Truth Will Out (17 page)

He averted his eyes from a large tray in which various instruments had been laid out but was immediately confronted by a row of larger instruments hanging along the wall on hooks – knives, a hammer, three saws of varying sizes, and something that looked like a suction pump. There were several white-painted cupboards and a basket containing discarded bloodstained aprons waiting, presumably, to be sent to the laundry. How, he wondered, could anyone spend their entire working hours in such a depressing place?

He began to feel slightly sick as Samuel Wetton, the pathologist, continued to describe and assess his findings about Jem Rider’s body.

‘Definitely dead before he went into the sea,’ he announced. He had a pompous manner and DC Fleet had never taken to him although he respected his work. Samuel Wetton was a professional who took pride in his work and demanded respect. ‘No salt water in the lungs. He’d already stopped breathing.’ He glanced up. ‘If you would step a little closer, DC Fleet, I can show you what killed this young man.’

Reluctantly, the detective stepped closer and forced himself to watch as the pathologist turned the body on to its side so that he could show the back of the head.

‘One blow might have been an accident,’ he said. ‘But two indentations, just slightly overlapping – much more likely to have been deliberately inflicted.’

The skull was certainly crushed, thought the detective. ‘So it was murder. Not an accident.’

‘I would say it was deliberate. Yes.’

‘And you would stand up in court and say so?’

‘I would – without hesitation. Someone wanted to kill this young man. Might have used a piece of driftwood – assuming it happened on the beach – or possibly a heavy stone. A large pebble, maybe. There are no wood fibres, however, so I would think a heavy pebble. A small rock, I suppose . . . And he wasn’t in the water long. A few hours at most. Do you see, DC Fleet, the skin is hardly affected.’

DC Fleet nodded and quickly stepped back and turned away from the table, pretending to find more light by the window by which to write up his notes. He tried not to think about how sick he felt, and wrote: ‘Large pebble or small rock, two overlap indents’. His insides churned and he longed to get away from the smell and unpleasant sights.

Wetton went on relentlessly. ‘If you look closely at the fingernails, DC Fleet, you’ll notice there is nothing under them, so I doubt he put up a struggle. Most likely didn’t expect the attack.’

‘So maybe knew the attacker?’ He wrote ‘fingernails – nothing’.

The pathologist shrugged. ‘Quite possible. Just unfortunate the rock found the weakest spot. The victim might already have been on the ground, face down. Still, he wouldn’t have felt anything for more than a few—’

A commotion outside in the corridor interrupted Wetton.

A voice cried, ‘You can’t go in there, Mrs Rider! It’s not allowed. Not yet!’

‘But he’s my son. I’m entitled to see my son and you can’t stop me!’

Wetton said wearily, ‘Oh dear! Another hysterical woman. The government ought to ban them!’

The door burst open and as it did so the pathologist snatched up a rubber sheet and hastily draped the young man’s body.

Mrs Rider came in, her face contorted with a mixture of grief and anger. A young attendant followed her in, red-faced and full of apologies for the intrusion. The woman’s face was blotched, her hair dishevelled. Seeing someone she recognized she stabbed a finger into DC Fleet’s chest.

‘I want to see my son. My murdered son – and I can tell you lot who did for him. That Mr Brent. He’s the murderer! When you find him, arrest him!’

‘Mrs Rider, you must come with me,’ DC Fleet told her, taking hold of her arm. ‘Please. We can’t talk here. This is most irregular.’ He had recognized the intrusion as his opportunity to get out of the room with dignity.

‘Is that Jem?’ Transfixed, she stared at the covered body on the table.

‘No.’ Both men spoke as one.

Wetton said, ‘If you must know, it’s an elderly lady. Now please go with the detective. You have no right to burst in here.’

Wide-eyed, she looked round. ‘Does he . . . How does he look? Jem.’

Wetton said, ‘Very much as normal, Mrs Rider. Now, please . . .’

DC Fleet guided her firmly from the room and into the corridor. ‘We’ll find you a cup of tea,’ he promised rashly. ‘And you can talk to me.’

She allowed herself to be led along the corridor and up some stairs to a small canteen. Finally overawed by her surroundings, she waited silently for the tea.

‘I’ve brought you a currant bun,’ he told her. ‘Not much choice, I’m afraid.’

‘I can’t eat. It sticks in me gullet. So when will I see him?’

‘Probably tomorrow. I’ll see what I can do to hurry them up.’

She sipped the scalding tea carefully. ‘My Jem had a friend – Robbie his name is. Robbie Johnson. He came round this morning wanting his comics and magazines back. They used to swap. “Take the horrible things,” I told him. “Can’t think why you have to look at stuff like that.” All monsters and ghosts and everyone killing everyone else!’

‘Boys will be boys!’ He smiled. ‘It’s in their nature. Well, some of them.’

She shrugged. ‘Robbie says he reckoned this Mr Brent done it. Killed our Jem. Maybe because they had words over something and Jem told Robbie about it – although he can’t recall properly what it was because he wasn’t that interested – and this Brent wouldn’t give him what he said he would – money-wise, I mean.’ She looked at him anxiously. ‘So Jem said he’d split on him, and then he stormed off – Brent I mean – but course Jem wasn’t really going to the police. My Jem was brought up to stay as far away from the police as possible . . . So Robbie reckons it was Brent that killed him.’ Her lips trembled. ‘So when can I see him? I just have to see him one more time before his funeral. To say goodbye. You can’t say I’m not entitled.’ Tears trickled down her cheeks.

Briefly, DC Fleet laid a comforting hand on her arm. The idea that Brent himself might be more involved had occurred to him once or twice in odd moments but until now he had never seriously considered him as anything other than a victim and Mrs Rider’s story was fairly thin . . . Plus it was all hearsay and she would be regarded as an unsatisfactory witness if she ever ended up on the stand. Still, he would bear it in mind. Might even talk to this Robbie.

He frowned, wondering why he had never seriously fingered Brent for the murder. Abruptly, his face cleared. Of course. Brent had been kidnapped before Jem disappeared.

He looked at Mrs Rider. Somehow her frazzled appearance and the tears for her dead son touched him unexpectedly. Poor woman. Would she ever recover from this loss? Impulsively, he pulled a clean, folded handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and handed it to her. Without unfolding it, she dabbed carefully at her face, then put it into her pocket undisturbed. She stood up unsteadily and straightened her clothes. ‘I’ll be off then, Mr Fleet,’ she said, with a belated attempt at dignity.

‘I promise to be in touch, Mrs Rider.’

EIGHT

D
etective Constable Fleet heard about Maude’s outburst in the bank and went round immediately to speak with the bank manager.

‘You can’t blame me!’ cried Franks, the moment they entered his office. ‘I was only following your orders. “Hedge”, you said. “We have to play for time.” Those were your exact words! “She stands to lose a huge amount of money.” That’s what you advised and that’s what I did. She flew into a rage and was nearly hysterical.’ He closed the door carefully so they should not be overheard. ‘You, Detective Constable Fleet, are certainly out of favour with Mrs Brent – but so are we, and that dreadful Hemmings fellow has been in, as pleased as punch, hoping to have another titbit for his wretched article!’

Franks had decided not to allow the policeman to sit down. That would punish him for the grief he had caused the bank. Head Office had been most censorious when they had received an account of Mrs Brent’s behaviour. They had refused to listen to Mr Franks’ explanation that he was merely complying with the wishes of the police in an attempt to prevent a crime. He sat down in his chair and shuffled a few papers, refusing to make eye contact.

‘I’m sorry, naturally, Mr Franks, that she saw fit to make a scene. Very unpleasant for you and your staff.’

DC Fleet glanced towards a chair but the manager ignored his unspoken request.
Let the blighter stand up
, he thought venomously.

‘Unpleasant?’ he echoed. ‘It certainly was. A shocking outburst. I would describe it as humiliating. Our clients were astonished and no doubt offended by the accusation she made – telling them we refused to support her in an emergency! Can you imagine that? Worse, it will now be repeated all over the town and our reputation will suffer. Even if they didn’t take her seriously it made us all look utter fools!’ He blinked rapidly. ‘And who is going to be blamed? Me, of course!’

The policeman began to improve on his earlier apology but Franks took his watch from his waistcoat pocket and glared at it. ‘I’m a very busy man, DC Fleet,’ he said curtly. ‘I’ve plenty to do with my time and I’ve told you what happened.’ He remembered suddenly that he had more to say. ‘I do, however, have a suggestion to make. I have talked at length with Head Office since the unpleasantness and they think there may be a way out of the dilemma. They suggested we might release half the money as a show of goodwill. Another meeting could then be arranged which would be an exchange – the rest of the money for the handover of the hostage – when hopefully an arrest could be made.’

Still smarting from the disrespect the manager had shown him, DC Fleet tried to hide his satisfaction. The bank, fearful for its good reputation, was trying to redeem itself. But was it a serious possibility? At this stage he felt willing to clutch at any straw and cursed inwardly for not thinking of it himself. Of course, it would all depend on the kidnappers’ patience, but he certainly must raise the suggestion with his superiors and also with Mrs Brent.

‘Well,’ he said, trying not to sound too excited. ‘I’ll pass on the suggestion. Please thank your Head Office.’

Franks nodded without much enthusiasm. He had the air of a disillusioned man, thought the detective, but it was understandable in the circumstances.

Without more ado, Franks rang his bell and asked his secretary to show the detective out and, after a moment’s hesitation, DC Fleet nodded and followed the young man out of the manager’s office.

Turning to the detective he asked excitedly, ‘Are you going to get the kidnappers, sir?’

DC Fleet nodded. ‘Of course we are! It’s our job!’ he said but as he returned to the sunlit pavement, he wished he felt as confident as he sounded. The truth was that he felt out of his depth, never having dealt with such a complex case, and terrified that he might put a foot wrong and compromise the investigation. A good result might mean promotion but a failure to apprehend the kidnappers would quite definitely minimize his chances.

Some time later, when Biddy opened the door to DC Fleet, she looked at him with mixed emotions. She accepted that he was doing his job according to police policy and that they had their strategies, but wondered if they were handling Lionel’s kidnapping in the best way possible. Obviously Maude did not think so and Biddy, influenced by her niece, also had her doubts.

She said, ‘Oh! Not more trouble! If you want Mrs Brent, you’ve missed her. She’s taken some paintings to Hastings for tonight’s rendezvous. Mr Jayson from the Romilees took her in his motor car. She was so grateful.’ Should she invite him in, she wondered, in Maude’s absence? Was it appropriate? ‘He’s a really kind man, is Mr Jayson.’

‘I’ll speak to Mrs Brent when I get back to Hastings but now I’d like to speak with Alice Crewe.’

Biddy hesitated. She didn’t fancy admitting that Alice was refusing to leave her room and had gone into the mother of all sulks.

‘She’s resting. She’s not at all well.’

‘In that case I’d like to talk to you about her. May I come in, please?’

Sensing that he was not likely to take no for an answer, she opened the door reluctantly and led him into the sitting room. Once ensconced in an armchair he said, ‘I’d like to know a little more about Miss Crewe. How did you meet her?’

Biddy explained about the surprise interview that Lionel had arranged. She smiled. ‘Maude was determined she wasn’t going to agree because she has me and didn’t need a companion, but when they met they got along like a house on fire. Once she’d moved in, it seemed she’d always belonged here. The three of us get along very well.’
Except for the past day or two
, she thought somewhat guiltily, but there was no need to mention that.

‘So where did Mr Brent meet her?’

Biddy leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling. She frowned. ‘Well, I can’t say. Either I never knew or I’ve forgotten. Funny . . .’

‘But Mrs Brent saw her references, I take it.’

‘Oh yes! At least, I suppose so.’ Her memory was playing tricks again, she thought nervously. At the time it hadn’t seemed important for Biddy to know everything that happened before Alice had been with the old lady. ‘I’m sure Lionel would have checked references.’

‘I wonder . . . Perhaps I could see one or two.’ He looked at her hopefully. ‘Just to satisfy my curiosity.’

‘We–ell, you can if I can find them. It means looking through Lionel’s desk and I don’t really care to do that.’

He said firmly, ‘I’m afraid it’s necessary.’

‘But why?’

‘We can’t ignore any possible leads, Miss Cope. You see, someone from Miss Crewe’s past might have traced her here and decided there was money to be made from kidnapping her current employer.’ Seeing her expression change, he went on hurriedly. ‘I’m not suggesting Miss Crewe is involved in any way. I’m sure she isn’t, but if we could contact some of her earlier employers . . . She may have had a young man, a male admirer, perhaps, who was taking advantage of the situation.’

‘Oh dear! She wouldn’t like that!’ Biddy hesitated. ‘I’ll look in Lionel’s desk, then. It’s in a good cause, isn’t it?’

‘Certainly. It might lead to his release.’