Scene of Crime (31 page)

“Except me,” said Tom. “I’m not happy, Mr. Hutchinson. A man very nearly got charged with manslaughter because of you.”

Hutchinson blinked. “How can being a little … off … 
with the time a car was nicked mean that someone gets charged with manslaughter? I can’t believe that.”

“Believe it.”

“All right, all right,” said Hutchinson. “I’m very sorry.” He looked apprehensive. “Is it against the law to say your car was stolen at half eight when it could have been any time between eight and half past?”

“Yes. It’s known as wasting police time. Unless of course it was part of a conspiracy to pervert the course of justice.”

Hutchinson backed off. “Now, look—the only conspiracy here was between me and the lady in London Road. And—well, you wouldn’t do me for wasting police time, would you? I didn’t
mean
to waste your time. Only—you know. If you do, the wife …”

Oh, what the hell. It was Christmas. Goodwill to all men and all that.

Tom drove back to Stansfield wondering where you went from here. If every single one of your suspects turned out to have been doing something else altogether, what were you supposed to do? Start again, he supposed. So much for Christmas Day. His wife would go spare.

Judy Hill was in the incident room when he got back. She’d come to invite him and Lloyd to Christmas lunch, apparently. Well, that was better than a slap in the face with a wet haddock, but Tom didn’t really feel like celebrating.

“I’ve just been hearing about the Pink Panther,” she said with a smile.

“I really thought he had it figured out,” said Tom. “It made sense.”

Judy nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I don’t think I could have picked that many holes in it myself.”

Tom grunted. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” he said.

“No. But growing your hair might. Do you know you’ve been in a bad mood since you had it cut? I’ll bet you and your wife keep having rows.”

He stared at her. “We do,” he said, sitting down at his desk.

“Well, there you are. Grow it back, Tom. It really, really doesn’t suit you.”

Lloyd came in then; predictably, everyone started up with the da-dum, da-dum Pink Panther theme.

“All right, all right,” Lloyd said. “It’s bad enough having to face the music without knowing exactly what music you have to face. It’s not my fault if even people who get their cars stolen lie to us, is it?” He noticed Judy then, and smiled, coming over to her. “What brings you here? Come to laugh at me?”

“Yes,” she said. “And to invite you and Tom to lunch at this really good restaurant in Chandler Square,” she said, and looked apologetic. “I did think that this might all be wrapped up,” she said. “It was to be a celebration.”

“Well, at least it’s something to look forward to,” said Lloyd. “There isn’t much of that round here at the moment.”

Lloyd’s notes on the security light were still sitting on Tom’s desk, and Judy glanced down at them, frowning. Then she picked up his pen and started making little ticks against the times Lloyd had written down. She looked up. “You do know what the Pink Panther business means,” she said. “Don’t you?”

Tom looked at Lloyd, and could see that whatever it meant, Lloyd knew no more about it than he did. But he nodded, smiling broadly. “She’s looking like a gun
dog, Tom,” he said. “We might get to enjoy our lunch after all.”

“It means that Ryan and Leeward were both telling the truth,” she said.

Lloyd smiled. “Well, I expect that qualifies them for the
Guinness Book of World Records
,” he said, “but—”

Tom looked up at him when he stopped speaking. He seemed transfixed by something. “Are you all right, guv?” he asked.

“Yes,” he said distantly. “Of course. Of course—it’s a logic problem, isn’t it? Leeward and Ryan are both telling the truth. Leeward saw Ryan trying to break into his car, and Ryan saw Leeward driving away. And Ryan
was
in the traffic jam, therefore …” He looked at Judy.

“Therefore neither he nor Leeward could possibly have been in Eliot Way at quarter past eight,” said Judy. “Ryan must have been in London Road by—what—just after quarter past eight? It would take him two or three minutes to get into the center of Malworth plus ten minutes or so in the traffic jam.…”

“And he said he was there about ten minutes after he tried to break into the Saab,” said Lloyd.

“Which means he was in Eliot Way at around five past,” said Judy. “And if you look at your notes about the security light …”

Lloyd nodded slowly. “The light that was on when Dexter ran into the garage wasn’t triggered by anyone getting
in
to the Bignalls’ garden through his,” he said, “it was triggered when Leeward
left
.”

“At seven minutes past eight,” said Judy.

Lloyd nodded. “So Ryan found a sack full of the proceeds of a burglary that had yet to be committed, and Leeward found the window broken, the house burgled,
and Estelle Bignall dead eight minutes before anyone ever heard the window breaking.”

Tom nodded, but he was puzzled. “Then who broke it?” he said.

“Carl Bignall,” said Judy. “And, if I don’t miss my guess, he broke it at teatime.”

“Why teatime, particularly?” asked Lloyd.

“Tom knows. He reported to LINKS that kids from London Road were making a nuisance of themselves.”

Tom knew, but its significance had entirely escaped him. Watson had said that at about teatime he’d heard kids breaking bottles or something; Tom had thought he’d said it to put them off Dexter’s scent, but he had simply been telling the truth.

“Bignall probably broke the window while Estelle was in the shower,” said Judy. “That way she wouldn’t hear it. He did try to muffle the sound with the curtain, Lloyd. Close the door, close the curtains—no one would notice the broken pane from outside, not in the dark, and Estelle was never going to see the broken glass, because he was going to kill her before she ever came downstairs.”

“So what did everyone hear at quarter past eight?” Tom asked.

“Sound effects,” said Lloyd, and looked at Judy, shaking his head. “The very first time I met the man he was handing you a tape of sound effects.” His eyes widened. “The portable stereo,” he said. “The hissing noise. Watson told the truth about that, too. What he heard was the blank tape running with the sound up full.”

“That’s why he thought it might be his greenhouse,” said Tom. “I didn’t believe him about that, because I didn’t see how a little window like that could make that much noise. But it could make as much noise as Carl Bignall
wanted it to.” And that tape must still be on the portable stereo that was even now on its way back from the lab. “We’ve got him, guv.”

“I’d sooner have more than just that to offer the CPS,” Lloyd said. “Do we have anything more tangible to go on?”

“There’s the bricks,” Tom said.

“The bricks?”

“Watson says people don’t park on the service road. But Bignall had to, because he had to leave by the back door with his sack full of goodies so he could dump it in the wood, and he wouldn’t dare do that without the excuse of going to his car, because people would have wondered what he was doing. Trouble was, his car itself would have been remarked on if he had just parked there for no reason. But he did have a reason, didn’t he? He
had
to park there because he couldn’t get into his driveway for the bricks.”

Judy smiled. “You said December was a bit late for someone who wanted a wall in the summer.”

Lloyd nodded. “So I did. Get on to it, Tom.”

Tom rang round local builders until he found the one that had supplied the bricks, and everyone fell quiet while he spoke.

“Do you have the driver’s instructions?” he asked.

“They should be on the manifest. Do you want me to have a look?”

“Yes, if you would.” He covered the receiver with his hand. “Keep your fingers crossed.”

“Hello?”

“Yes,” said Tom. “Have you got it?”

“Yeah. It just says the bricks have to be left on the hard standing inside the gates.”

“The hard standing,” repeated Tom. “His driveway, would that be?” He gave the room a thumbs-up. “Can you tell me when he ordered them?”

“Oh, let’s see now … yeah, here it is. They were ordered a month ago, for delivery on the twenty-second of December between twelve and one.”

“Thanks, mate,” Tom said. “Someone will be round to pick that up from you, so don’t lose it.” He hung up. “We’ve got him,” he said. “He arranged for the bricks to be delivered when he knew Estelle would be having lunch with Marianne, and wouldn’t get the driver to put them somewhere more sensible.”

Lloyd shook his head. “It was all planned,” he said. “All of it. A totally cold-blooded murder to get his hands on her money.”

“And he wasn’t doing it all in a panic,” said Judy. “That explains why he could be so calm when he turned up for rehearsal.” She frowned. “He was lucky that Gary Sims removed the gag—you said Freddie thought he could have proved murder if he hadn’t.”

“No,” said Lloyd. “He wasn’t lucky. Carl Bignall didn’t have good luck—he had bad luck. As it happened, the gag was removed by Sims, but just supposing Geoffrey Jones hadn’t called the police. If he hadn’t heard someone being assaulted, hadn’t seen Dexter running away, hadn’t seen the door standing open, he might not have done anything at all.”

“Carl Bignall left the door shut,” Tom said. “Leeward said he had to open it when he got there. And then he ran back out again, and left it open.”

“Quite. It was two unrelated incidents that caused the police to be called. If they hadn’t been, Carl Bignall would have come home and found his wife dead. And he, naturally,
would have done exactly what Sims did—no one would have questioned it for a moment. So the gag would have been removed anyway. As would the portable stereo. No wonder he went pale when he saw it was gone.”

“And it was another unrelated incident that got him caught,” said Tom. “Ryan Chester doing what Ryan Chester does. Trying to steal a car.” He grinned. “You were right all along, guv,” he said. “Not me.”

“Well, Bignall had the best motive,” said Lloyd. “And I didn’t like that artistic burglary.” He sighed. “I just wish I knew how he’d killed her. I got everything that you could possibly bury someone’s face in out of that house, and the lab found nothing on any of them.”

“How else can you suffocate someone?” asked Judy.

“There would be bruising if someone tried to stop her breathing by holding her mouth and nose shut,” said Lloyd, “so that’s no good.”

“It’d be a plastic bag,” said Tom. “He probably threw it away.”

It had seemed to him to be a less than inspiring thought, but Lloyd was beaming at him, then the next thing Tom knew he was phoning the lab and sweet-talking the young woman who tested for such things into doing just one more thing for him before she went to the staff Christmas party.

Carl Bignall went into the station and spoke to the young woman at the desk, who asked him to wait. He couldn’t believe it was all over, but it was. He was getting the stereo back, and once he had that, this nightmare would be finished.

“Dr. Bignall,” said Lloyd.

Carl had thought they would just give him the stuff. He hadn’t thought it would involve Chief Inspector Lloyd. He got up.

“Carl Bignall, I’m arresting you for the murder of your wife Estelle Bignall. You do not have to say anything, but anything …”

Carl found himself in an interview room, hardly able to remember the previous few minutes, or how he had gotten there, even. But gradually it came back to him, and less gradually it was dawning on him that the game was up. He had been told that he didn’t have to say anything, and he didn’t.

Lloyd had proof that he’d arranged for the bricks being left when and where they had been, he had the tape with the breaking glass on it, and he had two witnesses to the fact that the apparent burglary had already taken place before the window was heard to break. He even had a witness to when he had actually broken the window. They were a soon-to-be struck-off doctor, a car thief, and a pornographer, but their stories meshed, and that was all that mattered.

“You broke the glass while your wife was in the shower,” he said. “And then you went up and joined her. You knew what would happen. She was desperate for some attention from you.”

He
was desperate. He had lived with her for seven years—that would make a saint desperate. He couldn’t afford to divorce her.

“You had to keep her from going out, so that was the best way to do it. Besides, you needed her to be in bed, didn’t you? You were going to leave the house with a dead woman in it who was supposed to be alive. There had to be a good reason for people to be unable to get a reply if
they knocked at the door or telephoned. It’s Christmas; anyone might come calling.”

Yes. That had been very important.

“So you made love to her.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how you could have done that.”

That bit wasn’t difficult. It had been good—not perhaps the life-changing experience he had led Lloyd to believe, but she had enjoyed it. He’d managed to make her happy right at the end, just as he’d made her happy at the beginning. But he couldn’t keep on making her happy, because nothing he did was ever going to be enough. He wasn’t a god; he had never asked to be worshiped. It wasn’t possible to be the man Estelle imagined he was. That man didn’t exist.

“And then a mildly kinky sex game perhaps?”

Spot on. He tied her hands, told her she should kneel in front of him, facing away from him, and then …

“A plastic bag,” said Lloyd. “You put a plastic bag over her head, and you pushed her down into the pillow and held her there until she died.” He reached down and produced one plastic bag containing another. A black plastic bag.
The
black plastic bag. He had been worried when they asked him about the roll of bags—he’d realized they were going to subject it to forensic examination. But he’d thought they wouldn’t think of checking it as a murder weapon.

“This bag,” Lloyd said. “The bag you put the presents and the ornaments in. The bag you dumped in the woods. It has traces of saliva in it, which will be sent for DNA analysis after Christmas. I have little doubt it will prove to be your wife’s.”