The coroner turned to the jury. “That concludes the evidence. And it is now a matter for you to consider your verdict, but, to help you, I shall give certain guidelines.” But he got no further because Alistair Duncan was back on his feet. Mr Yeatman looked at him with irritation, as he was not used to interruptions at this stage of the proceedings. “Yes, Mr Duncan?”
“It is of course a matter entirely for your discretion as to which witnesses should be called but, in the light of the evidence as to who was in the kitchen at the moment of the shout from the scaffolding, I would invite you to call Mr Dwight Riley.”
Yeatman’s face no longer looked young. Grey clouds of anger rolled into place. But the answer was polite enough. “Mr Duncan, whilst I agree that some of the evidence may have been a little unsatisfactory, nevertheless, the evidence on the central issue appears plain. I ask myself whether calling Mr Riley would throw any light on the central question which the jury have to answer.”
“With respect, and without wishing to sound alarmist, the evidence before you suggests that there is doubt as to precisely who was and who was not in the kitchen. If someone were not in the kitchen then, in my respectful submission, the jury should know where that person was. Perhaps, for example, someone actually saw what happened. Perhaps Mr Riley can help the jury on his precise whereabouts, or indeed enlighten them on the shaky testimony of Mr Arnold.”
“Mr. Duncan, I shall be the judge of the evidence to go before the jury. It is not the place of an advocate, who has the privilege of assisting at my inquest, to interfere with my discretion.” He turned his eyes away from the solicitor and addressed himself directly to the jury. “You see, members of the jury, I have the advantage of having seen Mr Riley’s statement. I am satisfied that he cannot materially assist you in reaching your verdict. I’m sure you’d find it inconvenient to return on another day to listen to a witness whose evidence I have read and discarded as unhelpful.”
“Sir, I certainly do not wish the jury to be inconvenienced . . .”
“Then I suggest that you sit down, Mr Duncan. I’m not prepared to grant your application.”
Duncan sat down. Fifteen minutes later it was all over and the jury had returned a verdict of misadventure.
As the jury jostled for positions to claim expenses, Alistair Duncan spoke to Bryan Shaw-Bligh. “OK, so you tell me that June Hillyer will be pursuing a claim. Naturally, my insurance clients admit nothing, especially on the weight of the evidence today. But we might as well investigate the formalities of quantum. If you would send me copies of the letters of administration, the birth certificate of both Mr Hillyer and of his wife, the marriage certificate and a doctor’s certificate as to pregnancy, that would be a start. Oh, and a copy of the Inland Revenue affidavit. But I do emphasise that no admission is made as to liability.”
“Open and shut.” Shaw-Bligh’s retort was immediate and designed to impress June Hillyer, who was standing a pace or two away, looking somewhat nervous.
“That’s a very bold assertion in a case like this. On the evidence today, Mark Hillyer deliberately grabbed an electric cable or permitted that cable to be so close to the scaffolding as to be a danger. To that extent it was his own fault and isn’t much help to the widow.” Duncan knew that it was an oversimplification but, nevertheless, he smiled his goodbye and left the darkness of the courtroom for the darkness of the late afternoon outside. Patrick Cowle was standing under a street lamp, his Rolls-Royce parked down the road. His hands were deep in the pockets of his sheepskin and his feet were stamping on the cold of the pavement. As Alistair Duncan started to walk towards him, a woman who had been sitting near the back of the court, approached.
“I heard you in there.”
“Oh, yes?” Duncan peered at the lady in the half light. She appeared to be about fifty-five, without any pretention of elegance. She was typical of hundreds of dozens of women of her age, dressed for shopping. Her headscarf covered iron grey hair and her brown coat was thick, old and shapeless. But the eyes were alert and, even in the gloom, Duncan could see their sharpness.
“Yes. I heard you asking questions. But you didn’t get all the right answers, did you? Not from that lying young bitch. Not from young Kenny neither.” She rummaged in her pocket and produced a brown paper bag, somewhat crumpled and filled with something soft. “Take this. Don’t open it here. There’s a note from me in there. If you want a statement later, I’ll give you one.”
“Thank you, Mrs . . . er?”
“Mrs Glover.”
“Thank you, Mrs Glover. I’ll be interested to look into this.”
And then the woman had gone, her dumpy shoes echoing across the street.
“What was all that about?” enquired Cowle, who had been watching from a few yards away.
“I’m not sure. That woman was called Mrs Glover. She gave me this paper bag. It’ll keep till I get back to the office. But, whatever she’s on about, she’s certainly got it in for June Hillyer.” He pushed the bag into his briefcase. “Do you know Mrs Glover?”
“Never seen her before. Anyway, I thought you did very well.”
“Inconclusive. Plenty of evidence of contrib. on the part of the foreman. That should keep the damages down. But what’s so unsatisfactory is that people were lying. And I don’t know why.”
“I meant to tell you before the inquest that Dwight Riley’s given in his notice.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Left last Friday.”
“Where’s he gone?”
“Nowhere, I suppose.”
“I must interview him. The last time I spoke to him, he didn’t seem to know very much. Maybe I wasn’t asking the right questions.”
“Can I have a copy of your report to the insurers?”
“Sure.”
7
Wednesday, 23rd January
WINCANTON
Kenny Robertson and Ronnie Arnold left the inquest together. The pubs weren’t open and so they went straight to Ronnie’s Ford Escort, in which they had travelled from Shepton. They didn’t see Duncan buttonholed by Mrs Glover. Even had they done so, they wouldn’t have attached any importance to it. They were much more concerned about their own problem.
“That solicitor! He were a bugger. I think he knew something.” Robertson’s young face was turned towards the smaller, yet older, man beside him. “And you said no one could ever find out if we stuck together.”
“Seemed like he knew.” The reply was thoughtful, as if Arnold were still assessing the events of the afternoon. He was exhausted from the stress of the witness-box and he puffed nervously at the cigarette. “The way I look at it, that solicitor were positive we weren’t all in the kitchen. Agree?”
“Yes.”
“Well. Only three of us knew. I’ve said nothing. You’ve said nothing. So it must have been Dwight. Bloody thick sod. Thick as pig shit, that one. And after all the warnings.”
“Dwight hadn’t told the police anything. Otherwise the coroner chappie would have asked us. Looks like he blabbed to the solicitor.”
“Lucky the solicitor didn’t get Dwight called.”
“Bloody lucky.”
They’d reached the almost new car and took the Castle Cary road back towards Shepton Mallet. Ronnie Arnold swung the car hard into one of a series of bends, oblivious of the frosty night air and the risk of black ice. His face was viciously contorted. “Reckon us ought to pay Dwight a little visit tonight.”
“Stop him talking to solicitors again?”
“Let’s do that. You come round to my place about nine.”
“I’m going to hit him so bloody hard, he won’t wake up till next Tuesday.” Kenny Robertson smiled to himself in the darkness. He’d look forward to that.
“No. I’ve got a better idea. Listen to this, Kenny.”
8
Wednesday, 23rd January
BRISTOL
Detective Chief Superintendent Dacombe had quickly grown bored with the case, dismissing it on the
first day as a routine accident at work. And there was still no evidence to the contrary. Plumb wasn’t suspicious. But, then, he was stupid. But people were lying. So thought Alistair Duncan as he crawled through the usual traffic jam by Temple Meads Station and on into Queen Square. Nice for those civil servants, able to leave their offices like whippets at four-thirty.
And what was in the paper bag? More than a letter certainly.
In the warmth of his office, he summoned Lucy. “Can I have some coffee, please? Been doing too much talking today.”
“No comment,” said Lucy, “but you’ll have the coffee in a minute. And quite a few messages.”
“OK.” He closed the heavy curtains and emptied his briefcase. There was the brown bag, unmarked and unremarkable. A crumpled paper bag, smelling of bananas. He opened it and, from inside, withdrew the contents. There was a letter, though it wasn’t that which caught his attention.
In his hand, he was holding a pair of satin-smooth ladies panties, a situation which he’d encountered with considerable pleasure on previous occasions, but never in the clinical surroundings of his office.
They were black, lacy, racy and saucy, clearly designed to titillate both wearer and observer. They were monogrammed across the crutch with the initials M.H. and J.H., joined by a heart. Someone had done some delicate embroidery in red. He laid them on his desk in disbelief and started to read the semi-illiterate scrawl, written by Mrs Glover. It was addressed ‘To whom it may concern’ but, before he could get into the contents, he was interrupted by the arrival of Lucy, who immediately noticed the underwear. For a second she just gaped.
“Sorry. If I’d known that you were changing, I’d have knocked before entering.” She carefully placed the cup in an ashtray, to avoid staining the inlaid leather of Duncan’s antique desk.
“I’m flattered that you think they’d fit me. Compliments from you are somewhat rare.”
“Mm.” Lucy picked up the evidence. “For your girlfriend?”
“Not with those initials on them.” Duncan explained how he came by them. “Judging by the initials, they belonged to June Hillyer.”
“Expensive taste. They’re the sort that rich men buy for their girlfriends.”
“Is that right?” Duncan sounded non-committal. “How do you know they’re expensive?”
“Well, they’re Janet Reger, aren’t they?”
“And she’s top of the market in bottoms, is she?”
“You could put it like that. You certainly would. Yes. Ladies’ underwear doesn’t come any more chic than this. You don’t get these in a dump-bin at Tesco’s.”
“Not for every foreman’s wife, then?”
“Hardly. What is all this, then?” Lucy’s face was all eager, all of a twitch.
“I’m not sure. Let me finish reading this letter.”
The room fell silent, Duncan trying to concentrate on the latter, but it was difficult, for Lucy was holding the panties against herself, imagining herself in the luxury of the satin. “I could go for these in a big way,” she said. “If you can get me the rest of the set in my size, I’d regard it as a favour. Mind you, these would need a good wash.”
“They’ve been worn, then?”
“Too true.”
Duncan read the first, second and third pages and saw Mrs Glover’s signature at the foot. “Well, this good lady says that they belong to Mrs June Hillyer. That’s no surprise. She doesn’t say so but I’d guess they must have been a present from her husband. Otherwise they’d have someone else’s initials on. According to her, the dead man’s wife dropped these by the gate as she was leaving the house where Kenny Robertson lives with his parents. It’s a council house, on the edge of Shepton. Appears to be a real nosey so-and-so, this Mrs Glover. Seems June was a regular visitor to young Kenny, when his parents were out.”
“Recently?” Lucy’s voice was incredulous.
“Yes. She dropped these last Saturday night.”
“Well, they don’t just drop off.” Lucy stretched the elastic. “No reason for them to just fall down. Anyway, she’d have noticed. Especially this weather.”
“I bow to your experience. So they were in June’s pocket, or in a bag. She’d spent the evening with Kenny, while his parents were out. Whatever happened that evening involved her dropping the most expensive pair of panties in Shepton Mallet. And all the while Mrs Glover, preferring the goings-on next door to her own television, was keeping watch. Sees them fall by the light of the street lamp and goes straight out and picks them up. And keeps them”
“That’s incredible. I mean her husband wasn’t even buried by Saturday, was he?”
“No. And my guess is she wasn’t wearing her panties when she arrived. Probably had them on at some stage and felt guilty about wearing them. Present from Mark and all that. Took them off before she reached Kenny’s house. It’s only a guess, though.”
“Are you going to tell the police?”
“Yes. I’ll ring Dacombe but it won’t do any good. It proves nothing.”
“Some type of motive?”
“Maybe. All her clothes were expensive at the inquest. Pity you weren’t there to tell me how much the whole outfit cost. I made a note of it specially.” As he waited for the call to the police to be connected, the panties lay in front of him. Just the thing to buy Sarah for her birthday. But no monogram. The telephone interrupted his train of thought.
“Mr Dacombe?”
“Yes.”
“Alistair Duncan, of Wyatt, Hebditch. About that accident down at Shepton?”
“Oh, yes? The inquest was today, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. The evidence wasn’t too satisfactory. There were quite a lot of lies flying about.”
Dacombe listened with polite attention and indeed, with some curiosity, when he heard about the underwear. “Interesting, I agree, but where does it get us? There’s no evidence that anyone else was on the scaffolding with the dead man. There’s no suggestion that he simply fell over. There’s no evidence that he was pushed over. There’s no evidence that Kenny Robertson was anywhere other than in the kitchen. Mark Hillyer died from electrocution. Some people aren’t telling the truth but, as you well know, Mr Duncan, that can be for any number of reasons.”
“But one’s got a motive now. That motive is lying on my desk.”
“And very attractive too, I’ve no doubt,” laughed the detective.
“So will you follow any of this up?”
“There was no rider from the coroner’s jury, was there?”
“No.”
“In that case I think it’s unlikely. The file isn’t closed as such. We’ll listen if you come up with anything concrete. Thanks for calling.”
9
Wednesday, 23rd January
BRISTOL
Alistair Duncan took his usual corner seat at the Trattoria de Renato. It would soon be 9.00 p.m. and he was just catching up on the morning paper. With speed-reading, he found he could just keep up with the day’s news before it was redundant.
The little Italian restaurant was conveniently placed for occasions like this, when he had been working late. Having settled into his Campari, he was quite relieved when he heard the familiar sound of Sarah’s voice, for she was later than agreed.
“Sorry, darling—awful accident up near Parkway.” She greeted him with a kiss.
“I trust you left my card?”
“The poor chap looked past that.”
“There’s always his top pocket. In Canada, they’d never miss a chance like that.”
“Why do you miss it, then? You don’t miss much.”
“Law Society,” Duncan nodded. “‘Ambulance-chasing’ is a front-line offence.”
“I see.”
Sarah’s dry martini arrived and she resisted the urge to gulp it down. “I needed that,” she said, rummaging for the king-size cigarettes in her bag. Sarah was the daughter of Albert Geddes, the well-known Bristol shipowner. They’d met at a wine-tasting and their friendship had de
veloped. This had led to the Chairman placing an increasing amount of work with Wyatt, Hebditch, and Duncan judged that Sarah was not the type to remove all the work in a fit of pique if their friendship foundered. Indeed, she was as well balanced and even-natured as her slender looks suggested. Her hair was long, blonde and it all swayed in the same direction at the same time, without a hint of straggle. The somewhat aquiline features nearly gave her the haughty, stand-offish look of a model, but, instead, simply gave her poise and assurance, which stood her well in the major role which she played in her father’s company. She was certainly not to be underestimated.
“Good day?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Pretty routine. Things are rather difficult in the shipping world at the moment.”
“I know. Another drink?”
“Thanks. But how was the inquest?”
“Pretty exciting. But then I always prefer Wincanton in January: a fair number of topless sunbathers, an atmosphere of Mardi Gras. That’s one of the best things about my job. Getting to these exotic places.”
“I thought you looked suntanned. But, seriously, did the inquest go well?”
“It was certainly unusual. But the most interesting thing happened afterwards. I’ve been learning all about Janet Reger underwear.”
“Do they wear such things down in Wincanton? I thought they all got stitched in for the winter.”
The veal and Frascati arrived and conversation was punctuated by long silences. Duncan’s lunch had consisted of pub pork pie. Sarah had done rather better, but, then, shipping company executives always did.
“Do you want to tell me about the inquest?”
“Why not? It’s not confidential. Most of it, you can read in the paper tomorrow. That’s if the reporter wasn’t asleep.”
Over the course of the meal Duncan painted pen pictures of the characters and of the oddities of their evidence. Sarah was not a good listener. Her mind was too alert, too enquiring and over-eager to react. But it was a fault in the right direction.
The Scaffold: The sensational legal thriller everyone's talking about (Alistar Duncan Series Book 3) Page 5