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

by Douglas Stewart

  *

  Head in hands, Dwight Riley had abandoned watching the clock. Time meant nothing any longer and he knew that, if he looked up, he’d be facing the builder’s King Cobra stare.

  “Forty-five seconds left, Riley.” If Riley heard, he showed no sign but suddenly the night air was split by the blare of the Marina’s horn. Its noise filled the kitchen; its noise filled the valley and, for a moment, Cowle looked puzzled before moving. Knowing his victim to be helpless, Cowle rushed to the door, anxious to kill the noise. Neighbours were too close to advertise his presence like this. Gun in hand, he opened the back door but saw nothing and nobody. The incessant blasting was a spur to hurry the few paces to the vehicle.

  He flung open the driver’s door, but tapping the horn control achieved nothing. Feverishly, he raised the bonnet and laid the gun on the engine mounting. In the darkness, he searched for the battery terminal and started to tug at it. So engrossed was he that he failed to notice a slight scraping on the tarmac at the back of the car, as Duncan struggled to free the lump of stone with which he had jammed the wheel, after releasing the hand brake. The tread of the tyre had dug deeper than Duncan had wished but, with a final tug as he crouched by the rear wheel, it came free. Immediately he leant against the boot and gave it a fourteen-stone push, so that the vehicle gathered momentum down the sharp incline.

  Cowle, at the front, felt the car start to move and he reacted barely quickly enough to avoid being crushed. As it was, he threw himself to his left, to land sprawling on the grass by the drive. Shocked and confused, he saw a figure approaching him, as the noise of wheels on tarmac ceased and the car took off to plunge into the river. The splash was impressive and the horn stopped.

  In the darkness Cowle could only see that, big as he was, the man approaching was his match. Who it was he had no idea. As he started to rise to his feet, he realised that his gun was in the river and that he’d have to slug it out.

  As the man was almost on him, he recognised Alistair Duncan and sprang forward, head lowered, so as to butt him in the groin. As a tactic it had merit but was scarcely apt against a former Western Counties Three-Quarter. Alistair Duncan’s sidestep was as neat as it was deceptive and the bull-like charge struck only the night air.

  “You!” Cowle roared, as he stumbled, his arms waving.

  Thankful now for the sweated misery of the circuit training, Duncan stopped, turned and launched his full weight into a tackle just above the knee. Cowle hit the ground, his chin smacking the tarmac so hard that the juddering impact shot through his head. Winded as well, he was helpless long enough for Duncan to use his knees to pin the man down and fix a tight armlock.

  A moment of doubt flickered through Duncan’s mind, as he sat heavily astride his victim. Had he really picked the right person? Too late for doubts.

  “Is Riley dead?” he enquired.

  “No.” The builder’s voice was breathless and forced from the weight compressing his chest.

  “Injured?”

  “Bloody well go and see for yourself.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  It was a further ten minutes before the first policemen arrived. There were three of them, all cynical.

  “Taken your time, haven’t you!” shouted Duncan, as he heard the men on the roadside. “Come and give me a hand, will you.”

  Three torches flashed in Duncan’s direction and saw him, well in control of the situation. “Are you Mr. Duncan?”

  “No. I’m Big Daddy, practising for next Saturday’s wrestling.”

  The torches shone at Cowle. “Who are you?”

  “It’s Patrick Cowle. And I expect you’ll find Dwight Riley in the cottage.”

  They did and, moments later, Cowle found himself bundled into the back of the second police car to arrive.

  “But where the hell have you been? You should have been here two hours ago.”

  “We got the message to go to Dudden Vale Cottage, Ashburton. That’s twenty miles away. Chap called Wilkinson phoned in. My oppos up there will want a word with Mr. Wilkinson. Wasting bloody police time.”

  23

  Tuesday, 5th February

  SHEPTON MALLET

  It was 10.30 a.m., on a hard, bright February morning, which had been spoiled by the menace of black ice on the roads.

  Detective Chief Superintendent Dacombe entered the lounge at the request of Rosemary Cowle. Already there was Alistair Duncan, his eye blackened where Patrick Cowle had taken a swing at him, as he had been freed from the ground, before being led away. Mostyn Trask from the Regal Provident rose to shake hands. The detective took in the assembled group with an experienced glance. “’Morning, Mr. Duncan.” The voice was barely friendly, slightly mocking. “Spot of bother, was there?”

  “Nothing to speak of, Mr. Dacombe. Nothing worse than Saturday rugby. By the way, have you met Mr. Trask?”

  The introductions concluded, Dacombe stood somewhat aloof, leaving it to the solicitor to volunteer explanations. “What’s the news about Dwight Riley?” enquired Duncan.

  “His kneecap’s finished. But with all the kneecapping in Northern Ireland, medical science has advanced tremendously. That’ll help. Apart from that?” Dacombe turned to the solicitor with a chill stare, “he’s fine.”

  Duncan was about to retort but instead gave a ‘that’s-not-worthy-of-you’ look. Then he simply said. “It would have been better to set up Riley as the honey-pot and then hide him somewhere else. It would have eliminated the risk.”

  “Perhaps you’d tell me, Mr. Duncan,” said Dacombe, “why you believe I can now charge Cowle with the murder of Mark Hillyer.” He nodded to his sergeant to take notes. “After all, he wasn’t on the site. That much was clear from the inquest.”

  “Agreed. Which do you want first? Why I suspected him or how he did it?”

  All eyes stared at the detective, who was studying a family photograph. “Let’s just run through why Cowle should wish to murder his foreman.” The mocking tone had returned. “You understand that Cowle denies everything.”

  “But he admits shooting Riley?”

  “Yes.”

  “And abducting him?”

  “No. And he’s made no statement yet either.”

  “But you verballed him?” Duncan wasn’t going to let Dacombe have it all his own way. The police officer said nothing. Mostyn Trask interposed.

  “Let’s cut out the sniping. If, as I believe, Mr. Duncan is right, then I shall expect you to concede his determination with some degree of good grace. It was, after all, you who chose to close your file. If your attitude doesn’t change, then no doubt my company will be sending a report to your superior.” His voice was slightly raised, his accent more pronounced. “Even you, Superintendent Dacombe, aren’t high enough to have no superiors. And don’t forget that Wyatt, Hebditch were retained to protect my company, to protect the shareholders from the type of bogus claim which was being presented. I’m sure you don’t condone that.”

  The words reverberated round the room. Someone’s feet shuffled anonymously on the carpet and, apart from the ticking of the carriage clock, all else was silent.

  Grateful for the intervention, Duncan allowed Dacombe to taste the discomfort for a little longer before speaking. “I’ll put it as shortly as I can. Dwight Riley did see no murder. He had no idea what had happened. But, by the time Charlie Wilkinson had traced him to Bristol, I’d become convinced that Cowle could be the murderer. I felt that, if I told Cowle that Riley knew what had happened, he’d have to have a go at him, have to eliminate him, scared of what he might say. That was the scheme.”

  “But what about the dead man’s wife, June?” It was Rosemary Cowle who had spoken. “I remember her evidence at the inquest. Most unsatisfactory.” There was disapproval in her voice but she seemed entirely detached from her husband’s predicament.

  “It was. But then both the employees were shifty about who was in the kitchen. I got nowhere on that tack, but my discovery that Hillyer’s expenditure
exceeded his income led me to check the local bookies. That eliminated gambling as an income but one of them told me of a fiddle going on, centred on the Duke of Charlesworth pub.”

  “Being?” enquired Dacombe.

  “With the boss never on site, Hillyer, Arnold and Robertson realised that they could string out the job by slow work. At first they took turns to skip off to the pub for a drink. About three months ago, this led to them nicking bricks, cement, timber. You name it, they stole it and it all changed hands in the pub car-park. They even did the odd private job during working-hours, all on the basis that they split the proceeds three ways. Poor old Dwight Riley got a pound a week to keep his mouth shut.”

  Dacombe was looking interested. “But what about the day of the accident?”

  “Ronnie Arnold was flogging some roof tiles in the pub yard when Hillyer died.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The landlord blew it when he thought I knew anyway.” The grin was infectious. “That’s why nobody wanted to be too specific as to who was in the kitchen. Anyway, Mark Hillyer was clearing about twenty quid a week from this but that still wasn’t enough to explain his expenditure.”

  “So, after Mark Hillyer fell, what happened?”

  “Kenny went to the pub to fetch Ronnie. Riley was left alone for a moment or two but he saw nothing, did nothing. Just sat in the kitchen. When they got back they told him to keep his mouth shut. Incidently, after the inquest, they strung him up from the staircase but seemed to have relented and let him down. They were scared they’d lose their jobs and be prosecuted for theft.” Rosemary Cowle returned to her previous train of thought.

  “But what about this chap Robertson and June Hillyer?”

  “He’ll confess to an affair with June Hillyer. It started just after the marriage. It was June’s satin underwear that really set me thinking.”

  “I’ll bet,” interrupted Mostyn Trask.

  Duncan laughed. “Young Kenny was a bit of a lad. Sometimes, when he went down to the pub, he’d slip off and visit June. Not that he was her only lover. Charlie Wilkinson found out that she had quite a reputation.”

  “I can confirm that,” said Dacombe.

  “Personal experience, I presume,” suggested Trask. A few minutes before, Dacombe would not have been amused. Now he’d mellowed and he joined in the general laughter.

  “The panties, besides obviously implicating Kenny Robertson, kept me thinking about Hillyer’s lavish lifestyle. What was so odd was that June Hillyer didn’t seem to understand that the books didn’t balance. So I concluded that she had no idea of what her husband was up to, how he made his money. His expenditure was so substantial and so regular that I felt that he had to have a steady income from somewhere and the only person with real wealth was Patrick Cowle and, at that point, something gelled.”

  “Are you getting this down,” Dacombe asked of his sergeant.

  “It was Pilton.”

  “Pilton?”

  “Yes. It turned up twice. When I re-read the evidence that I had gathered, I saw that the paths of the two men had crossed. Jumbled in my notes of my first discussion with Mr. Cowle was a reference to his aunt at Pilton. About twenty pages further on, during the inquest, I had a note that Mark Hillyer had been brought up at Pilton, so I decided that every fact discovered thereafter should be tested against the assumption that Mark Hillyer was a blackmailer.”

  “He did have an aunt at Pilton,” confirmed Rosemary Cowle.

  “Yes. Most importantly, Charlie Wilkinson discovered that Mark Hillyer had been fostered and brought up by an old dear called Wynne Sedgman and she was none other than your husband’s aunt. She died in 1961. Mark was only fourteen then but your husband was twenty-five.” Duncan could feel that everyone was now hanging on his every word.

  “Go on,” prompted Dacombe.

  “Mr. Cowle inherited Mrs. Sedgman’s cottage. Her will left everything to him and Mark Hillyer, as the foster child, lost his home.”

  “So he bore my husband a grudge?”

  “Yes and no,” replied the solicitor. “Mark Hillyer had been like a son to Mrs. Sedgman, but, as she fell ill, it seemed that your husband, who had played no part in her life before, suddenly made himself indispensable, worming his way into everything. Charlie Wilkinson found this out from another villager.”

  “Do you mean Mrs. Sedgman changed her Will, to leave everything to him?” queried Dacombe.

  “That was my first thought, so my London agents bespoke a copy of Mrs. Sedgman’s Will from St. Catherine’s House.” Duncan flourished a perspex folder and everyone clustered round. “You see, she left him everything.”

  “And the Will looks properly witnessed.”

  “Yes. But I’ve also got a report here from Alan Brace, the handwriting expert. His opinion is that the signature of the testator and of the two witnesses were written by the same person and that person was Patrick Cowle. He found sixty-three points of similarity between the writing on the Will and a sample of Patrick Cowle’s writing.”

  “But did these witnesses ever exist?”

  “Yes. They’re still alive and they wouldn’t swear for certain that these signatures weren’t theirs, after all these years. You see, they did witness Mrs. Sedgman’s Will.” Duncan smiled at Dacombe. “I’ll bet you’ve come across this before. Cowle buys two identical sixpenny Will forms from any stationer’s . . .”

  Dacombe joined in. “Yes, I know. Cowle then destroys the valid Will, having copied the three signatures on to the blank form. He seals the fake in an envelope and sits back, waiting for the old dear’s death. Any chance young Mark had of inheriting the home was gone for ever.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Duncan. “At some time, Mark got suspicious. Charlie Wilkinson found out that he was always puzzled why he wasn’t in the Will but he was too young to do anything about it. She’d always promised to leave it to him. Anyway, Kenny Robertson told Charlie Wilkinson this morning that he and June had found a box with all the papers in, including a Will. He didn’t seem to understand what it was all about.”

  “But surely Mark Hillyer should have gone to the police?” enquired Mrs. Cowle.

  “No. It wouldn’t have done any good. Even if the forgery could be proved, there was no evidence as to what was in the destroyed Will. In the absence of that, young Mark stood to gain nothing. If the old dear had died intestate, he’d have been no better off. And the case of forgery against Cowle, even if proven, was not convincing. Mark Hillyer has been blackmailing Patrick Cowle for many years. I expect he only got the job as foreman by pressurising. Blackmail equalled cash; Cowle’s exposure to the police equalled nothing.”

  “But why the murder?”

  “I don’t know. Probably because Hillyer was making bigger demands to keep his wife in smaller underwear. Or Mr Cowle had simply been waiting his chance to get the man off his back.”

  “So that’s the motive, then?”

  “Yes. But I’d always appreciated that, with Cowle not on the site at the time, there could only be murder if there were an accomplice or a device. I doubted whether Cowle would involve anyone else and so I snooped round the site, looking for a device.” Duncan walked to the french window. “Let’s go down the garden.” They followed him down the back lawn, on the left of which was the flowerbed, with a line of fir trees substantially obscuring the high wall between Cowle’s property and the building site.

  He led the group over the flowerbed and between the trees into the narrow gap between trees and wall. Here, he crouched down and pointed out two stones which had obviously been removed and replaced in the recent past. One was at eye level, the other nestled close to the ground. “I found these loose. Give me a hand pushing them through, would you?”

  Seconds later, two holes appeared. By looking through the top hole, the scaffolding was in full view, as was Charlie Wilkinson.

  “Charlie!” Duncan called. The agent turned and blundered through the dense scrub towards the voice.

  �
��Are you ready?” enquired Charlie.

  “Yes, if you are. There’s no room for any more cock-ups. Are you sure there’s no one else around?”

  “Positive. The man from the Electricity Board has finished. The overhead cable’s the same as it was at the time of the fall.”

  “All right, feed through the rope, would you?” Charlie fed the rope through the lower hole. “Put the dummy in position now.” As Charlie stumbled back towards the scaffolding, Duncan turned to Dacombe. “Take a look through the hole and then I suggest you all go round to the other side of the wall and see what happens.”

  Moments later the watchers reappeared on the site, as Charlie Wilkinson mounted the scaffolding ladder, carrying a scarecrow figure, crudely thrown together on a metal frame. As instructed, the agent carefully leant the dummy against the scaffolding, half on and half off the ladder.

  Duncan felt the tension grip him as he, in turn, gripped the rope. He waited, heart pounding, as Charlie descended and joined the man from the Electricity Board. “Switch on the power,” Duncan called out. A few moments later the electrician returned.

  “It’s on,” Charlie Wilkinson signalled.

  “Stand back. Well out of the way. On the count of three.”

  His voice almost falsetto with tension, Duncan counted aloud “One. Two. Three.” He heaved on the rope and the effect was dramatic. The other end, tied near the base of the solitary electric pole, fifteen yards away, pulled it away from the vertical. The top of the twelve-foot pole, which stood in isolation in the thick undergrowth, swayed sharply, taking the overhead cable with it. Twenty yards further on, where the high-voltage cable passed the scaffolding, it now lurched into forceful contact. There was a flash and, for a second, the watchers saw the dummy quiver and rock, before toppling in near slow motion to land in the mud where Dacombe had first seen the body of the late Mark Hillyer.

  24

  Tuesday, 5th February

  BRISTOL