‘Come in.’
Sally enters, looking worried. ‘Erm ... sorry, sir ... but there’s a couple of men here to see you. They say they’re policemen.’
Charles frowns. ‘Better show them in,’ he says, standing unsteadily.
Sally stand back and permits two large men to enter the room. The first of them speaks.
‘Mr Charles Holborne?’
‘Yes?’
‘I am Detective Constable Sloane, and this is Detective Constable Redaway.’ The officer shows Charles his warrant card. ‘We’re from Buckinghamshire Constabulary.’
‘Yes, officer. Do you want to take a seat?’
‘Er, yes, all right. You’d better sit down too, sir.’
‘Yes, I know,’ replies Charles, sitting back down cautiously. Standing suddenly had made his head swim again, and he thinks he might be sick. He feels the back of his head again.
‘Something wrong, sir?’ asks one of the policemen.
‘Not sure,’ replies Charles groggily. ‘The clerks found me on the floor outside, with this on the back of my head. I must’ve been there since late last night.’
Charles turns his head gingerly and shows the lump to the two officers. He doesn’t see the look passing between them.
‘Mr Holborne?’ says DC Sloane, the officer who introduced them. ‘Mr Holborne, I need you to focus on what I’m saying.’
Even in his befuddled state Charles recognises the stress in the officer’s voice. He looks at the two men’s grave faces and knows he is about to receive very bad news. His heart is suddenly pounding. ‘What is it?’ he asks, aware of a slight tremor in his voice.
‘Your wife, sir, Henrietta Holborne. I’m afraid there’s been an incident at your home in Putt Green. I am very sorry to tell you that your wife is dead.’
‘Dead? She can’t be. I saw her yesterday evening.’ Charles doesn’t register his answer being quietly recorded by the second officer. ‘What sort of incident? You mean a car crash?’
‘No sir, I don’t think it’s that sort of incident. I’ve been asked to collect you sir, if that’s convenient, and take you to Putt Green now to identify the ... your wife. I’m sure the situation will be made clearer when we get there.’
‘Yes, but ... what happened? Please, tell me.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I would if I could. But we’re just chauffeurs, so to speak. We’ve been asked to come here and drive you to your house. Do you have a coat?’ he asks, as he stands.
‘Jacket, yes, there,’ replies Charles, pointing.
The second officer picks it up carefully by the collar, noting the mud stains. ‘I’ll carry it for you, shall I, sir? You won’t need it in the car.’
‘Yes ... sure. I just need to speak to the clerks, tell them what’s happening.’
‘We’ve already had a word with them, sir. Best we get a move on.’
During the journey that follows Charles tries several times to get the officers to divulge more detail about what’s happened, but he soon realises that either they don’t know or have orders to say nothing. By the time they come off the A40 the occupants of the police Ford Zephyr have been silent for forty minutes. Every now and then Charles is aware of being observed via the driver’s mirror.
The car swings into the drive of The Old Farmhouse. There are already several cars there, two obvious police cars with their lights still flashing, two or three unmarked cars and, on the grass verge, an ambulance. A small crowd of onlookers has been confined to the opposite side of the road under the willows and Charles recognises a couple of the stable boys and Mrs O’Connell from the post office in the next village.
Standing on the doorstep is a man in a light grey raincoat and a shiny grey suit speaking to two other men, one with a dog on a lead. They depart, and skirt round the house to the back. The man in the raincoat approaches the car as it stops and opens the door.
‘Mr Holborne?’ he asks. He’s Charles’s height, with thinning grey hair cut in a military short back and sides, in his late fifties. He sports a thin pencil moustache perched on an unusually long top lip. The moustache, which is so dark in colour that Charles wonders if it’s dyed, moves precariously when the man speaks, as if it might fall off. Charles recognises the policeman from somewhere, but at that moment he can’t place him.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Detective Superintendent Wheatley, in charge of this investigation.’
Recognition dawns. ‘Yes, Mr Wheatley, I remember you now. Aren’t you in the Met?’
‘I was promoted on transfer to Buckinghamshire, sir.’ Notwithstanding the circumstances, Charles hears pride in the policeman’s voice.
Wheatley helps Charles out of the car, keeping a grip on his upper arm.
‘Would you please tell me what’s going on?’ Charles pleads. ‘All I know is that Henrietta’s supposed to be dead.’
‘That’s right, sir. In a moment I shall show you inside —’ Charles tries to walk straight into the house but finds his other arm grabbed from the side by DC Sloane.
‘In a moment, sir,’ insists the Superintendent. ‘I must warn you that it is not a pretty sight. It appears that your wife’s been murdered.’ Wheatley studies Charles’s face intently as he delivers this information.
‘Murdered?’ says Charles, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Who by?’ he asks stupidly.
‘Now, we don’t know yet, sir, do we?’ replies the other. He leads the way to the front door, but then pauses and turns back to Charles. ‘All I’d like you to do at the moment, sir, is identify her. Please can I ask you to take off your shoes before we go in?’
Charles complies and finds DC Sloane holding out his hand for them. With an instant’s hesitation, Charles hands them over to him.
Wheatley continues. ‘And can you tell me where the keys for the garden doors are kept?’
‘The French doors?’
‘Yes.’
‘They’re usually on the bookcase to the left of the door, under the little window.’
‘Thank you.’ He nods to DC Sloane, who hurries off down the hallway towards the back of the house. ‘Follow me.’
Wheatley leads the way through the front door. As he enters, Charles examines the door frame and door: no signs of forced entry, and judging by Wheatley’s comments, none at the back either.
Two men crouch by the overturned umbrella stand, dusting it with silver powder. Wheatley guides Charles around it and into the lounge. Charles’s heart is pounding so hard in his chest he’s sure the police officers must be able to hear it. He rounds the door and stops suddenly. The walls are splattered with blood; there is overturned furniture everywhere; broken glass crunches under his feet. A blanket, the blanket he and Henrietta used to take on their country walks, is spread over a bundle in the centre of the room, as if it had been laid on a grass hillock for some obscene picnic. From under it there emerges a viscous pool of black glistening liquid which has saturated the thick pile of the rug.
‘Just stay there please, sir. I’m sure you appreciate it’s important not to touch her or to disturb the crime scene,’ says Wheatley.
He takes a step towards the centre of the room and lifts a corner of the blanket. Henrietta’s white face stares up at them. Her eyes are closed tightly, like those of a child waiting for a surprise. A wide black grin disfigures her neck.
‘That’s her,’ confirms Charles, choking back tears.
‘Thank you, sir.’
Wheatley replaces the blanket and takes Charles firmly by the arm, guiding him back through the carnage to the hallway.
‘I shall ask an officer to take you to Aylesbury police station where we’ve set up an incident room. We need to take some details from you, and it would be better to do it there. He’ll be able to arrange for some tea. Sergeant Bricker?’ he calls.
A stocky broad man who was doing something on the stairs bends down so he can see them over the stair rail. ‘Sir?’
‘This is Mr Holborne.’
‘Right, sir,’
he says, coming down. He reaches the foot of the stairs. ‘Are these yours, sir?’ he asks Charles, holding up a pair of black brogues which Charles hasn’t worn in years.
‘Yes. Where did you…’
‘From your wardrobe, sir. The ones you arrived in are a bit wet, so we thought…’
‘Thank you,’ says Charles. He takes the shoes and slips them on.
‘If you’re ready, sir?’ he says.
‘Bricker,’ says Wheatley quietly. The other turns, and Wheatley leans in and whispers to him. ‘By the book, Sergeant. Everything by the book.’
‘Understood, sir.’
The sergeant walks Charles out through the open front door. Charles knows it’s a cliché even as he thinks it, but he wonders if it’s all a dream and in a moment he’ll wake to find himself on the floor of Chambers’ library. He has the detachment to wonder also if everyone in this sort of situation takes refuge in hoping it’s a fantasy. Probably.
Charles sits in the interview room, nursing his second cup of tea, now cold. Brief details have indeed been taken from him but that took ten minutes, after which he was asked to await the return of the Superintendent. At that stage he felt no compulsion about his remaining, but he’s now been alone with his thoughts for almost two hours, and he’s started to wonder. The officers who have spoken to him have been scrupulously polite but certainly not as friendly or sympathetic as Charles would have expected when dealing with a recently bereaved widower. The last time he checked, he found the door unlocked, so in theory he could just leave, but somehow he doubts he’d be permitted to do so.
The scene that greeted him as he walked into the lounge keeps replaying in his head, over and over, the jagged glass, the horrible mound under the blanket and the metallic smell of blood. And Henrietta’s face, most of all her beautiful face, so white, so frightened. It’s a struggle to accept that it’s real. In some alternate reality I’m at my desk drafting an indictment, Charles thinks, and everyone in Chambers is getting on with their day as normal but, somehow, I’m in a police room at Aylesbury Police Station and Henrietta has been murdered.
He’s about to get up to complain when the door opens and Superintendent Wheatley enters, flanked by another officer.
‘I am sorry to have kept you waiting so long, Mr Holborne, but there were a number of matters that I had to deal with before speaking to you. I must now officially arrest you on suspicion of the murder of your wife, Henrietta Holborne. You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but anything you say will be taken down and given in evidence.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The dream-like impression that Charles has exchanged roles with one of his clients grows ever stronger. He knows the script all too well, it’s one he reads every day of his life, but he’s acting the wrong part. He’s been taken to the custody room, his possessions taken from him and his personal details recorded. A custody record sheet bearing his name at the top has been opened, and he’s been locked in a cell. His request for a solicitor has been refused on the grounds that the presence of a solicitor would lead to harm to the evidence connected with the offence. Charles knows that the grounds for refusal are questionable at best, spurious at worst, but he’s powerless to do anything about it. It’s all very well scoring points in court, but he’s now a long way from the armour of his wig and gown and the protection of a fair judge.
The temptation to do as he normally could — knock on the door, make some quip with the station sergeant, and be let out — is almost overwhelming. The question keeps returning: why would anyone want to murder Henrietta? Was it a burglary gone wrong? But if there was no damage to the doors and they were both locked, Henrietta must have let the burglar in; she usually keeps the doors locked when he’s not there. No, Charles corrects himself; that would depend on the time of the attack. The garden doors had been open when he left, so it could have happened shortly afterwards.
He paces the cell, unwilling to sit on the filthy bunk and the even more disgusting blanket which bears questionable brown stains. Now his watch has been taken from him he finds it difficult to judge the time, but he guesses from the growling of his stomach that it’s past lunchtime. He remembers his clients telling him that the best way of keeping track of time is the state of one’s digestion.
Finally, he hears footsteps from the far end of the corridor and his door is unlocked. ‘This way, sir,’ says a young police officer, and he is led back to the interview room in which he had first sat.
Superintendent Wheatley and DC Sloane await him. Wheatley carefully cautions Charles again and the interview begins. Charles finds himself in such a familiar situation that he almost laughs. Time and time again throughout his career he’s told his clients to say nothing. Even when you’re innocent, say nothing! Words get twisted, displaced, muddled, only to be dissected in minute detail by experts, surgeons of syntax, in the harsh glare of a courtroom, until you don’t remember what you said or what you were trying to say. And yet … and yet, the impulse to speak, to explain everything, persuade them you’re innocent, so the nightmare can end! For the first time ever, Charles appreciates how experienced, clever criminals, those who ought to have known better, say too much and give themselves away. And yet, knowing all this, he still speaks.
Wheatley asks all the questions and DC Sloane makes notes. The Superintendent proceeds slowly, carefully, watching Sloane’s pen to make sure that nothing remains unrecorded.
‘How was your married life, Mr Holborne?’
‘In what sense?’
‘Were you and your wife happy?’
‘Not very, no.’
‘Did you live at home?’
‘Er ... yes. I have a flat in London which I use some week nights. But we live together.’
‘Did you have arguments?’
‘Yes, we argue. What couple doesn’t?’
‘Violent arguments?’
‘I wouldn’t say so, no.’
‘So, you’d say it would be impossible for your neighbours to have overheard arguments on occasion?’
‘No. It wouldn’t have been impossible, but it would have been rare. I don’t like to argue.’
The policeman looks at some papers in front of him, and changes tack.
‘You come from London, do you not?’
‘Yes.’
‘East London?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your parents are ... what?’
‘My father was a furrier when I was last in touch with the family.’
‘Would you agree there’s not much money in your family?’
‘I can see you from a mile away, Superintendent.’
‘I’ve no doubt, Mr Holborne. We’re both experts at questioning, so let’s not play games. Your wife is dead, and you’re under suspicion of killing her. I’m trying to arrive at the truth, so just answer the questions if you will. She was the daughter of a Marquis?’
‘A Viscount, but if you’re asking if she was rich, the answer is, obviously, yes. If you’re asking if I killed her for her money, the answer is, definitely, no.’
‘You stand to gain a fortune from her death.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘I have no idea, but I doubt it.’
‘Really?’ sneers Wheatley.
‘You’ll have to ask her family. They didn’t approve of the marriage. She gets her money through a family trust. I doubt any of it’ll fall into her estate; they’ll have made sure I don’t receive a penny.’
‘Did she have a will?’
‘Er … yes. We did our wills together some years ago, unless she changed hers, I suppose.’
‘Might she have changed her will?’ asks the Superintendent.
‘It’s possible.’
‘Why?’
‘Because, as I said before, we weren’t very happy.’
‘So divorce was a possibility?’
‘Yes.’
‘At whose instance?’
‘I wanted to divorce her. I went there last night to tal
k about just that.’
‘And what do you claim was her attitude?’
‘I resent the implication that what I am about to say is a lie. That’s hardly open-minded questioning.’
‘I’ve already told you I suspect you murdered your wife. I am not open-minded. What was her attitude?’
‘She was very upset. She cried and shouted, and told me to get out of the house.’
‘So you say that she was not happy at the prospect of a divorce?’
‘It appeared that way.’
‘Did you not write to her only last week, threatening her that if she divorced you, I quote,’ and here he picks up a document, ‘“it’ll be something that you’ll regret, I assure you”?’
‘May I see that?’ asks Charles.
‘No. I may show you a copy later. For the present I shall read it to you.’
He did. It purports to be a letter in which Charles tells Henrietta that his career depends on being perceived as a happily married man and that he’d never countenance divorce, threatening her in veiled terms were she to proceed with it.
‘I suggest it was your wife who wanted the divorce. You, on the other hand, were opposed to it.’
‘No.’
‘Now, this,’ says Wheatley, brandishing the letter, ‘was written on a typewriter. Can you see how part of the “a” and the “e” are missing? It’s caused by wear on those keys. Before they left your Chambers, my officers asked your clerk to type a short passage on the typewriter in the clerks’ room. What would you say if I told you that the typing they produced demonstrated exactly the same defect with those two letters?’
‘I would say, if I was going to write such a letter, why on earth would I type it?’
‘Are you saying you didn’t write this?’
‘Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying. I wanted a divorce. She was the one who didn’t.’
‘Can you think of anyone who might have the slightest motive for writing this and pretending it came from you?’
‘Of course I can. The person trying to frame me for Henrietta’s murder.’
‘Who? Who might have any motive for killing your wife? Or who hates you so much as to kill an innocent woman, just to frame you?’ That, Charles is unable to answer. Wheatley continues: ‘You were seen to leave your house last night immediately after a violent row with your wife.’
The Brief: Crime and corruption in 1960s London (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers) Page 14