Close Her Eyes

by Dorothy Simpson

  ‘My husband was only doing what he thought was right.’ But her tone lacked conviction and suddenly she stiffened, cocked her head. For a moment there was panic in her eyes.

  ‘There he is, now.’ She pushed Thanet’s handkerchief out of sight between her skirt and the side of the chair, then smoothed her hair, straightened her shoulders, and stroked her dress into neat, disciplined folds. By the time Pritchard entered the room a few moments later she was apparently quite composed, her face turned expectantly towards the door.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Nathaniel. Inspector Thanet was just …’

  But Pritchard was less self-absorbed, more observant than Thanet would have given him credit for. He looked searchingly into his wife’s face and turned to Thanet.

  ‘Why has my wife been crying? I told you, I don’t want her bothered.’

  Beneath the belligerence Thanet detected the concern. Better get it over with, he thought.

  ‘Your wife is upset because I brought some rather bad news.’

  ‘Well?’ snapped Pritchard.

  ‘As you probably know, in cases of unnatural death, there has to be a post mortem. The results of the post mortem on your daughter will be made public at the inquest next week, and I came here this morning because I knew that the findings would be a shock to you, and I wanted you to have the opportunity of hearing them in private.’ There was no way of cushioning the blow. ‘She had just had an abortion.’

  Pritchard seemed to stop breathing and briefly he had no more animation than a waxwork, with painted hair, painted eyes, a painted face. Then he put out a hand and groped behind him for a chair, sank into it as though his legs would no longer bear his weight.

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s true.’

  ‘There must be some mistake.’

  Thanet shook his head. ‘No mistake. I’m sorry.’

  Pritchard stared at him, thinking. Eventually, ‘Who was responsible?’ he said, his eyes beginning now to glitter with anger.

  ‘The father, you mean? We don’t know, yet.’

  ‘Then shouldn’t you be trying to find out?’

  ‘That’s precisely what I am trying to do,’ said Thanet patiently.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Pritchard glared at him. ‘You’re not saying you expect us to know anything about it, I hope? You don’t think we’d have tolerated any kind of … loose behaviour, do you? Oh no, believe me, if we’d had any idea what was going on, we’d soon have put a stop to it, I assure you.’

  ‘You are her parents,’ said Thanet. ‘I thought that you might perhaps have had some suggestions …’

  ‘Well we haven’t! To our knowledge, Charity never even knew any men, let alone had any opportunity to …’ His mouth worked and his nostrils flared in disgust. And then, for so brief a moment that Thanet could almost have thought he had imagined it, Pritchard froze and a name flashed telepathically between them, each syllable as clear and precise as if it had been shouted aloud: Jethro.

  Pritchard stood up as precipitately as if he had been propelled by some powerful, invisible force.

  ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, we can’t help you. Neither my wife nor I wish to discuss this matter any further.’

  Thanet came slowly to his feet. ‘Very well, Mr Pritchard. But if anything does occur to you …’

  ‘Then of course we’d be in touch.’

  The man was hurrying him to the door now. Clearly, he couldn’t wait to be rid of him.

  The overnight storm had cleared the air, bringing the unseasonable heatwave to an end, and outside the air was cool, almost chill. Thanet shivered as he walked to the car, thinking. He wouldn’t mind betting that Pritchard’s next move would be to go steaming around to Gate Street and accuse Jethro of seducing Charity—possibly, even, of murdering her. Thanet could be wrong, of course. Perhaps Pritchard had not immediately suspected Jethro. But in case he had, the question was, should Thanet try to get to Jethro first? If he did, he could use the fact that Pritchard was probably on his way to get Jethro to talk. And of course, it was possible that Thanet was misjudging Jethro, in which case he perhaps had a moral responsibility to warn the man of a possible visit from Pritchard.

  On the other hand, he didn’t want to tackle Jethro until he was in possession of the facts about that earlier conviction—always assuming that Mallard was right, and there had been one.

  He’d contact Lineham first, he decided, see if he’d got anywhere with records. Cursing the fact that in his haste, earlier, he had used his own car and not a radio-equipped police car, he drove to the phone box at the end of the street and, with one eye on the Pritchards’ house, rang the office.

  Lineham sounded pleased with himself.

  ‘Doc Mallard was right, sir.’

  ‘Well?’ said Thanet impatiently. He wasn’t in the mood for a session of Lineham’s dramatic pauses.

  ‘In 1966 Jethro Pritchard went down for eighteen months, for indecent assault on a fourteen-year-old girl.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘Janet Barker. Address: 4, Davies Street, Sturrenden. I’ve got the rest of the details here, if you want to hear them.’

  ‘Later. Look, I want to see Jethro Pritchard as soon as possible, and I want you with me. How soon can you get around to Gate Street?’

  ‘Five minutes. I’m on my way.’

  Thanet hurried back to his car. There was still no sign of Pritchard. Good. He drove to Gate Street and parked a little way up the road from number fourteen. On edge in case Pritchard beat Lineham to it, he settled down to wait with as much patience as he could muster.

  He didn’t have to wait long. Lineham was as good as his word, and a few minutes later his car pulled up in front of Thanet’s with a flourish.

  ‘What’s the hurry, sir?’

  Briefly, Thanet explained. ‘So it’s my guess that Pritchard will be arriving at any minute. Now, I’ve been thinking, while I was waiting for you. We haven’t enough time to get a full confession out of Jethro, and in any case I have the feeling he’s the type who’ll talk more readily to one person than two. So what I want to do at the moment is soften him up for when I next see him, show him that we know what he’s been up to, and then leave him to stew. So we’ll look as official as possible—notebook much in evidence and so on. All right?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘You’ve not met either of the Jethro Pritchards yet, have you?’

  Lineham shook his head.

  ‘A pleasure in store for you, then. Come on.’

  Mrs Pritchard answered the door. ‘He’s out,’ she said in response to Thanet’s request, her eyes glinting with satisfaction at being able to thwart him.

  ‘Could you tell us where he is?’

  ‘At the school,’ she said grudgingly.

  Thanet thanked her politely and they turned away.

  ‘Imagine living with that!’ said Lineham.

  ‘Don’t feel too sorry for him.’

  ‘Sympathy could get in the way, you mean? You’re a fine one to talk!’

  They grinned at each other. Over the years their working relationship had become so finely tuned that there was mutual recognition of the times when it was necessary to fall back on protocol and the times when the barrier of rank simply did not exist. Both of them were aware that it was Thanet, not Lineham who had to be on his guard against emotional involvement.

  ‘I bet he’s pretty pathetic, though,’ said Lineham. ‘Child molesters usually are.’

  ‘Judge for yourself. There he is.’

  Jethro Pritchard was approaching. He was walking slowly, head down, shoulders hunched. He hadn’t noticed them yet.

  ‘Looks pretty preoccupied,’ said Lineham.

  ‘He’s got reason to be, wouldn’t you say? Good morning, Mr Pritchard.’

  Jethro stopped dead and his head came up with a jerk. They caught the flash of fear in his eyes before he mumbled a response.

  ‘We wanted a word with you. This is Sergeant Lineham.�
��

  Jethro’s eyes flickered from one to the other, seeking reassurance and finding none.

  ‘Shall we go into the house?’ said Thanet. ‘Or perhaps you’d prefer to sit in the car. Oh, don’t worry, we’re not taking you in … yet.’

  Jethro hesitated, caught between two equally unpalatable alternatives: running the risk of his wife overhearing the conversation and being seen to be ‘helping the police in their enquiries’. He chose the latter as the lesser of the two evils. He and Thanet got into the front seats and Lineham scrambled into the back, ostentatiously producing his notebook and leaning it on the back of Thanet’s seat, pencil at the ready.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ said Jethro, with a nervous glance at the notebook.

  ‘Janet Barker,’ said Thanet. ‘That’s what this is all about.’

  But his shock tactics hadn’t worked. Jethro’s watery brown eyes were merely resigned. ‘I was expecting you to dig that up.’

  ‘I suppose you must have been. After all, there is a certain obvious similarity between the two cases.’

  ‘What two cases?’ faltered Jethro.

  ‘Oh come on, Mr Pritchard. Janet and Charity, of course.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘No!’ cried Jethro. ‘I don’t. Janet was just … well, that was different. But Charity … Charity was killed.’

  So Jethro had prepared himself for this, had decided to pretend ignorance of Charity’s sexual experience. All Thanet’s instincts told him that Jethro was guilty of something, but of what, that was the question. Of having seduced Charity? Of having murdered her? Or of both?

  Thanet studied the man carefully. Jethro’s eyes fell away from his. Sweat beaded his forehead.

  ‘I’m not just talking about Charity’s murder, and well you know it,’ said Thanet fiercely. He had used the ugly word deliberately and had the satisfaction of seeing Jethro wince.

  Jethro’s ferrety features had sharpened, as if the flesh were melting away, and his sallow skin had taken on a waxy, yellowish hue. He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he muttered.

  ‘Don’t you, Mr Pritchard? Oh, I think you do … Where did you go after Bible classes, you and Charity? Did you stay at the meeting hall? Go to the school? Or perhaps you came here, when your wife was out and your mother safely in bed …’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, I tell you,’ said Jethro frantically.

  ‘I don’t think your brother is too pleased, that you should so have abused his trust. He’s very upset, naturally. In fact, I have the feeling he’ll be along at any minute, to … shall we say, discuss the matter with you.’

  Jethro cast a desperate glance back along the street.

  ‘Well, I think that’s all for the moment, Mr Pritchard.’ Thanet leaned across and released the door handle. ‘Out you get.’

  ‘I can go?’ Jethro was bewildered.

  ‘For the moment. But make no mistake about it, we’ll be back.’

  Thanet waited until Jethro had got out and then said quietly to Lineham, ‘See you back at the office.’

  They left Jethro still standing on the kerb, gazing after them.

  Thanet was quite pleased with the way the interview had gone. Now, what he needed was more evidence against Jethro. He would have to run a second house to house check in Gate Street. It was surprising how often a second check paid off. And it would be worth finding out exactly what time the meeting at the school had ended, and making enquiries in the row of houses opposite. He already knew that Jethro had been out and about for part of the relevant time, but if they could find someone who had actually seen him leave the school that night, and could prove that he had lied …

  He said so to Lineham as they climbed the stairs to the office together.

  ‘I’ll get someone on to it right away, sir.’

  Thanet picked up a sheet of paper which had been left in a prominent position on his desk.

  ‘A message from Carson … ah …’

  ‘He was still trying to get through to the school when I left. What does it say?’

  ‘You were right. There are four masters at the school. One of them is in his thirties, has fair hair and wears pebble-lensed specs. What’s more, guess what he teaches?’

  ‘Music!’ said Lineham, with a flash of inspiration.

  Thanet gave a slow, satisfied nod.

  ‘Music.’

  16

  Leslie Mathews, music master at Sturrenden Technical School for Girls, lived in a large Victorian house on the main Ashford Road. Once the home of a prosperous Sturrenden tradesman, the place now had a sad, neglected air, the row of bells a mockery of the generous life-style for which it had been designed.

  Thanet twice pressed the bell marked Mathews and waited, but no one came.

  ‘He’s out, by the look of it.’

  ‘Unless the bell’s not working,’ suggested Lineham.

  ‘Better go up and see, I suppose.’

  Mathews lived on the top floor. The front door was unlocked, they discovered, allowing people to come and go as they pleased, and Thanet and Lineham climbed the three long flights of stairs tutting at the lack of security. The distant throb of pop music grew louder as they rose.

  Facing them at the top was a door with a china plaque. A garland of flowers surrounded the legend, Roger lives here. The capital R would have graced a mediaeval manuscript, thought Thanet. It was an elaborate affair of precise brushstrokes and graceful curlicues.

  ‘Very pretty, I’m sure,’ said Lineham’s sarcastic voice in his ear.

  A second door, a few paces to the right along the narrow landing, bore a roughly-torn scrap of paper tacked to the door with a drawing pin. DAVE, it proclaimed in sprawling capital letters. This was where the music was coming from and it was now so loud that Thanet could feel the floorboards vibrating beneath his feet.

  By contrast, the card on Mathews’ door was reassuringly orthodox: a small oblong of white pasteboard with the surname only written in neat, italic script. Thanet wondered how Mathews got on with his neighbours.

  There was no answer to their knock.

  ‘Dave?’ said Lineham.

  Thanet nodded and they moved back along the landing. Lineham had to hammer on the door with the side of his fist to make himself heard above the din and when at last it was flung open a tide of sound swept out to engulf them. How could anyone bear to shut himself in a confined space with that level of noise, Thanet wondered. It would be his idea of hell.

  Dave was unshaved, unwashed (by the smell of it) and undressed, save for a skimpy towel draped around his waist. Over his shoulder Thanet glimpsed a tumbled bed and a girl’s face.

  Dave hadn’t appreciated the interruption.

  ‘What d’yer want?’

  ‘Mathews,’ bellowed Thanet, pointing along the landing.

  ‘How the hell do I know where he is!’ And Dave made to slam the door.

  Thanet put his foot in the gap and produced his ID.

  Dave glowered at it, muttered something and rolled his eyes.

  ‘Hang on.’

  Leaving the door ajar he went back into the room, switched off the tape and returned a moment later with a dressing gown slung around his shoulders.

  ‘OK,’ he said resignedly. ‘But make it quick. I’m otherwise engaged, as no doubt you’ve noticed.’ And he gave a salacious wink.

  ‘We wanted a word with Mr Mathews,’ said Lineham, ‘and he seems to be out.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Have you any idea where he might have gone?’

  ‘Half term, isn’t it? Could be anywhere.’

  ‘Where, for example?’

  The man shrugged. ‘How should I know? Now, if you don’t mind …’

  ‘But we do,’ said Lineham. ‘So why not give us a suggestion or two and we’ll leave you to … get on with it.’

  Dave grinned. ‘How can I refuse an of
fer like that? OK, let’s see. Tried little Miss Prim and Proper yet?’

  Charity? Thanet wondered. Surely Mathews hadn’t brought her here.

  ‘His fiancée,’ said Dave. ‘Er … what’s her name …’ and he snapped his fingers in the air, once, twice. ‘Eileen,’ he said triumphantly. ‘That’s it. Eileen.’

  ‘Eileen who?’

  ‘Something to do with hunting. That’s how I remember names, see. There’s a word for it. Let me see now. Hunting … hunting … got it! Chase. Eileen Chase. That do you?’ And he began to close the door.

  ‘Where does she live?’ said Lineham quickly.

  ‘Sorry, haven’t a clue.’

  ‘And her job?’

  ‘Teaches. Same school as him.’

  Lineham thanked him and let him go. The music blared out again behind them as they clattered down the uncarpeted stairs.

  ‘So, what now, sir?’

  ‘Might as well go and see Eileen Chase, if we can get her address. If she and Mathews are engaged, there’s a chance he might be with her. And anyway, I’m curious about her, aren’t you?’

  A phone call to the school produced the address and they drove to the quiet residential area on the far side of Sturrenden where, according to the secretary, Eileen Chase lived with her invalid mother. It was a nineteen-thirties development of semidetached houses, each with its small front garden sporting a minute lawn and the ubiquitous rose-bed. Shangri-La was distinguished from its neighbours by a beautiful Nelly Moser Clematis. Thanet paused for a moment to admire the fountain of huge, pale pink flowers with their distinctive carmine bar before approaching the tiny front porch.

  Once again there was no answer to the knock.

  ‘Not our day, is it?’ said Lineham, turning away in disgust.

  Thanet held up his hand. ‘Just a minute.’ His head was cocked to one side, listening.

  ‘I can’t hear anything.’

  Thanet gave a quick, admonitory shake of the head, then pointed to the ground.

  Lineham looked down. The single step up into the porch had been converted to a ramp. He looked chagrined. ‘Of course, the mother … I didn’t notice.’