A Certain Justice (18 page)

They moved back to the next line and, finally, to twenty-five metres, shooting, checking the hits, reloading, checking again. At the end of the seventy rounds they waited while the instructor added up and recorded their scores. Both had qualified, but Kate had scored the higher.

Piers spoke for almost the first time. “Congratulations. Go on like this and you’ll get seconded for royal protection. Think of all those Buck House garden parties.”

They checked in their weapons and equipment, received their signed cards and had almost reached the lift when they heard the telephone.

The AFO put his head out of his office and called: “It’s for you, ma’am.”

Kate heard Dalgliesh’s voice: “Is Piers with you?”

“Yes, sir. We’ve just completed the qualifying test.”

“There’s a suspicious death at Eight, Pawlet Court, in the Middle Temple. A woman QC at the criminal Bar, Venetia Aldridge. Collect your murder bags and meet me there. The manned gate from Tudor Street will be open and they’ll show you where to park.”

Kate said: “The Temple? Isn’t that for the City, sir?”

“Normally, yes, but we’re taking it with City back-up. An exercise in co-operation. Actually the boundary between Westminster and the City runs through the middle of Number Eight. Lord Justice Boothroyd and his wife have their flat on the top floor and Lady Boothroyd’s bedroom is said to be half in Westminster and half in the City. Both she and the judge are out of London, which saves one complication.”

“Right, sir, we’re leaving now.”

Going down in the lift, she put Piers in the picture. He said: “So we’re to work with those giants from the City. God knows where they recruit their six-footers. Probably breed them. Why is this for us, anyway?”

“Senior barrister murdered, judge and his wife living upstairs, sacred precincts of the Middle Temple. Not exactly your usual scene of crime.”

Piers said: “Not exactly your usual suspects. Add to which the Head of Chambers probably knows the Commissioner. It’ll be pleasant for AD. Between grilling members of the Bar he’ll be able to contemplate the thirteenth-century effigies in the Round Church. Should even inspire a new slim volume of verse. It’s time he gave us one.”

“Why don’t you suggest it? I should like to see his reaction. Do you want to drive or shall I?”

“You, please. I want to get there safely. All that banging away has unsettled my nerves. I hate loud noises, especially when I’m making them myself.”

Clicking on her seat belt, Kate said on impulse: “I wish I knew why I always look forward to a shoot. I can’t imagine wanting to kill an animal, let alone a man, but I like guns. I like using them. I like the feel of the Smith and Wesson in my hand.”

“You like shooting because it’s a skill and you’re very good at it.”

“It can’t only be that. It’s not the only thing I’m good at. I’m beginning to think that shooting is addictive.”

He said: “Not for me, but, then, I’m not as good as you. Anything we’re good at gives us a sense of power.”

“So that’s what it amounts to, power?”

“Of course. You’re holding something that can kill. What else does that give you but a sense of power? No wonder it’s addictive,”

It hadn’t been a comfortable conversation. With an effort of will Kate put the shooting range out of her mind. They were on their way to a new job. As always she felt, along the veins, that fizz of exhilaration that came with every new case. She thought, as she often did, how fortunate she was. She had a job which she enjoyed and knew she did well, a boss she liked and admired. And now there was this murder with all it promised of excitement, human interest, the challenge of the investigation, the satisfaction of ultimate success. Someone had to die before she could feel like this. And that, too, wasn’t a comfortable thought.

D
algliesh arrived first at Number Eight, Pawlet Court. The court lay quiet and empty in the strengthening light. The sweet-smelling air was pricked with a faint mist, presaging another unseasonably warm day. The great horse chestnut was still weighted with the heaviness of high summer. Only a few of the leaves had stiffened into the brown and gold of their autumn decrepitude. As Dalgliesh entered the court, carrying his murder bag which looked so deceptively like a more orthodox case, he wondered how a casual watcher would see him. Probably as a solicitor arriving for a consultation about a brief. But there were no watchers. The court lay open to the morning in an expectant calm, as removed from the grinding traffic of Fleet Street and the Embankment as if it were a provincial cathedral close.

The door of Number Eight opened as soon as he reached it. They were, of course, expecting him. A young woman whose smeared and puffy face showed that she had recently been crying ushered him in with an inaudible welcome and disappeared through an open door to the left, where she seated herself behind the reception desk and stared into space. Three men came out of a room to the right of the hall and Dalgliesh saw with surprise that one of them was the forensic pathologist, Miles Kynaston.

Shaking hands, he said: “What’s this, Miles? Premonition?”

“No, coincidence. I had an early consultation at E. N. Mumford’s Chambers in Inner Temple. They’re calling me for the defence in the Manning case at the Bailey next week.”

Turning, he introduced his companions. Hubert Langton, Head of Chambers, and Drysdale Laud, both of whom Dalgliesh had briefly met before. Laud shook hands with the wariness of a man who is uncertain how far it would be prudent to acknowledge the acquaintanceship.

Langton said: “She’s in her room on the first floor, just above this. Do you want me to come up?”

“Later perhaps. Who found her?”

“Our Senior Clerk, Harry Naughton, when he arrived this morning. That was at about nine. He’s in his office with one of the junior clerks, Terry Gledhill. The only other member of staff in Chambers is the secretary-receptionist, Miss Caldwell, who let you in. Other people, staff and members of Chambers, will be arriving soon. I don’t think I can keep members of Chambers out of their rooms, but I suppose the staff could be sent home.”

He looked at Laud as if seeking guidance. Laud’s voice was uncompromising: “Obviously we shall co-operate. But the work has to go on.”

Dalgliesh said calmly: “But the investigation of murder — if this is murder — takes precedence. We shall have to search Chambers and the fewer people here the better. We don’t intend to waste time, ours or yours. Is there a room we can use temporarily for interviews?”

It was Laud who replied: “You can have mine. It’s two floors up at the back. Or there’s the reception room. If we close Chambers for the morning that will be free.”

“Thank you. We’ll use the reception room. In the meantime it would be helpful if you could stay here together until we have had a preliminary look at the body. Detective Inspectors Kate Miskin and Piers Tarrant are on their way with the back-up team. We may have to tape off a part of the court but I hope not for long. Meanwhile I’d be glad to have a list of all occupants of Chambers with their addresses, and a plan of the Middle and Inner Temple with all the entrances marked, if you have one. It would also be helpful to have a plan of this building showing which rooms the members occupy.”

Langton said: “Harry has a map of the Temple in his office. I think it has all the entrances marked. I’ll get Miss Caldwell to type out the list of members for you. And the staff, of course.”

Dalgliesh said: “And the key. Who has it?”

Langton took it from his pocket and handed it over. He said: “I locked both the outer and inner doors after Laud and I had seen the body. This one key opens both.”

“Thank you.” Dalgliesh turned to Kynaston. “Shall we go up, Miles?”

It interested but did not surprise him that Kynaston had waited for him to arrive before examining the body. As a forensic pathologist Miles had all the virtues. He came quickly. He worked without fuss or complaint however inconvenient the terrain or repellent the decomposing corpse. He spoke little, but always to the point, and he was blessedly free of that sardonic humour with which some of his colleagues — and not always the least distinguished — attempted to demonstrate their imperviousness to the more gruesome realities of violent death.

He was dressed now as he always was whatever the season, in a tweed suit with a waistcoat and a thin wool shirt with the collar ends buttoned down. Mounting the stairs behind his stumbling gait, Dalgliesh wondered again at the contrast between this graceless solidity and the precision and delicacy with which Kynaston could insinuate his fingers, gloved in their second skin of white latex, into the body’s unresisting cavities, the reverence with which he laid those dreadfully experienced hands on violated flesh.

The four rooms on the first floor had outer doors of stout oak banded with iron. Behind the outer oak of Venetia Aldridge’s room was an inner door with a keyhole but no push-button security system. The key turned easily and as they entered Dalgliesh put out his hand to the left of the door and switched on the light.

The scene that met their eyes was so bizarre that it might have been a tableau in Grand Guignol, deliberately contrived to confront, astonish and horrify. The desk chair in which she sat slumped had swung round so that she was facing them as they entered, the head a little forward, the chin pressed against the throat. The top of the full-bottomed wig was covered with blood, leaving only a few stiff grey curls visible. Dalgliesh moved close to the body. Blood had flowed down over the left-hand side of the face to soak the fine wool of her black cardigan and stain with reddish brown the edges of a cream shirt. The left eye was obscured with globules of viscous blood which, as he watched, seemed to tremble and solidify. The right eye, glazed with the dull impassivity of death, was fixed beyond him as if his presence was unworthy of notice. Her forearms rested on the arms of the chair, the drooping hands with the two middle fingers a little lowered frozen into a gesture as graceful as a ballet-dancer’s. Her black skirt had rucked up above the knees, and knees and legs were held close together and slanted to the left, a pose reminiscent of the deliberate provocation of a fashion model. The fine nylon tights sheened the knee bones and emphasized every plane of the long elegant legs. One black court shoe with its medium heel had fallen or been kicked off. She was wearing a narrow wedding ring, but no other jewellery except for an elegant, square-faced gold watch on the left wrist.

There was a small table to the right of the door. It was covered with papers and briefs tied with red tape. Dalgliesh went over and placed his murder bag in the only clear space, then took out and put on his search gloves. Kynaston had, as always, taken his from his suit pocket. He tore off the end of the envelope and put them on, then drew very close to the body, Dalgliesh at his shoulder.

He said: “I’ll state the obvious. Either the blood was poured over the wig within the last three hours or it contains an anticoagulant.” His hands moved about the neck, gently rotated the head, touched the hands. Then with extreme care he lifted the wig from her head, bent low over her hair, sniffed as if he were a dog and as gently replaced the wig. He said: “Rigor well developed. Probably dead twelve to fourteen hours. No obvious wound. Wherever it came from, the blood isn’t hers.”

With extraordinary delicacy the stubby fingers undid the buttons of her cashmere cardigan to reveal the shirt. Dalgliesh saw that there was a narrow, sharp-edged cut just below a button on the left side. She was wearing a bra. The swell of the breasts looked very white against the creamy sheen of the silk. Kynaston placed his hand underneath the left breast and gently released it from the bra. There was a puncture wound, a narrow slit about one inch long, a little depressed and with some superficial oozing but no blood.

Kynaston said: “A thrust to the heart. He was either very lucky or very skilled. I’ll confirm it on the table, but death must have been almost instantaneous.”

Dalgliesh asked: “And the weapon?”

“Long, thin, rapier-like. A narrow dagger. Could be a thin knife, but that’s unlikely. Both sides were sharp. Could be a steel paper-knife provided it’s sharp, pointed, strong and at least four inches long in the blade.”

It was then that they heard the running footsteps and the door was flung open with force. They turned towards it, their bodies shielding the corpse. The man who stood in the doorway was literally shaking with anger, his face a white mask of outrage. He was holding a pouch like a clear plastic hot-water bottle, and now he shook it at them.

“What’s going on here? Who has taken my blood?”

Dalgliesh, without replying, stood to one side. The result in other circumstances would have been risible. The newcomer stared at the body in a wide-eyed parody of disbelief. He opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, moved quietly, cat-like, into the room as if the corpse were a figment of his imagination which would disappear if only he could bring himself to confront it. When he did speak he had his voice under control.

“Someone has a curious sense of humour. And what are you doing here?”

Dalgliesh said: “I would have thought that was obvious. This is Dr. Kynaston, who is a forensic pathologist. My name is Dalgliesh. I’m from New Scotland Yard. Are you a member of these Chambers?”

“Desmond Ulrick. And yes, I am a member of these Chambers.”

“And you arrived when?”

Ulrick’s gaze was still fixed on the body but with a look which Dalgliesh thought held more fascinated curiosity than horror. He said: “My usual time. Ten minutes ago.”

“And no one stopped you?”

“Why should they? As I have said, I’m a member of these Chambers. The door was closed, which is unusual, but I have a key. Miss Caldwell was at her desk as usual. No one else was around as far as I could see. I went down to my room. It’s in the basement at the back. A few minutes ago I opened my refrigerator to take out a carton of milk. The stored blood was missing. The blood was drawn three days ago and was being stored for a minor operation I’m due to have on Saturday.”