The Lately Deceased Read online

  The other chewed his lip in concentration.

  ‘Certainly no stiletto … never even seen one. A knitting needle, maybe. Margaret used to knit sometimes, but that was in Oxford. She wouldn’t have brought her knitting to a horse show. I just can’t think of anything else, Superintendent.’

  ‘Well, if you do come up with any ideas, let us know right away. You can go back to collect your things, but I’m afraid that we will have to stay in possession for a day or two. Where will you be staying until then, sir.’

  ‘With Mr Tate, I expect. I’ve not asked him yet, but I’ve no doubt that he can put me up. I wouldn’t stay in the flat now, anyway. I’ll go down to Oxford as soon as I can, to square things up down there.’

  Chapter Nine

  After Gordon Walker had left, the CID officers sat down to a long drawn-out afternoon of interviewing. All of the party guests had turned up by now except Martin Myers, Pearl and Colin Moore, and two girls from a model agency who had gone off to a show in Manchester and hadn’t yet been contacted.

  Pearl and Colin had vanished into thin air, their flat was deserted and no sign had been seen of them at Metro. The Hampstead police, in whose district they lived, were making hourly calls to try to catch them as soon as they came home.

  One by one, the witnesses went in for interrogation, looking very different in appearance from twelve hours before. The men, some in dark business suits and others in roll-neck sweaters under raincoats, looked tired out before they started. Some obviously had roaring hangovers, their eyes puffy and shy of the bare light in the room.

  The girls were all smartly turned out despite the fact that some had been roused by the police almost before they had got to bed.

  Grey and Stammers looked through the pile of statements with growing frustration. All the guests seemed to do their best to be helpful, but it was painfully obvious that their eyewitness value was just about nil. None had any clear idea of time during the revels, no one had noticed any unusual happenings, no one knew what had happened to the deceased after the games had started and no one had seen any instrument in the flat that resembled a stiletto.

  Late in the afternoon, just as the last of the girls had swayed her hips out of the interviewing room, a constable came in from the duty room below and handed Meredith a message slip. As he rapidly scanned it through, Meredith’s black brows rose.

  ‘This is all we wanted to make our day. Take a look at that!’ He tossed the flimsy across the table at Stammers.

  The inspector picked it up and read it aloud for the benefit of the other two.

  ‘“Martin Myers admitted to Whittington Hospital early this morning. Unconscious state following head injury. Found by police officer at bottom of basement steps leading to his flat in Canonbury. Presumed accidental.”’

  Grey whistled.

  ‘That accounts for one of the missing three, anyway,’ he said. ‘If we find the two Moores with their skulls bashed in, we’ve accounted for them all!’

  ‘Very funny, Grey,’ said Old Nick acidly. ‘Where did that report originate from, Stammers?’

  His deputy consulted the top of the telephone message form.

  ‘The nick in Dalston Lane, Super. That’s near Canonbury.’

  ‘Right! Masters, get to the hospital, and see what goes on. How many of these glamour boys are still outside?’

  ‘Four, sir.’

  ‘Right, wheel the next one in; we’ll hear the same old story again, I suppose.’

  As each witness finished and signed his statement, he was released with the standard warning to stay within reach. Geoff Tate, who had already been in once and had been asked to wait over, was the last on the list and, when he came out, he found Eve waiting for him.

  ‘Let me give you some tea,’ he said, taking her by the arm. ‘Gordon’s staying with me for the time being, but there’s no hurry for me to get home. I gave him a key and he knows the flat well enough to look after himself for a bit.’

  They left the station and went by taxi into the bustle of Oxford Street. The cab pulled up at an Italian restaurant at the top of Dean Street, where they suddenly found that they were very hungry. In spite of the time and the upheaval of the day, they did justice to a large omelette followed by continental pastries and a pot of tea.

  Sitting opposite each other in the snug warmth of a panelled alcove, with the grey drizzle outside forgotten, they suddenly became silent and shy. Eve sat demurely, gazing at a pink fingernail, and waited for Geoff to say something.

  His main emotion was one of surprise that Eve should seem so different now from the coquettish, shallow woman he’d always imagined her to be.

  Perhaps it’s just that I’m sober, he thought, as he gazed at her slim neck nestling in the little fur collar of her suit. Embarrassed, he made an effort to break the silence.

  ‘Funny what twenty-four hours can bring, Eve! This time yesterday, we were just looking forward to another of Gordon’s binges.‘

  Eve looked up at him and frowned.

  ‘I can’t take it in yet, Geoff,’ she said. ‘I’ve never been anywhere where there’s been a death before. Now all this fuss about police and statements, the lot. What’s going to happen, Geoff?’

  He was suddenly conscious of a desire to put his arm around her. He’d done it often enough before at parties, but then it had been just a meaningless act. Now it was somehow different, and he kept his arm at his side.

  ‘God knows how it will all end,’ he said quietly. Then, smiling at her, he added. ‘Let’s let the police do the worrying, it’s their job. My job is to keep your mind off unpleasant things and this I propose to do by taking you out to a show tonight.’

  At seven thirty that evening, the CID team met in the detective inspector’s room at Comber Street. The Manchester police had contacted the two girls, who clearly knew nothing of any importance about the affair. There was still no sign of the Moores – their telephone and doorbells had been rung regularly with no result.

  ‘Much more of this and we’ll have to put out a general call for them,’ said Stammers.

  ‘Think they’ve hopped it, Fred?’ Grey asked him.

  ‘Shouldn’t think so. They’ll have cooked their goose if they have.’

  Meanwhile, Meredith rifled through the pile of typescript that was the reward of the day’s work.

  Suddenly he threw the sheets impatiently down in front of him. ‘Worth next to nothing,’ he said in disgust.

  ‘Are we going to carry on with the case ourselves, or will the Yard take it over?’ Grey asked him.

  ‘The commissioner’s content to let us handle it in the Division if we feel we can cope,’ Meredith replied. ‘Though of all the jobs to get landed with, this one is the limit.’ He slapped his hand on the top of the desk.

  ‘Right, let’s get on with it. These statements are a dead loss, the fingerprint records are useless unless we find the weapon, the scene investigation taught us nothing. So at least we know where we are – no bloody where!’

  Grey stuck a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and spoke through a haze of smoke and a splutter of coughing.

  ‘We don’t know “who” but we ought to be able to find out “why”,’ he said.

  Meredith nodded. ‘Yes, a little spadework should reveal who gains by her death. Masters has already phoned her solicitors. I’ll be seeing them the first thing in the morning. Apparently, she’s a very rich woman.’

  ‘The husband must have plenty of cash too, by the sound of it,’ said Grey. ‘I shouldn’t think he can be in urgent need of the ready.’

  ‘What about the two cousins, though?’ queried Stammers. ‘That boozy little chap and his wife. Perhaps they have expectations.’

  ‘It’s no good speculating,’ Meredith cut in abruptly. ‘We’ll wait till we get the will tomorrow. Meanwhile there’s another line of enquiry to be thought of.’

  The others waited for him to enlarge on this theme.

  ‘The marital set-up of this crowd seems a bit
fluid, to say the least. If parties like these are frequent, I’m not surprised that separations and divorces are as common as they are. A quick jab with a knife would relieve a lot of jealous feelings and save a packet in divorce court fees.’

  Grey considered this with eyes almost shut. ‘That would necessarily bring it home to one of two people straight away.’

  Old Nick shook his head.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ he said. ‘Walker might have been on to something when he suggested that the wrong person got murdered. It could happen, you know, in pitch-darkness with twenty or more screaming drunks blundering around. In fact, we may have twenty correct motives to fit to one wrong body!

  Grey gave a mock groan of despair.

  ‘Couldn’t we just call it an accident, Super, and all go home?’ And then he added, struck by a sudden thought. ‘I suppose it couldn’t have been an accident, could it?’

  ‘Not an accident, perhaps, but it could have been manslaughter. With a lot of young fools messing about in their cups, some young idiot might have gone too far in jabbing about him with a hatpin or whatever it was.’

  Old Nick replied emphatically. ‘Not a chance,’ he said. ‘Not when there’s just one clean upward stab in just the right place, just the right depth. Remember, this party ran on libido, not hooliganism.’

  ‘The Super’s right,’ Stammers intervened. ‘Moreover, in my opinion you are not going to find your murderer among the youth and beauty at the party. I’ll lay even money the killer was in Margaret’s own age group.’

  ‘It has to be an inside job, then?’ Grey asked.

  ‘Oh God, yes!’ replied Old Nick with exasperation. ‘The thing is crazy enough as it is, without trying to bring an outsider into it. Unless you can find me a homicidal maniac hanging around Marylebone last night, it’s got to be one of this shower.’ He pointed at the pile of statements.

  ‘Let’s pick out the probables, then,’ persisted Grey, undeterred. He quietly sorted through the forms until he had a small sheaf of buff papers laid out on the desk.

  ‘What about these. Super?’ he asked handing the papers over. Meredith scanned quickly through them, reading out the names and main points in their statements.

  ‘Geoffrey Arthur Tate, public relations officer. This chap seems to be a close friend of Walker’s. Says that relations between Walker and the deceased were distant but amicable. Doesn’t say much about the party, only that there was a lot of drinking, but no fights or threats.’

  He turned to the next paper and read it aloud.

  ‘Eve Louise Arden, twenty-six, television artist. I remember her, a nice little blonde. But she doesn’t seem to have the slightest connection with this business.’

  He turned to the next one, and his brows came together in an effort of concentration. ‘Leo Prince … I know his face, but I can’t place it. He says he’s a theatrical agent.’

  ‘That could cover a wide range of fiddles,’ said Stammers.

  ‘Yes, I’ll swear he’s on the books at the Yard somewhere, probably under another name. Masters, get hold of him first thing tomorrow and sweat him a bit. See if he’s using a different name. Then check the prints we found at the flat; his might be on the record. I’ll stake my boots he’s an old customer in some shape or other.’

  Stammers could tell that Old Nick, for all his grousing, was enjoying himself. His unusual talkativeness was a sure sign of his contentment.

  ‘Abel Franklin, cameraman. No, nothing that matters there. His story is the same as all the rest.’

  There was silence for a moment as the superintendent looked through the remainder and found nothing worth comment.

  ‘What about this Myers business, then?’ he demanded, leaning back and throwing down the bundle of papers. ‘When can we hope to hear from the hospital?’

  ‘All they know is that he was found at the bottom of his basement flat steps about an hour after leaving that party,’ said Masters. ‘They say he has a fractured skull and they’ll give no opinion as to when, if ever, he’s likely to come around.’

  ‘Nothing to suggest foul play?’

  ‘Not a thing, sir. He was found by the man on the beat lying at the bottom of the area steps. The gate at the top was open and he could quite well have staggered into the open gap in the dark, especially if he was drunk. We don’t even know how he got home to Canonbury. If he took a taxi from the flat in Beachy Street why didn’t the driver see him fall, or hear him? Or, if he didn’t drive straight home – say he stopped the cab halfway and walked the rest – why should he do so? There must be some reason behind it, whatever he did. We’re trying to trace the taxi driver who took him, if there was one, but no luck so far.’

  Meredith considered these words for some seconds.

  ‘Any need to put a man at the bedside?’ he asked at length.

  ‘I asked the doctor that, sir,’ Masters replied. ‘He said no, he might be in coma for days, or even weeks. He promised to let us know the moment he showed any signs of life.’

  Meredith sighed. ‘Ah well, if he’s as much use as the rest of these witnesses, he may as well stay in a coma … he’ll be no loss to us.’

  The discussion went on for some time longer, each possible motive being applied to each witness as their statements were reread. Little progress was made and at nine o’clock they broke up to go home, unable to make any more progress until they’d heard what the lawyer had to say about the will in the morning.

  As they left the station, Meredith reminded Masters to keep up the search for the missing Moore couple.

  ‘If anything comes in by midnight, call one of the inspectors – after that get hold of me at home.’

  With a gruff ‘goodnight’ he vanished into the wet darkness of the station yard.

  Masters turned to the inspectors. ‘Right, then; if either of these damn people turn up, I’m to get one of you out, is that it?’

  Grey muttered under his breath as he turned the collar of his camel-hair coat against the damp night.

  ‘Hope to hell they stay where they are until morning! I’m damned if I want to get out again on a foul night like this!’

  As it happened, at that moment Colin Moore was slumped in a corner of the lounge bar of the ‘Duke of Wellington’ public house, less than half a mile away. The middle-aged barmaid was watching him covertly, uneasy at his solitary and prolonged drinking. She went behind the bar into the saloon and spoke to the landlord, a tall craggy ex-guardsman.

  ‘Have you seen that chap in the lounge, Mike?’ she asked. ‘He’s looking real queer, just staring at the table, except when he asks for another drink. Been there for hours, he has. I don’t like the look of him at all.’

  The landlord moved into the other bar and looked across to the corner. He saw a fair-haired man of about thirty sitting motionless behind a table, staring fixedly at a half-empty whisky glass. Handsome in a pale, watery way, his boyish face was set in a blank mask-like expression, his blue eyes unblinking.

  ‘Oh, he’s all right, just drinking away his sorrows. Probably his girlfriend has given him the push.’

  The landlord reassured the woman and went back to the saloon, but the barmaid continued to look over at the raincoated figure. Colin had been there for four hours and had spent the previous six hours in a club in Brewer Street. He was quite drunk, though in control of his limbs and some of his senses.

  Having spent all day on this ‘bender’, he knew nothing of the hue and cry for him. When the previous night’s party had come to its tragic end, he had made his way back to his car, parked in the mews behind the flat, and had sat there waiting for Pearl. She had come after a few minutes and slipped into the passenger seat without a word. He drove off and they sat in silence for a mile or so.

  Then Pearl had said, ‘You lousy worm!’

  Her voice was low, but carried intense contempt. He had had to resist an impulse to smack her across the face. Instead he held his tongue, but she was determined to goad him beyond endurance.

  �
��Playing with little girls at your age?’ she sneered. ‘Aren’t I enough fun for you now?’

  ‘You!’ he jerked out. ‘Fun! Oh, my God! You’re no better than a bloody little whore.’

  As an answer, Pearl lifted the slim leather handbag that she carried on her lap and hit him violently across the side of the face with it. A corner of the bag caught him in the left eye and tears blinded him for a moment. The car lurched across the road and screeched to a stop as he instinctively stamped on the clutch and brake. They finished up on the wrong side of the street, with the front wheels in the gutter and the rear sticking out into the road.

  ‘Get out!’ said Colin thickly, putting a hand up to his injured eye.

  ‘Get out yourself, you swine!’ she had replied.

  ‘All right, I will!’ He plucked the ignition key from the dashboard, got out of the car and walked over to the gutter, holding the key at arm’s length. Finding a drain he deliberately dropped it through the grating. Without so much as a backward glance, he continued walking along the quiet street, and kept going until he met a cruising taxi. Going straight to their flat in Hampstead, he washed, shaved, and then left again before Pearl could come back.

  He had done all these things automatically, his rage slowly dying into a mood of black despair. He wandered around the shopping streets for a time, looking into windows with unseeing eyes, then began a round of the clubs and public houses that had lasted for the rest of the day. Eventually, he ended up at the ‘Duke of Wellington’ and now that it was closing time he wandered dazedly out into the street, the landlord heaving a sigh of relief at getting rid of him without any trouble.

  Colin managed to flag a passing cab and, after mumbling his address, fell into the rear seat for the journey home. As he dragged himself wearily up the flight of outside stairs to the front door, a torch beam sprang out of the darkness and bathed him in painfully bright light.

  ‘Put that damn light out,’ he mumbled, staggering for the first time as he shielded his eyes.

  A stolid voice spoke from behind the torch.