ones he was carrying on with while his wi
fe was still alive. That was enough of a motive. Or perhaps he also threatened to report you to the medical authorities who take a dim view of affairs with patients. They regard it as a bigger crime than being a bad doctor.
“Then we discovered, as you intended us to find out at some point, that you knew Knowles was dying. You were the one person with a grudge against him who knew there was no point in bumping him off. So who were you protecting?
“And of all the suspects, it seemed that only Fred Worthington fitted the bill. Worthington, another man you had an affair with, who you dumped for Saint Simeon, and who was still in love with you. Did you feel some pangs of guilt over the way you treated him? Enough to want to help him in his hour of need?”
Amos paused again to see what reaction he was getting from Austin. Some of what he was saying was speculation, some guesswork, but he was satisfied that he was on the right track. He looked the doctor squarely in the face but Austin simply sat and listened. At least she was not disputing anything.
“I don’t think so. Everything came back to you. You were the one who got people there to the event. People who wished Simeon Knowles dead. Was that because you wanted to create plenty of suspects to take attention away from you? Or were you giving them the pleasure of seeing Knowles die so spectacularly? Probably a bit of both.
“You were the one who organised the bell ringing that caused such chaos. It must have been very carefully timed to catch you and Knowles on the staircase. You had only two or three minutes leeway.
“There was just one little problem. Why would you kill a man who you knew was dying? Why risk everything for no good purpose? And then it dawned on me. That was, in fact, the reason for killing him.
“You, like several others, felt like killing him but hadn’t had the guts to do it. Then, suddenly, you were faced with the prospect of never being able to do it. Time was running out. You hadn’t told Knowles he had cancer yet, had you? Here was the one and only chance you were going to have of letting him know the terror of looking into the face of his murderer, knowing he was about to plunge to his doom and there was nothing in those couple of panic stricken seconds that he could do to prevent it.
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