I pulled on the full paper suit and padded down the driveway and into the front door. I caught a glimpse of the PC through the half-open door of the room where I’d had coffee six days earlier and assumed Mrs T was in there with her. I’d talk to her later.
My feet, clad in overshoes, sank into the deep carpet as I climbed the stairs and I pulled the jumpsuit’s sleeves over my fists to keep them out of trouble. The banister was to the right, so I kept hard over to the left to cause as little disturbance as possible. My own breath sounded like that of a deep-sea diver as it forced its way through the dust mask I was wearing. I paused for a few seconds, pulling it away from my nose as I took a long, slow inhale. Furniture polish and the flower arrangement on the antique pedestal table that stood in the hallway. No bitter almonds; no Gauloises; no Hugo Boss. A trace, perhaps, just the slightest trace, of the smell of blood.
His feet were projecting from behind the bed, pointing away from it. He was face down, and I was grateful. Alongside the bed was a dressing table with naked light bulbs around the mirror, as you would find in a theatre’s dressing room. The lights were blazing and a tuneless song was coming from a bedside radio. Polished shoes in two tones of brown, socks with diamond patterns on them. I took a step forward. Grey trousers that looked smart even on a dead man. Thin leather belt. Right hand down by his side, palm upwards; watch strap in yellow metal. Was Threadneedle left-handed? I took another step around the end of the bed.
Left hand flung forward. Something grasped in it. Shirt collar loose with blue and silver tie around it. Head like a big overripe plum tomato. No sign of a weapon.
It was murder. I stooped down to grasp an ankle and lifted his leg. No rigor mortis. The window was open and the first greenbottle had arrived. His compañeros wouldn’t be far behind. Dead, say, two to five hours. Back downstairs I told Dave to send for the patho and then question the neighbours.
‘Hello, Mrs Threadneedle,’ I said, easing my way into the sitting room where she was perched on the edge of an easy chair, hands clasped together. ‘Do you remember me?’ The PC rose to leave but I gestured for her to stay and she sank back into her seat.
Mrs Threadneedle gave me a faint smile of recognition, saying: ‘Yes, of course I do. You’re Inspector Priest.’
‘That’s right. You gave me coffee last Tuesday. Do you feel up to telling me all about this morning? We could leave it a while if you like, but the quicker we move …’
I left it hanging, and she said: ‘I’ll do my best, Inspector. What can I tell you?’
She was remarkably composed, and gave the impression that she hadn’t had a drink yet, even though the sun was well higher than Armitage’s mill chimney. I said: ‘Just go through your movements, then tell me how you found … your husband.’
I was in a tricky position. Mrs T was the number one suspect. Spouses automatically fall into that position – it’s a statistical probability – and I knew that she had caught her husband philandering. But if I treated her as a suspect I’d have to haul her down to the station, read her the Riot Act, arrange a solicitor and start the clock. On the other hand, she was unlikely to do a runner or interfere with witnesses, so I could get away with treating her just like one of those witnesses.
She sat staring out of the window for a while, biting her lip, wondering where to start.
‘Jan …’ I said.
She turned to me with a start. ‘I’m sorry. I was … just thinking. Where shall I begin?’
‘Right at the beginning. In your own words. It’s all off the record. What time did you get up?’
‘Hm, about seven-thirty, I think.’
‘Go on, please.’
‘Well, I had a shower and got dressed and went downstairs for breakfast. Do you want to know what I had?’
‘Yes please.’
‘Oh, right. I had my usual. That’s bran flakes with dried fruit, and camomile tea.’
‘Did your husband breakfast with you?’
‘No. He’s a toast and marmalade man.’
‘So where was he at this time?’
‘He was in his bedroom. We have separate ones. Have had for a while.’
‘Did you see him?’
‘No, but I heard him moving around, and his shower. And his radio. He plays Radio Two infernally.’
Played, I thought. Played Radio Two. Wogan’s audience had reduced by one, and I could imagine how Threadneedle’s listening habits would irritate his classically trained flautist wife. ‘Did you see him?’ I asked.
‘Yes. He came down for breakfast, still in his dressing gown.’
‘What time would that be?’
‘About eight-thirty, perhaps a little later.’
‘And then …?’
‘I drove into town and parked in the New Mall car park.’
The New Mall is like the New Forest – it’s the oldest we have. It opened back in the Seventies when people wanted joined-up shops and local councils sold off all the bus stations and school playgrounds to packs of speculators. No doubt the New Mall was already feeling the impact of the Curzon Centre on its customer base: it’s dog eat dog in the retail trade.
‘What time did you leave home?’
‘Nine o’clock. After the morning rush.’
‘Go on, please. You’re doing well, but we can stop any time you want.’
‘I had a ten o’clock appointment at the hairdresser’s. Cindy’s on Church Street. I was a little early so I visited a few dress shops in the mall until it was time. Afterwards I went to the supermarket for a few things and then I came home.’
We were nearly at the harrowing bit. She paused as if gathering strength, but before she could launch herself into it she said: ‘I never offered either of you a coffee. Would you like one?’
I shook my head. ‘No thanks, Jan. I’d like you to continue with what happened, as soon as you feel up to it.’
‘I expect you’re wondering why I’m not nursing a large G&T, Inspector. Truth is, I haven’t had a drink since Friday. You’re looking at a reformed character.’
‘I’m looking at a lady who was a talented musician, who has had more than her fair share of ups and downs,’ I told her. ‘We all need a little support at some time in our lives.’
She made a little ‘huh’ noise and went on: ‘I needed some help with the shopping so I went in, looking for Arthur. He wasn’t downstairs so I shouted up the stairs, but he still didn’t appear. There was a smell. I couldn’t describe it but it was sharp on the nostrils. I went upstairs looking for him. The smell was stronger up there, and his bedroom door was open. I walked in and … there he was … on the floor. I still couldn’t believe what I was seeing … thought it was some stupid practical joke or something … I told him to get up … not to be so stupid … but he didn’t move. Then I realised he was dead.’
‘And then …?’
‘I came downstairs and dialled nine nine nine.’
After a long pause I said: ‘Tell me about the smell, if you can, please.’
She shuffled in her seat. ‘I’ve been thinking about it. Was he – Arthur – was he shot?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘If he was, I think it was smoke. It was what you might call acrid.’
‘Right. Did you notice anything else?’
‘No.’
‘Did you see anyone?’
‘No.’
‘What about as you drove into the cul-de-sac. Was anybody leaving?’
‘No.’
‘What was the last vehicle you saw as you drove home?’
It took her some thinking about, but eventually she remembered that the postman had turned out of the lane as she turned in.
‘Did he bring you anything?’
‘I … I don’t know. I haven’t had a look.’
‘Could you do that now, Jan, please?’
She left the room, looking, I thought, slightly affronted. I took the opportunity to smile at the PC, who rewarded me with a blush. Had my undeserved and grossly ex
aggerated reputation gone before me, I wondered?
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your name,’ I said.
‘Judith, sir. Judith Long.’
‘Are you enjoying the job?’
‘Most of it, sir.’
‘Ah, well, we need the miserable bits to make the rest feel better than it really is. If all the world were playing holidays, to sport would be as tedious as to work.’
‘Sir?’
‘Shakespeare,’ I told her.
‘Oh. We didn’t do Shakespeare at school.’
Mrs Threadneedle came back with the information that the postman hadn’t even knocked once. No mail today. I said: ‘Tell you what, Jan: you make that coffee and Judith and me will bring your shopping in for you. How does that sound?’
It sounded good, so she toddled off into the kitchen and I took Judith outside to fetch the shopping. I spent a couple of minutes with one of the uniformed officers, marking out a path from the street to the front door and appointing him in charge of logging all visitors, then set about the shopping. There was a bootful.
After our second trip Judith said: ‘It’s good of you to lift all this in for her, sir. Is it all part of the service?’
‘Just a little kindness,’ I told her, struggling to find a fingerhold on a twelve-pack of Britvic fruit juices. ‘It all helps to make things easier. A little kindness goes a long way, as my mother always insisted.’
‘I suppose so, sir.’
‘And apart from that,’ I said, ‘there should be a pay and display ticket in here somewhere, and the store’s receipt. They’ll have times on them. See if you can find them, will you?’
We were drinking the coffee when I saw the pathologist from the General pull up in his Porsche Cayenne and lift his bag of gubbins from the back. I needed a word with him as soon as he’d finished upstairs. Mrs Threadneedle was sitting quietly, sipping her coffee, probably thinking it needed a large slug of Grand Marnier to make it palatable. I said: ‘Is there anywhere you can go for a couple of days, Jan? We have to regard the house as a crime scene and will need it sealing off while our forensic people can give it a good going-over.’
She had a sister in Harrogate, which was useful. After a brief discussion she accepted my offer to break the news to her sister and I did the necessary. Her reaction was more or less what you’d expect. Surprise, with a touch of grief and an underlying impression that she thought he’d got what he deserved. Janet would be most welcome to stay as long as she wanted. Sister even offered to collect her and the dog, which I gratefully accepted.
I was explaining to Janet when the pathologist looked into the room and gave me a nod to say he’d finished his preliminary examination and would grant me a few minutes to relate his findings. I excused myself from the ladies as politely as I could and was soon climbing into the passenger seat of the Porsche.
‘Thanks for coming so promptly, Prof,’ I said. ‘I know you’re a busy man.’
‘Got to when it’s a fresh one, Charlie,’ he replied. ‘Time is of the essence, whatever that means. It’s not so important if the corpse has been in the river for a month.’
‘So what can you tell me?’
‘Shot in the back of the head at close range. Time of death between eight a.m. and eleven a.m. Body not moved. That’s about it. PM at nine tomorrow. Will you be there in person or will you delegate?’ I could feel him smiling as he said it.
‘I’ll delegate. Bullet still in his head?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you see a gun anywhere?’
‘Only had a perfunctory look, but no.’
‘He was holding something in his left hand …’
‘Yes. It’s one of those little nasal hair razors. Wouldn’t mind one myself, if they’re any good. Do you think that’s the clue that will unmask his killer, Charlie?’
‘It might be. Did he have hairy nostrils?’
‘Yes. It’s like a bramble patch in there.’
‘Then no, it won’t be. Can I send the Munchkins in?’
‘I’m done here. It’s all yours.’
‘Thanks.’ I patted the dashboard. ‘Nice car.’
PC Long was coming away from the house as I waved the professor off. As we’d talked I’d been thinking about Mrs Threadneedle. I needed her clothes. There’d probably be blood on them either way, but the pattern of that blood would speak volumes. She’d need to change all her clothes before she went to her sister’s, and I wanted the ones she removed. ‘Judith,’ I called to her. ‘I have a little job for you …’
Back at the nick I cleared the walls of the Portakabin we use as an incident room and opened a new diary and crime log. Dave came in with the usual bad news from the neighbours: they hadn’t seen or heard a dicky bird.
‘A sister’s coming to pick up Mrs Threadneedle,’ I told him. ‘She’ll want to change her clothes before she goes and I’ve asked Judith – that’s PC Long to you – to liaise with the SOCO and confiscate her washing basket. I assume she realised I mean the contents and not the actual basket, but I’m not too sure, so keep an eye on her. When the geeks let me in I had a good look for the gun but couldn’t find it. He had a hole in the back of his head the size of a satsuma and blood had welled out of it.’
‘And if she shot him she’d be sprayed with the stuff.’
‘Yep.’
Mr Wood, the super, came to join us and I went through it all again for his benefit. I didn’t mind – sometimes, by going over things again and again something jumps up that you’d missed earlier. But not today, unfortunately.
‘He had enemies,’ Gilbert declared. ‘Have you had words with the fraud boys?’
‘Not yet.’
‘They might have a list of his business acquaintances. And what about his links with the Curzons? Do you think there’s anything in that?’
‘I doubt it. Going from graffiti to murder is a bit of an escalation, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose so. What I really want to tell you is not to let the pit bull crimes slip off the radar. They involve the general public; we’re all potential victims. Sad as the death of Mr Threadneedle may be, chances are it’s an isolated incident, a private murder.’
Yeah, I thought, and it would only count as one off the clear-up rate, whilst the burglaries were standing at four.
‘Do you need any help?’ Mr Wood asked. He was about to go for his annual dose of salmon fishing, and I’d be left to fend off the brass and the press.
‘We can always use some help,’ I replied.
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
When he’d gone Dave said: ‘I wonder if it’s painful.’
‘What?’
‘Slipping off the radar. Do you think there might be a link with the Curzon incident?’
I screwed up my face into an expression of disbelief. ‘I can’t see it … but, on the other hand, it might be wise to put East Yorkshire in the picture. Pass me the almanac, please.’
They weren’t too pleased but accepted what I told them, said they’d keep a weather eye on the house and its occupants. The phone had only been in its cradle for a second when it rang.
‘It’s Duncan at scientific services, Mr Priest. Those clothes and shoes you seized from the Threadneedles. I’ve had a preliminary look at them and so far the small amount of blood I’ve found on them is consistent with the wearer crouching to touch the body. That’s all. I’ll give them a more thorough inspection but I doubt if there’ll be anything more to tell you.’
‘No spray, no splashes?’
‘I’m afraid not. Sorry not to be more helpful.’
‘Not your fault, Duncan. Thanks for being so prompt.’
I replaced the phone and told Dave the news. ‘Bugger,’ he said.
‘Quite,’ I agreed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Our press office had informed the local agencies of the untimely death of our beloved mayor, which took the load off me. There were people I wanted to see, but having to start by breaking bad news to th
em doesn’t fit in with my interviewing technique. Let them hear it from the telly first. On the way home I collected a Mumbai machli with Peshwari naan from the Aagrah and had it accompanied by Smetana’s Má Vlast playing on the CD. No reason. I just looked down the titles and it jumped out at me. It’s a great work, about roots, and I hadn’t heard it for a while. Just before half past nine I decided the time was right.
‘Curzon,’ he said after the fourth warble.
‘It’s DI Priest, Mr Curzon,’ I said. ‘Sorry to disturb you but I was wondering if you’d heard the news?’
‘About Threadneedle? Yes, just now. Bit of a shaker, don’t you think?’
‘That’s right. I was wondering if I could come over for a talk about him. You’re one of the few people he could call a friend and I’d appreciate an unbiased opinion.’
‘What, now?’
‘No. Tomorrow sometime.’
‘Of course you can. I’m always here. How did he die?’
‘He was shot.’
‘Was it murder?’
‘It’s looking that way. Any particular time?’
‘The poor bugger. I wouldn’t have wished that on him. No, Inspector, like I said, I’m always here.’
After that it was the one I was looking forward to. ‘Miss McArdle?’ I said, after her curt ‘Hello’.
She’d heard the news, too. You can never be sure how lovers are going to react when they hear about the death of the object of their passion. Some are devastated, as if they’d lost a limb. Others – most – adopt an almost indifferent air, as if fate had stepped in to help them out of a situation that had grown out of control. It was impossible to tell which group she fell into from our telephone conversation. At ten next morning, seated in her office, she still wasn’t giving much away.
‘How did he die, Inspector?’ she asked.
‘He was shot in the back of the head. Death would be instantaneous.’
She pulled a face to demonstrate her distaste. ‘Ugh! Poor old Arthur. Isn’t that the style of a gangland execution, or do I read too much crime fiction?’
She was right, we do regard such killings as executions, but I don’t know why. If you want somebody dead the brain is the organ to go for, and if you’re going to shoot someone in the head it must be tidier to do it at the back than the front. Shooting someone in the nose or the eye while they were looking up at you imploringly would surely cause loss of sleep in the hardest villain. You didn’t need to be in a gang, with a BSc in slaying, to know that.
A Very Private Murder Page 9