A Very Private Murder (11 page)

I read it twice and passed it to Dave. ‘Poor sod,’ he said and gave it back to me.

‘Do you fancy having these in the square?’ I asked, holding up the sandwiches, ‘watching the girls, catching some sunshine?’

‘What a good idea,’ he replied, pulling his jacket back on.

Dave bagged a seat while I fetched two large espressos from Starbucks. Several young women strolled past in various degrees of undress, mobile phones clamped to ear, and the inevitable pigeons came waddling by, looking for crumbs. Two teenagers eyed the end of our seat, then gave Dave and me the once-over before deciding they didn’t want to share it with two old fogies. I watched them retreat, midriffs bulging over jeans cut so low you could have parked a pair of unicycles in their bum cracks.

‘I think I’m growing old,’ I stated.

‘I know what you mean.’

‘Whatever happened to sex appeal?’

‘Audrey Hepburn.’

‘Kim Novak.’

‘Eunice Williamson.’

‘Who?’

‘Eunice Williamson. Her parents owned the chippy on Silver Street. She used to serve in there when they were busy. The sweat used to come through her T-shirt in all sorts of interesting places.’

‘How do you know it was sweat? It might have been chip fat.’

‘You spoil everything. You know what your trouble is, don’t you?’

‘Tell me.’

‘You’ve been moving in higher circles lately. Too high.’

‘Could be,’ I admitted.

‘So how far are we going to take it?’

‘Not much further. I’ll go see Threadneedle again, to tell him we’re winding the investigation down, but really just to … um … needle him.’

‘He might cotton on.’

‘Shush, or I’ll lose the thread. I’ll go over to make mischief, that’s all. And I wouldn’t mind knowing if Miss McArdle went away with him. That’s about it. Should be fun – I’ll enjoy it. Then we can … um … sew it up – no further action, not in the public’s interest.’ I looked at my watch. ‘The Pickles boys will be enjoying their third or fourth pints, about now, so we can concentrate on them. I’d say some surveillance was called for.’

I’d eaten my sandwich and my coffee was just about cool enough to drink, so I took a precautionary sip. It tasted good. I was having a longer drink when Dave’s mobile burst into life. His son Danny is a wizard with all things electronic and he gives his father a different ringtone nearly every week. This week it was ‘Ride of the Valkyries’. Dave fumbled with the phone, which was almost lost in his big hands.

‘Front desk,’ he told me, with a flick of his eyes in my direction. He put the instrument to his ear, saying: ‘Mr Sparkington is at lunch. Please call again after three p.m.’ After a silence he glanced at me again. ‘Yes, he’s here. We’re over the road, keeping observation in the square.’ He listened for a while then emitted a long
Jeeez
.

‘OK, we’ll be back in a minute. Out.’

He folded the phone and slowly returned it to his pocket. ‘Forget interviewing Threadneedle again,’ he said. ‘Someone’s blown his brains out.’ 

Serena was in the office. ‘Right person in the right place,’ I told her. ‘I have a job for you and it’s very important that you do it before the weather changes. Today if possible. I’ll try to find someone to go with you. Come and listen while I make this phone call, then I don’t have to repeat myself.’ I dialled a number from memory.

‘Who’s that?’ Serena asked.

‘Scene of crime.’ When I’d finished the conversation I dialled again. ‘It’s Charlie, Gareth,’ I said. ‘Can you lend me somebody to do some detective work, please? It’s important.’

He could. Serena said: ‘If I catch rabies I’ll sue.’

‘You’ll catch bigger fish than rabies,’ I told her, giving her arm a squeeze. ‘Do your best.’ Dave was hovering, itching to be off, a bag of paper suits and other detective stuff over his shoulder. Actually, we don’t carry much with us these days, because we have an expert for about everything. His eyes and his brains are the good detective’s tools of the trade. Together, Dave and I can just about hack it. I led the way, Dave followed.

One of our pandas was parked outside the Threadneedle residence and another one turned into the cul-de-sac behind me. A Day-Glo orange Ford Focus stood on the drive, close to the door, with its boot lid raised.

‘Who made the call?’ I asked the driver of the first panda.

‘Lady of the house, sir.’

I guessed it was her car. I’d taken a quick peep in the boot as I passed it and seen it was full of shopping. ‘Where is she now?’

‘Inside.’

‘Anybody with her?’

His female partner was babysitting her, which was a relief. Having the number one suspect all alone in there wouldn’t have been good news. The PC had been told that the body was upstairs. He’d taken a perfunctory look and decided it was murder and radioed for help. I needed to confirm his diagnosis before sending for the cavalry.

I pulled on the full paper suit and padded down the driveway and into the front door. I caught a glimpse of the PC through the half-open door of the room where I’d had coffee six days earlier and assumed Mrs T was in there with her. I’d talk to her later.

My feet, clad in overshoes, sank into the deep carpet as I climbed the stairs and I pulled the jumpsuit’s sleeves over my fists to keep them out of trouble. The banister was to the right, so I kept hard over to the left to cause as little disturbance as possible. My own breath sounded like that of a deep-sea diver as it forced its way through the dust mask I was wearing. I paused for a few seconds, pulling it away from my nose as I took a long, slow inhale. Furniture polish and the flower arrangement on the antique pedestal table that stood in the hallway. No bitter almonds; no Gauloises; no Hugo Boss. A trace, perhaps, just the slightest trace, of the smell of blood.

His feet were projecting from behind the bed, pointing away from it. He was face down, and I was grateful. Alongside the bed was a dressing table with naked light bulbs around the mirror, as you would find in a theatre’s dressing room. The lights were blazing and a tuneless song was coming from a bedside radio. Polished shoes in two tones of brown, socks with diamond patterns on them. I took a step forward. Grey trousers that looked smart even on a dead man. Thin leather belt. Right hand down by his side, palm upwards; watch strap in yellow metal. Was Threadneedle left-handed? I took another step around the end of the bed.

Left hand flung forward. Something grasped in it. Shirt collar loose with blue and silver tie around it. Head like a big overripe plum tomato. No sign of a weapon.

It was murder. I stooped down to grasp an ankle and lifted his leg. No rigor mortis. The window was open and the first greenbottle had arrived. His
compañeros
wouldn’t be far behind. Dead, say, two to five hours. Back downstairs I told Dave to send for the patho and then question the neighbours.

‘Hello, Mrs Threadneedle,’ I said, easing my way into the sitting room where she was perched on the edge of an easy chair, hands clasped together. ‘Do you remember me?’ The PC rose to leave but I gestured for her to stay and she sank back into her seat.

Mrs Threadneedle gave me a faint smile of recognition, saying: ‘Yes, of course I do. You’re Inspector Priest.’

‘That’s right. You gave me coffee last Tuesday. Do you feel up to telling me all about this morning? We could leave it a while if you like, but the quicker we move …’

I left it hanging, and she said: ‘I’ll do my best, Inspector. What can I tell you?’

She was remarkably composed, and gave the impression that she hadn’t had a drink yet, even though the sun was well higher than Armitage’s mill chimney. I said: ‘Just go through your movements, then tell me how you found … your husband.’

I was in a tricky position. Mrs T was the number one suspect. Spouses automatically fall into that position – it’s a statistical probability – and I knew that she had caught her husband philandering. But if I treated her as a suspect I’d have to haul her down to the station, read her the Riot Act, arrange a solicitor and start the clock. On the other hand, she was unlikely to do a runner or interfere with witnesses, so I could get away with treating her just like one of those witnesses.

She sat staring out of the window for a while, biting her lip, wondering where to start.

‘Jan …’ I said.

She turned to me with a start. ‘I’m sorry. I was … just thinking. Where shall I begin?’

‘Right at the beginning. In your own words. It’s all off the record. What time did you get up?’

‘Hm, about seven-thirty, I think.’

‘Go on, please.’

‘Well, I had a shower and got dressed and went downstairs for breakfast. Do you want to know what I had?’

‘Yes please.’

‘Oh, right. I had my usual. That’s bran flakes with dried fruit, and camomile tea.’

‘Did your husband breakfast with you?’

‘No. He’s a toast and marmalade man.’

‘So where was he at this time?’

‘He was in his bedroom. We have separate ones. Have had for a while.’

‘Did you see him?’

‘No, but I heard him moving around, and his shower. And his radio. He plays Radio Two infernally.’

Played
, I thought.
Played
Radio Two. Wogan’s audience had reduced by one, and I could imagine how Threadneedle’s listening habits would irritate his classically trained flautist wife. ‘Did you see him?’ I asked.

‘Yes. He came down for breakfast, still in his dressing gown.’

‘What time would that be?’

‘About eight-thirty, perhaps a little later.’

‘And then …?’

‘I drove into town and parked in the New Mall car park.’

The New Mall is like the New Forest – it’s the oldest we have. It opened back in the Seventies when people wanted joined-up shops and local councils sold off all the bus stations and school playgrounds to packs of speculators. No doubt the New Mall was already feeling the impact of the Curzon Centre on its customer base: it’s dog eat dog in the retail trade.

‘What time did you leave home?’

‘Nine o’clock. After the morning rush.’

‘Go on, please. You’re doing well, but we can stop any time you want.’

‘I had a ten o’clock appointment at the hairdresser’s. Cindy’s on Church Street. I was a little early so I visited a few dress shops in the mall until it was time. Afterwards I went to the supermarket for a few things and then I came home.’

We were nearly at the harrowing bit. She paused as if gathering strength, but before she could launch herself into it she said: ‘I never offered either of you a coffee. Would you like one?’

I shook my head. ‘No thanks, Jan. I’d like you to continue with what happened, as soon as you feel up to it.’

‘I expect you’re wondering why I’m not nursing a large G&T, Inspector. Truth is, I haven’t had a drink since Friday. You’re looking at a reformed character.’

‘I’m looking at a lady who was a talented musician, who has had more than her fair share of ups and downs,’ I told her. ‘We all need a little support at some time in our lives.’

She made a little ‘huh’ noise and went on: ‘I needed some help with the shopping so I went in, looking for Arthur. He wasn’t downstairs so I shouted up the stairs, but he still didn’t appear. There was a smell. I couldn’t describe it but it was sharp on the nostrils. I went upstairs looking for him. The smell was stronger up there, and his bedroom door was open. I walked in and … there he was … on the floor. I still couldn’t believe what I was seeing … thought it was some stupid practical joke or something … I told him to get up … not to be so stupid … but he didn’t move. Then I realised he was dead.’

‘And then …?’

‘I came downstairs and dialled nine nine nine.’

After a long pause I said: ‘Tell me about the smell, if you can, please.’

She shuffled in her seat. ‘I’ve been thinking about it. Was he – Arthur – was he shot?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘If he was, I think it was smoke. It was what you might call acrid.’

‘Right. Did you notice anything else?’

‘No.’

‘Did you see anyone?’

‘No.’

‘What about as you drove into the cul-de-sac. Was anybody leaving?’

‘No.’

‘What was the last vehicle you saw as you drove home?’

It took her some thinking about, but eventually she remembered that the postman had turned out of the lane as she turned in.

‘Did he bring you anything?’

‘I … I don’t know. I haven’t had a look.’

‘Could you do that now, Jan, please?’

She left the room, looking, I thought, slightly affronted. I took the opportunity to smile at the PC, who rewarded me with a blush. Had my undeserved and grossly exaggerated reputation gone before me, I wondered?

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your name,’ I said.

‘Judith, sir. Judith Long.’

‘Are you enjoying the job?’

‘Most of it, sir.’

‘Ah, well, we need the miserable bits to make the rest feel better than it really is.
If all the world were playing holidays, to sport would be as tedious as to work.’

‘Sir?’

‘Shakespeare,’ I told her.

‘Oh. We didn’t do Shakespeare at school.’

Mrs Threadneedle came back with the information that the postman hadn’t even knocked once. No mail today. I said: ‘Tell you what, Jan: you make that coffee and Judith and me will bring your shopping in for you. How does that sound?’

It sounded good, so she toddled off into the kitchen and I took Judith outside to fetch the shopping. I spent a couple of minutes with one of the uniformed officers, marking out a path from the street to the front door and appointing him in charge of logging all visitors, then set about the shopping. There was a bootful.

After our second trip Judith said: ‘It’s good of you to lift all this in for her, sir. Is it all part of the service?’

‘Just a little kindness,’ I told her, struggling to find a fingerhold on a twelve-pack of Britvic fruit juices. ‘It all helps to make things easier. A little kindness goes a long way, as my mother always insisted.’

‘I suppose so, sir.’

‘And apart from that,’ I said, ‘there should be a pay and display ticket in here somewhere, and the store’s receipt. They’ll have times on them. See if you can find them, will you?’