Scene of Crime (11 page)

“I can give you a lift there, if you’d like.”

“Thank you. I’ll just call and let Meg know I’m coming.”

Denis finished the tea that had been pressed on him and stood up. “He’ll be fine, Mrs. Gibson,” he said. “I’m sure he’ll feel a lot better after a good night’s sleep.”

According to Dexter, he had fallen down a flight of steps, and his mother had apparently believed that. He hadn’t fallen down steps, of course; Denis told Mrs. Gibson that in his opinion Dexter had been in a fight, or something. He had tried to discover the truth, but
without success. It was more likely that Dexter had been beaten up, he thought, since it didn’t seem he’d done much in the way of retaliation. He had spoken to Dexter and touched on the possibility of a racial attack, but the boy could not be moved. Dexter said he’d fallen down some steps.

Mrs. Gibson got up and saw him to the front door. “Is Dr. Bignall all right?” she asked. “When I called he sounded a bit odd.”

Denis was about to fob her off with a noncommittal answer, but the woman worked for Carl and Estelle; he had to tell her what had happened.

She listened in shocked silence. “That’s terrible,” she said. “Just terrible. There was no need for that—what could she have done to them? She wasn’t the size of tuppence.”

Denis almost smiled at that description, coming as it did from someone who was hardly what he would describe as robust. “I don’t think they meant it to happen,” he said. “I think they were just trying to keep her from phoning the police, or running out to get help.”

“I can’t believe it,” she said. “I can’t.”

No. Neither could he, until now. Now that he found himself actually telling someone.

Mrs. Gibson shook her head. “Please,” she said, “if you’re speaking to Dr. Bignall, please tell him—” She broke off. “I don’t know,” she said. “Just tell him I’m so sorry.”

“Did you and your wife have a row tonight, Dr. Bignall?”

Carl felt as though he’d been slapped. The man was supposed to be giving him a lift, not questioning him.
He’d been about to tell him there had been a bit of a scene, but what was he? Some sort of mind reader?

“Well … no. Not exactly. How do you know that?”

“The neighbors overheard.”

That was impossible. They couldn’t have overheard. But why would Lloyd lie about a thing like that? “They couldn’t have,” he said.

“Why’s that?”

Carl felt bewildered. First the glove, now this. “It—It wasn’t a row. Not really. More a discussion. And it wasn’t like that—we didn’t raise our voices.”

“Oh? So what sort of discussion was it?”

He sounded much more Welsh than he had before. And Carl knew he didn’t believe him. Again. He thought they’d had some sort of shouting match that the neighbors had heard. What on earth made him think that?

“It was—oh, I don’t know what you’d call it. It wasn’t a row. I really don’t think the neighbors could possibly have heard us.”

“And when did it take place, whatever it was?”

“Just before I left the house.”

“Which was when?”

“Half past seven.”

There was a silence.

Carl sighed. “And you’re wondering how come I didn’t get to the rehearsal until twenty-five to nine,” he said. “Since the Riverside Center is twenty minutes away from my house.”

“I would like to know where you were,” said Lloyd.

“Driving around. I couldn’t face going to the theater and dealing with Marianne’s melodramatics about half the cast being absent—I just drove round to sort myself
out a bit. And then I realized I was letting Marianne down, and I went to the theater.”

“So this row was bad enough for you to feel obliged to cool off?”

“It wasn’t a row,” Carl repeated. “And I didn’t have to cool off, as you put it. Estelle was—well, she was a very difficult woman to live with. She had mood swings and depressions, she was a hypochondriac, she—” He broke off. “Well—she was difficult. And tonight something happened that—that gave me a great deal to think about. That’s all.”

“What happened?”

“I’m sorry,” said Carl. “I really don’t think it’s any of your business. It wasn’t a row, and if the neighbors overheard people having a row, I can assure you it wasn’t me and Estelle.”

“No,” said Lloyd. “Obviously not. The sounds they heard were at a few minutes after eight. So it couldn’t have been you, could it? Not if you left at half past seven.”

“I did leave at half past seven!” Carl said, his voice rising with indignation. Lloyd had been like this all evening; he was tired of not being believed.

“Please, Dr. Bignall, don’t let these questions distress you. They must be asked, that’s all. It’s my job—I have to investigate what happened to your wife.”

“Isn’t it obvious what happened?”

“It’s just the altercation that’s bothering me, Dr. Bignall. The one the neighbors did hear.”

“And you think it was Estelle and me, don’t you?”

Lloyd shook his head. “It’s a little puzzle, Dr. Bignall. And I like to get them cleared up as soon as I can.”

Which meant he did think that it had been him and Estelle. Carl’s head was spinning. This wasn’t happening to him. He hadn’t the faintest idea what had gone on at his house tonight, or who had been having this row the neighbors had heard. But every time he told the man the God’s honest truth, he didn’t believe him. He was very glad when they pulled up outside Denis Leeward’s house and Lloyd wished him good night.

Eric had watched the last car make its way down the street, had waited until he was absolutely sure that no new cops were going to turn up, and now he went out to the landing, released the catch on the ceiling molding, and let down the ladder, climbing up a few steps to look in at the three men who were playing cards.

“Right,” he said. “They’ve gone. You can leave now.”

“Hang on,” said one of the men. “I’m going to win this hand.”

“I said you can leave. Now.”

The other two were keener to leave; they picked up jackets and money while the other still complained. Eric stood at the bottom of the ladder as they emerged, then led them downstairs, through the house to the kitchen. “Keep the noise down,” he said as he opened the door and they trooped into the garage in which their car sat next to his own. A moment later their car left his premises; he closed and locked the garage doors and went back into the kitchen. Bloody woman. What with one thing and another, he hadn’t done half what he had meant to do tonight.

And he was going to have to move everything from up there and get it somewhere safe, just in case.

“Hi,” said Judy as Lloyd bent down and kissed her head. “How’s it going?”

Lloyd had sort of moved in. Judy knew what he was doing; if they didn’t find a house they could both agree on, he would by then have established that they lived in her flat, which was actually big enough for a couple with a baby. And, when she thought about it, it might not be a bad idea. Lloyd was still going on about gardens and things, but he’d never look after a garden, and she certainly wouldn’t. There was the park just a quarter of a mile away, and she hadn’t had a garden when she was growing up; she lived in a flat supplied by the university where her father lectured. She didn’t think it had ever done her any harm. But she supposed that other people were the best judges of that.

“How we’re getting on rather depends on how you look at it,” said Lloyd, sitting down beside her on the sofa. “There’s evidence to suggest that two people broke into an apparently empty house, and the lookout ran away while the other helped himself to the presents under the tree and a couple of other items. Mrs. Bignall heard the window break and came down to investigate, was overpowered, bound and gagged, and forced into the kitchen.”

“Why the kitchen?”

“That’s a little puzzle.”

“And why was she bound and gagged at all?”

“That’s another. And they’re your department.”

“Not my job anymore,” she said, but she applied herself to that one anyway. There seemed little point in tying someone up and gagging them if you were only going to take a handful of Christmas presents. “Could the motive have been sexual?” she asked.

“That’s what I thought, but Freddie says there are no signs of it. He’s not happy that she died as a result of being gagged, though.” Lloyd sat back. “How well do you know Carl Bignall?” he asked.

So, he had come to the same conclusion as Marianne, without knowing the background. “Why do you ask?” she said.

“Well, there’s another little puzzle.” He told her about the disturbance that had been heard at ten past eight. “Carl Bignall says he and his wife had words of some sort, but that he left the house at half past seven. It takes twenty minutes to get from his house to the Riverside Center, and you know when he got to the rehearsal.”

“So there are forty-five minutes unaccounted for? Where was he?”

“He says he was driving around to sort himself out, whatever that means. How many times have we heard the driving round alibi in our careers? And how often has it been true?”

Judy told him then what Marianne had said. “She gave me the name of Estelle’s lawyer, so you could check that what she told me is right,” she said.

“Interesting,” said Lloyd. “What’s your impression of him?”

“He’s on the committee, so I see him once a month,” said Judy. “And lately when I’ve been helping out I’ve seen him every week. He’s always exactly like he was last night. Bright and breezy and jokey. But I don’t know him any better now than I did when I first met him.”

“So you can’t offer an opinion on the likelihood of his doing away with his wife?”

“Not really. But you might want to ask Freddie to test for drugs in her system.”

Lloyd frowned. “Do you think she was a drug user?”

That hadn’t occurred to her. “Maybe,” she said. “But that wasn’t what I meant, really. It’s just that Marianne said Estelle changed after she got married, and was subject to unexplained illnesses. Marianne thinks they were imaginary, but …”

“Perhaps they weren’t,” he finished, yawned, and sat back, his eyes closed.

“And Marianne saw Estelle today,” Judy said. “She says she was perfectly all right—no sniffles.”

“Freddie was surprised she was supposed to have a cold,” said Lloyd.

“So perhaps he was preparing the way for her having suffocated,” said Judy.

“Perhaps,” said Lloyd. “Or perhaps it was just someone who broke in. Freddie wasn’t exactly definite about her having died some other way, and someone was seen running away, after all.”

“Who saw him?”

“He was seen by one Mr. Jones, whom Tom has down as a racist, and apparently not seen by one Mr. Watson, whom Tom has down as a liar.”

“Why does Tom think Mr. Jones is a racist?”

“Because the boy he saw running away was black, and every time Tom asked him to describe him, that was all he said. It irritated him.” He grinned. “But then everything’s irritating him since he got his hair cut.”

“It’s awful, isn’t it?” said Judy. “He looks like Hitler Youth or something. At least he’s not behaving like it, obviously.” Then she felt a little shiver as she realized what Lloyd had actually said about the lookout. “How old was this boy?” she asked.

“Early teens, maybe younger.”

She hoped she was wrong, but she couldn’t not tell him. “Dexter’s black,” she said.

Lloyd’s eyes opened. “If Jones is a racist, I don’t know what category Tom would have you in,” he said. “I take it you’re not putting him forward because he’s in possession of a black skin?”

She made a face. “His mother called to ask if he was at the rehearsal,” she said. “After you and Carl left. So he wasn’t at home with the flu, was he? And his mother obviously didn’t know where he was.”

“Even so,” said Lloyd. “Aren’t you jumping to conclusions just a tiny bit?”

“Not really,” sighed Judy. “He would have expected the Bignalls’ house to be empty, and Dexter Gibson’s half brother is Ryan Chester.”

Now Lloyd sat up. Literally. “Ryan Chester? Would that be burglar, car thief, too-clever-by-half, slippery-as-an-eel, more-trouble-than-a-barrel-load-of-monkeys Ryan Chester?”

“It might just be a coincidence,” she warned.

“Has Dexter got a record?”

“No. He’s never been in trouble.”

“Well,” said Lloyd, “it looks like he is now. Because the Bignalls’ cleaning lady is a Mrs. Gibson. I didn’t make the connection—I’d forgotten that was Ryan’s mother’s name.”

Judy had hoped that she was wrong. Dexter was a nice boy, and so—in his way—was Ryan. She couldn’t really see him doing something like this, certainly not for what had actually been taken. Of course, he might not think that tying someone up would do them any harm, and maybe he had intended taking a great deal more and panicked when he realized she was dead. And there was
no maybe about his record; he was a burglar and a car thief, and all the other things Lloyd had said. Dexter thought the world of him, so he might have become apprenticed in the trade.

“It all begins to fall into place, doesn’t it?” said Lloyd. “Dexter lets slip that the Bignalls’ house is empty every Monday night, and it’s too much temptation for Ryan. He persuades Dexter to go with him and act as lookout, maybe to make certain he doesn’t blow the whistle on him, because it’s reasonable to suppose that the lookout’s heart wasn’t in it, since he seems to have taken off the minute they gained entry.”