A Very Private Murder (12 page)

We were drinking the coffee when I saw the pathologist from the General pull up in his Porsche Cayenne and lift his bag of gubbins from the back. I needed a word with him as soon as he’d finished upstairs. Mrs Threadneedle was sitting quietly, sipping her coffee, probably thinking it needed a large slug of Grand Marnier to make it palatable. I said: ‘Is there anywhere you can go for a couple of days, Jan? We have to regard the house as a crime scene and will need it sealing off while our forensic people can give it a good going-over.’

She had a sister in Harrogate, which was useful. After a brief discussion she accepted my offer to break the news to her sister and I did the necessary. Her reaction was more or less what you’d expect. Surprise, with a touch of grief and an underlying impression that she thought he’d got what he deserved. Janet would be most welcome to stay as long as she wanted. Sister even offered to collect her and the dog, which I gratefully accepted.

I was explaining to Janet when the pathologist looked into the room and gave me a nod to say he’d finished his preliminary examination and would grant me a few minutes to relate his findings. I excused myself from the ladies as politely as I could and was soon climbing into the passenger seat of the Porsche.

‘Thanks for coming so promptly, Prof,’ I said. ‘I know you’re a busy man.’

‘Got to when it’s a fresh one, Charlie,’ he replied. ‘Time is of the essence, whatever that means. It’s not so important if the corpse has been in the river for a month.’

‘So what can you tell me?’

‘Shot in the back of the head at close range. Time of death between eight a.m. and eleven a.m. Body not moved. That’s about it. PM at nine tomorrow. Will you be there in person or will you delegate?’ I could feel him smiling as he said it.

‘I’ll delegate. Bullet still in his head?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you see a gun anywhere?’

‘Only had a perfunctory look, but no.’

‘He was holding something in his left hand …’

‘Yes. It’s one of those little nasal hair razors. Wouldn’t mind one myself, if they’re any good. Do you think that’s the clue that will unmask his killer, Charlie?’

‘It might be. Did he have hairy nostrils?’

‘Yes. It’s like a bramble patch in there.’

‘Then no, it won’t be. Can I send the Munchkins in?’

‘I’m done here. It’s all yours.’

‘Thanks.’ I patted the dashboard. ‘Nice car.’

PC Long was coming away from the house as I waved the professor off. As we’d talked I’d been thinking about Mrs Threadneedle. I needed her clothes. There’d probably be blood on them either way, but the pattern of that blood would speak volumes. She’d need to change all her clothes before she went to her sister’s, and I wanted the ones she removed. ‘Judith,’ I called to her. ‘I have a little job for you …’

Back at the nick I cleared the walls of the Portakabin we use as an incident room and opened a new diary and crime log. Dave came in with the usual bad news from the neighbours: they hadn’t seen or heard a dicky bird.

‘A sister’s coming to pick up Mrs Threadneedle,’ I told him. ‘She’ll want to change her clothes before she goes and I’ve asked Judith – that’s PC Long to you – to liaise with the SOCO and confiscate her washing basket. I assume she realised I mean the contents and not the actual basket, but I’m not too sure, so keep an eye on her. When the geeks let me in I had a good look for the gun but couldn’t find it. He had a hole in the back of his head the size of a satsuma and blood had welled out of it.’

‘And if she shot him she’d be sprayed with the stuff.’

‘Yep.’

Mr Wood, the super, came to join us and I went through it all again for his benefit. I didn’t mind – sometimes, by going over things again and again something jumps up that you’d missed earlier. But not today, unfortunately.

‘He had enemies,’ Gilbert declared. ‘Have you had words with the fraud boys?’

‘Not yet.’

‘They might have a list of his business acquaintances. And what about his links with the Curzons? Do you think there’s anything in that?’

‘I doubt it. Going from graffiti to murder is a bit of an escalation, don’t you think?’

‘I suppose so. What I really want to tell you is not to let the pit bull crimes slip off the radar. They involve the general public; we’re all potential victims. Sad as the death of Mr Threadneedle may be, chances are it’s an isolated incident, a private murder.’

Yeah, I thought, and it would only count as one off the clear-up rate, whilst the burglaries were standing at four.

‘Do you need any help?’ Mr Wood asked. He was about to go for his annual dose of salmon fishing, and I’d be left to fend off the brass and the press.

‘We can always use some help,’ I replied.

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

When he’d gone Dave said: ‘I wonder if it’s painful.’

‘What?’

‘Slipping off the radar. Do you think there might be a link with the Curzon incident?’

I screwed up my face into an expression of disbelief. ‘I can’t see it … but, on the other hand, it might be wise to put East Yorkshire in the picture. Pass me the almanac, please.’

They weren’t too pleased but accepted what I told them, said they’d keep a weather eye on the house and its occupants. The phone had only been in its cradle for a second when it rang.

‘It’s Duncan at scientific services, Mr Priest. Those clothes and shoes you seized from the Threadneedles. I’ve had a preliminary look at them and so far the small amount of blood I’ve found on them is consistent with the wearer crouching to touch the body. That’s all. I’ll give them a more thorough inspection but I doubt if there’ll be anything more to tell you.’

‘No spray, no splashes?’

‘I’m afraid not. Sorry not to be more helpful.’

‘Not your fault, Duncan. Thanks for being so prompt.’

I replaced the phone and told Dave the news. ‘Bugger,’ he said.

‘Quite,’ I agreed.

Our press office had informed the local agencies of the untimely death of our beloved mayor, which took the load off me. There were people I wanted to see, but having to start by breaking bad news to them doesn’t fit in with my interviewing technique. Let them hear it from the telly first. On the way home I collected a
Mumbai machli
with
Peshwari naan
from the Aagrah and had it accompanied by Smetana’s
Má
Vlast
playing on the CD. No reason. I just looked down the titles and it jumped out at me. It’s a great work, about roots, and I hadn’t heard it for a while. Just before half past nine I decided the time was right.

‘Curzon,’ he said after the fourth warble.

‘It’s DI Priest, Mr Curzon,’ I said. ‘Sorry to disturb you but I was wondering if you’d heard the news?’

‘About Threadneedle? Yes, just now. Bit of a shaker, don’t you think?’

‘That’s right. I was wondering if I could come over for a talk about him. You’re one of the few people he could call a friend and I’d appreciate an unbiased opinion.’

‘What, now?’

‘No. Tomorrow sometime.’

‘Of course you can. I’m always here. How did he die?’

‘He was shot.’

‘Was it murder?’

‘It’s looking that way. Any particular time?’

‘The poor bugger. I wouldn’t have wished that on him. No, Inspector, like I said, I’m always here.’

After that it was the one I was looking forward to. ‘Miss McArdle?’ I said, after her curt ‘Hello’.

She’d heard the news, too. You can never be sure how lovers are going to react when they hear about the death of the object of their passion. Some are devastated, as if they’d lost a limb. Others – most – adopt an almost indifferent air, as if fate had stepped in to help them out of a situation that had grown out of control. It was impossible to tell which group she fell into from our telephone conversation. At ten next morning, seated in her office, she still wasn’t giving much away.

‘How did he die, Inspector?’ she asked.

‘He was shot in the back of the head. Death would be instantaneous.’

She pulled a face to demonstrate her distaste. ‘Ugh! Poor old Arthur. Isn’t that the style of a gangland execution, or do I read too much crime fiction?’

She was right, we do regard such killings as executions, but I don’t know why. If you want somebody dead the brain is the organ to go for, and if you’re going to shoot someone in the head it must be tidier to do it at the back than the front. Shooting someone in the nose or the eye while they were looking up at you imploringly would surely cause loss of sleep in the hardest villain. You didn’t need to be in a gang, with a BSc in slaying, to know that.

‘I suspect you read too much crime fiction. How well did you know him?’

‘Not very well. He interviewed me for this job about a year ago.’

‘There’s one question I must ask, Miss McArdle. Where were you between eight and eleven yesterday morning?’

‘Right here, Inspector, at my desk.’

‘Can anybody corroborate that?’

‘Oh, about ten people, no problem.’

‘That’s good enough for me. Tell me, just how does one become manager of a shopping mall and conference centre?’

‘I have a degree in business studies and experience as assistant manager at shopping centres in York and Heckley New Mall. I was headhunted when this became available. Is that good enough for you, Inspector?’

She was wearing a skirt and blouse, and curved and bulged in all the right places. Soft and gently rounded, like the ladies on the cover of
Weight Watchers
magazine. It wasn’t just Miss McArdle’s head that Threadneedle had hunted, that was for sure.

I flapped a hand. ‘I just wondered what the career progression was. You seem awfully young for such a responsible job.’

‘What are you insinuating?’

‘Nothing, nothing at all. What sort of person was Mr Threadneedle?’

‘How would I know?’

‘You worked for him.’

‘No I didn’t. I was recruited by a recruitment agency and I work for the shareholders. Arthur had influence with them, that’s true, but he wasn’t my employer.’

‘Was he your lover?’

Colour spread up from under the collar of her blouse like the sun rising out of Bridlington Bay on a bank holiday morning. ‘No,’ she stated, with just a touch too much defiance.

‘You call him Arthur.’

‘He told me to. We worked together for six months prior to the opening and … he liked to keep things informal.’

‘Last week, after the opening, you took Wednesday and Thursday off. Where did you go?’ That shook her. I’d put her in the second category of unrequited lovers: glad it was all over, relieved to be out of a difficult situation. I was thinking that Threadneedle must have used a pneumatic drill to get to her heart, unless it had been strictly a business arrangement right from the start.

‘I … I don’t know.’

‘Of course you know. Look in your diary.’

‘I didn’t go anywhere. After the previous few hectic days I needed a rest. I stayed at home, read a book. That’s all.’

‘Ah! A crime book, no doubt.’

‘Yes.’

‘So are you denying that you spent part of last week at a posh hotel – the Belfry, was it – with the late Mr Threadneedle?’

This time the colour was sucked from her face and she took on the appearance of someone fleeing from the last days of Pompeii. ‘Who told you that?’ she whispered.

You just did, I thought. ‘I put two and two together; it’s my job.’

‘Does this mean I’m a suspect?’

‘It’s often the lover who did it. Did you shoot Mr Threadneedle in the head yesterday morning?’

‘Of course not.’

‘In that case, you’re not a suspect.’ I leant forward towards her, my arms on her desk, and looked into her face. ‘But I need your help. I’m not here to judge or moralise. I want to find the person who killed the mayor of Heckley and I imagine you’d like to see him brought to justice, too.’ I explained that our conversation was off the record, but if she said, or was about to say, anything incriminating, I’d suspend the interview and advise her about a solicitor. She nodded to say she understood.

‘How long had you been having an affair with Mr Threadneedle?’

‘Nearly two years.’

‘How did you meet him?’

‘I was temping to earn some extra cash while I studied, seven or eight years ago. We met again while I was at York. He was part of a delegation that came on a fact-finding exercise and he recognised me. I asked him to think of me when the positions were being filled and … he did.’

I bet he did, I thought. And no doubt there was a deal of mutual back-scratching in between times. ‘Were you married?’ I asked.

‘Was. My husband left me. He found out … and … we’re divorced now.’

‘So you’re a free agent.’

‘Yes, I suppose I am.’

‘Had Arthur made you any promises?’

‘You mean, did I murder him, or have him murdered, because he let me down? Yes, I thought he was going to leave his wife, but he told me he couldn’t. Not for a while, until his year in office was over. Before that there were other excuses. And no, I didn’t murder him. I simply recognised that I was another silly woman who’d fallen for the wrong man, a married one, and had been used. That’s all. It all came to a head last week, at the Belfry.’

I widened my eyes and said: ‘I hope you didn’t make a scene at the Belfry, Miss McArdle.’

A hint of a smile flickered across her face. ‘A small one, perhaps.’

‘So did you revert to your maiden name after the divorce?’

‘Yes.’

‘What was your married name?’

‘I hoped you wouldn’t ask. It was Sidebottom.’

‘Some would regard that as a fine old
Anglo-Saxon
name,’ I suggested.

‘Like my husband did. I wanted to change it, but he wouldn’t, so I never used it. I preferred being Carol McArdle.’

‘It’s certainly snappier. Have you any children?’ I knew the answer, but let her tell me.

‘A son. He’s called Oscar, nearly twenty years old, studying electrical engineering. What else do you need to know?’ 

She needed to talk, so I encouraged her. I was an attentive audience. She’d done well, coming from a lowly background to be manager of a multi-million-pound organisation in the public’s eye, only to be facing embarrassment and disgrace because of her cheating lover. Her cheating lover who was dead and therefore nicely out of it. It was front-page stuff, and she needed it like Threadneedle had needed a hole in the … hmm, I let the thought hang there.