Close Ranks

by Valerie Keogh

  ‘Half the men in the country don’t teach in girl’s schools though. Plus there is the issue of blackmail.’

  Inspector Morrison shifted papers around, picked up one report and quickly scanned it. ‘The Head, this Jim Reilly, he hasn’t made an official complaint, has he?’

  West shook his head and then, before the Inspector could say more, he quickly added, ‘We have closed this matter, Inspector. Andrews has an interview with Mr McGrath today. Just to ensure that we have done our best to secure the moral safety of the girls he teaches. We don’t want this matter to come back and bite us. Do we, sir?’

  Perfectly phrased, West knew, to remind the Inspector, very subtly, that protecting the general public, especially the more vulnerable sections, was an important part of their job. That not everything could grind to a halt because a person or persons unknown had killed Gerard Roberts. And to add yet another reminder, he asked, ‘Any sign of Sergeant Clark returning to duty?’

  The Inspector shot him a scathing glance, ‘If that’s a subtle reminder you’re working short, Sergeant West, perhaps it would be more appropriate to leave social work to the social workers and concentrate on fighting crime.’

  Fighting crime? West wondered if the inspector were a Marvel comic aficionado. Certainly sounded like it.

  It grated on him, however, that the inspector had a point. They’d wasted far too much time on McGrath already and Andrews still had the interview with him later.

  Back in his office, he sat, leaned back in his chair. He’d brought the murder board in from the main office and it stood against the wall taunting him. For the first time in his career as a garda, he knew he didn’t have a clue where to go. He dropped his chair down with a bang and standing up, walked over to the board, went through their scant data. He scanned down the list of names involved in the slightest way with Roberts – all of whom had been ruled out – and wondered what they were missing. Because there had to be something. Three things they knew for a fact. Gerard Roberts was dead. He had been poisoned. And the source of the poisoning was this damn vegetable. Four things, he corrected himself, they knew four things for a fact. The remainder of the vegetable was bought by a mysterious blonde woman who had never come forward despite numerous requests.

  He sat, pulled a blank sheet of paper out and wrote the four facts. If they concluded that this mystery woman killed Roberts they had to find out two things. Who she was and why she killed him. So far they had failed on both accounts. There were no mystery women in his life – or, at least, none that anyone knew about. And there appeared to be no reason to kill him.

  But dead, he most certainly was. West remembered his face. No, he hadn’t died easily. Which, according to every theory, made it an extremely personal murder.

  And if it were accidental? If the woman who bought the rest of the vegetable somehow gave it to Roberts and he ate it – well then, why wouldn’t this woman have come forward? They’d never released the cause of death.

  No, they could rule out accidental, he decided. It was just too much of a stretch.

  He’d just have to face the bottom line. Roberts was dead, this woman poisoned him and they had no idea why.

  They might never find out, he thought sadly. It wouldn’t be the first murder on their books unsolved. But it would be the only one on his. And he didn’t like it.

  Was there a stone left unturned? Resting his head in his palm, he rubbed his eyes as if to clear his vision, to see what the hell he should be doing. It resulted in one idea that he almost discounted as worthless and then reconsidered. They couldn’t afford to pass up the slightest opportunity.

  Andrews came in just then holding the sheaf of papers Jarvis had been left with the evening before. ‘Nothing in these, Mike,’ he said, waving the papers in disgust. ‘Still I’ll take them with me when I speak to Mr McGrath this afternoon. It will look impressive.’

  West agreed without much enthusiasm. The sooner they got past McGrath and his shenanigans, the better. ‘Getting back to the Roberts case,’ he said firmly, ‘I’ve had an idea. On the off-chance, Mr Bean’s assistant Pat might recognise our mystery woman, I thought we’d get a photograph of every woman connected to the case, and bring them along, see if she recognises anyone.’

  Andrew face said it as clear as if he had said it aloud, this was definitely a case of grasping at straws.

  Annoyed, despite the fact that Andrews had said nothing, or maybe because of it, West snapped, ‘Of course, if you’ve got any better ideas, feel free to mention them.’

  Andrews perched on the side of his desk and grinned. ‘Mother Morrison not too happy with you, is he? How could you not have solved this case, it happened almost a week ago. Almost a whole week. What have you been doing, sergeant? And why are you wasting your time on this school business?’

  ‘Listening at the door were you?’ West said and dredged up a reluctant smile.

  ‘He hasn’t changed that much. Helpful and creepy but still unrealistic and demanding.’

  ‘We’ve nothing to lose by trying my idea with the assistant. We’ve nothing else to go on. We need to interview her again anyway. She’s the only one, after all, who’s seen this woman.’

  ‘No problem,’ Andrews said. ‘We’ve most of the photos on file; I’ll get Jarvis to dig out any we don’t have. As soon as we have them we’ll head out, see what she has to say. Worse case, she doesn’t recognise anyone.’

  ‘Or recognises them all,’ West said. ‘Anyway, you’ll be tied up with McGrath. I don’t want that dragging on, tell Jarvis to come get me when he’s ready and I’ll go. I want to call to see Mrs Roberts anyway. See if she has thought of anything new.’

  Paperwork kept West busy until a knock on his door got his attention. It was Jarvis waving a folder. ‘Got them all, Sarge. Ready to go whenever you want.’

  ‘Give me a sec to sign these very important papers and we’ll head,’ West said, scrawling his name across the end of first one and then another document. Tossing both into his out-tray he stood, stretched, grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘let’s see if we can achieve something positive today, eh?’

  West chose to drive, preferring to do so when he could, never a man who liked being driven about. He hoped Jarvis wouldn’t feel he had to make small talk. He really wasn’t in the mood.

  Luckily for West, Jarvis was too much in awe of the sergeant to talk at all, unless spoken to. So there was silence for the short trip to the vegetable shop.

  Luckily, there were no cars parked immediately outside so they parked and observed the shop for a moment. Such a strange place to have found a murder weapon. Such a strange way to murder somebody.

  ‘When did that lady bring the...’ Jarvis struggled to remember the name of that vegetable, and gave up, ‘the vegetable in?’

  ‘Two days before Gerard Roberts and our mystery lady bought it. It’s not something they normally stock but Mr Bean said some of his customers liked to dry unusual things.’

  ‘Not supposed to kill them, though, are they. Supposed to be the healthy alternative. Think I’ll stick to burgers n chips.’ He glanced at West, hesitated a moment and then, deciding to be more assertive, asked, ‘If she had planned to kill Roberts she’d surely come up with a better plan than waiting for a poisonous vegetable to come into stock, wouldn’t she?’

  West nodded. ‘But she was seen speaking to him. And he is dead. It keeps coming back to that.’

  Jarvis thought a moment. ‘Maybe they got chatting, like people do. He mentioned, in passing, that he’d bought something new. He showed it to her. She recognised it and knew it was poisonous...’

  ‘It’s not. Well, not necessarily,’ West interrupted. ‘If it’s cooked properly there’s no problem with it at all, if it’s not cooked properly it can have some kind of paralytic effect. But the stuff he took was raw and it killed him.’

  ‘And we have no idea how she got him to eat it.’ Jarvis said, not asking, just speaking aloud but it drew a sharp
look from West.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said, opening the car door.

  Jarvis had the folder of photographs under his arm. They walked into the shop and, as before, the shop was empty. Neither was interested in looking around although West’s keen gaze noticed the absence of any unusual vegetables or fruit. Mr Bean had learned something. He wondered vaguely what was happening to Louisa Leps. It wasn’t their problem, they’d handed the case over to the Customs Department.

  Jarvis knocked on the door at the back of the shop and when there was no answer, he pushed it open and shouted, ‘Hello.’

  ‘Coming,’ echoed from the depths of the hallway and, sure enough, it was followed moments later by the sound of shuffling steps and then Pat’s round smiling face appeared in the doorway. There was no recognition in her look, West realised with a sinking feeling, knowing they hadn’t a hope of getting anything more from her. But they were there, they had the photos. They might as well give it a go.

  West kept his voice low and gentle. ‘Do you remember I was here a few days ago, asking about the manihot esculenta?’ He was met by a blank look. ‘The funny brown vegetable Mr Beans bought from the foreign lady, Louisa. Remember?’ Still blank. ‘The one you said looked like a turd,’ he tried again, ignoring Jarvis’ stifled grin. ‘D’you remember? The man with the bike bought one and then a lady bought the rest.’

  ‘The man with the bike,’ she said, suddenly alert as if someone, somewhere had pulled a switch. And then her face fell, and to both men’s horror a fat tear appeared at the corner of first one eye and then the other. They seemed to sit and shimmer for a millisecond before overflowing and running around her fat cheeks, flowing into a crease on either side of her mouth and then dripping off her chin. ‘He died,’ she said and then sobbed, her large body, heaving jelly-like. Sounds emerged and ricocheted around the small shop. Glancing at Jarvis, West knew he was thinking the same as him, help.

  ‘Oh for goodness sake, what now?’ came an exasperated voice from the hall. Mr Beans came bustling out, saw the commotion in the shop and gave Pat a non-too-gentle shove. ‘Stop your nonsense,’ he said sharply.

  To the amazement of West and Jarvis, who were wondering if they should leave, Pat immediately stopped crying. Using the sleeve of her not-very-clean-to-begin-with jumper, she dried her eyes, face and nose.

  ‘What is it this time?’ Beans asked ungraciously. ‘You can’t keep coming here, upsetting my staff. Frightening away the customers.’

  There was no point arguing that they had done nothing of the sort. West quickly explained about the photographs.

  Beans laughed, a shrill noise lacking any element of humour. ‘You have two chances. And they’d be called Slim and None. But fire ahead. You obviously have time to spare.’

  At a nod from West, Jarvis laid the photographs out on the shop counter. He’d done his best to get clear shots. Every woman who had any contact with Gerard Roberts, in even the slightest way, was here.

  West smiled gently at Pat, who smiled back. ‘You remember the man on the bike,’ he said, praying to whatever Gods may be that she wouldn’t start crying again. There was a quiver of her full lower lip but this time, with a wary look at her uncle, she just nodded.

  ‘Do you remember the lady he was talking to outside? The lady who came in and bought the rest of those funny vegetables.’ He watched her mind process his question, every little tick and tock. ‘Do you think you could look at the photographs that we have put on the counter, see if you see the lady?’

  Eager to please, Pat moved to the counter and gazed at the photographs. West told her to take her time so she picked up each one, stared at it, put it down, picked up the next.

  Behind, Mr Beans was making grunts of disbelief. Then came sneered mutterings, the words tax payer’s money and incompetence standing out from the rest.

  West had enough. ‘Have the Custom’s Office been out to see you yet, Mr Beans?’ he said quietly, not wanting to disturb Pat in her slow progress through the photographs. ‘I’m sure they’re interviewing Louisa Lep. After all a man did die, after eating vegetables you sold. Someone needs to be held accountable.’

  Mr Beans spluttered helplessly.

  Jarvis grinned.

  West frowned.

  Pat picked up another photograph. Studied it intently. Held it so close to her face that West wondered if she were visually impaired. Just as he was about to call a halt to proceedings that were never really anything else but straw-grasping, Pat turned and with a look of delight on her face opened her mouth to speak.

  All three men held their breath.

  Pat smiled at them, held out the photograph and said, ‘I’d like my hair done this way. It’s pretty.’

  21

  Mr Beans’ laughter followed them to the car. One look at the sergeant’s face and Jarvis decided it would not be wise to follow suit. He couldn’t prevent a grin escaping though, and quickly developed a cough, moving his hand over his mouth like the well-brought-up young man he was.

  West wasn’t fooled but didn’t blame the younger man. After all, it was funny. Suddenly he was chuckling. He looked over at Jarvis, his chuckle turning into a full blown belly laugh. Then they were both at it, tears running down Jarvis’ face.

  Mr Beans, berating his niece for being a numbskull, heard the laughter and scowled remembering the sergeant’s comment about the Custom’s Officer. He’d a right to make a complaint, he thought. But he couldn’t think what to make one about, so he concentrated his ire on the long-suffering Pat to whom it was all like water off a duck’s back.

  Still chuckling, West started the engine. Jarvis, more relaxed now as if the sharing of laughter made them, somehow, more equal, spoke his thoughts aloud. ‘So we’re no wiser, are we. Pat seems to have forgotten all about the woman, like she never existed. We’re going to have to go with her original description, aren’t we? A blonde, about five six, who speaks funny.’

  ‘So far that’s got us nothing.’

  With the enthusiasm of his years, Jarvis said cheerfully, ‘Just gonna take a little longer. Perseverance and all that.’

  West thought he might just try that line on the inspector when he next asked for a case update. Stalled in traffic, he looked over to where Jarvis was surreptitiously sending a text. He sighed and said, ‘I’ll drop you back at the station. I don’t want to overpower Mrs Roberts. It’s really only a catch-up call, anyway. It’s unlikely she will have anything new to contribute.’

  A catch-up call with the grieving widow wasn’t going to offer much in the way of excitement so Jarvis was quite happy to be dropped off.

  ‘Write up a report of this morning’s meeting with Mr Beans and Pat. Try to keep the comedic element to a minimum,’ West said, as the young man climbed from the car. Jarvis grinned, made a mock salute and headed into the station. West would have bet money on him telling Sergeant Blunt all about the morning’s work. No doubt Blunt would make a comment later. Not one to let the opportunity to poke fun pass him by.

  It started to rain as he drove the narrow roads to the Roberts’ house. Within minutes visibility had dropped and his windscreen wipers, on their fasted setting, struggled to clear the water. Traffic slowed, puddles formed, umbrellas appeared. Switching the radio off, he listened to the rain, feeling suddenly cocooned. Comfortable. It would be just fine to stay there all day. Forget about dead bodies, blondes with funny voices, grieving widows. Kelly Johnson.

  Kelly Johnson. He didn’t really want to forget about her, he admitted, he’d just love to know what she was doing on Saturday. Maybe he’d find out on Sunday, when they met. Walking the pier was the perfect opportunity to talk. And if it did rain, well he knew a few nice pubs with open fires and cosy nooks. He had thought it all through.

  The traffic started moving again and as fast as the rain had started, it stopped; sun reappearing, umbrellas and puddles disappearing. West put Kelly, once more, to the back of his mind and negotiated the turn into the Roberts’ driveway, gearing himself up for his p
otentially awkward meeting with Gerard Roberts’ window. She was bound to ask how the investigation was going. He would have to be honest, wouldn’t he? Come clean.

  It wasn’t going. They had exhausted every damn avenue and got absolutely nowhere. And had no plans to go anywhere. No, he couldn’t say that. He’d trot out the usual line. On-going investigation. Following all leads. Blah, blah, blah.

  Mrs Roberts greeted him with surprise, ‘I was just about to ring you,’ she said. ‘Come in, I’ll make us some coffee.’

  Moments later, sitting in the Roberts’ comfortable sitting room, sipping very good coffee, he did use the standard reply when she asked him about the progress of the case. ‘We’re following several lines of enquiry, Mrs Roberts.’

  She may have been a little woman, she may have been grieving but her eyes were sharp. West felt himself pinned and did his best not to squirm. Tried even harder not to look guilty or embarrassed when she said, so quietly he was forced to lean closer to hear, ‘I assume that is as meaningless as it sounds, Sergeant.’ She sat a little straighter. ‘It is impossible to live in today’s world without gaining a certain amount of knowledge about things you would rather not. So I know the first thing you looked for is a motive. What I know, more clearly and more definitively than you, is that there is none. No motive, no suspects. No suspects. No arrest for the person who took away Ger.’

  What could he do but nod? After all she was right. He sighed. ‘You want the truth, Mrs Roberts? Yes, you are right. We generally look for a motive and then we can narrow down a list of suspects. And in your husband’s case, we can, as you have pointed out, find no motive whatsoever.’ He too sat straighter. ‘But sometimes, the motive isn’t as clear as it seems. There is really no such thing as a motiveless crime. It’s just that the motive is generally less obvious, sometimes downright bizarre. So that’s why we’ll keep looking. We won’t give up.’

  There was a long uncomfortable silence. Mrs Roberts just stared at him as though trying to read behind his words, looking for something to hold on to, something to believe in. Then, as if she felt able to trust him, she let out a long sigh and seemed to deflate before his eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she said, softly, her voice catching.