An Unsuitable Death

by J M Gregson

Whittaker didn’t hurry his response. He allowed himself again that caustic, rueful smile. “On the contrary, Superintendent, I resented him bitterly. He had youth and looks on his side against — well, against what you see before you. I was insanely jealous of that young man. Whenever I saw his battered old car outside the house in Rosamund Street, I wanted to know what they had done together, how many times, how he proposed that their relationship should develop. Oh, I resented him all right!”

  “But you didn’t give up your affair with Tamsin? Didn’t even offer her an ultimatum?”

  “Oh, but I did! I told her she’d have to choose between him and me, and then never forced her to do so, because I was afraid of what she’d say. I made a fair old fool of myself, didn’t I? But I was in love, you see.”

  That old plaintive cry which both CID men had heard so often. That old plea that the heart must rule the head, however extreme the consequences. The determination that it should be so was always more disastrous when a middle-aged man or woman held it for a younger partner. Jane King’s contemptuous generalisation came back to Lambert as he looked at this shattered, well-meaning innocent: “Men always think they can reform fallen girls”.

  Just as two days earlier Lambert had found himself feeling that he’d like his murderer to be Arthur Rennie, now he hoped fervently that it wouldn’t be James Whittaker. It was unusual for him to allow such thoughts to intrude upon his objectivity, and he brushed this one away like an irritating wasp. He said harshly, “If you talked to Tamsin about Tom Clarke, you knew he was serious about her. That he wanted to marry her and take her away from here.”

  Again that dismissive smile at his own credulity. Like many another man, Whittaker was wise enough to see the way the world worked for most of the time, foolish only when infatuation took over. Forced now to articulate the way he had behaved, he found his folly resounding in his own ears. “I was aware that Clarke said he was serious, but I knew he had no money, that he wouldn’t be able to carry it through. I couldn’t leave Tamsin to flounder with him, especially when I knew she was getting deeper into the drugs. I could have paid for treatment, could have protected her, could have nursed her back to the girl she had been when I first knew her.” He was almost in tears, pleading for them to take seriously the possibility that he could have achieved this, confronting again the awful ending of this girl he had loved.

  Lambert, determinedly detached, said, “You had a serious argument with Tamsin Rennie, not long before she died.”

  “On the Monday before she was killed, yes. It was the last time I saw her, and we had a blazing row.” He stated the facts with a bleak objectivity. He seemed to have recovered himself a little, to have avoided the tears which had seemed inevitable. “I asked Tamsin to go into a clinic to be treated for her addiction and then to come and live with me. She wouldn’t admit that her life was running out of control and I tried to make her confront that. I think she knew that she needed help, really. There was a kind of desperation about her denials. But she didn’t want to make a fresh start with me.”

  That was the real tragedy as far as he was concerned. Contemplating it head-on seemed to be the final ignominy for him; he stared down mournfully at his hands as they finally ceased to twist against each other. Lambert said gently, “It might not have been as straightforward as you think for Tamsin to make a fresh start, Mr Whittaker. You know she was dependent on heroin. It’s an expensive habit, and there is at least a possibility that she was helping to support it by dealing in drugs herself. Did you see any evidence of that in her conduct?”

  It was another painful turn of the knife in his wound. “No. She never said anything about supplying drugs to others. Not to me. She despised herself for her weakness with the heroin, hated the habit. I can’t see her introducing others to the same hell.”

  “It may not have been a willing move on her part. It’s a common way of recruitment, for those who run the drugs trade. A youngster becomes dependent, cannot do without a twice-daily fix. He or she is desperate to raise the money to buy. At that stage, some-one comes along with a proposition. If they will take a little risk — supply drugs to other users and collect the payments — then they’ll get their own supplies free. If you are an addict by the time the offer comes, you’re in no position to refuse, because if you try to do so, the threat is that your own supply will be withdrawn.”

  Whittaker followed the argument with his large brown eyes wide and unblinking, as if it held a hideous fascination for him. Perhaps even now he was anxious to explore a hitherto hidden area of this girl he had found so enthralling in life. He said unwillingly, “It makes sense, I suppose. She told me she’d never be able to live round here.”

  “But she didn’t say anything to suggest who might have been supplying her?”

  “No. And she never admitted she was dealing, though I thought we’d shared everything.”

  “We’re not even certain that she was. It’s an explanation that would fit the facts, that’s all.” Their Drugs Squad infiltrator had thought the girl was dealing, and something in Keith Sugden’s reactions had confirmed it for Lambert. He was pretty sure that suave criminal performer would have dismissed them even more summarily if Tamsin Rennie had not been on the fringe of his empire.

  He leaned forward, staring Whittaker straight in his distressed, rather blubbery face. “You had a serious quarrel with Tamsin Rennie on that last Monday. Did you threaten her?”

  From looking grief-stricken, James Whittaker suddenly took on a hunted look, as the implications of the question struck home. “Yes. She wouldn’t listen to sense. Or to what I thought at the time was sense. I suppose I did threaten her — well, I know I did. She said there was no way out, that I should leave her to rot. When I told her that there was always a way, she laughed and said I didn’t know what I was talking about. She said there was danger. That might have been the drugs business, I suppose. At the time, I just thought she was being hysterical.”

  “Was that what made you threaten her?”

  “No. It was when she said that if she was going to make a fresh start with anyone, it would be with Tom Clarke. I lost my rag completely, said the young fool couldn’t possibly save her, that he didn’t know what life was all about.” He stopped suddenly. “Who told you about all this? Was it him?”

  “No. You were heard quarrelling with Tamsin, that’s all. By other people in the house.”

  “Yes. Well, we were certainly shouting at each other. And I threatened her.”

  “Exactly what did you say to her, Mr Whittaker?”

  He saw Hook making notes, but went on, as if anxious to have the full record of his shame recorded before he could have second thoughts. “I said I couldn’t just leave her to kill herself with drugs. I said Tom Clarke would never be able to save her, that he hadn’t the will or the money to do it. When she refused to listen to me, I shouted that I would kill her rather than give her up.”

  He breathed heavily as he watched Hook writing. He seemed not appalled at his confession, but merely relieved that the full statement of his obsession was now complete. Lambert let a long moment elapse before he spoke again, in case there was further confession or explanation to come. Then he said quietly, formally, “Did you kill Tamsin Rennie, Mr Whittaker?”

  With the confession of his infatuation complete, James Whittaker had no resistance left. He said in a flat, dejected voice, “No. And I don’t know who did. Not for certain.”

  The last phrase aroused their interest, as he must have known it would. But he did not look into their faces as he said it. He sat, seemingly exhausted, gazing down at his twisted handkerchief on the light green carpet, as if he saw it for the first time and wondered how it could have come there. It was Hook who said, “Where were you last Wednesday evening, Mr Whittaker?”

  The corners of his lips twitched a little into what was almost a smile. Here at least he thought he had an adequate answer for them. “I was at a meeting of one of the council working parties. It was a candid exchan
ge of views, really, to get things moving, rather than a formal meeting. It was in one of the members’ houses and there were six of us there. I can give you names if you want them.”

  “What time did your meeting begin?”

  “Half-past eight.”

  Too late to eliminate him from the murder. The kind of alibi, indeed, which a killer might think put him in the clear for the evening, when he was planning a death. Hook merely made an impassive note. It was Lambert who said, “Did you walk to this informal meeting?”

  “I did, yes. It was no more than three-quarters of a mile from here, and it was a pleasant evening.”

  “I see. Did your route take you anywhere near the Cathedral?”

  They could see him getting excited, though he did not seem to feel threatened by this train of the questioning. “Yes. Right past it, as a matter of fact. I cut through the Cathedral Close, walked past the Old Deanery and down St John Street.”

  Whittaker’s excitement was palpable now. Lambert said calmly, “You must be aware that puts you very near the time and the place of Tamsin’s murder. Did you see anything which might now appear significant?”

  “Yes. I saw Tom Clarke’s old red Ford Fiesta. Parked in one of the spaces behind the Lady Chapel.”

  Fifteen

  Detective Inspector Christopher Rushton was uneasy. “You’ll have to go, because the pair of them have seen Bert and me,” Lambert had said. When Chris had looked suspiciously at Hook, the Sergeant had maintained that inscrutable face, blank but serious, which he seemed to summon up specially for occasions like this. He couldn’t handle the two of them together when they were in playful mood, so without further argument he agreed to go.

  The building had once proudly billed itself as the Temperance Billiard Hall, and the fading letters of the title were still faintly visible over the entrance. The venture had failed in the dark days of snooker before the television boom, unable to support itself by the profits from a bar. The hall had lain empty for a year before being taken over by the council, who were now happy to rent it at a very reasonable rate to local organisations.

  “Reawaken to the Lord” was the slogan on the banner which now covered the fading red letters of the old sign. The message had sounded harmless, even worthy, to the girl who handled the bookings in the council offices, and Sarah Rennie had secured the place for the evening for a mere £5. The hall had a dusty air, but it was spacious, and it could seat up to two hundred on the stackable steel and canvas chairs which were arranged in rows with an aisle down the middle.

  Chris had expected the sparse attendance which seemed to him characteristic of most modern religious gatherings. He was mistaken: by the time the meeting began at least three-quarters of the seats were occupied. The congregation — for he was already beginning to think of the audience in these terms — consisted of both the converted and those who had come to listen and digest. From the muted conversations and the greetings exchanged, it seemed to Rushton that perhaps two-thirds of those in attendance were already followers of the sect established by Arthur and Sarah Rennie.

  The age split was interesting to him. The preponderance, as he would have expected, was of middle-aged to older people; he judged many of the elderly to be widows — certainly women outnumbered men by about four to one in this age group, though there were several married couples evident. There were also more young people than he would have expected, perhaps thirty in all, split fairly evenly between the sexes.

  Christopher Rushton himself was now thirty-three, an erect, dark-haired figure, handsome in an austere way, though he would not have seen or desired that. Something more immediately attractive to women would have better pleased a man whose confidence had been severely dented by his divorce three years earlier. There were few people of his own age in the gathering. Sitting on the end of a row at the other end from the aisle, where he could most easily observe both the proceedings and the reactions of the audience, he felt conspicuous when he wanted to be anonymous within the crowd.

  Arthur and Sarah Rennie came on to the platform together. Arthur glanced round the audience and nodded, as if confirming that the numbers were adequate for his performance to begin. He walked over to the single small table at the back centre of the stage, deposited his briefcase there, and extracted three sheets of paper from it. Sarah Rennie said in a strong, high voice, “Followers of Christ, our Pastor will now address us.” Then she walked to the side of the stage, descended the four steps to the

  floor of the hall, and sat down in a reserved seat on the front row.

  Arthur Rennie looked round his audience, offering them no word of greeting, studying them without a smile as the silence became absolute. He wore a loose-fitting ivory sweater and trousers of a very pale grey; his clothes looked almost white beneath the overhead lighting as he stood tall and erect. With his proud bearing, his dark eyes deep-set on either side of the strong Roman nose, he made an impressive figure, a religious patriarch straight from Hollywood. He walked to the front of the stage, where he stood very still for a moment, stretching the seconds of expectation.

  Then, as a prelude to speech, he passed both hands backwards over his short hair, and Rushton knew with that gesture that he had been used to flowing locks, enhancing his Old Testament image. It must have been a serious decision for him to have that hair removed, in the vain attempt to avoid being recognised as a regular visitor to 17a Rosamund Street.

  Rennie did not use a microphone. His fine, powerful voice did not need one, and he was well aware that the effects he made with it could only be diminished by the cheap electronics of the hall. He said in ringing tones, “Prepare ye the way of the Lord. Make straight His paths.” There followed a ringing denunciation of the modern world and the way it had obscured those paths. Then came a radical dismissal of established Churches and the way they had faltered and compromised until they had eventually become deaf to the message of the Lord. The established faiths in Britain were at best fumbling and mistaken, at worst definitely harmful in their deliberate perversion of the message which had once been clear.

  It was obviously an opening he had used many times before, but it was delivered with a ringing sincerity, employing a series of cadences which emphasised to perfection the arguments of this impressive revivalist. He moved on to more personal recollections. “There is more joy in Heaven over one sinner returned to grace than over a million pious prayers. Brethren, I say unto you that I am that sinner. I stumbled in the darkness and was lost. But then the Lord heard the voice of one crying in the wilderness and spoke to me. And I heard. And now I bring the Lord’s message to you. And I say to each one of you: Will you hear me? Will you heed the message of the Lord? Or will you be Judas? Heeding the word and denying it? Pretending to embrace the Lord when life is easy, then kissing him and delivering Him into the arms of his enemies when life is difficult?”

  Rushton was struck anew by the contrast between this undoubtedly effective public performance and that of the man who had been broken down so comprehensively by Lambert and Hook at the station. They had confronted him with his lies, of course, and got him on the wrong foot to start with, and those two were old hands at the interview game. Nevertheless, Chris had not been prepared for the charisma this man carried with him in his public persona. He was like one of those actors who is diffident in private life but dominates a stage as soon he strides on to it.

  For Rushton could now feel that stirring of approval, that noiseless, intangible excitement which runs only through a live audience and makes the mass more strong than the individual. Chris was vague about his own faith: he thought he was still a Christian, but he felt here the pull of certainty, the attraction of a man who knows, not thinks, and injects you with his own conviction. Rennie might almost have been speaking to him when he went on, “Christ instructed his apostles: ‘Go ye and teach all nations, baptising them in the name of the Lord.’ Brethren, most of us here tonight were baptised many years ago, but we have forgotten the message of faith. We need t
o be born again, to be re-converted to the ways of the Lord. To learn again his message and then go forth to implement it.”

  After a little more in this vein, Rennie asked his audience to pray with him, converting them in that moment into the congregation which they had always seemed to Chris Rushton. “There is no need to kneel. Bow your heads and the Lord will hear you,” he said. Nevertheless, he fell dramatically to his knees, placed his clenched hands beneath his chin and looked to the roof of the battered building. He was like a figure in a pre-Raphaelite painting as he intoned, “O Lord, make us proof against the ways and the temptations of the wicked world which is everywhere around us. Give us the strength to reject the comforts of this world, the diversions of pleasure and possessions.”

  Rennie remained on his knees as he looked out across the rows of expectant faces. He appeared surprised to see them there, as if he had forgotten them in the raptures of prayer. Then he said, “Let us take a moment of private prayer to dedicate ourselves to the service of the Lord.” He knelt very erect, with his head thrown back, his eyes closed and his hands clasped in rapt concentration.

  A minute is a long time in these circumstances. When Rennie rose easily to his feet and smiled for the first time at the faces in front of him, there was an electricity of expectancy in the air. “Brethren, I feel you are with me. I feel your faith lifting me, carrying me forward. Believe me, it is the finest feeling I know in this wicked world of ours. I am receiving it, and it lifts me; but it is you who are giving it, and I say unto you that in matters of faith it is always better to give than to receive.”

  Chris Rushton had noticed a young man three seats away to his right getting more and more agitated through this performance from the platform. At first Chris thought he was merely affected by the message, a youngster finding faith and anxious to manifest it publicly. Now he realised that this was the only person in the hall who was displaying a resistance to this message. The man could not have been more than twenty-three or four. He now leapt to his feet as if driven beyond control by the preacher’s last phrase. “You know a lot about receiving, Rennie! And about taking. From old ladies!”