‘Sounds like a lunatic either way,’ said Amiss.
‘Have you any nominations?’
‘Not at the moment. I don’t know what you remember from what I told you a couple of months ago, but you should be aware—though it sounds treacherous to say it now—that none of them seemed to me to be happily married. Frankly, I wouldn’t have been stunned if any of them had strangled his wife or any of the wives had poisoned her husband. I can’t see any of them doing this, though. Can we meet tomorrow? In the meantime, I’ll try to get my thoughts and memories into some sensible order.’
‘Lunchtime again. Here? And tomorrow you two can go out in the morning and buy it.’
‘Done,’ said Rachel. ‘You’ll be coming too, Sammy?’
‘I expect so, miss.’
Milton and Pike gathered their belongings and moved towards the door. As Rachel saw them out she said, ‘Thanks, Jim. That helped a lot. He’s got something to occupy him now.’
‘I’m fond of him too,’ said Milton. He bent and kissed her. She walked quickly back into the living room and stood for a moment looking at Amiss, who was stretched out with his eyes shut.
‘Come on,’ she said, affecting her Margaret Thatcher voice. ‘Pull your socks up and get cracking. You’ve got four letters of commiseration to write and a number of phone-calls to make. I’m going to order the wreaths and plan our next few days.’
He looked up and tried to blink away his tears. Then he grinned. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have taken up with a Jew,’ he said. ‘You’re all such bloody achievers.’
Chapter Fifteen
Wednesday, 16 February
Amiss lay in bed listening to Rachel’s breathing and trying all the tricks he knew to get to sleep. Come on, he urged himself. Try to work through the detailed plot of the last film you saw. Shit, it was a thriller and I can’t think of a soothing alternative. Focus on an imaginary black velvet curtain…ugh, as black as the grave I’ll be looking into tomorrow at Edna’s funeral…How about Latin verbs…amo, amas, amat…Rachel…she’s being wonderful…amo, certainly…she’s pulled me through the worst of this already…without her I wouldn’t be able to think calmly about Charlie…Charlie…If I hadn’t got him promoted, he’d have still been in PD1 and would have been saved in time…no, no…Rachel argued me out of that…you’re not responsible if you inadvertently kick a stone and start an avalanche of boulders…back to the sleep-inducers…Purchasing Instructions…BC/P/5293, Horace’s most bewildering…try to remember its provisions again…1) This instruction should be read in conjunction with BC/P/4396…how did that begin?…I can remember Henry quoting it at Twillerton…Twillerton…I haven’t been there since I drove away leaving Charlie pumping up a flat tyre…don’t think about Charlie, think about nailing his murderer…funny how personal knowledge of the victim makes one vengeful…but not vicious, really…I don’t want whoever did this hanged, but I can’t feel very forgiving…still, today Jim sounded more liberal than I did…talking about the fellow responsible maybe being mad and not to be blamed for his actions…fellow? maybe it was some lesbian friend of Melissa’s?…Jim says her lover had access to her list of PD1 names and addresses…an old one with Charlie’s name on it…wouldn’t that be better than knowing one of my staff could have done it…couldn’t be Tiny…I like Tiny…not as much as I liked Charlie…stop it…
He looked at the clock and saw it was almost midnight. He got out of bed and went into the living room, poured himself a large whisky and lit a cigarette. He might as well think sensibly about the information he and Jim had exchanged today. The estimate was that among all the chocolates, over seven grams of strychnine had been used. How the hell did anyone get hold of any strychnine, let alone that much? Jim’s people hadn’t come up with any answers. Preliminary advice suggested that only those with easy access to a chemical laboratory could lay their hands on that amount. Or someone with criminal associations. But how could any of these blokes consort with criminals? None of the married ones had had enough time to call their own to enable them to make the right kind of contacts. Only Tony and maybe Tiny had the money. Bill had both but he had no motive. Unless he was a psychopath. And there were several others in PD—and maybe outside it—who had access to the same list. Maybe someone in PD2 was responsible? Or Horace? Or Cathy? Or Shipton? Impossible to imagine any of them as mass murderers. Poor Bill had even burst into tears this morning when Jim mentioned Tony’s son. Is that because he’s soft-hearted? Or because he meant to kill Gloria and was upset because he’d got the wrong person? Nonsense. It would have been impossible not to know he was running that risk. And that rules Tony out too, doesn’t it?
Graham’s out of it too, for the same reason. No one could be more devoted to his child than Graham is to Gail. Charlie didn’t commit suicide. That left only Henry, Tiny and Melissa’s friend. He refused to believe Tiny was capable of such cold-blooded callousness, even if he had a motive. Henry? He was a ghastly, selfish lecherous old bastard, but surely…That was the rub, of course. How could he believe that anyone he knew could do something like that? Yes, selfishly, it would be best if it proved to be Melissa’s friend. Jim said that he had got no information worth the name out of Melissa last night. He only found out she had that list at home by snooping and finding it stuck inside the telephone directory.
So far, so bad, he thought. If all he could come up with for Jim was the time-honoured advice that it must be someone other than those he knew, he might as well throw in his hand as an unofficial helpmeet. He wouldn’t go back to bed until he had thought of something useful. He had nothing to add to the character analyses he had given Jim today. Or rather, yesterday, he observed, seeing that it was now well after midnight. That was a smart idea of Rachel’s, he thought, ringing her flatmate Helen to ask her to send over his letters in the diplomatic pouch. It was rather an invasion of privacy, but Jim had promised that only he and Sammy would read them. He had seemed very interested in the Twillerton business. Maybe there was a link. Some of the things that happened there had been downright unpleasant, even if laxatives were a long way from strychnine. Jim should be able to sort out Lorre and Greenstreet and come up with an answer to that one.
He poured himself another, smaller shot, lit another cigarette and considered it thoughtfully. All the agony of giving up had been wasted. He’d never have the heart to go through it again. What a bore he’d been on the subject of how he could now take them or leave them. Of how he took an occasional cigarette at moments of pressure but used his iron will to ensure that he never went beyond three a week. Indeed he had had a long conversation about that with poor Fran Short the one and only time they met. She was a reformed smoker herself. Edna had confessed that her one and only passion was chocolate. And Val Illingworth had said—good God, yes—she had said she liked it too, but wasn’t it funny, Gail wouldn’t touch the stuff. Unnatural in a child, they had all agreed. But Val had said it was because Gail once got so sick from over-indulgence in Easter eggs that she couldn’t bear the smell since.
His job, he considered, was not to ponder the implications of this remembered information any further. It was for Jim to decide whether this put Graham seriously into the running as a likely murderer. He looked around for the book most likely to put him to sleep, a search concluded when his eyes lit on C.P. Snow’s The Masters, a novel he had greatly enjoyed on first reading. Everything is a matter of perspective in the end, he thought to himself as he reached for it. How could I ever have cared whether one set of wankers succeeded in pushing their candidates into the mastership of a college in the face of the machinations of an opposing set of wankers? At this rate I won’t even think it matters if I don’t become a Principal next May.
Chapter Sixteen
Friday, 18 February
Inspector Romford glowered resentfully at Milton. ‘We’re doing the best we can, sir,’ he said plaintively.
‘Well, then you must do better,’ responded Milton, wincing as he recognized the absurdity of the injunction. H
e stopped pacing up and down his room, sat down at his desk and tried to recover his temper.
‘Look, Romford. I know I’m asking a lot of you. I know you’re without a Chief Inspector. I know you’re new to the job. I know—believe me, I know—that sifting reports from three police forces, all trying to outdo themselves in keenness, is an appallingly difficult job. I know you’re short-staffed because Chief Inspector Trueman has borrowed one of your sergeants to work on the London end. But you cannot really think it reasonable to present me with this two-feet-high pile of paper and tell me I should read it all because it is all potentially significant.’
‘Well, sir. If you’ll forgive me saying so, you’re the one who’s been telling me that everything is of potential significance.’
‘Dear God.’ Milton did not notice Romford’s lips purse at this blasphemy. ‘I said that you must regard everything as of potential significance, and exercise your judgement in deciding what was promising enough to bring to my attention.’
He pulled a piece of paper from the top of the pile. ‘What is promising about a report from the Essex force that Charlie Collins incurred a parking fine for leaving his car on a yellow line in Chelmsford last December?’
‘It might be near a well-known area for drug pushers, sir. I think it should be followed up.’
‘Collins was one of the victims, Romford.’
‘Well, sir. For all I know he wanted to commit suicide. Or maybe he didn’t recognize the chocolate box as the one he’d sent. Anything’s possible in this case. I can’t see any reason why anyone should have done this. All these men had safe jobs and nice houses and I can’t see why they should have wanted to poison anyone. As far as I can see, their wives looked after them all right. It’s as likely that one of them should have wanted to kill himself as that he would want to get rid of a good wife.’
Milton leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and thought for a couple of minutes. ‘Romford,’ he asked when he looked at him again, ‘do you understand about hate, loathing, vengefulness, passion—madness?’
‘A bit,’ said Romford. ‘I know that I think that child-killers should be strung up. And I suppose that’s a kind of hate, though the Bible does say an eye for an eye.’
‘I’m talking about what makes an apparently ordinary person commit a crime that to us seems unspeakable and to him seems justified.’
‘You mean wickedness, sir.’
‘I mean putting yourself in the murderer’s shoes and trying to understand his motives. I mean looking for reasons that might make a particular individual plan and execute a crime like this. I mean searching for evidence of betrayal, cuckolding, lust, greed and hatred of a human being.’
They looked at each other helplessly. ‘I’m not a psychologist, sir,’ said Romford finally.
You’re not, thought Milton. You’re a decent, thorough and conscientious policeman who is being asked to demonstrate an imagination he hasn’t got. He picked up the pile of paper and passed it across the desk.
‘Carry on with checking discrepancies and building up composite reports on each suspect. Select from among your staff the person whom you most frequently have to reprimand for showing too much curiosity about things that don’t concern him and the affairs of other people. He should also be bright. Tell him he’s got till tomorrow morning to give me a selection of reports that bear on motives in this case and to come up with any ideas—however mad they seem—that look worth pursuing.’
Romford made a mighty effort at concentration. ‘There’s young Ellis Pooley, sir. He’s always at it. Dreadful gossip. And reads too many detective stories, if you ask me. He was saying only yesterday that this was just like Agatha Christie’s The A.B.C. Murders, where some chap wanted to kill some other chap whose surname began with a “C”, so he first murdered people whose names began with “A” and “B” so it’d look as if there was a maniac at large. I had to tick him off for being fanciful. He doesn’t seem to know the difference between these books and real life.’
‘Does our murderer?’ asked Milton. And seeing that Romford was preparing himself to give a well-reasoned response, he added hastily, ‘Pooley seems just the man for the job. Well done, Romford. You can go now.’
Mollified by the compliment, Romford went off in search of Pooley. Maybe there was more to the impudent young whipper-snapper than he had thought. He wondered yet again what Pooley had meant when he said sotto voce that Romford reminded him of Inspector Lestrade.
Milton had already opened the file marked ‘Twillerton’. Robert had insisted it might be only a red herring. But one way or the other, it was time to clear it up.
Chapter Seventeen
Saturday, 19 February
‘I’ve never much minded one way or the other about being Jewish,’ remarked Rachel, as they trudged up the hill towards the crematorium. ‘But after the last couple of days I’ve decided I’m lucky.’
Amiss turned his attention from the trickle of rain down the back of his neck. ‘What’s brought about the change? The sausage rolls after Edna Crump’s funeral?’
‘No. Bad as they were, I prefer them to gefilte fish. It’s the apparently complete absence of any tradition among this particular set of gentiles to cope with death and grief.’
‘What do you mean? Family support and that kind of thing?’
‘To some extent. I was thinking more of attitude to the mourners. Do you know about shiva?’
‘No.’
‘I’ve only sat shiva once—for my orthodox grandmother. The whole family was very upset when she died and she got the full works. A seven-day period of formal mourning—that’s shiva—when the family sits together at home, friends visit and everyone talks about the dead person. You can get the worst of the sadness out of your system and everyone thinks it quite proper if you want to cry or reminisce.’
‘I see what you mean. I didn’t have much experience of funerals myself until now; and even I’ve noticed the predominance of the stiff upper lip. A general terror on the part of all present that someone might say something to cause the bereaved to behave embarrassingly.’
‘Mind you,’ said Rachel reflectively, ‘from all you’ve said, seven days talking about poor Edna could have been too much of a strain for anyone to endure. But it might have helped the Collinses and the Farsons.’
‘I don’t know about the Farsons, considering those of us outside the family didn’t even get invited to the baked meats.’
‘I have to admit to being grateful for that. The other two occasions were agonizing enough. Do you think we’ll have to stay at Tiny’s for long?’
‘The poor devil seemed very insistent when I spoke to him yesterday.’
‘Well, as long as we get away in time to have our last evening together. Is it very selfish of me to feel I’ve had enough of this? Where the hell is this bloody crematorium, anyway? I thought it was only a few hundred yards.’
Amiss, who had been holding his head bent in the face of the wind, raised it and peered ahead. ‘It must be just around that corner. The chap at the station said left at the top of the hill.’
As they began to cross the side-road that lay between them and their destination, a figure in a heavy grey raincoat leapt out of a car parked dangerously near the corner and called to them vigorously.
‘Who is it?’ asked Rachel. ‘I can’t see a thing.’
‘It’s Sammy Pike. And he’s waving us over to join him in the car.’
‘Get us out of the weather for a couple of minutes. We’re early anyway. Nice to see you, Sammy,’ she said as they got into the back seat. ‘Where’s Jim?’
‘He’s interviewing the BCC security men, miss.’
‘What?’ said Amiss. ‘On a Saturday? They’ll claim double time. What are you doing here?’
‘The super couldn’t get hold of you this morning, sir, and he had an urgent message for you.’
‘Sammy,’ said Rachel. ‘You wouldn’t consider substituting “Rachel” and “Robert” for “miss�
� and “sir”, would you?’
‘Do you mind if I don’t, miss? I’ve always found it easier to keep a line between my private and official lives. Not that that’s easy with the super. This message is strictly off the record.’
‘And it is…?’
‘I think you’d better read this first. It’s the gist of a report from a Woman Police Constable in the Kent force.’
‘You read it first, Rachel, while I find a fag.’
She read without expression and handed it over without comment. Amiss scanned the three paragraphs and exploded. ‘This is a hell of a thing to read just before we meet Tiny to see off his wife’s corpse. It’s evil-minded tittle-tattle from some nosey old bitch.’
‘I’m inclined to agree with you, sir. But you know we can’t ignore any leads.’
‘Well, what does Jim want us to do about it? Find this Miss Nash among the mourners, always supposing she’s there, and chat her up? I’d be more inclined to lay her out with one of the urns.’
‘It’s more a case of trying to find out it there’s any truth in it, sir. He thought you might get a chance if you stay on long enough at Mr Short’s house to elicit some confidences from him.’
‘In the unlikely event that I stayed on and that he poured out the information that his dead wife had intended to divorce him on grounds of impotence, can you tell me why that should be suitable grounds for suspicion of murder? Couldn’t they have done it quietly?’
‘We’re a bit short of motives, sir. And our Detective Constable Pooley reckons that what with his being a rugby player and what with all Miss Nash says about Mr Short’s violent behaviour at home, maybe it’s a macho thing. Trying to save his reputation with the lads.’
‘Tiny would have throttled her, not poisoned her. He’s far too clumsy to have managed all that stuff with grains of strychnine, needles and razors.’
The Saint Valentine’s Day Murders Page 9