Dead Man Walking

by J F Straker

  He had been mildly surprised when Lucinda had asked him to meet her in the hotel bar that morning, for it was seldom they met in public; more than mildly surprised when she had suggested a holiday together in Venice. It must be short, she said, and soon; the election was less than three weeks away. But even a few days in the Italian sun, where they could be openly together without fear of scandal, would be wonderful. And it need be only the first of many such trips abroad.

  A week previously he might have accepted the invitation; now it held no appeal. But she gave him no time to refuse. It would be wiser not to travel together, she said; one never knew who might he at the airport or on the plane. If he could leave tomorrow she would follow the day after. And he didn’t have to worry about a thing. The money and his ticket were ready. He could collect them from her home, Bresne Park, that afternoon.

  It was the money that had made him pretend to agree. He could always find a use for money. And then, at lunch-time, he had learned of Jess Wheeler’s death. Shocked and anxious, he had hastened to Judith Wheeler for detail. Her news did nothing to cheer him, and the circumstances surrounding her husband’s death were as much a mystery to her as they were to him.

  “This woman who was with him in the car. You don’t know her?” he asked.

  “No. Do you?”

  “I haven’t seen her.”

  “Perhaps you should,” she said. “She hasn’t been identified. You might be able to help.”

  He shook his head. “I doubt it.”

  From Judith he went to the Sinclairs. His knocking brought Mrs Bute to her door, and she willingly repeated what she had told the police. There were a few embellishments, but substantially it was the same.

  “The police?” he said, startled. “Why should the police be interested in the Sinclairs?”

  “They said they hoped they might be able to help in their inquiries. But then that’s what they always say, isn’t it? It could mean anything.”

  He had told Lucinda he would be at the Park before three o’clock. It was past the hour when he left the garage, but he did not hurry. There were more important matters on his mind. Despite the odd circumstances surrounding Jess Wheeler’s death, at least it had been accidental. There was no warning in it for him. But the disappearance of the Sinclairs was more ominous. Mark had borrowed the van for one evening only. Why had he not returned?

  When he drove in through the gates of Bresne Park Charlie Goodwin had already reached a decision. He would take Lucinda’s money; to kid her along he would also take the ticket. Maybe he’d use it and maybe he wouldn’t. But of one thing he was sure. It was time to get out.

  4

  Johnny had a way with women; he aroused their mothering instincts, and when they started to mother they started to confide. Even young women like Judith Wheeler. Which was why Sherrey decided he should pay her a second visit. Johnny thought that twice in one day was pushing it too hard, but Sherrey insisted. According to both sergeants the woman’s initial grief had appeared to abate rapidly during their visit that morning; by the afternoon she should be equal to further interrogation. Maybe she had nothing more to tell. But if she had it should be told while memory was fresh.

  He vetoed Nicodemus’s suggestion that he should accompany Johnny. On such a mission Johnny worked better alone.

  “Keep knocking on doors, Nicodemus,” he said. “Dull, I grant you. But damned good for the figure.”

  Judith Wheeler was both dismayed and relieved to see Johnny. Dismayed, because she was not prepared for visitors, relieved that at least it was someone she liked, someone with whom she felt at ease. The children were in the garden — Johnny could hear their voices and an occasional outburst of barking from the dogs — and she left him while she went upstairs to tidy herself. When she returned there was colour in her cheeks, she had applied lipstick and powder and brushed her hair. All in black except for a narrow white collar, she looked younger and more alert than she had done that morning. Compared with the first time Johnny had seen her she was a different, and certainly a more attractive, young woman.

  But despite her obvious willingness to help she seemed unable to add anything to what she had already told him. Her husband had never discussed business matters with her, and she knew nothing of his movements away from home. Johnny was tempted to ask if he might look round the house. But anything incriminating would be well hidden, demanding more than a casual look to uncover it. And a detailed search was out. The Boozer had been adamant on that.

  His attempt to discover something fresh concerning the mysterious visitor of the previous afternoon proved fruitless, and he turned to the telephone call which presumably had been responsible for sending Jess Wheeler to his death.

  “Didn’t you manage to overhear anything that was said?” he asked.

  “I caught a few words.” Her manner was composed and sedate, but occasionally she gave a brief, sad smile. He had the impression that she was putting on an act for his benefit, that of the bereaved young widow bravely concealing her grief. It seemed strange behaviour after her former honesty.

  “Enough to know they were arranging a meeting?”

  Yes, she said, she supposed she had known that. Although whether she had realized it at the time, or when Jess had told her he was going out, she was not sure.

  “Anything else?”

  She frowned. It was a lowering of the eyelids that did not wrinkle the skin on her forehead.

  “He said something about the parrot being okay.”

  “Parrot? What parrot?”

  “I don’t know.” Another smile, less sad this time. “Sounds silly, doesn’t it? But that’s what he said.”

  To Johnny it made no sense at all. They had never kept a parrot, she told him, and knew no-one who did.

  “Could he have been referring to a person?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “We don’t know anyone named Parrott.”

  The twins came bursting in from the garden. After a brief calm occasioned by unwonted shyness they were soon clambering all over Johnny. Their mother watched fondly, remonstrating when they grew too boisterous but making no firm effort to stop them. Johnny suffered the onslaught creditably, even managed to look as though he enjoyed it.

  “They’ve really taken to you, Mr Inch,” Judith said. “Have you children of your own?”

  “I’m not married,” he told her, easing a sandal from his crotch. “Marriage doesn’t go with this job.”

  “No? That’s a pity. I can see you’re fond of children. But perhaps when you meet the right girl —”

  “Perhaps.” Momentarily he was free of the twins, and he stood up before the onslaught could recommence. “Time I was off. Mustn’t sit here gassing all day.”

  “But you’ll stay for tea,” she protested. “Please. I insist.” He fought off her insistence and the twins, and made for the door.

  “Ring me if you think of anything that might help,” he said. “You can get me at the hotel. Leave a message if I’m out. Or try the police station.”

  She promised that she would. “Don’t forget to call in any time you’re near,” she said. “The children would love to see you.” Perhaps the act had worn thin, for almost shyly she added, “I’d be glad too.”

  Neither Nicodemus nor the superintendent was at the hotel when he returned. Karen gave him tea, and sat with him while he drank it. He let her do most of the talking. She had a soft, clear voice, and her chatter was not demanding. It was pleasant to watch her and let his thoughts roam.

  “You’re not listening,” she said presently. “Anything wrong? I’m not boring you, am I?”

  “Hell, no! You couldn’t do that. It’s just that this bank job’s getting me down. Every turn we take seems to unearth a fresh mystery. It’s uncanny.”

  “Your superintendent seems to take it calmly enough. He’s dining out tonight. At Bresne Park.”

  “With Mrs Bollender? Good Lord! Who told you that?”

  “Humphrey.”

  “Who
’s Humphrey?”

  “Humphrey Nicodemus, you idiot.”

  Johnny shuddered. “Is that his name? I didn’t know. Well, it serves him right.”

  She laughed. “What’s your particular problem right now?”

  “A parrot.” She stared at him, grey eyes wide. “I’m not kidding. Know anyone in the town who keeps a parrot?”

  “I do not. But what on earth —”

  “Or someone named Parrott, perhaps?”

  “No. Only Elias Parrott. And he died over a hundred years ago. He committed suicide when his wife ran off with another man.”

  “It happens,” Johnny said, disappointed.

  “Yes. But Elias’s case was rather exceptional. According to legend he was twenty-five and his wife in her seventies. And the other man was even younger than Elias.”

  “She must have had something really special.”

  “She must, mustn’t she? Anyway, Elias hanged himself from a tree on Aysford Common. It’s been known as Parrott’s Oak ever since.”

  “Parrott’s Oak, eh? The typical British method of perpetuating tragedy and folly.” Johnny lifted his cup, paused as it reached his lips, stared at her over the rim, then slapped it down on to the saucer so that the spoon rattled and the tea slopped over. “Parrott’s Okay — Parrott’s Oak, eh?” He leapt up, pushing back his chair so that it toppled and fell. Without warning, Karen felt herself being hauled to her feet and kissed heartily but clumsily on the lips. “That’s it! Come on — show me!”

  “Show you what? What’s got into you, Johnny? You —”

  “Show me this blasted oak, love. Now! Instanter! It could be important.”

  It was the first time he had kissed her. It had been done on impulse, compounded of gratitude and delight. But he realized now that he had enjoyed the experience, and he drew her close and kissed her again, giving her the full amorous treatment.

  “Stop it, Johnny!” Karen wriggled free. But he had felt the pressure of her lips against his, and knew that there would be further opportunities. “As for going out to Aysford Common with you — well, I can’t. I have to open the bar in half an hour. I’m sorry, but it just isn’t on.” She patted his arm. “Go on your own. The oak isn’t difficult to find. If you get your map I’ll mark it for you.”

  He went in the Mule, controlling the urge for speed as he threaded his way through the town, but letting the car rip once comparatively open country was reached. He sang lustily as he drove. Maybe Aysford Common held nothing for him. But he was off on a mission of his own creation, the Mule was running sweetly, and he had got himself a girl.

  And what a girl!

  He found the oak easily enough. It stood some fifty paces off the road, an old, bifurcated tree of immense spread, its twin trunks a mass of bumps and whorls. Around it was grouped a rough circle of lesser trees, paying, as it were, due homage to the veteran’s age and size. A quick search inside the circle showed no trace of the tyre marks Johnny expected to find, and it was not until he had gone some distance on to the common that he saw them. On the sandy surface, moistened by recent rain, they showed up clearly — two sets, one some ten yards beyond the other. Studying them, Johnny decided that the cars had arrived from different directions, stayed for a while, and then circled outward without reversing — presumably back to the road. But the tracks gave out with the sand. There was no indication which way they had gone from there.

  There was also no certainly that they had any connection with Jess Wheeler’s death.

  He made casts of the different treads, happy that he had thought to call at the nick for the necessary materials, and stowed them carefully in the Mule. Then he searched farther afield, with no clear idea of what he was looking for hut sure that there must be something. And presently he found it.

  Beyond a clump of bushes some long grass had recently been flattened — not in a smooth swathe, as though bodies had lain there motionless, but in rough disorder. More like a battlefield than a bed.

  He was on hands and knees when a voice behind him said breezily, “Lost something? Or just playing bears?”

  Johnny looked up. Dennis Cooper stood there, large and smiling.

  “Did Karen tell you where to find me?” Johnny asked, annoyed.

  “She didn’t have to. I was in the hotel foyer when you burst out. A policeman in a hurry is usually chasing something or somebody, so I decided to discover what.” Cooper sank on to his haunches. “You don’t half thrash that green devil of yours. I had a hell of a job to stay with you.”

  “Too bad.” Johnny returned to the search. “You should have cadged a lift.”

  Still crouching, Cooper watched him. “What do you expect to find?” he asked.

  “Nothing. It’s like that with me.”

  “Same here.” Cooper sighed gustily. “The old man’s starting to crowd me. Says the town is buzzing with rumours, so why don’t I come up with some facts? So why doesn’t he fire me?”

  “You crucify me.”

  “You couldn’t give a little, eh? Something — anything — which would keep the old bastard happy and me from the bread-line. Like what you’re hunting for now. Is it the money? You think they may have hidden it here?”

  “I told you, I don’t know,” Johnny said. “Look for yourself if you’re so damned eager to find something.”

  Resignedly, Cooper looked. Whoever had thrashed around in the long grass had covered a wide area, and there was plenty of room for search. Between them they searched it all, with Johnny doing the real work and Cooper scratching at the edges.

  “Well, that’s that,” Johnny said. “You can knock off now, chum. The party’s over. Sorry you belted out here for nothing.” He dusted his hands together and looked at Cooper. “What’s up? Don’t tell me you’ve found something.”

  “The remains of someone’s picnic.” He threw it away. “Piece of biscuit.”

  “Oh!” Johnny got to his feet, bent to brush the dirt from his trousers. Then he straightened. “What kind of biscuit?”

  “Jeeper’s creepers! You don’t think I examined it that carefully, do you?”

  Johnny went to where the biscuit had fallen, scratched until he found it. It was only a small portion, but the shape and the raised GO confirmed what he had hoped to discover. This was where Jess Wheeler had been killed.

  Cooper watched in astonishment as he placed the biscuit in an envelope and pocketed it.

  “Don’t tell me you’re that hungry,” he begged. “I couldn’t bear it. Or could I?” His face brightened. “Yes, maybe I could. ‘Starving detective sergeant scratches for scraps of food on Aysford Common.’ How’s that for a headline? Alliteration and human interest. What more can the old bastard want?”

  5

  The Bollenders had lived at Bresne Park for nearly two hundred years. Originally sizeable, the family fortune had declined rapidly since the turn of the century, so that when Harold Bollender inherited the estate in 1952 the house was more of a ruin than a home, the great park and gardens a near wilderness, the farms and cottages kept habitable by patching rather than by repair. Financially incapable of undertaking the necessary work of restoration, Harold had contemplated offering Bresne to the National Trust. Instead, after a period of irresolution, he had married Lucinda Vernon.

  Lucinda possessed both wealth and determination, and had tackled the task with zest. But even for her it had been an uphill struggle, and it was not until after her husband’s death that noticeable progress had been made. With widowhood had come a fierce, reckless pride in her inheritance, and she had thrown all her energy, all her wealth, into the work of restoration. Contractors, builders, landscape gardeners had poured on to the estate with materials and plant and men. To the neighbourhood it had seemed that such lavish spending must exhaust more than one fortune. Yet the work had continued. And so, apparently, had the money.

  All this Sherrey had learned from the chief constable as they drove out to Bresne that evening. He had received the invitation to dine with no e
nthusiasm, and had accepted only on the chief constable’s earnest plea. Perhaps his reluctance had engendered a preconceived antipathy to his hostess, and it had not taken him long to decide that he disliked her. With her diminutive build and her almost primitive delight in adornment (he had never before seen so much jewellery on a woman) she was certainly fascinating to look at, and she had a persuasive veneer of charm. Yet he suspected that she was hard, arrogant, and ruthless, and that the whim which had prompted the invitation to dine had been to inspect him as a curiosity rather than to know him as a man. Detective superintendents would be rare among her acquaintances.

  But as he sipped his brandy and listened to her thin, brittle voice outlining the aims and structure of her political campaign, Sherrey found that some of his dislike melted. It had been an excellent meal, perfectly served in magnificent surroundings. And Lucinda Bollender was undoubtedly a good hostess. Inevitably the topic of crime had arisen. But it had been discussed on a general rather than a particular level, and she had not allowed it to dominate the conversation. If she was curious she was polite enough — and wise enough — to curb her curiosity.

  “This is not a politically conscious division,” she was saying. “The poll has always been one of the lowest in the country. My agent insists that this is to my disadvantage, that if they vote at all it will be the way they’ve always voted. He says they are too apathetic seriously to consider the pros and cons of a change.” She smiled at Sherrey. Her teeth were so perfect that he guessed them to be false. “I tell him he’s wrong, that at worst he’s exaggerating. All the same, Superintendent, I shan’t be sorry when your business here is finished. It is distracting people’s attention from serious consideration of the election. And politics should not be taken lightly.”

  “Neither should robbery,” Sherrey said.