More Deaths Than One (18 page)

A policeman killed in the close proximity of a theatre with which a victim and his suspected murderer had also been involved demanded questions about any connections between them, which was what Cherry's “whatever” was all about. His murder could hardly have come out of the blue. But what sort of connections? There'd been one, at least. Mitch had been aware of the two men's dubious activities. Janet Lindsay had told him.

Poor Janet, nearly out of her mind with shock and horror. “I only mentioned it briefly, what I thought was going on, sir, because I was concerned about young Trish. He warned me to cool it, to keep my eyes and ears open but otherwise do nothing until I was more certain. And then to go and poke about doing something off his own bat ... it was having spare time on his hands, I suppose. Oh God, if I hadn't gone to Rhodes ...”

She looked so pale and distraught, so shaken out of her usual unflappable calmness, but Mayo hadn't the heart to tell her not to blame herself. It would be a waste of time because she would anyway, whatever he said. She was going through her own private hell at the moment, but she was tough and sensible; she would come through, given time.

“It was that Oscar thing on his desk. You know the one,” Kite announced with barely concealed satisfaction, lowering himself onto the arm of the chair on the far side of Mayo's desk, prepared for a discussion.

Although Mayo's men had previously searched Cockayne's office for any clues as to why he'd gone missing, the forensic team had now been called in and, with a different objective in mind, with Cockayne now chief suspect in two murders, one of which had probably taken place on the premises, their minute searches had met some interesting discoveries. Not least, what was thought to be the murder weapon, which had been standing on Cockayne's desk all the time.

By “Oscar” Kite meant an ostentatious-looking trophy in the form of a bust of George Bernard Shaw, which the Lavenstock Thespians had brought home in triumph that year from a national amateur dramatic festival. It was about twelve inches high, standing on a square base, and the whole thing had been cast in some heavy base metal, then finished in shiny plastic gold. It was too much to hope that it hadn't been wiped clean of fingerprints by the murderer, but protective felt had been stuck under the base to prevent it scratching any polished surface it might stand on, and it was almost certain there would be minute traces of blood and hair, invisible to the naked eye, still adhering to that. The lab would give their verdict as soon as possible – and on some of the vinyl floor tiles which had been removed for examination also – but Doc Ison was of the opinion anyway that the corner of the base would definitely correspond with the wound on the temple. The post mortem had revealed a
contre-coup
injury on the back of the head, showing that Mitch had fallen, or been pushed, onto some hard surface, probably the floor, before the fatal blow to the temple had been delivered.

The use of the trophy as the murder weapon positively linked Mitch's murder with Cockayne, if anything more had been needed.

“Obviously left there because Cockayne knew it would be missed if he got rid of it,” Mayo surmised. “Sort of makes its presence felt, a thing like that. You'd be bound to notice if it wasn't there.”

“Lili Anand certainly would. She told Spalding she puts it back on the desk every morning because Underwood always moves it to what he considers a better place when he cleans the office.”

“That figures!”

“That conversation Foster overheard in the men's room – it must've been Mitch they were talking about,” Kite said. “He must've gone down there that night after the rehearsal to have a look for himself after Lindsay told him what she suspected ... he taxed them with it ... Cockayne killed him ... they slung him in the river and that was it.”

Mayo, leaning back in his chair, contemplating the ceding, brought his gaze back to Kite's face. “Let's not go over the top on this, Martin. You're assuming too much where we can't afford to assume one damn thing. Mitch
might
have gone down there. Cockayne
might
have killed him. Ad right, suppose Mitch
had
found out what was going on, suppose he had proof even – though how the hell he could've had is beyond me at the moment – they'd be in it over the ears all right, but killing a police officer ... hardly likely to make things any better, was it?”

“You know what they're like, some of these types. Land out first, think after.”

“He was a big lad. He knew how to take care of himself.”

“There were two of them, for Christ's sake!”

“Okay, okay –”

“They'd have got the wind up when they realized what they'd done, what a helluva stir a missing copper was going to make – or Fleming did, and maybe threatened to blow it – and so Cockayne decided to finish him off too, setting it up to look like suicide.”

“It's a theory.” Mayo sprang to his feet and began to pace restlessly. “But we haven't one scrap of evidence that that was how it happened. I realize it's an emotive subject, Mitch being concerned and all, but for God's sake let's keep an open mind, Martin. We don't
know
he went down to the theatre to confront them. If we don't go putting our own interpretation on what Greg Foster overheard, we can get a very different picture.”

Kite stiffened. “You're saying that
Mitch
was trying to get a nice little line going with those bastards! It's what the super thinks as well, isn't it?”

“Don't put words into my mouth. I'm saying nothing, except that it's dangerous to make your mind up and then look for the evidence to support what you think. In my own mind I can't believe any such thing about Mitch, I tell myself he couldn't possibly be involved in muck like that – but it happens. And when the time comes that we can build a case on gut feeling alone, you let me know.”

Kite sat rigid, every pore giving out signals of outrage and disbelief.

“Mind you,” Mayo went on, “off the record, I'm not going to say you could be wholly wrong.”

Nobody on the whole strength envied George Atkins the job he was sent out to do, least of all Kite, who was sent with him, dragging his feet like an unwilling schoolboy, feeling like every kind of a heel.

Atkins, staid and unflappable, with half a lifetime's experience, twenty years of that in C.I.D., was more philosophical. Though disliking what they had to do no less than Kite, he knew it wasn't the first time a copper had been suspected of being bent and it wouldn't be the last. He was prepared to reserve judgement.

Mitch had lived on his own in what was grandly termed a flat but was in reality no more than a superior bed-sitter with an alcove off forming a tiny but well-designed kitchen, equipped with what Kite recognised as do-it-yourself units. The pot plants were still thriving, there was food in the fridge: a portion of pork pie that was by now rather suspect, half a bottle of white wine, some tomatoes and cheese and the heart of a slightly wilted lettuce. The only thing missing was Mitch.

His landlady was stunned with the news. She said, “Well, I don't know, he came home last week and said he'd had a good holiday. I haven't seen him since last Wednesday, but there was times when I didn't see him for weeks, his job being what it is.”

Mrs. Ainstey was a young mother with three under-school-age children, which prevented her from going out to work, and that was why, when the mortgage rates went up again, she and her husband had decided to let the front room, to help out with the finances. Over a cup of tea in the kitchen, with the children shunting cars round their feet, she said, “We talked it over a lot – I mean, letting strangers into your home, it can be asking for trouble, can't it? But Mitch was a real nice guy, helped my Dave put the kitchen units in there he did, papered and painted it all afterwards, him and his girlfriend. Wouldn't have surprised me if he hadn't moved out soon, though. I mean, it wouldn't have mattered to me if she'd moved in with him, I'm not narrow-minded, but there's not much room for two in there, is there? Not on a permanent basis.”

Kite hadn't expected Mitch's quarters to be especially tidy but they were as spruce as the corner of a barrack room, the divan bed neatly restored to its daytime use, and glancing round he was surprised to find how wed organised and comfortable the small space was. One wall was completely filled with unit shelves that accommodated more books than Kite owned, many of them law books. So poor old Mitch hadn't been kidding about that degree, he'd really been serious. Life was a bit of a bugger, sometimes.

Wed okay, that was the easy part. Now for the other.

You couldn't get much lower, Kite reflected, than going through your mate's private belongings, his bank books and insurances, valuing his suits, his shoes, even his Marks and Sparks shirts and underwear.

“What are we expected to find, for God's sake?” he muttered. “Savile Row suits and a bank balance to match the Aga Khan's? They'll be lucky.”

“Just keep on looking, son,” said Atkins, unflappably. “As if he was any other murder victim. That's all we're here for, for now.”

“All right, George, all right, I know what we have to do. But I just don't have to like it as wed, okay?”

Kite was relieved, though in actual fact he knew it proved nothing, that the only evidence of wealth they could find was a Building Society account book with small amounts thriftily stashed in it month by month. And the only extravagance a fairly extensive music centre and a couple of deep, comfortable armchairs – the sort of stuff you might invest in to make a good start to a married life, which was probably what it, and the bank account, were intended for. Mitch had made no secret to anybody what he felt about Janet Lindsay.

And then Atkins found his personal diary. And so much for Cherry's “whatever” and whatever nasty suspicions he might have had about what Mitch was up to.

“When the deed's done,

I'll furnish thee with all things for thy flight;

Thou may'st live bravely in another country.”

THEY MET IN THE CORRIDOR, their paths crossing as Mayo came into the building and Alex, looking pale and fagged out, left to go off duty. “We're becoming like ships that pass in the night. Time something was done about it,” Mayo remarked, hearing its triteness and thinking that Kite would no doubt have found something flip or amusing to make her laugh, but his own brand of humour was of a different sort.

She smiled anyway and the tiredness left her face. “I know,” she said. “In fact, I've been trying to reach you all afternoon. Lois is coming round tonight for supper. Nothing special. We'd both like to see you, but I don't suppose there's the faintest chance of your making it?”

“Not a hope in hell, love, I'm sorry.”

“Oh, well.”

She wouldn't have asked him without good reason, knowing as she did what the situation was, how impossible it was for him to get away for any sort of social interchange just now. He guessed she'd suggested the meeting for his sake as well as her sister's. Knowing that Lois was sometimes hostile towards him, she was thinking it would make things easier for both of them if they met on neutral ground. He doubted it. It was never a good idea for personal relationships to intrude into an investigation. On the other hand, he
was
investigating the case and if Lois was willing to talk to him, if she had something to say that might help, then perhaps he'd better accept the offer on her own terms, rather than have to question her as an unwilling witness. And besides – he needed breathing space in the middle of all this mess; he was still savage about the loss of

Mitch, a good man whose death had been unnecessary. An hour off, helping to get it all in perspective, might not be the worst idea he'd had in months.

“Tell you what – I'll pop in round about half nine. Don't wait supper for me, a coffee and sandwich'll suit me fine. We should be able to wrap things up for tonight by then – unless anything else crops up meantime. Best I can do, I'm afraid, and don't bank on it.”

She knew better than that. “It's more than I expected in the circumstances,” she smiled. “I'll get off, then.” But she didn't go. “Gil, I heard the latest about Mitch. They found his diary, I gather?”

“That's right.” Mayo all of a sudden felt happier, remembering that. He didn't give a damn for Cherry's reasons for wanting the young constable cleared – or not much, anyway. He was just glad the lad's notes had proved he wasn't bent, only that he'd been a damn fool. Either you kept broadly to the rules in this outfit or you got out, and Mitch should've known it. There were no medals for doing your own thing. Policing wasn't a profession for heroes or kudos seekers. But he hadn't deserved to die just because he'd forgotten that.

The two women had had seafood for supper and Alex had made him sandwiches of prawns in brown bread, which were good, very good indeed, carefully made and perfectly served, just as the meal would have been. Alex's attitude to food wasn't adventurous or imaginative like his daughter Julie's was, but then, she wasn't intending making a career out of cooking and what she lacked in originality she made up for in excellence.

Afterwards he sat back with his coffee, relaxed and easy as he'd learned to be in Alex's cool, neutral room. It had intimidated him once, just as she had. He'd thought once that nobody could ever live up to her fastidious standards, and to a certain extent he still did. It sounded a note of caution which he now occasionally listened to whenever he was tempted to push his luck and try to persuade her yet again to marry him.

As he watched her sitting with her long legs curled under her in a corner of the sofa, for the first time that day he felt right with himself, the way he always did when he was with her. In off-duty dark red sweater and full skirt, she had a rounded softness that was only hinted at when she was in uniform, but there was still that neat coordination he liked so much in her, what he could only think of as a relaxed precision, that contrasted favourably with the sharp brittleess of her sister. And yet it was Alex who was the tough one. Not simply tough in the way a policewoman had to be, but essentially unbreakable.