Dead Suited

by Jean G. Goodhind

  She arrived on time and tossed her head on entering. Her newly cut bob swung like a metronome. Her hair was glossy. Having it restyled made her feel good. She waited for Doherty to comment.

  Despite the provocative toss of the head, Doherty didn’t appear to notice. She should have known better. Steve Doherty was in crime solving mode, every detail logged just as efficiently in his head as on the police database.

  The interior of the shop was better lit than she’d expected and it smelled of beeswax, odd seeing as most of the fittings seemed to be of dark grey and black metal.

  ‘Hello! My name is Cecil Barrington. I’m the senior assistant here.’

  ‘Is there a shop manager,’ asked Doherty?

  ‘Mr Nigel managed the shop.’

  The little man who shook their hands had a pink face and white hair. He was also portly and dressed in a grey pin striped suit with a white shirt, burgundy silk tie and black brogues. Pale blue eyes gazed through a pair of gold wire rimmed spectacles. His smile was hesitant, only to be expected in the circumstances.

  ‘Thank you for seeing us Mr Barrington. Have you arranged for the other employees to be here with us?’

  ‘Yes. Mr Papendriou is already here and Mr Rossini, the junior, has gone to fetch the morning papers.’

  Doherty introduced Honey outlining her part in both the competition for the best window display and the investigation.

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Mr Barrington. He didn’t seem terribly impressed.

  Honey judged he’d disapproved of entering anything so obviously commercial.

  ‘You don’t sound as though you approved of entering the competition, Mr Barrington.’

  He winced at her question.

  ‘I didn’t think it was right for us.’

  ‘But Mr Tern insisted?’

  ‘Mr Nigel was not content to leave things as they were. He wanted more...’ Mr Barrington took a deep breath. ‘...pizzazz! He said he was tired of kow towing and bowing to a rapidly shrinking upper crust.’

  ‘And you didn’t approve,’ Honey repeated.

  ‘No. I did not. I happen to be proud of this firm’s long standing service to people of quality. I’m not sure I want to administer to the nouveau riche – five minute celebrities with more money than talent!’

  He hung his head as he spat his opinion. Honey decided that he couldn’t possibly be the murderer. He was too small and too old – unless he got hold of a gun and shot Mr Nigel Tern. But Nigel hadn’t been shot. He’d been hung and the coroner was convinced it was murder – knocked on the back of the head before being strung up, according to Doherty.

  ‘You’ve had a revamp since I was last in here,’ said Doherty who had been wandering around the shop whilst Honey had questioned the elderly shop manager.

  ‘It was redecorated several months ago,’ said Cecil Barrington.

  Honey detected a sudden tightness to his mouth, as though he’d just sucked on something bitter.

  ‘It’s very modern,’ remarked Honey.

  ‘Different than when I was last here,’ added Doherty.

  Honey opened her mouth.

  ‘No. I was not here for a fitting. Not personally,’ he said before she could say anything.

  The predominant colour was grey; grey walls, a darker grey ceiling, recessed lighting adding attitude to a colour that might have looked dead otherwise. Here and there the various shades of grey were relieved by splashes of purple.

  ‘I expected highly polished oak or mahogany, glass counter tops and little brass bells all over the place for the customer to ring and summon service,’ said Honey.

  Cecil Barrington’s tight little mouth tightened further. ‘We used to have lovely wooden counters just like that.’

  Doherty grimaced. ‘That’s what I remember. Wood, brass and glass. I came in here with the Chief Constable. He wished to impart the details of the case whilst being measured up for a morning suit; he was off to attend the palace for some award if I remember rightly. Or it could have been Ascot Races. He was dead keen on horse racing – the sport of kings.’

  ‘I take it you provided the moral support?’ asked Honey.

  ‘No. I was there on a case. Time was of the essence. The crime details had to be relayed whilst his inside leg measurement was being taken.’

  ‘That must have been a bit off putting,’ said Honey.

  ‘Slightly. I’ve never been briefed by a chief constable in a state of undress before.’

  Mr Barrington assumed a forbearing expression. He was the sort of man used to coping with all kinds of people. Doherty didn’t faze him.

  ‘Did you attend the celebratory party, Mr Barrington?’ Doherty asked.

  ‘No.’ Mr Barrington’s jowls shuddered as he shook his head. ‘I arise from my slumbers early and I retire by nine o’clock at night. I wished Mr Tern the best and was pleased he’d won the award, but I declined attending the party. I’m too old for that kind of thing. I wouldn’t fit in, and besides I didn’t approve.’

  He pursed his lips like a petulant girl.

  Doherty kept at it. ‘Can somebody verify you were in bed?’

  He nodded. ‘Of course. My wife.’

  ‘Anyone else? I mean, did anyone see you entering your house?’

  Mr Barrington frowned as he thought about it. ‘Yes,’ he finally said. ‘People on the bus. I always take the bus to and from the shop. I have a bus pass you see.’

  ‘Yes. I’m over sixty-five.’

  Doherty nodded. ‘I see. Anyone else besides your fellow bus passengers?’

  ‘Well. Let me see.’ The senior shop assistant, who had probably worked there all his life, frowned as he thought about it. ‘There was that young man from the garage beneath the arches; The young Asian man who sings all the time. Ahmed something or other?’

  ‘Ahmed Clifford. He looks after my car,’ said Honey. ‘He’s a great one for keeping cars like my old Citroen going.’

  Mr Barrington nodded. ‘That’s right. He was working on next door’s car. It belongs to the wife of my next door neighbour and I believe it is quite old. The young Asian man quite often comes round to get it started. Personally I think they should dump it and buy a new one, but there, who am I to criticise. I don’t drive.’

  ‘Would he remember seeing you?’ Doherty asked.

  ‘Oh yes. Very likely. I complained you see,’ said Cecil pompously, his height seeming to increase as he proclaimed his displeasure. ‘He was singing very loudly. I asked him if he could turn down the volume as I was a man of regular habits and retired early.’

  ‘And he obliged?’

  Cecil pursed his lips. ‘No. He told me singing helped him concentrate, and anyway, it was early.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘About six o’clock.’

  ‘Did you notice what time he left?’

  ‘Not really. I think it was before nine otherwise I would have still heard him. It was a warm night and I opened the bedroom windows to let some air in. My wife and I cannot bear a stuffy bedroom.’

  ‘And you didn’t leave your house whilst Ahmed was out front.’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘Did you fall asleep before or after he’d gone home?’

  Mr Barrington ran the palm of his hand over his almost naked head. There was something about his lips and attitude that was almost feminine, like a pantomime dame.

  ‘I’m sure he was gone home by the time I fell asleep. Both my wife and I slept well. I haven’t been sleeping that well of late what with all these new ideas Mr Nigel insisted on.’ Mr Barrington shook his head dolefully. ‘If only his poor father could have seen it...’

  ‘You mean Mr Tern senior had not seen the new improvements?’

  Mr Barrington shook his head and sucked in his breath in a disapproving manner.

  ‘No. He had not. When I asked Mr Nigel whether his father approved, he told me that he’d given him carte blanche.’

  ‘You didn’t believe him?’

  Barrington s
hook his head so vehemently that his flews fluttered around his collar.

  ‘No. I did not.’

  ‘Who else didn’t like the decor – besides yourself that is?’

  Mr Barrington frowned. ‘Our clients. We were going to lose them. I am quite sure of that.’

  Doherty straightened. He’d been obliged to look down at Cecil Barrington during the questioning which had resulted in a crick in his neck. As he straightened he rubbed the nape of his neck.

  ‘Right. If you’d like to get your colleague, Mr...?’

  ‘Mr Papendriou. He’s in the back room attending to the accounts.’

  ‘If you could get him please?’

  If the reason for their visit to the shop hadn’t been so serious, they would have been amused on seeing Mr Barrington taking such long strides with his short legs, an antidote to his small stature. He disappeared through a door marked ‘private’. The shop seemed very empty without him. No customers. No staff. Just them.

  Honey resumed scrutinising the long established shop, noting the sleek cabinets, the gleaming glass and metal surroundings.

  She sniffed. ‘Mr Nigel really went to town didn’t he; I can smell paint.’

  Doherty said that he could too. ‘Sad really. It wasn’t like this when I came before. It was traditional. Expensive and traditional – traditional meaning it only appealed to the over fifties – possibly over sixties...’

  ‘So Nigel Tern was trying to widen its appeal. Is that enough of a reason to kill him?’

  ‘It could be, but let’s keep an open mind on the reason.’

  Doherty was running his fingers around the cuff of a dark mustard jacket. It looked to be worsted, but Honey was only guessing; she’d never been much good at needlework.

  ‘I’d wear this jacket.’

  Honey joined him, running her fingers over the shoulders and down the sleeve. It felt soft.

  ‘It’s pure wool,’ said Doherty.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  Doherty flipped open the edge of the jacket and pointed to the pure wool label. ‘It says so. It also states the price.’

  Grimacing, he let the sleeve of the jacket drop.

  ‘It is bespoke,’ Honey pointed out.

  ‘I haven’t got bespoke pockets.’ He’d moved away from the jacket. The mirrored panels hiding the window display had attracted his attention instead.

  ‘Shouldn’t you wait until Mr Barrington returns?’

  ‘I don’t think he’d mind.’

  He slid one of the panels back to expose the window display. The highwayman and the russet coloured jackets were still in situ. The gallows had been taken away for further forensic analysis. The tape the police used for marking off a crime area was still in situ. A passerby was looking in the window. Another one joined him. Word of the murder was obviously spreading. Another stop on the tourist map, thought Honey.

  ‘So!’ said Doherty, stepping into the well formed at the rear of the window display. This brought the level of the window floor roughly at hip level. It was reached up a small flight of steps. ‘Nigel Tern was already dead when he was strung up. Strangled.’

  Honey frowned. ‘So what was the point of putting him on display in the window?’

  Doherty shrugged. ‘I can only guess. A macabre sense of humour?’

  ‘Unless whoever did it was trying to send a message to someone telling them this is what happens to you if you dare...dare...um...whatever the murderer didn’t want you daring to do.’

  ‘Thank you professor. Care to elaborate?’

  Psychological profiling wasn’t her bag, but she made a stab anyway. ‘...dare to become a highwayman?’

  Doherty raised one eyebrow. ‘Dare to wear dated sports jackets?’

  ‘And plus fours.’

  Doherty frowned at her. ‘There are no plus fours in the window.’

  ‘I know there aren’t. But sports jackets used to be worn with plus fours for shooting and golf and suchlike – didn’t they?’

  Doherty had to concede that she was right but added a comment of his own.

  ‘I don’t believe in murderers sending messages. The motive for murder never moves far from the core reasons; greed or sex. Sometimes both. Let’s get on...’

  They left the window, Doherty closing the panel behind them.

  They were standing in the middle of the shop when Mr Cecil Barrington returned with a tall swarthy man through the door marked private.

  ‘This is Mr Papendriou. My second.’

  The man’s hand was cool, his fingers spidery. His hair was black and slicked back on his head. He smelled of hair gel.

  After a cool handshake, Honey returned her hand to her pocket. Out of sight in her pocket, she fingered her palm. It felt moist. Mr Papendriou had a slimy veneer. She told herself it didn’t mean to say he was a bad man.

  All four of them turned round as the shop door crashed inwards. The new arrival was in a wheel chair. He had grey hair and an unpleasant expression; his gloved hands rested on a tartan blanket over his knees.

  ‘There you are, Mr Arnold. Just sit tight whilst I get both of you in and close this door.’

  The woman who spoke had a nut brown complexion.

  ‘She’s used to dealing with wheelchairs,’ snarled the old man. Even if the woman hadn’t mentioned his name, Honey would have guessed this was Mr Tern senior. She also guessed that not only was the woman used to dealing with wheelchairs, she was also used to bad tempered patients and bed pans neither of which were particularly pleasant.

  Another wheelchair followed the first, this time self propelled by the very same woman Honey had seen at the presentation – the woman John Rees had told her was Grace Pauling, daughter of George Pauling, partner in Pauling and Tern.

  The old man fixed his eyes on Doherty.

  ‘Are you the police?’ he demanded in a loud though wheezy voice .

  ‘Detective Inspector Doherty. We met earlier when I came to tell you about your son.’

  ‘Oh yes. So you did. I’ve had so many people come in. Some with commiserations plus the funeral director who wanted me to spend a fortune on an oak coffin. What a waste!’

  ‘Honey Driver,’ said Honey, offering him her hand. ‘I would suggest oak is not environmentally friendly.’

  ‘Never mind that! Did he think I was made of money?’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me coming back here, Mr Tern,’ said Doherty. ‘I’m leaving no stone unturned. I want to go through everything. I promise I will do my best to catch your son’s murderer.’

  The old man gave a curt nod of his head. His neck was scrawny, the skin reddish and hanging loose from the sinews. Honey was surprised his head didn’t fall off.

  ‘Your son’s body will be released for burial as soon as possible.’

  Mr Tern gave a curt nod in acknowledgement. ‘Grace did the identification. She knows him well enough. I did tell you I wouldn’t do it. What’s done is done.’ His voice sounded hollow as though it were coming from inside a metal drum.

  The woman called Grace Pauling made no comment but sat stiffly, her hands flopped over the sides of the chair.

  Mr Papendriou had left her hand feeling slimy. Mr Tern left it feeling dry. Out of the two of them Honey felt an instant dislike for this man and for more than one reason. Firstly he didn’t seem that upset at his son’s death. Secondly he was taking full advantage of being in a wheelchair. Rather than look up at her face his gaze was fixed firmly on her breasts.

  ‘Who did you say you were, young woman?’

  Honey bristled at the fact that he was actually addressing her cleavage. Perhaps he had tunnel vision due to his age.

  ‘I’m Honey Driver. I’m working with the police. I was also one of the last people to see your son alive at the presentation.’

  ‘Did you indeed.’

  ‘Did you see your son on the day in question,’ asked Doherty.

  ‘No. The doctor had prescribed strong medicine – either that or my son was over dosing me..
.’

  ‘Now, now, Mr Tern. It wasn’t always Mr Nigel giving you your medicine, and I was most certainly giving you the proper dose.’

  How the woman pushing the wheelchair could smile so cheerfully, was beyond Honey’s comprehension. She would have willingly given him a double dose just for a bit of peace and quiet.

  ‘I know nothing of that day, except that I finally woke up not feeling as woozy as I had done. Can you tell me my son’s movements?’

  Doherty outlined the award, the presentation and the party at the Cricketers that very same night.

  ‘He always did like parties; much more than work. He never did like work, but he did like having plenty of money to spend. Did you go to the evening celebration?’ He directed the last question at Honey.

  Honey shook her head. ‘No. I had a prior engagement.’

  ‘Another man – I hope.’ He looked her up and down. ‘Understandable. Grace went of course. She never could stand being left out of anything, could you Grace.’

  Grace turned bright red. ‘Nigel wanted me to go, so I did.’

  Doherty turned his attention to the woman in the wheelchair. ‘How long did you stay at the party, Miss Pauling?’

  The blush had not left Grace Pauling’s face.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘What time did you arrive?’

  ‘About eight thirty. Yes. About eight thirty,’ she said after due consideration.

  ‘Do you have your own transport, or did you take a taxi?’

  ‘I took my car. It’s customised for my circumstances, and anyway, I wasn’t going to drink.’

  ‘And you can’t recall what time you left?’

  She shrugged, her eyes seeming to dance anywhere except in his direction.

  ‘Probably about ten. Ten thirty at the latest. Two hours was quite enough and things were getting noisy.’

  ‘You weren’t there when the fight broke out and the police were called?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. I was not.’

  Mr Tern chuckled. ‘Grace lived in hope of my son paying her some attention, but he never did. The poor woman is likely to remain a spinster for the rest of her life!’

  Grace Pauling’s flush deepened. ‘Perhaps I have no wish to marry! Have you ever considered that, Arnold?’ She sounded angry.