The Scaffold: The sensational legal thriller everyone's talking about (Alistar Duncan Series Book 3)

by Douglas Stewart

  “Have you been up on the scaffolding?”

  “Yes. But not today.” It was the most positive reply which the officers had received.

  “Yesterday, then?”

  “P’rhaps.”

  “Who pushed Mark Hillyer?” It was the detective constable who had intervened for the first time. “Was it you Mr. Riley?” The young policeman’s face was thrust forward in earnest.

  Riley rummaged in an overall pocket and produced an old tin. From this he removed one of several home-rolled cigarettes, comprising eighty-five per cent paper and fifteen per cent tobacco. With laborious pace he returned the tin to his pocket and then lit the taper-like fag. The two officers waited for the operation to be concluded, expecting an answer. None came.

  “You heard me. Who pushed him?”

  “I don’t know nothing. He fell, didn’t he?”

  “He and Ronnie Arnold had had a row, hadn’t they?” The sergeant took over. An idea was tossed into the arena.

  “Not so’s you’d notice. You got me, don’t you?”

  “That’ll be all then, Mr Riley. Let’s knock that into a statement. Though it won’t amount to much.”

  5

  Wednesday, 16th January

  BRISTOL

  Alistair Duncan walked along the silent corridor leading from his room to that of his secretary. He flicked on the light, revealing the usual chaos. It was only seven-fifteen. The Probate Department would still be in bed. The conveyancers would be scraping themselves in front of mirrors, plotting out ever more obscure jargon to use in long-winded and unintelligible documents.

  Lucy regarded his diary as a squirrel would regard the first nut of the season. He never knew where it might be found. Everything round her desk lay exactly where she had left it the night before because the office cleaner was not allowed to touch anything. Lucy’s orders. The air was still filled with a slight touch of perfume, mingled with the fumes from twenty cigarettes a day. One butt end was stuck into a half-eaten pasty, which lay forgotten on a window-sill. The diary came to light from beneath a packet of tights, which were in turn lying under a holiday brochure. Good! No new appointments for the day ahead. As he picked his way towards the door, Lucy’s gnome, perched as ever on its filing cabinet, caught his eye. It never moved, thought it was, nevertheless, the best-dusted feature of the room. This was Lucy’s alter ego and used by her to speak the unspeakable or to poke fun. The little chap, smug in his red hat and green breeches, regularly displayed some barbed message or another. At his feet today was a cutting from a newspaper which Duncan recalled involved a fire in a tower-block. He read it:

  ‘Solicitor in high-rise drama’.

  Underneath Lucy had added: “Surely not the annual wage review?”

  Duncan laughed, amazed at her endless ingenuity and, as he returned to his room, mused on her delicious mixture of fun, good humour and good looks.

  The next two hours reduced the pile of work which had arrived while he had been at Shepton. Then he picked up the phone, charmed by the seductive voice of the telephonist at the other end. It was a good start to the day. “Ah. Good Morning. Mr Harold Plumb please.” After a few clicks and buzzes Mr Plumb came on the line.

  “Plumb here.”

  “’Morning. Alistair Duncan here.” Inwardly he was wondering whether Plumb had forgotten or forgiven him for the incident on site the previous day. It seemed that he had, for the reception was unremarkable. “You’re lucky to catch me Mr Duncan. I was just going out. I’m a very busy man, you know.”

  “Glad to hear it, Mr Plumb. From the taxes the rest of us have to pay, they ought to keep you working twenty-four hours a day instead of the twenty hours you do now.”

  The sarcasm was wasted. “I’m working on my report but I can tell you now that I shall be prosecuting Mr Cowle. Regulation 44 (2). Clear case of electrocution.”

  “You’ve had the result of the post mortem, have you?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Perhaps you ought to check before you make your mind up finally. You might find yourself out on a limb.”

  “What was the result of the post-mortem then?”

  “Death by stabbing. Six-inch blade plunged into the foreman’s neck. Instant death. The police are looking for a short, fat man, with a small moustache and a Tyrolean hat. He was seen in the area yesterday.”

  “Stabbing was it! My God! I must say, I’d assumed he was electrocuted.”

  Duncan laughed, deciding to let the fool off the hook. “No, it’s all right, Mr Plumb. I haven’t got a clue how he died.”

  “Oh.”

  “But tell me, Mr Plumb, wasn’t the cable insulated?”

  “It may have looked like it but the PVC covering’s got no proper insulating features. Especially in the wet.”

  “Sounds as if I’ll see you in court?”

  “And at the inquest too.”

  Duncan rang off and telephoned the police.

  “Mr Dacombe, please.”

  “’Morning, Mr Duncan. I know what you’re after. I’ve only just had the information through myself. In layman’s language, death was due to electrocution. In the words of our Man from the Morgue, death was due to ventricular fibrillation. Off the record, I’ll tell you that the pathologist found some blistering on the dead man’s right hand.”

  “So it looks as if he grasped the scaffolding just after he’s climbed up the ladder. Perhaps to steady himself before going up to the next tier?”

  “That’s the most probable explanation.”

  “Anyway, the man was dead before he hit the ground?”

  “Probably. The blow to the skull was severe but, apparently, the fracture would not have been fatal in itself.”

  “And the inquest?”

  “Being opened today as a matter of form. Identification and so on. The full inquest will probably be next week. I’m dropping out of the picture now. There was no crime here. Not real crime, anyway.”

  The two men shared a laugh down the line. “You’re thinking of our old friend Harold Plumb, are you?” suggested Duncan.

  “Yes, I was just talking to him this morning. He’ll find plenty of crimes here.”

  “I expect he’s looking at every footnote in every law book today. All jobs for the boys. That way, neither he nor I will ever be redundant.” Duncan returned the phone to the cradle.

  6

  Wednesday, 23rd January

  INQUEST

  Christopher Yeatman, HM Coroner for South Somerset, stumped into the room. He seemed too young, too fresh-faced and too cheerful to have secured the appointment of Coroner. But he wore a sombre suit and his voice was deliberately heavy with the austerity of the task. Although he held inquests most weeks, Yeatman was still a partner in a local firm of solicitors. He looked into the shabbiness of the courtroom which he used, inadequate lighting adding to the air of gloom. In the first row were the two solicitors and a couple of police officers. Behind them were the eight jurors, some looking pleased to be involved in just a touch of drama, others looking as if they had died several years previously. Finally, Yeatman took in the smattering of witnesses and hangers-on, sitting in ones and twos, their humdrum clothes drably in keeping with the occasion.

  A novice reporter from the local paper was doodling on his pad.

  “Open the inquest, would you please, Officer,” commanded Yeatman. The policeman read out the traditional opening words from a faded card. As the words ‘Mark Edward Hillyer, now lying dead’, reverberated round the time-stained walls, the young widow identified herself with a gasp and then sobs. In the sombre formality of the setting, this was always an emotional moment for the relatives and Duncan wondered why they were still expected to endure this pagan element of the ritual. Some of the jurors looked surreptitiously round at Mrs Hillyer and then once again faced the front, probably more determined than ever to cast the first stone. Whatever their thoughts, the coroner soon put their task in perspective. “Members of the jury, we are today looking into the death o
f Mark Hillyer, who died last week, in the course of his job, on a building site at Shepton Mallet. Your task is to determine how and by what means Mark Hillyer came to his death. It is not your task, or indeed mine, to apportion blame for what occurred. That may be the task of a different court, on a different day. The evidence which I am calling will, I hope, make it easier for you to understand what happened and how to answer the basic questions of how and by what means Mark Hillyer died.”

  Alistair Duncan barely heard what was being said, for he had been through the procedure so often before. As usual, he considered that the remarks were aimed less at the jurors, more at the advocates, who usually had the best possible reason for trying to attribute and apportion blame, if at all possible. Today was no exception. To Duncan’s left was a young solicitor, with glasses, from a Shepton Mallet firm. Bryan Shaw-Bligh was the junior partner, and the widow had retained him to safeguard her position, which meant trying to show that Mark Hillyer was not himself to blame for what occurred. Alistair Duncan’s role was the reverse. Paid by Patrick Cowle’s insurers, he was trying to convince the world that Cowle and his firm were not in the least to blame; that the deceased came to his death through his own mistake or other means.

  In his tailored black suit and heavy-rimmed spectacles, the image which Duncan cut to the jurors was imperious. The glasses were superfluous and worn only for effect; only to be used for stabbing and flourishing; to attract and hold the attention of the listeners. Beside the terrier-like figure of Bryan Shaw-Bligh, Duncan’s broad back was like an eclipse of the Sun to those sitting behind him.

  Most coroners, and Christopher Yeatman, would allow a little latitude in questioning. But not much. And Duncan wondered how far Bryan Shaw-Bligh would press and probe. Duncan didn’t know the man but realised that, over the next few months, they would shadow-box, on more than one occasion, to see if any settlement of the widow’s claim for compensation could be reached.

  “Members of the jury, I opened the inquest last week when I took evidence of identification and I have received evidence from the pathologist. He is a busy man and, not wishing to trouble him any further, I have obtained his report which I shall read out to you. He concludes that the deceased died from electrocution. I tell you that before I read out the entire report, so that you know the background and the points which will be of interest to you in reaching your decision.”

  Duncan wrote more and more illegibly as the coroner read from the two-page report. It added little to what he already knew. “Members of the jury, I should have mentioned to you that you will also be helped”, and here Yeatman gave a sardonic grin, “by two advocates, both of whom have indicated they have an interest in this inquest.” Yeatman looked down towards the solicitors’ bench. “Whom do you represent?”

  “My name is Alistair Duncan, of Wyatt, Hebditch & Co. and, if it please you, sir, I represent the interests of Mr Cowle.”

  “And if it please you, sir, my name is Bryan Shaw-Bligh and I represent the widow of the deceased.” In contrast to the measured experience of Duncan’s voice, Shaw-Bligh spoke with a ‘glorious twelfth’ accent. In different circumstances it was a voice to which the jurors would have touched their forelocks but it inspired neither respect nor confidence in the present surroundings.

  “Thank you, gentlemen. I now propose calling Mrs Hillyer.”

  Everyone was eager to study the young girl as she came forward. At nineteen, she had managed to cram marriage, four months of pregnancy and widowhood into her life. She was a tall girl, with a face which would naturally smile, tease and laugh in other surroundings. That much you could tell by the eyes and mouth. It was also a mouth to be kissed, as Duncan was quick to notice, despite his admonitions to himself. She was stunningly well dressed in a black suit and matching pillbox hat, pushed somewhat jauntily to one side of her copper-coloured hair.

  Mrs Hillyer was sworn in. “Please sit down, Mrs Hillyer. Your full names are June Margaret Hillyer?” The coroner had the advantage that, in front of him, were the police statements and his questions were framed on the study which he’d already made of them.

  “That’s right, sir.” The girl’s voice was Somerset, rolling gently like the Mendips and Duncan noted — ‘Widow. Very attractive. Expensive clothes. For a foreman’s wife, too sophisticated clothing.’

  “When did you marry your husband?”

  “Last year, sir. In September.” She looked down. “He were divorced before that.” To the pen picture Duncan added the words ‘more sophisticated to look at than to listen to.’ This would be a useful reminder for the future.

  “Do you have any children?”

  “No, sir. But I’m four months pregnant. She looked down, quivered for a moment, and then burst into tears, saying “Mark’s child.” To Duncan the last two words seemed superfluous, as if perhaps June Hillyer had felt it necessary to emphasise the point. And yet it wasn’t necessary at all. Very likely it was Mark’s child. But then? Duncan’s thought process was interrupted by the coroner, offering the widow a glass of water.

  “Shall we adjourn for a few minutes?”

  “No, thank you, sir I shall be all right.” She blew her nose forcibly on a dainty, lace handkerchief.

  “I haven’t got many more questions, but tell me this: Was your marriage happy?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Very happy.” Duncan wondered again, just for a moment, whether the voice were not just a shade too defiant, a shade too assertive. Perhaps he was being over-suspicious. But, then, he knew that one should always approach an inquest with an open mind. Never assume anything. It was a time to give imagination a touch of licence.

  “Did your husband have any troubles from his previous wife?”

  “Troubles?” She stared blankly.

  “Maintenance claims, for example. Was she spiteful to him?”

  “No, sir.”

  The coroner lowered his eyes and his voice. “Had anything occurred to depress him?”

  The answer came after a pause. “No. No. Not so as I’d noticed.”

  “When your husband went to work on that fateful morning, was he his usual self?”

  “Absolutely, sir. Positive, sir.”

  “Was he happy in his job?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Had he ever given you any reason to believe that he would wish to take his own life?”

  “Suicide, you mean?” The rural voice spoke confidently, with a disarming willingness not to beat about the bush.

  Even the coroner looked slightly surprised. “That’s right.”

  “No, sir. Nothing would have been further from his mind.” The eyes widened, the subtly made-up face smiled across at the coroner in winsome fashion. “We was very happy.” As she turned to her left, to emphasise this point to the coroner, the full attraction of her silhouette became apparent, the large high-pointed breasts heaving with emotion beneath the white blouse and more sombre jacket. It would be hard to imagine her living an empty life for long.

  The coroner finished his own note and then turned to Shaw-Bligh. “Have you any questions?”

  “No, thank you, sir.”

  “Mr Duncan, then?”

  “Yes. Thank you, sir.”

  Unseen by Alistair Duncan, all eyes were now turned to him as he faced the widow. It was an occasion not to be fluffed. It was his one and only opportunity to talk to the client of another firm and in his task he knew that he had the sympathy of no one. “Mrs Hillyer, I would like to say, on behalf of my client, how very sorry everyone is that this tragedy should have occurred. I am sure that you won’t find my questions too distressing. If they are, then you must tell me.” He watched Mrs Hillyer nod her head.

  “I’m sure you’ll keep your questioning of Mrs Hillyer as short as possible, Mr Duncan?” enquired the coroner.

  “If it please you, sir.”

  “How old are you, Mrs Hillyer?”

  “Nineteen, sir.”

  “Only married a few months?”

  “A few very happy m
onths, sir.” Again the eyes rolled, to emphasise the ecstasy of the memory.

  “Thank you, yes.”

  “You’ve told the coroner that your late husband had no troubles with his former wife. Did you have any money troubles?”

  “Absolutely not. We lived very well. Steak dinners out. Mark was always kind with clothes. Generous. We lived well.”

  “So you never really wanted for anything?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “Did your husband enjoy good health?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you positive?” Alistair Duncan looked at his bundle of papers, shuffling through them, as if searching for something. He was not. It was a ploy to put the witness on the defensive.

  “I think so, sir.”

  “But, of course, you hadn’t known him for very long. How long had you known him?”

  “Just less than a year, sir.”

  “But, in that time, the impression that you formed was that he was healthy. Have I got it right?” There was a hint of disbelief in the mellow voice, just enough to hint that Duncan knew much more than did the widow. But he didn’t.

  “Your husband never suffered from dizzy spells, then?”

  “Not so I was aware of?”

  “Didn’t he ever say that he didn’t like heights?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Are you positive that he never complained of headaches?”

  “He did have headaches once in a while, sometimes after a hard day.”

  “What would be a hard day?”

  “Depends, sir.”

  Duncan felt that he was getting somewhere but wasn’t exactly sure where. He just hoped that the coroner would not stop him yet.

  “What would be a hard day? What was it that brought on your husband’s headaches?”

  “He was happy. He liked his work.”

  “Well, what brought on the headaches?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Just used to say he’d had a hard day.”

  “Was it the people at work? Or the weather?”