Good Morning, Midnight (18 page)

“Good thinking,” said Pascoe, checking the fingerprint report. “Constable Maycock and Sergeant Bonnick, who had their prints taken for elimination. But also there’s a full palm-print from someone else not known. Meaning?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Me neither. Here’s something else. On the doorknob they found prints from Sergeant Bonnick and Constables Maycock and Jennison. No one else.”

He looked at Novello expectantly.

“What about Maciver?” she said. “He must have turned the knob to get in.”

“You’d think so,” said Pascoe. “Though I suppose with three other people touching the knob, his prints could have got covered over. But how to explain that on the key there’s only one partial, not Maciver’s?”

“Keys are crap to dust,” said Novello. “Partial could have been there for years. And maybe Jennison wiped it clean for a laugh.”

Shaking his head reprovingly, Pascoe pushed the door open.

The study was full of light. The previous night on his command the shutters had been fully opened to check that they were as secure as they looked. They were. In fact the shutter catches were almost melded together by corrosion, and the sash windows were stiff from long disuse, making Pascoe wonder if they’d remained shut ever since the death of Pal Maciver Senior ten years earlier. He’d instructed that they be left open to let some air into the room to waft away the smell of smoke, cordite and death.

Novello found herself staring fixedly at the bespattered desk, trying to imagine what it was that could bring a man to this level of despair or self-hate. She forced her gaze away and tried to get a feel for the rest of the room. Two tall cabinets packed with books, most of them backed with that posh leather that tells the world, We’re so awfully dull, no one ever reads us; picture of some guy on the wall dressed like a tramp, not bad looking if he lightened up a bit; on one side a coil of rope and on the other an ice axe whose function she recognized from a short but entertaining relationship she’d had with a rock climber who’d almost got her interested in the sport by doing something very ingenious with her on the sports centre climbing wall one night after everyone else had gone. But not even the prospect of a reprise had persuaded her it was worth submitting herself to the violence of wind, weather, vegetation and insect life by joining him on expeditions to godforsaken places like Wales or the Lake District.

“Shirley,” said Pascoe in a tone which suggested that this wasn’t the first time he’d said it. “Still with me? Good. You’ve just read the file on the previous case. Take me through the sequence of events then.”

Novello refocused.

“They worked out he put a record on the turntable, set it playing, sat down, started to write a note to his wife…”

“How do we know it was to his wife?” interrupted Pascoe.

“Because he’d addressed an envelope to her. But he must have changed his mind about the note. Perhaps he decided the poetry book would do just as well. So he set fire to the note, dropped it in the bin, took his shoe and sock off, put his big toe through a loop of twine, the other end of which was tied round the trigger of a shotgun, placed the trigger under his jaw, and blew his head off.”

“Interesting. Why did he set fire to the note? Any speculation there?”

“Nothing in the file, but I presume because he wrote something which didn’t sound right when he read it back to himself. Maybe it was something nasty, like he was blaming her. Sir, why are you bothering yourself about what the father did ten years ago? Surely we should be concentrating on what the son did last night?”

“But we know why the son did things the way he did,” said Pascoe. “Because he was imitating his dad. The question is, why did he want to imitate his dad? And what precisely was it about his dad’s death he thought he was imitating? Was it more than just the method and sequence? Was he perhaps trying to tell us he had the same motives? And if that’s the case, we’ve got to be sure we understand why he thought his father killed himself.”

Novello considered this then said, “According to the tape…”

“What tape?” said Pascoe, raising his eyebrows at her.

“Sorry. According to rumour, he thought his father was driven to suicide by a combination of things, but mainly by the behaviour and attitudes of his wife. So perhaps it was the same for Pal Junior.”

“You mean his own wife, Sue-Lynn, not Kay Kafka?”

“The envelope was addressed to Sue-Lynn.”

“But was the poem addressed to her as well, or was that just straight forward imitation of his dad’s bad example? And why did he want to imitate his father anyway? What did he hope to achieve by doing that? Better still, perhaps we should ask ourselves, what has he achieved by doing that?”

Novello half hid a yawn and said, “Not a lot, I’d say, except make us… spend a lot of time trawling through the old case.”

She’d been going to say waste, but thought that on top of the yawn this might be an implied criticism too far.

But Pascoe was looking at her as if she’d come close to saying something profound.

“You may have something there, Shirley. Would you care to expand?”

She was spared this trial (why did she always feel so tested in Pascoe’s company?) by Jennison’s voice calling, “Sir? Sir?” from the hall below.

Pascoe went out on to the landing and looked down. Jennison was leaning his bulk against the closed front door as if anticipating an attempt to force it open.

“Yes?”

“Got some people outside would like to speak with you, sir. Two ladies. The sisters, I think they said.”

Cressida. Now sober, he hoped.

“So, one lady’s the sister. And the other?”

“No, sir. I think both ladies said they was the sister.”

Helen? Risen so soon from her maternity ward bed? Not likely.

Someone started thumping very hard on the door.

Pascoe said, “Better let them in,” and started descending the stairs.

Jennison opened the door and Cressida Maciver almost fell in, her face flushed with, he hoped, anger rather than booze. She was followed less precipitately by a woman in her late fifties, leaning, though not too heavily, on a knobbly oak walking stick.

“There you are!” Cressida cried accusingly. “Was it on your instructions that this fat oaf shut me out of my own house?”

“Miss Maciver,” said Pascoe, deciding to keep it formal for the time being. “I understand what a trying time this must be for you, but being personally offensive to my officer isn’t going to make things easier for anyone. Let’s go through here.”

He led them into the kitchen where he knew they could sit without making themselves comfortable. Jennison had followed and was looking round hopefully for any sign of tea-making equipment.

Pascoe said, “Thank you, Joker. Back on the door if you please,” then turned his attention to the newcomers.

Jennison’s confusion was soon explained.

The other woman was Pal Senior’s sister, Lavinia Maciver.

Cressida seemed somewhat abashed by Pascoe’s reproof and it was left to the older woman to explain their presence.

“I do not care to be troubled by either telephonic or broadcasting equipment, Mr Pascoe, so I knew nothing of this dreadful business till Mr Waverley, who likes to keep abreast of events, came round to tell me this morning, an act of true friendship, I think you’ll agree.”

“Indeed. Er, Mr Waverley…?”

“An old friend. I was naturally shocked. Mr Waverley, thinking I would probably want more information than was available from the media, offered to drive me into town. Our first call was at my niece’s house…”

She paused and glanced at Cressida as if inviting her input.

The younger woman seized the chance and, to Pascoe’s relief, injected a bit of pace into the narrative.

“I was still in bed, still in shock from last night, I reckon. Anyway I got up and Aunt Vinnie and I had a heart-to-heart and we decided we needed to come and see you people and get the latest news from the horse’s mouth. But first we drove out to Cothersley to see Sue-Lynn. Waste of time. No sign of her. Probably it was her day at the beautician’s to have her bikini line done. For some reason Aunt Vinnie suggested we called at the Hall to see Kay, but she wasn’t in either, for which relief much thanks. Then we went to the hospital to see how Helen was. Stopped to buy some flowers but needn’t have bothered. That Yankee bitch had been there already and the place was like Kew Gardens. Spent some time with Helen-Jase turned up as we were going so we had to rap with him too, naturally-then we headed for the cop-shop only to find no one over the rank of tea boy available, so we came on here and struck lucky. Bring us up to date, Chief Inspector.”

“I’m afraid there’s little more for me to tell you,” said Pascoe. “The investigation is proceeding with all possible speed. All violent deaths are treated as suspicious, but in this case I can say that nothing in the preliminary forensic reports contradicts our first impression that your brother died at his own hand.”

“And that’s it?” said Cressida incredulously.

What, wondered Pascoe, would she like me to say that wasn’t it?

But he was familiar enough with the irrationalities of grief not to let the thought show.

“For the time being, I fear it is,” he said gently.

“So what the hell’s a big gun like you doing out here?” demanded Cressida.

This was a good question and not one to which he could offer an easy answer.

Novello said, “Sir…”

“What?”

“I thought I heard a noise…”

Was she being merely diplomatic to get him off Cress’s hook?

He said, “Where?”

She raised her eyes to the ceiling.

“I’d better check, then. Excuse me, ladies.”

He went out into the corridor and back to the main stair. The front door was ajar and he could see Jennison’s substantial frame on the step. Not much chance of anyone having got past him. Unless they had a bum to die for.

He ran lightly up the stairs, and halted when he came to the landing.

The study door was wide open. He remembered pulling it to behind him.

He advanced quietly and looked inside.

A man he’d never seen before was down on one knee by the old record player on which Pal Maciver’s farewell music had been played. He supported himself by leaning on a silver-topped ebony walking stick. He looked to be in his sixties and was smartly dressed in an expensive-looking mohair overcoat in charcoal grey and a black trilby.

“What the hell are you doing here?” demanded Pascoe.

The man rose, removed his trilby to reveal vigorous near-white hair, smiled and said, “DCI Pascoe, is it? Good to meet you. Laurence Waverley. I brought Miss Maciver, both Misses Maciver, here.”

“Did you? Then you’ll know that this is a crime scene, Mr Waverley. Would you care to tell me what you are doing here without authority?”

The change of tone was partly a matter of personal style but also down to the fact that, upright and face on, authority wasn’t something you could accuse Mr Waverley of not having.

“Reluctant though I am to shelter behind encroaching age, I have to admit to a slight prostate problem. I came upstairs in search of a loo. Idle curiosity, I fear, made me open the study door. Idle but not altogether morbid. I recall the sorrow occasioned by Mr Maciver Senior’s death, and I am distressed that my dear friend, Miss Lavinia, is having to go through this dreadful experience yet again.”

“You knew the father then?”

Waverley’s gaze went to the portrait on the wall.

“Only in a professional sense. We were not friends. Few people make friends of a VAT investigator.”

“Ah,” said Pascoe, ushering him through the door on to the landing. “You’re a VAT-man.”

“Was. Safely retired. Please accept my apologies for trespassing in this way, Chief Inspector. I should have realized the study would be treated as a crime scene until the authorities have established beyond all doubt it was suicide. That process, I presume, is not yet complete?”

“Why do you say that?”

“A DCI on site? My slight experience of the police suggests that CID likes to wash its hands of suicides as quickly as possible and get on with the investigation of real crime.”

“Just routine, Mr Waverley. Let’s join the others.”

They went down the stairs. Jennison’s form was still visible through the front door. Waverley must have entered in the few moments when the constable had been in the kitchen.

Novello looked at the newcomer curiously, then raised an enquiring eyebrow at Pascoe.

“Mr Laurence Waverley,” he said. “In search of a loo.”

Cressida, who was sitting at the table looking pale and angry, didn’t even glance up. Lavinia, standing at the window which gave a view of the extensive and heavily wooded rear garden, turned and smiled.

“There you are, Mr W,” she said. “Would you believe it, the green peckers are still here. Do you recall the first time we met? We heard one hammering away and I was able to take you right to its nest? I wonder if they’re still using that old beech. Of course it may have blown down by now. It was quite rotten ten years ago. Shall we go out and look?”

Waverley glanced at Pascoe, smiled wryly as if to say, We each deal with death in our own way, and said, “Of course, my dear.”

He tried the back door. It was locked. He turned to the glass-fronted key cupboard on the wall under the electricity supply box, but before he could touch it, Pascoe said, “I wonder, would you mind going out of the front door?”

Once let them start opening other entrances to the house, it would become a public thoroughfare. He glanced at Novello. This was a good chance for her to have a chat with Lavinia out of Cressida’s presence.

She gave a little nod as if he’d spoken the instruction out loud and set off after them. He returned his attention to the key cupboard. On its top there was a scatter of fine debris, plaster, mortar, the kind of stuff you’d expect to accrue in an old neglected house, but thicker here than on any other surface. By contrast the tiled floor beneath looked like it had been well brushed.