The Saint Valentine’s Day Murders

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

  Amiss put his feet up on his desk and contemplated his toes intently. ‘It’s funny as long as you’re handling the case…I suppose. I wouldn’t be very amused if your pal Romford took over from you. I feel a bit like the suspect they discover so late in the book that he has to be the murderer.’

  ‘Don’t,’ groaned Milton. ‘I’ve only just parted company with Pooley. He ventured to admit that I reminded him of Adam Dalgliesh. I think he’s suffering from hero worship. I’ve never written a poem in my life.’

  ‘I’ve written some letters, though.’ There was a thoughtful note in Amiss’s voice. ‘You did promise, didn’t you, that you wouldn’t show them to anyone except Sammy? I’m just beginning to remember various indiscretions that might convince Romford I was trying to put all my staff out of their misery by murdering their encumbrances.’

  ‘Oh, Christ!’

  ‘You did, you bastard.’

  ‘Not to Romford. But I got carried away yesterday afternoon and showed them to Pooley. He’s filtering all the regional reports, you see, and I thought it would help if he knew as much as possible about the people we’re investigating. I’m very sorry. I should have asked you first. It didn’t occur to me that you’d mind.’

  ‘I probably wouldn’t have minded yesterday. Pooley indeed. I expect he’s already making comparisons between me and the narrator/murderer in Roger Ackroyd. I can’t understand why you’ve picked up this court jester, Jim. But no doubt you have your reasons. All right. I’ll overlook this breach of confidence if you now spill the beans about Henry.’

  ‘Not a lot to tell, really.’

  ‘Don’t you dare fob me off. For a start, what’s it like, chez lui?’

  ‘Horrible enough. I suspect that given the opportunity, Henry would have decorated his home in the manner of some American red-neck.’

  ‘I would have expected him to do it more in the manner of Hugh Hefner.’

  ‘Well. A combination of the two. Let’s say ideally lots of guns interspersed with explicit pictures of exotic women. As it is, the objects of his choice are in a minority compared to those of Edna’s. There is the occasional picture of a bull-fight or a battle-scene; there’s what looks like a stoat’s head grinning at you off the wall of the hall; and there’s the odd bit of cheap foreign touristy nude women sculptures. All these nestle in the midst of a plethora of china from Margate and plaques saying things like “There’s no place like home” and “All my love to the best grannie in the world”.’

  ‘You’re depressing me.’

  ‘You’d have been more depressed if you’d seen it. It’s already looking neglected and dirty. Henry doesn’t seem capable of looking after himself at all. I would guess that Edna worked on the principle of making herself indispensable. I don’t think the poor fellow could have known at first where to find the saucepans.’

  ‘Aren’t his children keeping an eye on him?’

  ‘I rather gathered he’s holding them at arm’s length. He talked a bit about wanting to be independent. Maybe he means free. In any case, his daughter lives quite a distance away and she’s tied down by kids.’

  ‘Did you get anything out of him?’

  ‘I don’t know if there’s anything to get. He’s got no alibi and obviously he’s admitting no motive. He’s bemoaning Edna’s loss and for all I know he may be genuine. I can hardly arrest him for behaving like a dirty old man in the office.’

  ‘Nothing helpful from gossip?’

  ‘Only that he’s active in the church, plays bowls in the summer and otherwise has little to do with his neighbours.’

  ‘You’ve got nothing on anyone, really.’

  ‘All I can do is go on digging until something presents itself. I’m going to see Bill Thomas at home tomorrow night. It’s worth the travelling to see these people in their own lairs.’

  Amiss was too tired to be helpful. ‘I suppose there’s nothing on Twillerton?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I’m going to bed. I’m knackered. I don’t know how you keep going.’

  ‘I sleep well. It comes of not being emotionally involved. Though I daresay I might toss and turn a bit if it turns out to be you.’

  ‘That’s not funny. Greenstreet and Lorre would probably pin it on me tomorrow.’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you? On Saturday they said that, in their view, it would be too great a coincidence if the Twillerton demon wasn’t the PD2 murderer. Goodnight, Robert.’

  ‘Goodnight, Jim.’ Amiss replaced the receiver, got up and began to wander distractedly around the room. He was beginning to feel his sense of humour couldn’t withstand much more. What would his lair indicate to a psychologist? Functional furnishings provided by the landlord. No effort made to stamp anything with his own personality. His books and records were those of someone with wide but undisciplined interests. Odd, he realized for the first time, that he possessed not one picture or ornament of his own. The place was neither clean nor dirty, tidy nor untidy. I suppose it’s a fair enough indication of what I really am, he thought. Rootless, easy-going, intelligent and reasonably well-informed. And without any firm convictions or sense of purpose. Other people have families, hobbies, jobs that preoccupy them. I don’t even have greed or ambition. I just stumble along trying to make life pleasant for me and those around me. What would a preacher say about me? ‘An amiable chap who wanted to be liked’. Is that the only epitaph I want?

  He switched the light off and went through into his bedroom.

  ***

  Tuesday, 22 February

  ‘Can you spare a few minutes, Donald?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Preferably.’

  ‘Come along.’

  Amiss left his cubby-hole and walked towards the door. As he passed by his staff he looked at them sideways. Tony was staring sightlessly at a staff memorandum. Graham sat beside him, his cheek propped on his left fist, clearly trying to work up enough interest to open the file with the red ‘URGENT’ sticker that lay before him. Opposite Tony, Bill was mechanically ticking off items on a supplier’s list. The seat beside him was vacant, as it would be until Melissa returned in a few weeks from her training period in the Midlands. Three of the four desks situated behind Bill were completely clear. Two had been so since before Amiss’s arrival at the BCC. The third had been Tiny’s Henry sat alone in his glory reading the Sun. No one looked up.

  As he walked down the corridor to Shipton’s room, Amiss rehearsed his argument. It seemed irrefutable. He sat down uninvited.

  ‘I’ve got two proposals to make, Donald.’

  Shipton looked encouraging. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The first is that I be released from my secondment now. The second is that PD be reorganized. Either PD1 and PD2 should be integrated under Horace, or the staff should be switched around, the numbers in the two sections evened up and a new PD2 appointed.’

  ‘You’ve had enough?’

  ‘It’s insupportable.’ There was no point in not being honest. ‘You must have guessed that I’ve hated the job since the beginning. But I’d have stuck it out until May if it hadn’t been for all this. We can’t go on as we are—as a ghetto of sad and frightened people. And if the switch-round is made, it would be absurd to put me in charge of new staff when I’ll be leaving within three months anyway.’

  Shipton looked at him thoughtfully. He heaved himself up in his chair, leaned his elbows on the desk and rested his chin on his crossed hands. ‘First, let me say that I have never doubted that whoever sent you here played a dirty trick on you. You were far too intelligent for the job. I am too intelligent for my job, but I was exiled for other reasons and have to make the best of it.’

  You’ve certainly done that, you lazy sod, thought Amiss affectionately.

  Shipton altered the position of his body to the one he usually affected at meetings: body comfortably back in his chair and arms resting on the sides. ‘Second,’ he said, ‘I understand that the present position must be intolerable for you and your remaining staf
f.’

  ‘Then you agree with me?’

  ‘I agree with you that those unhappy people should be mixed in with their colleagues. Unfortunately others don’t.’

  Amiss saw the prison-gates closing again. He said feverishly: ‘But surely no one with any heart would block this change?’

  ‘I don’t know if he’s got a heart, but I know he’s got a brain.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Superintendent Milton.’

  ‘What’s he got to do with it?’

  ‘I rang him this morning to check that I would be causing him no inconvenience if I made the changes you propose. I had already concluded that integrating the staff under Horace would be in everyone’s interest—including yours. The unions would wear it as a temporary measure.’

  ‘And…?’

  ‘He said…let me recollect his precise words…he said, “I’m sorry Mr Shipton, but I’m afraid it is imperative that they all be left there to sweat it out.”’

  Chapter Twenty-three

  ‘Come in,’ called Milton.

  The lanky form of DC Pooley inserted itself through the doorway. His reddish-fair hair was in disarray and his bright blue eyes shone with excitement. He sped over to his superior’s desk and slapped a piece of paper down in front of him. ‘I think we’ve got something here, sir.’

  ‘From Hertfordshire?’

  ‘No. From Essex. A WPC’s report on a conversation with Tony Farson’s mother-in-law.’

  Milton waved him to a seat and began to read. He stopped and reread a sentence in the middle and then skimmed the rest.

  ‘We’ve been idiots, Pooley.’

  The young man grunted non-committally.

  ‘I’ve been allowing myself to get diverted into too many problems of public relations. I haven’t been thinking hard enough about the circumstances of the people involved.’

  ‘You can’t be expected to think of everything, sir. I should have thought of this possibility.’ Milton felt unhappy at this new evidence of devotion. Am I beginning to encourage sycophancy? he wondered uneasily.

  ‘Well, let’s leave the question about my culpability out of it. I want you to do something for me.’

  ‘Anything, sir.’

  ‘I’m going to take Pike to see Bill Thomas tonight instead of you.’ And, as Pooley’s face fell into utter dejection, he added hastily: ‘Because I want you to do something much more important.’

  Pooley’s whole frame tightened with anticipation. He looked rather like a red setter whose master was flourishing a stick preparatory to throwing it.

  ‘I’m going to stick to my schedule and wait to see Farson until tomorrow evening. In the light of this new piece of evidence, I’d like you to spend the evening looking at everything we know about Farson, chasing up any outstanding reports from his area and preparing a few lines of questioning for me. Keep it brief.’

  Pooley jumped to his feet. He was fairly quivering. ‘Right, sir. I’ll just finish up what’s on my desk and get down to it straight away.’

  As he darted for the door, Milton said idly: ‘If by any chance you’ve got any time over, you might come up with a few wild ideas about the others.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

  Pooley was half-way through the doorway when he turned around. ‘Please, sir. Do you think you could take me with you to the Farsons’ tomorrow night?’

  ‘Have you no ambition to lead a normal social life? I fear you’re cut out to be a serious policeman. Yes, you can come.’

  Pooley rushed out, apparently too overcome with emotion to speak. Milton hoped he wasn’t actually panting.

  ***

  It was with relief that Milton followed Bill into the garden. The previous hour had been so tedious that he had doubted if he would come through it without screaming. Only a dogged determination to get to know something about the man had kept him sitting making polite conversation long after they had run out of questions relating to Bill’s alibi. The garden might keep them going for another few minutes. Then, short of asking his host if by any chance he happened to be a psychopath, he would have to leave.

  As Bill led them through the french windows, Milton and Pike exchanged glances. Milton was no gardener, but Pike was an enthusiast, and it was clear that they shared the same awe at the beauty Bill had created in this unpromising rectangular suburban plot. The lawn was lush and even, and the daffodils and crocuses covered large areas of it with a naturalness and profusion that made the senses dance.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not at its best,’ said Bill apologetically. ‘It’s nicer in June when the azaleas and rhododendrons are out.’

  ‘It’s magnificent,’ said Milton, meaning it. Even to his untutored eye it was clear that early summer would see the high circular wall of shrubs bursting into almost indecent glory. How peculiar that so apparently dull a man could create something like this. He had an artist’s eye for the importance of contrasts and irregularities.

  As Pike clucked knowingly over the precise and flourishing little vegetable patch that lurked discreetly behind a honeysuckle-clad fence, Milton tried desperately to draw some conclusions from this unexpected facet of Bill’s personality. Did he want to murder ugly women for some distorted reason? No, hardly. Melissa, Gloria and Val were definitely nice to look at, and Fran Short and Jill Collins well up to the average. Anyway, why not ugly men? Then he remembered a point that arose from one of Amiss’s letters. He led into it gently as they went back indoors.

  ‘I believe your mother died quite recently. Was she a gardener too?’

  ‘Well, not much in recent years. She was eighty-five, you know. But she took an interest. She loved flowers, Mother did.’

  ‘You must miss her.’

  ‘Oh, I do. We were very close, Mother and I.’

  ‘She didn’t get difficult the way old people can? I know from my own the way they can get rather demanding.’ Milton repressed a spasm of guilt at the thought of his lively, independent mother.

  ‘No. I’m thankful to say that Mother stayed sprightly to the end.’

  No joy here, thought Milton. Though I suppose it’s worth trying to find out if she was a fearful old devil who turned her son off women for life. But I won’t find out from Bill.

  ‘We’d better be off now. Mr Thomas. Unless you’ve anything left to tell us.’

  ‘I can’t think of anything. Though of course I’m happy to oblige any time you want to ask me questions.’

  ‘I wish more of the public were like you, Mr Thomas.’ Milton was glad he had brought Pike. He couldn’t have borne to have Pooley hear him talking like this.

  ***

  ‘If it hadn’t been for that garden, Sammy, I’d say I’d finally met someone who didn’t exist.’

  Pike swung the car left to get into the correct lane for the on-coming roundabout. ‘I know just what you mean, sir.’

  ‘Every view he expressed was qualified. Did you notice?’

  ‘You mean the way he kept saying he didn’t much like this or quite liked that.’

  ‘Precisely. He quite liked his colleagues. He thought their wives seemed quite nice. No. I must enter an exception here. He did say he thought the murders were dreadful. But he didn’t mind his job. He even said that all in all he thought British Rail was doing quite a good job. Tell me, have you ever in your life met a commuter who didn’t complain vigorously about public transport?’

  ‘I can’t say I have, sir.’

  ‘And he didn’t go out much because he was quite happy at home. Quite liked housework, didn’t he? And the neighbours were nice enough. Still. He seemed genuinely to miss his mother. That’s some kind of emotion. And the garden shows he’s got one passion in life.’

  ‘Do we keep him on the list?’

  ‘Can we afford to cross him off? I don’t want to eliminate everyone bar Robert. Anyway, my wife said when she rang last night that if it was a psychopath we were looking for, he would be an introvert. Mind you, I knew that already. Still, we mustn’t lo
se sight of that line of investigation. I could do with a psychologist in the Yard to talk it over with.’

  ‘Would you call Mr Crump an extrovert, sir?’

  ‘Yes. It’s a point in his favour. And Illingworth and Farson seem to be introverts. Oh, bloody hell. I can’t imagine any of them doing it.’

  Pike spoke uncertainly. ‘Sir. I can’t swallow the psychopath theory myself.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because say if Mr Thomas is a psychopath, he could have been almost certain of not being found out if he had simply sent chocolates to women at random. Whereas if it was one of the husbands aiming just to get rid of his own wife, he’d have been a suspect anyway.’

  ‘I’ve thought of that, Sammy. I’ve got a counter-argument. If it was Bill Thomas, he might have wanted to kill women he’d met. Mind you, it’s unfair to describe him as the only possible psychopath because he had no apparent motive. In my book, someone prepared to kill others like this to cover himself must come into the same category. One way or the other, we’re not looking for anyone you could call normal.’ The car began to slow down. When it stopped Milton opened the door. ‘Care for a quick one, Sammy?’

  ‘Thanks, sir. But I’ve got to get home. My wife’s getting a bit fed up with the hours I’m working.’

  As Milton walked up to his dark house, he felt a great longing for Ann. Then he heard the telephone, and broke into a run.

  ***

  ‘If I’d had any strychnine with me, you’d have been next.’

  ‘I’m sorry you’ve been so upset. But even if you’d told me you were hoping to leave, I have to admit I’d have tried to stop you.’

  ‘I’ve got nothing to tell you.’

  ‘But you might pick up something. Anyway, that’s not the real point. The important thing is to keep the suspects together in the hope that the strain may ultimately make the guilty one more likely to crack.’

  Amiss said nothing. Milton began to feel seriously worried. Was he about to lose yet another friend through the demands of his job? ‘Robert,’ he said. There was an uncharacteristically pleading note in his voice. ‘Don’t let this screw things up between us.’