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

by Douglas Stewart

  “And Charlie Wilkinson? Has he found Riley yet?”

  “No. But he did telephone to say that he was working on it. He’s got Riley’s car number. That’s a good start. And, of course, he’s got your description.”

  As she was speaking, Duncan saw the gnome, seated as usual, but today the poor little fellow was in drag. June Hillyer’s satin panties had been pinned round his midriff and in front of him lay the slogan ‘Scanty Evidence’.

  “But the evidence gets less scanty. And after I’ve re-read all the papers I’m going down to Shepton again tonight.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “There’ll be nobody there. I’ve had an idea. And I want to check it out.”

  “Be careful, then.” Lucy pulled on her furry boots with determination. Duncan could see that she wasn’t joking. “I don’t know what you’re on to but, if it’s murder, then don’t forget the murderer is still on the loose.”

  Duncan nodded. He’d never used the word murder yet in connection with this inquiry. He’d skirted round it, never faced it. An accident, yes. A scuffle leading to a fall—possible. But murder? His thoughts were interrupted as Lucy continued. “Have you challenged Kenny Robertson about his evidence at the inquest?”

  “No. Not yet. There’s other evidence falling into place before I speak to him. I’m meeting a bookie at seven o’clock.”

  “Well, don’t forget my warning.”

  “Ring Sarah for me. Tell her I’ll meet her at Blostin’s restaurant. I’ll be there by eight-thirty, latest.”

  “Lucky her.” There was genuine envy in the voice and Duncan wasn’t sure precisely what Lucy meant. She was about to continue when the telephone interrupted. She handed him the receiver.

  “Giles! Well done. The searches have come through, have they? Good. I’ll hand you back to Lucy. Make the arrangements with her to send them down by Red Star today? Yes. It is that urgent!”

  Seated once again at his own desk, he asked Marilyn on the switchboard to get him a number.

  “Mr. Brace?”

  “Nice to hear from you, Mr. Duncan. Are you well?”

  “Fine. Sorry, no time for pleasantries. Can you meet me tomorrow at say twelve noon?”

  “OK. Will you come to me?”

  “Yes. Just so long as you lay on that delightful Beaujolais and Camembert.”

  “It’s a deal. Will it take long?”

  “As long as it takes to polish off the bottle.”

  Alan Brace was the West Country’s leading expert in forgery detection.

  13

  Tuesday, 29th January

  SHEPTON MALLET

  Alistair Duncan left the Stag in the pub car park and then, oblivious to the freezing drizzle, set off for the site, hands deep in the black anorak pockets, boots heavily splashing on the ill-lit pavement.

  As he saw the lights in the Cowle house he imagined Rosemary inside, living her clinical, lonely life, flicking through the pages of a woman’s magazine, eating crumb-free food and scarcely sitting comfortably, for fear of crinkling a cushion.

  It would have been nice to have some company but he knew that Patrick Cowle was in Oxford, attending a Builders’ Federation dinner. But he was alone, alone with Lucy’s warning tingling his every nerve. Somehow, in the black wastes of the site, her words seemed more potent. It was easy to be dramatic but Lucy wasn’t of that type. Murder, as a theory, was no less plausible than for Hillyer to deliberately grab a high-voltage cable. It was no less plausible than Harold Plumb’s theory of the electricity jumping a large distance to arc with the scaffolding. So, be careful. Keep an open mind. Suicide was still possible. Hurt pride at discovering that his wife preferred the sexual antics of the younger man? Maybe. But did Hillyer know? And, if he did, wouldn’t he have preferred to sort out young Kenny Robertson? Or his wife? Or both?

  Even without moonlight, he was able to make out the silhouette of the building, the wind playing eerie tunes through the scaffolding. There was no one to be seen as he picked his way between the planks, breeze-blocks and rubble, until he reached the building. Eyes thoroughly accustomed to the darkness, he nimbly climbed the steel ladder to the first-floor level. To his right was the electric cable, still carrying its deadly current, but now thickly insulated, as was all the scaffolding in the vicinity.

  He descended, stood at the foot for a moment, and then climbed back up again. At the top he found that, without thinking, he’d steadied himself with his right hand holding the scaffolding upright, instead of the ladder. It had been Mark Hillyer’s right hand which had been blistered.

  Duncan repeated the exercise with the same result. Satisfied, he stood on the platform, looking about him, seeking inspiration. All around was the crack and slap of wind on polythene, to muffle the noise of any approaching person. Duncan was satisfied that he was still alone.

  In the kitchen he tried to relive Mark Hillyer’s dying moments and then, recalling the evidence at the inquest, went outside in search of the gents’ urinal, which he found in the trees and shrubs at the back of the site. Skulking among the trees, he looked back at the building. The view was perfect. Whoever was here could have seen the foreman fall. Was it Arnold? Was it young Kenny? Or Dwight Riley?

  From where he stood Duncan found that he had a view around the whole site, looking towards the main road.

  Reluctant to do so, he switched on his pencil torch and then, inch by inch, foot by foot, he started to follow up the idea which had come to him.

  If it were right, then Mark Hillyer had been murdered.

  In the meantime, Sarah had arrived at Blostin’s, only half expecting to see Duncan. She knew that time meant nothing to him when he was working. She ordered a whisky and warmed herself in front of the small fire, which was throwing out a terrific heat. She was starving and the mouth-watering dishes chalked on the blackboard made matters worse, as the minutes slipped past.

  She looked on enviously as another party were ushered into the dining-room. At ten past nine she started to become concerned. At half past nine, she was worried, thinking back to her conversation with Lucy, who had not minced her words.

  “Off playing the hero again,” was what she had said as she had explained that, besides meeting some bookie, he intended to visit the site. At the time Sarah had felt Lucy was being overdramatic but now, as she looked at her watch again, she was uncertain.

  “I can’t wait any longer,” she told the owner. “Sorry we’re mucking you about. I’ll order now. Keep some beans on toast for my friend, just in case he turns up.” She wasn’t sure from where she found the ability to joke. Not that she was angry. There was just this nagging imagination, nagging fear that something was wrong. Suppose he’d fallen from the scaffolding. Been electrocuted. Worse still, perhaps someone had been there, someone who didn’t like the way in which he was conducting inquiries.

  Her empty stomach seemed to add to the depression but the excellent food and the cosy intimacy of the dining-room dispelled the feeling of helplessness and, by the time she had called for coffee and brandy, she had determined on a course of action. If he were not back by the time she’d finished she would have to go to the site.

  14

  Tuesday, 29th January

  BRISTOL

  Charlie Wilkinson eased himself on to his favourite bar stool in the Gloucester Road pub. It was his second office. A tall man, even gangling, and now moving into his sixties, he was known more for his zeal than his brain. But he still retained the goodwill of the local police from his lifetime’s service.

  Alistair Duncan had instructed him to find Dwight Riley. Armed with a car number and a modest description, he’d put out a number of feelers. For someone like Dwight Riley, whose horizons barely stretched beyond Shepton Mallet, Bristol seemed a good place to start. “Evening, Charlie,” volunteered the bar tender. “The usual, I suppose.”

  “I’ll slaughter it.” The agent said nothing more until the first half pint of Guinness had disappeared. It was his seventh today. And, whe
reas for years he’d coped with the heavy drinking, now there were occasions when the drink seemed to be coping with him. “Any messages?”

  “Yes. PC Carte looked in about ten minutes ago and said he’d call back. He couldn’t believe you weren’t here.” It was a local joke that, as soon as he shut his office, Charlie Wilkinson was either sleuthing in his low-slung hat and shabby coat or, more likely, contemplating the world through the bottom of a glass of Guinness. Though Charlie had a home to go to, it wasn’t much of one; not much to show for a lifetime of honest coppering.

  On being instructed, Charlie’s first idea had been to visit Riley’s cottage. Peering through the kitchen window, he’d sensed some signs of a rapid departure. Food and washing up were scattered everywhere. Though Duncan had reported that a fire had been burning previously, there was no sign of a guard having been positioned. In the grate lay a lump of peat, black and forlorn.

  The neighbours had been unhelpful, more interested in finding out what was going on than adding to anybody’s knowledge. No. Riley’s ‘F’ registration van hadn’t been seen. No. Riley didn’t normally go away. No. He hadn’t said he was going away. No. He hadn’t said he was looking for a job out of the area. Yes. We’ll tell you if he comes back. Oh, you’re a friend from Bristol, are you? An old friend. Oh, I see.

  “Same again, Charlie?” The barman was already moving the glass, because he didn’t need an answer, and, before it was filled, the young face of PC Carte appeared, his cap under his arm.

  “Eric!” Charlie’s greeting was friendly. “Good to see you. And you bring me some good news?”

  “Yes. That vehicle. It’s parked in Albion Street. Been there all day.”

  “Albion Street,” Charlie mused. “That figures. Lot of cheap lodging-houses out there.”

  “What’s it all about, then?”

  “Just someone I want to talk to.” Charlie’s instructions had been strict. Confidentiality was essential. Even to Uncle Bill.

  “All right, Don’t tell me. But I want that drink some time.”

  “OK. When you’re next off duty. You’re still on patrol?”

  “Yes. I’ll see you at the weekend.”

  Charlie coughed as he drew on a small cigarette. “How’s the sergeant? Still a cantankerous old sod, is he?”

  “No better. Nor never will be.”

  “True. Give him my best, won’t you,” Charlie called after the departing officer.

  The second Guinness went quicker than the first and, pausing then only to tell the barman that he might not be back that night, Charlie was on his way.

  Albion Street was where prosperous Victorians had once had their homes. Now the big houses were divided, sub-divided, partitioned and over full with a transient population. And there, outside Number Thirty-seven, was the grey, ‘F’ registration van, slightly battered, dirty and somehow defying the MOT regulations.

  Splendid. It was time to find out if Dwight Riley were there. And, if so, why.

  Just as Charlie was examining the old van, Alistair Duncan walked into Blostin’s, where the sympathetic owner had volunteered to join Sarah on a visit to the site. Indeed, they had been contemplating calling the police but Sarah had been reluctant, knowing that Duncan would not be grateful for unwanted publicity.

  It was Sarah who saw him first, a dishevelled figure, jeans muddied, hair plastered down and face still dripping from the weather outside.

  “Sorry.” Duncan could think of nothing better to say.

  “Trouble?” enquired Sarah.

  “No.” As he nodded, Duncan showered drops of rain over Sarah’s delicate upturned features. He kissed her gently and, on seeing her questioning look, motioned her silent. “Things took longer than I expected.”

  The solicitor turned to the owner. “You’ll be glad to know that I’ve got a change of clothing here. Have you somewhere I can tidy myself up.”

  “Of course. You look as though you need a good warm-up. How about a whisky?”

  “One in each hand, please.”

  Ten minutes later, a surprisingly spruce Alistair Duncan reappeared. “Do you mind watching me eat?”

  “No. So long as you don’t mind if I smoke.”

  The bargain struck, Alistair Duncan settled in to piping hot soup and garlic bread. All through the first course, Sarah’s face showed her expectancy but the solicitor was not to be drawn, contenting himself with odd grunts and knowing looks.

  She could stand it no longer. “Well, come on, then. What happened? You look as though you’ve ferreted through every rabbit-hole in the Mendips.”

  “Sarah my darling, on this occasion, I can’t tell you anything. I went to the site. I then met a bookie in a pub and one thing led to another. That gave me another idea and I went back to the site again. That’s where I’ve been.”

  “No trouble, then?”

  “No. None at all.” His face was serious, the gaze steady and the assertive thrust of the chin showed the steadfast strength of character which his clients appreciated. “This is a case of murder. I’m sure of it. I’ll tell the police but they won’t want to know. I’ve worked out exactly what happened but can’t prove it. Dacombe would just laugh at me.”

  “Won’t you give me a clue?”

  “Let me get you a brandy. It’ll go well with your coffee.” Duncan set about his stuffed chicken breasts. “Delicious. What did you have?”

  “I’m not telling you. In fact, I’m never going to talk to you again. You’re the most infuriating man.” But, even as she said it, Sarah’s broad mouth was breaking into a smile. “Come on. Just a clue.” She watched and, although he said nothing, she could see that he was mellowing. Perhaps it was the atmosphere. Perhaps it was the good food and wine. Or perhaps it was the company. She could see him weighing it up and decided to remain silent.

  “Right. There was something else I didn’t tell you. I dropped in on Ronnie Arnold. Wanted to know if he’d seen Dwight Riley. I wanted to talk to him about his evidence at the inquest.”

  “And?”

  “He wouldn’t talk to me. I called at his kitchen door. I could see through the curtains that he was in. But he wouldn’t open the door straight away.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he wanted to hide his shotgun. He’d been cleaning it on the kitchen table. By the time he opened the door, he’d hidden it in a roll of carpet which was standing in the corner.”

  “So he did open the door?”

  “Yes. But wouldn’t talk to me. Very hostile little man.”

  “Rabbit shooting?”

  “Maybe.” Duncan’s voice was distant once again. “So I went round to young Robertson. I spoke to his parents, as he was out.”

  “And?”

  “Well, there was no ladies’ underwear lying on the path this time. Mrs. Glover was peering out of her window to see who was calling. I expect she recognised me. Then I went on to June Hillyer’s.”

  “Did you talk to her?” Despite all Sarah’s education at Roedean and the Sorbonne, she had retained that natural charm which had not been killed by sophistication. And so it was that her face was permitted to show the excitement which she felt.

  “Impossible. I can’t talk to someone else’s client. But I was able to see the car parked outside.”

  “Robertson?”

  “Right.”

  “And the bookie?”

  “Interesting, but inconclusive yet. But he and the barman set me thinking.”

  “What’s the next step?”

  “Await the Red Star delivery at Temple Meads.”

  “But why were you so filthy?”

  Duncan shrugged and pushed his plate to one side. “I could so with some cheese. Some Brie I think would go well with the last knockings of this bottle. You know, whenever I think of Brie, I always think of a little restaurant in a converted mill between Nantes and La Rochelle. The finest Brie I’ve ever had.” He smiled. “Probably made in Japan. Or Taiwan. Most things are now.”

  Sarah leant across
the table and put her hand on his. Suddenly their faces were inches apart as they both leant forward, the magnet of shared intimacy seeming to draw them closer. “Alistair. You’re trying to change the subject again.”

  “Am I? It’s just that I’m tired of talking shop. How about your day? Still picking up hints on how to run a shipping company from The Onedin Line?”

  15

  Monday, 4th February

  BRISTOL

  As the three men took their seats in Alistair Duncan’s office, the grandfather clock, dating back to 1783, chimed twelve. Patrick Cowle stopped in mid-sentence, impressed by the deep tone.

  “A new investment. Picked it up at a sale in Crewkerne,” explained Alistair Duncan. The clock suited the room or at least it suited the image of the room in Duncan’s mind. Nearly all the utilitarian, sharp-cornered furniture, which he’d inherited, had been replaced. He was trying to create an atmosphere where work could be done, yet with an air of relaxation. Somewhere where the ill-at-ease could talk freely. So long as their children didn’t stick chewing-gum round the edge of the mahogany desk.

  “It’s all these big bills, Alistair,” said Mostyn Trask of the Regal Provident Insurance Company. The small eyes sparkled, the red face broke into a grin.

  “But then my partners don’t swan about in chauffeur-driven limousines. Neither do we have a directors’ dining-room. Nor do we have six weeks’ holiday, unlike some well known insurance companies.”

  “Point taken.” Trask grinned. “Pity it doesn’t rub off on me. I’ve got a Mickey Mouse watch and have a sandwich if I’m lucky.”

  “Not today.” It was Cowle who had spoken. “I’ve booked a table at Harvey’s. That’s if you’ve got time?”

  “Excellent! To hell with the cheese sandwiches! I’ll let them curl up at the corners for another day. Do you know, my sandwiches have never been the same since we got central heating installed.”

  “Too much luxury again,” laughed Duncan. “Ah, thank you, Lucy.” His secretary had just arrived with coffee. You’re privileged. She’s got out the best cups.” He turned to Lucy. “I thought I told you about the number of catches Mr. Trask dropped last season. See if you can find him a plastic mug.” Trask was wicket-keeper for the insurers’ evening cricket team. As Lucy bustled between the three men, none of them was unaware of the eye-catching smartness of her yellow trouser-suit. “Anyway, to get to business. I need your help, Mr. Cowle.”