by Faith Martin
Trudy looked at him blankly. ‘I’m sorry, sir?’
‘The Frog-eyed Sprite!’ Geoffrey said sharply. ‘Terry liked to drive the cars. He said it was an advertisement for the business, to show them off. He always chose a car from the showroom, and his current favourite was the Sprite.’
‘Oh no, sir. I think it was a Riley. It was rather covered with snow,’ she added apologetically.
‘Oh, yes, that makes sense, now I come to think of it,’ Geoffrey said, suddenly letting out his breath in a sigh of relief. ‘What with the conditions …’ He waved a hand at the window, and the snow still falling steadily outside. ‘We ourselves just went round to our next-door neighbours’ for a bit of a drink last night.’ He nodded to indicate the house on their immediate left. ‘They invited a few of us in the street. It saved anyone having to drive, you see. But Terry was determined to go to this particular “do” and he didn’t mind so much driving in tricky conditions, being younger and less of a fuddy-duddy than myself.’ He gave a self-deprecating smile. ‘Especially if he’d decided to take the Riley. It handles like a tank but it is reassuringly heavy.’ He rubbed his palms over his knees, and took a shaky breath.
‘You knew all about Mrs Vander’s party then?’ Trudy asked casually.
Geoffrey sighed, smiled wearily, then nodded. ‘Oh yes. Terry wasn’t one to keep his light under a bushel, Constable. And being invited to such a socially prominent “do” was a bit of a feather in his cap.’
‘I see. Was he a heavy drinker?’
‘I wouldn’t have said so. I mean, no. But at a party …’ He shrugged. ‘Well, he’d probably have a drink or two. Poor Terry.’ He shook his head. ‘I just can’t believe it. You’re sure that he’s really dead?’
‘Yes, sir. That is, the man in the car is dead.’ She again sought out her notebook and recited the number plate of the crashed vehicle.
Geoffrey nodded. ‘Yes, I’m pretty sure that’s one of ours. I’ll have to check the records to be totally sure …’ He shrugged vaguely. ‘Most of our cars are sports models, you understand, but occasionally we buy more run-of-the-mill makes. Mostly as a favour for friends or—’ He suddenly broke off, as if realising that their business practices hardly mattered to the strangers in his front room.
‘You say your partner didn’t drink excessively,’ Trudy began delicately, ‘but that he would not hold back at a party. Do you have any reason to suspect that he indulged in more than alcohol?’
‘What do you mean?’ Geoffrey sounded genuinely puzzled.
‘I mean, sir, did he like to take … say, something rather more exotic to raise his spirits? Something other than alcohol, I mean.’
For a second the other man stared blankly at her, and then a flush of colour stained his cheeks. ‘Good grief, drugs, do you mean? No, definitely not.’ He sounded genuinely scandalised at the thought. ‘Terry was, well, a bit flash I suppose you’d call it, but nothing like that. He had far too much sense to fool around with things like that!’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but we have to ask. We can see no obvious cause for the accident, you see,’ Trudy said mildly.
‘Don’t you think snow and ice are enough?’ Geoffrey asked shortly.
‘Perhaps,’ Trudy said. She’d grown a thick skin since joining the police force and no longer took it personally when people got angry or upset with her. ‘I don’t suppose you have any contact details for his next of kin, sir?’ she asked, but wasn’t all that surprised when Geoffrey slumped a little and then shook his head, his brief burst of anger and indignation now spent.
‘I’m not sure he had any,’ he admitted wearily. ‘Terry certainly never talked about close family anyway – no mention of brothers or sisters, for instance. And I rather got the impression that both his parents are gone.’
At this point, Clement stepped smoothly in. As a coroner, he was used to dealing with the more formal aspects that arose out of death. Whilst he preferred to let Trudy take the lead most of the time, knowing how much she needed to be allowed to learn her trade and gain much-needed experience, there were still certain times when things veered into his territory.
‘Someone will need to take on the necessary arrangements, I’m afraid, Mr Thorpe,’ he explained mildly. ‘Arranging the funeral, sorting out the paperwork, seeing to his will …’
‘Oh yes, I’ll see to all that,’ Geoffrey said at once.
‘Thank you, sir,’ Trudy said gratefully. ‘Well, I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad news, especially at this time of year. We may have to contact you again, once you’ve made the formal identification,’ she warned.
But the dead man’s business partner merely nodded fatalistically, then forced himself to his feet and showed them to the front door.
On the threshold he apologised for not having got around to clearing the path yet, and watched them go all the way to the gate and turn out of sight before closing the door against the bitter chill.
*
Once they were back in the Rover, Clement quickly turned on the engine and they sat, waiting for the heater to kick in.
‘Did you get the feeling that he was sorry that his friend and business partner was dead?’ Trudy asked, little puffs of her warm breath appearing and disappearing in the freezing interior of the car as she talked. She herself hadn’t been quite sure that he had. Oh, she was convinced that he’d been genuinely shocked by the news, but there had been something about his manner that didn’t quite ring true, given the circumstances; something that didn’t quite make sense.
Clement grunted and put his finger on it at once. ‘I got the feeling he was more worried about it, than saddened.’
Trudy nodded and sighed. Sometimes – not often, but sometimes – her mentor’s seemingly infallible perspicacity made her feel distinctly dim. Now that he’d said it, she knew that he was right. That was exactly what she’d meant. Geoffrey Thorpe had become a worried man during their visit. But not, she felt confident, a grief-stricken one.
Which was interesting, but probably not relevant.
After all, she reminded herself firmly, it was almost certain that the inquest, when it was eventually held, would find that Terrence Parker had died as a result of a motor traffic accident.
Chapter 10
Trudy, mindful that she couldn’t expect Dr Ryder to spend all of his time helping her with her work, thanked him for what he’d done so far, and said that she had to get back to the office to start on the paperwork. So he duly dropped her off at the station, but she couldn’t help but feel relieved when he said that he’d see her tomorrow – unless DI Jennings had found a more senior officer to take over from her.
Although she had been fairly sure that her mentor would want to see things through as much as she did, she had been worried that the presence of his son at home might be enough to curb his usual curiosity.
So with a beaming smile she agreed to telephone him the next day to update him on how things were progressing and arrange when and where to meet.
The communal office was all but deserted, but that didn’t surprise her. With weather and illness decimating the number of officers, everyone who had made it in would have been sent straight out again to deal with calls. Which boded well for her being left in charge of the Parker case, she thought happily.
She went straight to her desk and got out her notebook, running her eyes down the list of things she needed to do. On the way from Geoffrey Thorpe’s place, Clement had agreed that, as a coroner, he was the obvious person to arrange with the morgue staff about the viewing of the body, and would be sorting that out before going home.
So ticking that item off, she reached for the telephone and got through to a colleague in Birmingham, explaining her predicament and asking if a search could be made of the records to see if her victim had ever lived in the city, or might still have living relations there. It was a big ask, and her colleague didn’t sound impressed; Trudy hung up with the profound sense that her request would be buried at the bottom of a pile some
where on some poor overworked constable’s desk. She wouldn’t be holding her breath.
Next she went to the records office to see if they had ‘anything known’ against Regal Cars. Apparently the tax people had no issues with them, nor had they had any run-ins with the various agencies whose job it was to monitor such businesses. Sometimes car dealers weren’t always scrupulous about the roadworthiness of some of their vehicles, but it seemed Regal Cars had no major black marks against them in the five years they’d been trading. Nor had their victim come to the attention of the police, with Terry Parker not even having been issued with a parking ticket.
With a sigh, she returned to her desk and set about the laborious process of typing up her notes for DI Jennings, and filling in all the forms that surrounded a fatal road traffic accident.
About halfway through her task, she realised that she hadn’t had time to make herself any sandwiches before leaving in such a hurry this morning (let alone have breakfast), and with no shops open, she could hardly go out and buy herself a pork pie or sausage roll.
She resigned herself to ignore her grumbling stomach, and instead worked steadily over her Remington typewriter. At this time of year, it would be getting dark around three o’clock, and she wanted to get the bulk of the work done before then.
She also had to return to the Vander household to pick up that invitation list. She wasn’t sure that it was strictly necessary she had it, but she wanted to do a thorough job. She didn’t want Inspector Jennings to point out anything that she might have missed, and have grounds to criticise her for slacking!
Hopefully someone would return to the office before the night shift kicked in, and could run her back home in the Land Rover. She didn’t fancy trying to have to make her way home in the dark on one of the police bicycles, with no guarantee that the roads had been cleared.
*
Clement dropped into the morgue, where his presence caused a brief scurry of activity from the two people in attendance. He explained about the RTA, filled in forms asserting time of death, and told them to expect a Mr Geoffrey Thorpe to come in and identify one of their (temporary) residents before the day was out.
That done, he went home, hitting an icy patch and almost sliding his car into a lamp-post on the turn-off to his street, making his heart thump in alarm.
Vincent looked up from his chair in the front parlour when Clement walked in, putting aside the book he’d been reading by the fire. ‘I didn’t know if you were going to be back in time for lunch,’ he said, without any obvious censure in his tone. ‘So I went ahead and had something. Want me to heat up some soup for you?’
Clement grunted. Why did that question make him feel about a hundred years old? On the other hand, it was the first time in a long time that anyone had been here to care about whether or not he was eating properly, and it felt kind of pleasant. ‘Why not? I’ve just got to make a phone call first.’
He retreated to his study, opened his telephone ledger, and found the number of one of the pathologists who worked under his old friend, Dr Robbins. It rang a number of times and was then finally answered, rather grumpily, by yet another old pal of his, Dr Douglas Carey. ‘Hullo? Who the hell’s this?’
‘Doug, it’s Clement.’
‘Do you know what day it is?’
‘Yes. But unlike you, I haven’t spent all day drinking whisky in the comfort of my home, surrounded by doting grandchildren and eating roast beef! I’ve been up since before it got properly light, attending the scene of a fatal road accident as a favour to help out a certain department which shall remain nameless,’ Clement responded cheerfully.
He heard a sigh on the other end and grinned.
‘So what do you want from me?’ his old friend grumbled. ‘A medal?’
‘Nothing so useless,’ Clement said with a laugh. ‘I’m not even ringing to ask you to pull your finger out tomorrow and put my particular cadaver at the top of your list for a post-mortem. I’ve already had an earful from Robbins about how backlogged and overworked you all are.’
‘Well, that’s big of you.’
‘In fact, you can take all the time you want before you get around to it,’ Clement added craftily. ‘But …’
‘I knew there’d be a but!’
‘But,’ Clement repeated patiently, ‘I would be obliged if you’d run a blood tox screen on my Mr Terrence James Parker first thing, and send it off to the labs, there’s a good lad. Look out for one of the barbiturates first, I think,’ he advised.
Douglas, who at fifty-two years of age, felt tickled pink to be referred to as a lad, grunted warily. ‘What are you up to, you sly old fox? I’ve heard the rumours about you and that pretty young WPC.’
Clement sat up straighter in his chair. ‘You what?’ he yelped indignantly, and after a surprised silence on the other end, heard his old friend laughing.
‘No, nothing like that,’ Douglas reassured him. ‘I just meant that you’re beginning to get talked about for butting in on cases that should be handled by regular police officers.’
‘WPC Loveday is a regular police officer,’ Clement pointed out with impeccable logic, relaxing back against his chair. ‘In fact, she was the one who was called out to deal with this fatal car accident.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Dr Carey said sceptically. ‘So why do you want an early tox screen on a simple road traffic fatality? And why are you in no hurry to have a post-mortem done?’
Clement sighed. That was the trouble with asking a favour of old friends – they could be so damned suspicious! Of course, the reason Clement wasn’t in any hurry for the post-mortem to be done was because he had a hunch that the findings might not be as straightforward as the circumstances would dictate. And if that was so, DI Jennings would pull Trudy off the case as quick as lightning.
And he was damned if he wanted that to happen just yet. He was having too much fun. Besides, even if his hunch didn’t pay off, and it did turn out that the cause of death was nothing more than might be expected given the circumstances, it would do her no harm at all to get the experience of handling a case all by herself under her belt. And just as Jennings was determined to hold her back if he could, Clement was as determined to see to it that he wasn’t allowed to!
‘I thought you’d be pleased I’m giving you an easy ride,’ Clement prevaricated. ‘I’m willing to bet your schedule is actually as chock-a-block as Robbins was whining about.’
Dr Carey sighed wearily, knowing when he was beaten. ‘Yes, you’re quite right of course. I’ve got cadavers coming out of my ears.’
‘Lovely image,’ Clement said dryly. ‘So you’ll do as I ask? Run a tox screen right away, then put him at the bottom of your list? And let me know the moment the results are in?’
‘What’s in it for me?’ Douglas asked craftily.
‘I’ll give you a chance to beat me at golf,’ Clement said.
‘Hah! Make it a bottle of whisky.’
‘Done,’ Clement said quickly.
‘A good bottle, mind! None of that blended muck!’
‘Done,’ Clement repeated with a chuckle and hung up, feeling pleased with himself. With a bit of luck, he and Trudy would be able to investigate the little mystery and have it all sewn up in a ribbon before Inspector Jennings knew what hit him!
Of course, if their victim’s dilated pupils were caused by a blow to the head, and the tox screen revealed nothing of interest, that wouldn’t take long.
On the other hand …
Mentally rubbing his hands together in delight at the thought of investigating another suspicious case with his young friend, Clement went into the kitchen, where, for just a split second, he was surprised to see his son standing over the stove, stirring a boiling saucepan.
He had forgotten all about Vincent being there.
But only for a split second, and only, he reassured himself, because he’d become distracted by the thought of working again with Trudy. That was understandable, wasn’t it? His cognitive powers weren’t really s
howing signs of deteriorating that much …
‘You all right, Dad?’ Vincent said sharply, making Clement focus his attention on his son.
Drawing out a chair from under the kitchen table, he looked at him with a brief smile. ‘Of course, why do you ask?’ he demanded crisply.
Vincent turned away. ‘Oh, nothing,’ he said casually. And Clement could only hope that his son hadn’t noticed his lapse.
*
Jasper Vander stood on the landing, careful to keep out of sight, but listening avidly to his mother in the hall downstairs. She had gone to answer the front door, and Jasper, who’d left his bedroom to do the same, had recognised the voice of the caller at once, and abruptly halted his descent. It was that rather lovely young WPC who had called earlier, returning no doubt for the bloody party invitation list they’d promised her earlier in the day.
He didn’t like that she had come back for it so diligently. At least his mother had the good sense to simply hand over the list and say goodbye, giving the constable no chance to ask any more questions.
Scowling, he made his way to his sister’s bedroom and knocked impatiently on the door. It was flung open a moment later by his twin, who scowled right back at him.
‘What? Can’t a girl listen to Cliff Richard in peace?’ she asked, but stood aside to let him pass. She walked over to the record player she kept in her large bed-sitting room and lifted the needle from the 45. ‘Bachelor Boy’ would just have to wait, though she did think Cliff Richard dreamily good-looking.
‘That woman copper’s back,’ Jasper informed her moodily.
‘To pick up the list?’
‘Yes. Persistent, isn’t she?’ Jasper sneered, flinging himself inelegantly into a Queen Anne reproduction chair that creaked under the misuse. ‘I don’t like it that they’re sniffing around, Jules.’
‘Why worry? He’s dead, isn’t he?’ Juliet responded airily. She sat down with far more grace in front of the vanity table mirror and regarded her image thoughtfully. ‘So we’re in clover.’