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

by Douglas Stewart

  “Who is it?”

  “Alistair Duncan. I’m sorry to trouble you but is Mr. Cowle in?”

  “No. He’s away.”

  “I see. I’d wanted to talk to him but can I talk to you?”

  “At this time of night? Are you mad?”

  “Not at all. Please, Mrs. Cowle. It’s very urgent.”

  Slowly, confused as to what was happening, she closed the window. What the hell did this solicitor want? Bad news, that’s for sure. Still he’d sounded earnest, almost pleading in his approach. She slipped on a full-length dressing-gown and tied it round her waist. She was about to go down to the hall when, on second thoughts she stopped at the mirror, combed her hair and freshened up her face with a sponge and a splash of perfume.

  “I hope I didn’t frighten you, Mrs. Cowle. But I really had to see you at once.”

  “Me? A moment ago you said you wanted to see my husband. What’s all this about?” There was a real edge to the lady’s voice, something which Duncan had not anticipated, imagining her to be relaxed, friendly, casual as a chaise-longue.

  “I must find your husband. It’s in connection with Mark Hillyer.”

  “It’s a funny time to be following that up. The accident was weeks ago.”

  “It wasn’t an accident. It was murder. But don’t let’s go into that now. I’ll explain that later. The vital thing is, where can I find your husband?”

  “Coventry, I expect. He went there for a meeting.”

  “Which hotel?”

  “He never told me. And I knew better than to ask.” Duncan appreciated the implication but said nothing.

  “But the Rolls?”

  She shrugged. “He said it was giving a bit of trouble. He took my car instead. Look, what’s all this about?”

  “Suppose I said that Patrick wasn’t in Coventry. Would you believe me?”

  “I might do.” She looked down, thrusting her hands deep into the dressing-gown pocket and then raised her eyes. “Whoring—of course he thought I didn’t know. I was never sure where he was. He preferred the black ones.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of that. Is there somewhere else he might be found, besides Coventry?”

  “I don’t really know. Wherever the whores took him. Some doss-house ridden with crabs, I suppose.”

  Duncan paused, searching for the right word, anxious not to say too much. “But do you have a cottage? A second home somewhere?”

  “Oh, that? Yes. We’ve got a holiday cottage. He might have gone there. Not the right time of year. And it’s about two hours from here.” She wondered to where this funny conversation was leading but somehow the solicitor’s enthusiasm had reached her. She’d made some coffee and invited Duncan to arrange a couple of brandies. “I don’t know which of us needs these most,” she said.

  But Duncan had no time for small talk, keen though he was to sound polite. “Where is this place?”

  “Dudden Vale Cottage. It’s in the village of Ashprington, near Totnes.”

  Even as she was speaking, Duncan weighed up the possibilities. “Never heard of Ashprington but Totnes is somewhere near Torquay, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. It’s a hamlet and the cottage overlooks the River Harbourne. Two up and three down.”

  “Can I try the phone number there?”

  “No. We didn’t have one.”

  Their conversation was broken by the telephone. Rosemary Cowle looked slightly puzzled. “I’m expecting this,” explained Duncan.

  He picked up the receiver. “Alistair Duncan here.”

  “Charlie Wilkinson. I’m at the police station. They’re almost taking me seriously. Perhaps I didn’t explain your theory very well. Do you want to speak to the sergeant yourself?”

  “Put him on please.” Duncan looked at the reflection of his face in the heavy gilt mirror. He didn’t care for what he saw. He needed a good night’s sleep, if not several. But, better still, he needed a holiday away from it all. It had been eighteen months since he’d had a proper break and, when he was tired, the broken nose seemed more shattered than ever and, on occasions like this, he cursed the second row forward who had trodden on his face in a loose scrum.

  “Is that still you, Charlie? Where’s the desk sergeant?”

  “Sorry. He’s had to dash off. They’ve just brought a couple of yobbos in. There’s a hell of din. I expect you can hear it.”

  “Yes. Look, you convince your pals there. Get them to keep an eye open for the Marina. You can eliminate the Rolls.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No. I want the Devon police aroused from their slumber. Two car-loads should do. No flashing lights or sirens echoing through the whole of Devon. Just a discreet arrival at Dudden Vale Cottage, Ashprington, near Totnes. They’re to find out if Dwight Riley is there, of his own free will. And warn them that Cowle is probably armed. Or they should assume that he is.”

  “Got it. Dudden Vale Cottage, you said. I’ll set it up. But they’re more interested in sorting out these two yobbos.”

  Duncan had hated what he had to say with Mrs. Cowle hovering two paces behind him, her face already ashen. “I’m sorry you had to hear that,” was all he said.

  She cradled the balloon glass in long, delicate fingers. She turned, before lowering herself into a chair, revealing, for a careless second, rather more leg than she had intended. A reflex action operated a cover-up as she fought to express herself with composure and cohesion. She fought the urge to scream or to cry.

  “You mean?” was the best she could manage.

  “I think so. But I must be going. I want to get to that cottage as quick as I can, although I expect it’ll all be over by the time I get there. Of course, it may be a false alarm. Your husband may have taken Riley somewhere entirely different. You see, your husband can’t afford to have Riley dead and discovered. He’s got to be dead and undiscovered. A mineshaft or perhaps a place so remote that he’ll never be dug up. People like Dwight Riley are always disappearing. And that’s no proof of murder. Riley’s best chance is that the police get there quickly.”

  Duncan had moved to the door and was on the point of departure when, with a sudden movement, Mrs. Cowle left her chair. “I’m coming with you. I must be there. And perhaps, on the way, you’d explain what it’s all about.”

  “No. I don’t recommend it.”

  “I’m coming. It’ll save you valuable time. You’ll have a hell of a job finding that cottage at this time of night. No one to ask the way.”

  The argument was persuasive. “You’d better get some clothes on.”

  “I’ll do better than that. I’ll get some bits and pieces and put them on in the car. You’ll have to promise not to look. It’ll save time.”

  “If the police stop us they’ll laugh my defence out of court. But come on. I’ll try not to look.”

  Duncan knew it wouldn’t be easy. He wondered when Patrick Cowle had given up looking at his wife.

  22

  Monday, 4th February

  ASHPRINGTON, DEVON

  He’d wet himself, Dwight Riley was sure of that. Probably from fear, partly from pressure on his bladder. He recalled his troubles at school in that direction, recalled the dark, spreading stain on his short grey flannels. And the stale smell. And he could smell it now as he lay soaked, distorted and disorientated in the back of the car. It was worse now, for Cowle was driving fast on slow roads. Every corner brought a lurching movement. Every bump twisted his spinal cord in a dozen different directions at once.

  Suddenly the vehicle stopped.

  Cowle got out and, moments later, the back door of the car opened. The air was cool, fresh and, after the fetid nausea of the car, almost too rich to savour. With a single movement, Cowle flung Riley over his shoulder, took a few steps and the two men entered the building.

  “Pig!” said Cowle. “You filthy, urinating pig.” He hurled Riley to the floor, so that he fell defenceless into a heap. Uncaring now as to his fate, Riley sobbed from beneath the sacking. But the
sobs were pent up, stillborn by the vicious grip of the plaster round his face. The door slammed and was bolted twice from the inside. Then a key turned.

  Riley felt himself picked up again, but only momentarily, so that he was positioned in a corner, with his back to the wall, feet in front of him. Without pretence at gentleness, Cowle removed the sacking to reveal the gaunt face and the chin that never was. The bald head was soaked in sweat and just behind the crown there was some matted blood from the blow inflicted by the gun. Then came the moment which Riley had been dreading. Cowle grasped one end of the tape and, with a jerk of his elbow, stripped the first few inches, which had stuck to the thin line of hair which surrounded Riley’s pate. As the hairs were freed, or pulled out, the pain could be seen in the man’s eyes but not heard from the still sealed lips. A second later they, too, were freed and the pain escaped in a shriek, instantly to be silenced by a backhanded slap across the cheek, which twisted the man’s head round, such was its force.

  “Shut up.”

  The victim did so, peering sullenly at his captor from beneath hooded eyelids.

  “Riley. Tell me the lot. Everything you saw. Otherwise I’ll shoot now.”

  Riley looked at the gun, which was typical of what he had seen on television. In his simplistic lifestyle, it had seemed so exciting, siding with the goodies, egging them on, hissing at the bad. But this was different. Now he was facing a loaded gun. But why? Cowle’s hand never shook. His eyes never wavered in that smooth, good-looking face.

  “Come on. What did you see when Hillyer died?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I don’t believe you. What did you tell Charlie Wilkinson?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Balls! You told Wilkinson enough to convince Alistair Duncan that Hillyer was murdered. So what did you see, little man?”

  “I know nothing.” The voice was thin, almost strident. “I saw nothing.”

  “Where were you?”

  “In the kitchen.”

  “Tripe! It’s your choice. I’m counting to ten. Then I shall shoot. Not to kill. Just to make you see reason.” Cowle smiled the open-mouthed gesture of a shark.

  Riley could say nothing for he had seen nothing. It was no good pretending otherwise.

  “. . . . nine, ten.” He heard the words, followed by the crack which filled the small kitchen. It took a second for the site of the pain to be obvious. The bullet had struck the patella full square, shattering the kneecap, the fragmented bone causing irreparable damage to the joint.

  Riley looked down, his mouth sagging, as a groan of pain rumbled from deep inside. In his shock he cried out, “No, no, no more. I’ll talk, I’ll say anything,” but it was the pain speaking and not truth or logic. He opened his mouth but the words wouldn’t form and, as his eyes rolled, he slumped unconscious, muttering something which sounded like “Alistair Duncan . . .”

  “Shit!” Anxious to get on, Cowle rushed to the sink and then threw a cup of water across Riley’s face. He had to find out what had been said to know how much danger he was now in. But this delay was a problem. A second cup of water failed to revive Riley but, all the while, blood was welling from the knee, initially being taken up in the trousers but now pooling on the tiled floor.

  There was no choice. He would have to wait. From the cupboard he produced some Dimple and poured himself a king-size measure and then, chin on hand, he sat astride a red kitchen chair to watch and wait.

  It was a quarter to one.

  *

  If the bubonic plague had struck the hamlet of Ashprington, it could not have been quieter. Not a light showed. Even though Alistair Duncan underplayed the Stag’s throttle, its noise seemed deafening in the narrow confines of the village street.

  “The cottage is well through the village,” Rosemary Cowle explained. “Not quite on its own. But it’s at the foot of the hill. Backing on to the river.”

  “Where should I park?”

  “Not by the cottage. There’s only room for one car and, if you’re right, the Marina will be there.” Her face puckered pleasantly in concentration. “Park on the right. There’s a small pull-in. But what do you want me to do?”

  “Hopefully, the police will be crawling everywhere. If they are then we’ll do what they say. If we can’t see them, I’ll have a look round and then come back.” Duncan felt certain that he could trust her.

  “Be careful. If Patrick’s as bad as you say, then don’t take any chances.” She couldn’t help reaching over to clasp Duncan’s left arm. There was a friendship. No. More than that—an intimacy between them which had developed on the drive from Shepton. But the intimacy had grown more from the shared purpose than from her mocking, yet stern, admonition that he should keep his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel while she struggled into underwear, jeans and pullover.

  Everything about her had been a surprise to Duncan, not least that she should momentarily be sitting naked in a speeding sports car in the middle of the night. But there had been more. All right, he had suspected from the outset that she was a bored, lonely housewife but the depths of her animosity had been kept well in check. No; animosity wasn’t the right word. Neither had it been hatred. It was resignation, coupled with recognition and a readiness to face what she had always known: not that her husband was a murderer but that there was something rotten, something corrupt, something rancid, which had insidiously eliminated any good in his character.

  In his questions, Duncan had been cautious and, although he had hinted at motives, he had been non-committal, preferring to draw her out, testing his ideas against her knowledge of the man with whom she’d shared the brittle fibres of a marriage.

  Duncan stopped the car and moments later found himself alone, padding along the narrowest of Devon lanes. The intermittent moonlight showed him the way ahead and, almost at once, he passed a modernised cottage. Dudden Vale would be the second one. By the time he saw its outline he was convinced that the police were nowhere. For God’s sake! What the hell had Charlie been up to this time. Where were they?

  He saw the drive, which he knew led down to the river bank and, confident that he was unwatched, he drew close to the two-storeyed building, noticing as he did so that, from the window on the river side, came a gleam of light. So Patrick Cowle was there. So the murderer was there, he reminded himself. But no bloody police. Let’s not forget that!

  If further proof were needed that Cowle was in residence, he saw the Marina, facing down the slope on which it had been parked.

  But Dwight Riley? If he’d been unlucky, he’d be dead. If he were lucky, then he’d be alive, still being questioned. But he would die. Of that there was no doubt.

  Still keeping to the shadows, he stalked round the cottage. The only door seemed to face the river side, and all the windows, which he could see, were firmly shut. But one thing was certain. The police had not arrived. There had been no whispered approach, no tap on the shoulder. He was alone, the nearest person being a murderer. It was a situation which he’d never previously faced; a situation not on the curriculum at the College of Law.

  But he had to know. Was Riley alive? Taking extreme care, he left the road and walked between the Marina and the cottage. He could feel the heat from its bonnet without touching it. At the lower corner of the cottage was the door. It was impossible to see in but someone was in there, moving about the room. But there was no conversation.

  He hastened back to the car. “God knows what’s happened to the police,” he reported. “They’re not here. Get back to the village and telephone. Tell them your husband’s here. As for Riley—I’m not sure.”

  “I’ll be back in about a quarter of an hour.”

  “OK. But don’t come near the cottage. Leave that to the police.” Duncan’s face was stern.

  “And no heroics from you. Wait for the police.”

  “Too true. Last time I tried to be a hero I fell off my trike!” Whether she saw his smile, Duncan wasn’t clear but, just as she was about to le
ave, Rosemary turned and kissed him lightly on the cheek. It was a gesture of affection and no more.

  Back at the cottage, nothing seemed to have changed. He took up station beside the Marina, carefully keeping its outline between himself and the cottage door. He looked at his watch. The police should arrive within half an hour at the worst and it was just a matter of waiting.

  Settling himself carefully, so as to avoid cramp, he listened to the rush of water from the Harbourne whilst, above him, the trees were alive in the light breeze from the south-west.

  After a few minutes he had to shift position as cold and stiffness started to penetrate. But then came a sound from the cottage. Yes. It was someone talking. Immediately he edged forward, anxious to hear what was going on, convinced now that Riley must be inside.

  It was Cowle’s voice he heard. “Just watch that clock on the wall. In five minutes’ time, I shoot.” Duncan noted no enjoyment in the voice, no hint of sadistic pleasure. It was just a threat, cold-blooded and deadly. And the voice gave no hint of mercy. “I know you’re holding out on me. It’s your last chance.”

  “But I don’t know . . .” Riley’s voice was faint and the words faded away. The listener could imagine Riley the prisoner, face all drawn. The responsibility lay uncomfortably heavily. Was that right? In less than five minutes Riley would be dead. Unless he confessed to something which he hadn’t seen. And he hadn’t the gumption to do that. So what to do? Knocking on the door wasn’t the answer. Forcible entry was impossible and the police wouldn’t arrive within five minutes. They might make an arrest but Riley would be dead. And Duncan couldn’t have that.

  So what to do? Moments passed without inspiration but looking at the Marina gave him an idea. For three frantic minutes he worked silently, trying to recall the details of a story once recounted to him by Charlie Wilkinson.