What Would Wimsey Do?

by Guy Fraser-Sampson

  “Maybe not,” the ACC replied, “and that’s not what I’m suggesting. Perhaps I’m just not expressing myself well. God knows, inquiries fail for all sorts of reasons.”

  He got up and walked over to the window.

  “What does your instinct tell you about this case, Simon? Anything at all?”

  Collison hesitated. “To be totally honest, sir, my instinct still tells me that we had the right man in Clarke, though I know that can’t be true so I’d rather not trust it again. But for what it’s worth, I feel that Dr Barker is somehow intimately connected with all of this.”

  “Hm,” said the ACC.

  “What about you, sir? What does your copper’s nose tell you?”

  “It’s not my case,” he said briskly, “it’s yours. And it’s not my job to find the killer, it’s yours. My job is to decide whether or not to back your judgment and allow you to re-interview Dr Barker. And I do, so go ahead. You may also apply, if you wish, for an order to inspect his bank accounts.”

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

  “Understand this, Simon,” the ACC said as Collison rose to leave. “Of course a major part of my concern here is for the reputation of the Met. We’ve already been pilloried for getting the wrong man convicted. If we charge Dr Barker with his wife’s murder and then can’t make it stick, I can’t even begin to imagine what might happen.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “I’m not sure you do. Another part of my concern is for you personally. You’re a fine officer and you’ve risen quickly, but if this goes wrong then those people within the Met who feel threatened by fast-tracked graduates will point the finger and say you’ve risen too quickly; there will be snide remarks that you’d have been better off learning about basic police work. I don’t want to see your career destroyed, nor do I want to damage the prospects of the other bright young officers who are following in your wake—DC Willis, for example.”

  Collison stood in silence in the middle of the room.

  “Believe me, sir,” he said at length. “Everything you’ve just said had already occurred to me. But I do think we—I, rather—have to approach this investigation in what seems the most logical way, and without having undue regard to my own personal interests.”

  The ACC sighed. “In that case, Simon, be careful. Bloody careful.”

  Karen closed the front door behind her and stood, listening. There was nothing to be heard. She put down her bags, walked past the living room—noting that it was empty—and came to the door of the main bedroom, which was ajar. Inside it was dark. She pushed the door open as quietly as she could and peeped in. The curtains were still closed. As her eyes became more accustomed to what was left of the evening sun being filtered through the curtains, she saw Peter stirring in bed.

  “Hello,” she said gently, coming in and sitting down on the edge of the bed, “how are you feeling?”

  “Damn tired,” came the reply. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Well,” she said, “you went to bed about nine last night and now it’s seven-thirty the following evening. Have you been asleep all this time, Peter?”

  “I got up to go to the loo a couple of times,” he replied hoarsely, “but other than that, yes.”

  “Well, I suppose it’s good for you, but I think you ought to get up now and have something to eat. Why don’t you let me draw the curtains?”

  “Alright.”

  As she opened them, the room filled with dim daylight, and she looked back at the man in bed. He was gaunt and unshaven, and seemed troubled by something. His hands were plucking nervously at the sheets.

  “Why don’t you get up and have a shower and a shave?” she suggested gently. “I’ll go and make a start on dinner.”

  “Alright,” he said again, but without looking at her. Something halfway up the bedroom wall seemed to have his full attention.

  She went back into the hall to retrieve her bags and began unpacking the shopping. In the background she heard the shower running. She checked the fridge for wine and took out an unopened bottle of Trebbiano. She had almost finished cooking the pasta by the time he came into the room, dressed in slippers, trousers and an open-necked shirt. She poured him a glass of wine and kissed him gently on the cheek.

  “Hello again,” she said. “You must feel better for that.”

  He nodded and sat down on one of the kitchen chairs. He seemed distracted still. She stared at him while trying not to appear to. What was he thinking about? Who was he? She found herself wishing that Bob was there for support, but dismissed the thought.

  “What’s for dinner?” he asked suddenly.

  “Bolognese. Is that OK?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said quickly. “Lovely.”

  He took a sip of his wine, moving it reflectively around his mouth. He seemed to find this a comfort and promptly repeated the process a few more times.

  “Nice wine.”

  “Mmm,” she agreed, taking a mouthful herself. “Would you like to hear about the case?” she asked him.

  “Yes, why not?” he answered, looking a little vague.

  “We’re going to bring the last victim’s husband in again and re-interview him,” she said.

  “Oh good,” he replied, and then added, “why?”

  “Well, if you remember, we’re now working on a theory that one of the murders was not motiveless at all, and the others were intended as camouflage. For all sorts of reasons the last one, the Barker murder, seems the most likely.”

  She took the pasta off the hob and strained it, then added the Bolognese from the other saucepan.

  “Whose theory is that?” he asked.

  She was about to say “Collison’s” but stopped herself. She busied herself with serving the meal and applying black pepper and Parmesan.

  “Well,” she said as she put a plate in front of him, “it was yours really, if you remember.”

  He frowned deeply as he ate his first mouthful. She noticed that he had finished his glass of wine, and refilled it for him. Suddenly his face cleared and he started chuckling.

  “The Laughing Policeman,” he said. “Oh dear, in the midst of life we are in fiction.”

  “Just because someone used it in a book doesn’t mean it can’t happen in real life,” she pointed out.

  He nodded and took another mouthful of food. “Particularly if they’ve read the same book, of course,” he said after swallowing, laughing once more. He tried drinking some wine while he was still chuckling. This proved a mistake and he started coughing.

  “Oh, Peter,” she said, feeling tears welling in her eyes, “it is so good to see you well again.”

  “Yes, I’ve been a little under the weather, haven’t I?” he said, looking worried again. “Strange, I can’t quite remember.”

  “You just haven’t been yourself, that’s all.” This was true after all, she reflected.

  “But why can’t I remember?” he persisted. “I recall dreaming about a Peter Wimsey story—one I’d never read, but was sort of making up as I went along. You were in it too. It all seemed very real at the time, but now I’m not sure. What’s been happening to me, Karen?”

  “You’ve had a fever, Peter, for quite a few days. Probably just very bad flu. That can make your dreams seem very vivid.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” He sounded unconvinced. “God knows, I’m tired enough.”

  “Hungry, too,” she noted as she spooned the last of the pasta onto his plate.

  “I am, aren’t I? I suppose that’s a good sign.”

  “Of course it is. The fever’s broken and you’re on the mend.”

  “What would be Dr Barker’s motivation for wanting to kill his wife?” he asked, switching the subject abruptly.

  “We know that they were having dreadful rows, so perhaps he was having second thoughts about their marriage. He now has a new woman in his life, by the way.”

  “But why murder? It’s a pretty extreme solution. W
hat’s wrong with divorce?”

  “Well, he’d already been divorced once, so maybe he didn’t fancy going through it again. Few men would happily pay maintenance to not one but two women. There again, maybe he felt let down. Perhaps he thought she had enticed him into marriage and then not delivered on what he’d thought was going to be on offer.”

  “All good conjecture,” he commented, twirling the wine in his glass, “but I’d say that it takes a little more than mere everyday factors, no matter how upsetting, to turn a man into a killer.”

  “There may be a financial motive as well,” she said. “We’re waiting for the details of his bank account, but it seems that he took out quite a big life insurance policy on his wife shortly before she died. That seems to fit the theory quite neatly. As soon as that news became known he’d be an obvious suspect for his wife’s murder.”

  “True.” He nodded. “Of course I’ve never met the man so I can’t really comment, but it still seems a bit of a stretch to move from wanting to be rid of your wife to planning a whole string of murders. Possible, though, don’t get me wrong. Dear me, did I really come up with this idea? If so, it must have been while I was delirious.”

  “To be honest, it was Collison actually,” she admitted.

  “Well, he’s an intelligent man,” Peter opined, “so we should take his ideas seriously. And he’s an experienced police officer…”

  “Not that experienced actually. Remember, he’s been fast-tracked. That’s the problem too, or at least the potential problem. If he gets this wrong there’ll be lots of old-style coppers only too eager to put the boot in and say that this is what happens when college boys start trying to do men’s work.”

  “I see,” he said slowly. “Well, then we must hope that he’s not wrong.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “OK, people,” Collison called out the next morning. “Quieten down and let’s get started. I’m going to ask DI Metcalfe to report whatever we may have found out about Dr Barker’s financial background. Bob…?”

  The hum of conversation died away and everyone looked expectantly at Metcalfe.

  “Interesting stuff, sir. The good doctor was struggling to make ends meet. He was paying pretty stiff maintenance payments under his divorce settlement, and he’d taken out a large mortgage to buy the flat in Lyndhurst Avenue. The ex-wife got the marital home as well as regular payouts. Barker’s solicitor ran the usual professional privilege stunt but I pulled the financial order from the court records.”

  “So he needed to buy a new place but the only way he could do that was with a mortgage, and the available income to do that was limited?” Collison asked, making a note.

  “Exactly.”

  “He could have rented somewhere,” Desai pointed out.

  Metcalfe shrugged. “He could, of course, but maybe the new Mrs Barker wanted to live in style and in a place she actually owned. Who knows?”

  “What about his income from the practice?” Collison asked.

  “Barely adequate. After both the maintenance and the mortgage payments he was only clearing about a thousand a month, and that’s before things like council tax and utilities. It’s clear from his bank statement that he couldn’t manage. He was hard up against the stops on his overdraft.”

  “And just remind me: his wife’s life was insured for how much?”

  “Two hundred grand.”

  The team exchanged meaningful glances.

  “That would cover an awful lot of maintenance payments,” Willis said unnecessarily.

  “You say he was hard up against the stops, Bob,” Collison said. “Has that changed?”

  “It certainly has. He received the insurance payout a week or two back. Once Clarke was charged with the murder they must have assumed that Barker wasn’t a suspect, since they paid out in full. They didn’t actually ask us, of course.”

  “Well, if they had done, we’d only have given them the assurance they needed anyway,” Collison said simply. “After all, he wasn’t a suspect then.”

  “But he is now, sir, isn’t he?” Desai asked hesitantly. “Just for the record.”

  “He most certainly is. The question is, what’s the best way to play this? It seems to me that we are back in the same situation we were in with Clarke. Strong suspicion but only circumstantial evidence.”

  They looked hard at one another, without speaking.

  “We now know he had a motive for his wife’s murder,” Metcalfe ventured.

  “At least one.” Collison nodded. “But we can’t place him at the scene. Or indeed, at the scene where any of the other bodies were found.”

  “We know that he didn’t have an alibi for her death,” persisted Metcalfe, “so at least in theory he had opportunity. And wait, there’s something else we haven’t considered before: he’s a doctor so presumably he has access to chloroform. You can’t just pick it up in the supermarket. So, he had motive, opportunity and means.”

  “Damn!” Collison said. “Why didn’t we think of that before? Of course the chloroform opens up a whole new line of enquiry. Well done, Bob.”

  “We haven’t fully checked his alibis for the other murders, sir,” Willis offered, “because of course at the time there was no reason to.”

  “Hang on, Karen, let’s take one thing at a time. The question is, do we think the case Bob has just outlined is strong enough for us to re-interview Barker?”

  “Yes,” chorused the team.

  “I tend to agree. But what do we do if he flatly denies everything?” He looked around the room, but nobody seemed to have an answer. “If there was something we could do to strengthen the case it might be different…”

  “Wait!” Willis said. “The chloroform!”

  “What about it?” Collison asked.

  “Well, if we’re right and it was Barker who had it and used it, he must have got it from somewhere. Logically that would be the practice where he works, unless perhaps he could get it on prescription from a local chemist.”

  “Excellent! Well, since you and Priya seem to have established good relations there, find out as discreetly as you can if they’ve had any chloroform go missing recently. Bob, why don’t you detail some folks to check out local chemists? I can’t believe people come in for chloroform very often, so if they have then someone is bound to remember.”

  Metcalfe jotted a note on his pad. “Right you are, sir. When would you like to reconvene?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” Collison said decisively. “I can’t see why any of this should take more than twenty-four hours. Thank you, everyone. I have a good feeling about this. Let’s hope this time it’s really the break we’re looking for.”

  Dr Ian Partridge had just finished his morning surgery when the receptionist buzzed through to ask if he would take a call from Detective Constable Willis.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” he replied, “put him through.”

  “It’s not a him,” the receptionist informed him primly. “It’s a her. They do have women in the police force, you know.”

  He sighed. “Then put her through please, Mary.”

  “Dr Partridge, it’s Karen Willis from Hampstead CID. I’m sorry to trouble you again, I know you spoke earlier to my colleague Priya Desai, but I wanted to ask you about some chloroform. In particular, has anybody at the practice noticed any going missing over the course of the last year or so?”

  “Chloroform?” he said blankly. “No, I shouldn’t think so. I can’t think of any good reason why we should have chloroform here in the first place. You’re welcome to come and look through our stock records if you like; it’s only our patient files which are confidential.”

  “You’re very kind, but I’d rather not come to the practice. We’re trying to be as discreet as possible.”

  “I understand,” Partridge said. “Look, I’m off this afternoon. If you like I’ll make some discreet enquiries here before I leave and perhaps we could meet somewhere—say at three?”

  “That would be extremely kin
d of you, Doctor. Where would you like to meet?”

  “Let’s see…do you know the Chamomile Café in England’s Lane?”

  “I do indeed. I’ll see you there at three.”

  “Hang on, how will I recognise you?” Partridge asked.

  “Good point,” she said. “I’ve got your email address. I’ll send you a photo.”

  When the photo arrived a few minutes later any resentment that Dr Partridge might have been feeling about giving up his free afternoon promptly vanished.

  The picture was only a head and shoulders shot and had not prepared the doctor for the effect of Karen Willis in person, which not only temporarily deprived him of the power of intelligible speech but also brought the bright chatter inside the cafe to a halt as male customers stared unashamedly, and female customers glared at their male companions.

  Somehow he managed to order coffee without making too obvious a fool of himself. She asked for Earl Grey.

  “So,” she said with a smile, “the chloroform?”

  “Well,” he replied, glad of a chance to impress, “yes. Let me tell you what I found out but first let me put it in context, because I think this may be of interest to your investigation.”

  “Gladly,” she said, opening her notebook.

  “The first thing to understand is that chloroform really has no valid medical use these days. It’s still used in a few cough syrups, I think, but the EU is trying to phase that out. There would certainly be no earthly reason for having any at a doctors’ surgery.”

  “Oh dear,” she said flatly. “What a disappointment.”

  “Perhaps not,” he responded with what he hoped was a winning smile. “You see, oddly enough some chloroform did arrive a while back. We returned it—or thought we had—because it had obviously been sent in error, and asked for a credit note. Our receptionist remembers it distinctly because it ended up causing quite a lot of bother. First the supplier swore blind that it had been ordered by someone at the practice over the telephone. Then they claimed never to have received it back from us. After a lot of to-ing and fro-ing we gave up as the whole thing was taking up so much time.”