The Handshaker (18 page)

Shannon restrained his rising temper. “I’ve come from home. I know bugger all. Bring me up to speed. Right now.”

He listened patiently to Thurrock’s account of events, occasionally asking questions to clarify odd points in the confused tale.

“Millie – I mean Inspector Matthews is at the station talking to Croft right now.”

So that was what Simpson had kept from him. Ronnie Simpson was a miserable old sod, but a clever one, too, and he had noticed Shannon’s antipathy for the millionaire hypnotist the previous day. Forgetting the desk sergeant’s taciturnity, he said to Thurrock, “I don’t understand where Croft fits into this.”

“Neither do I, sir,” the other admitted. Shannon laid suspicious eyes on the DC, who went on the defensive. “Honestly, guv. Begum brought Croft in from Spinners just as me and Bob were coming out.”

“All right. I’ll speak to Millie when I get back to Scarbeck.” Shannon cast an eye about the kitchen again. His eyes fell on the block of kitchen knives and a space where one was missing. “Well, that tells me all I need to know. It’s obvious what happened. Alf laid hands on Sandra again, it got out of hand, she knifed him, then buggered off to Scarbeck and chucked herself off the top deck of Spinners. You spoke to any of the neighbours yet?”

“No, sir. I was waiting for you.”

Shannon tutted. “Fletcher would have that done by now. Any sergeant would have had it done by now. If you want to move on, lad, you’re gonna have to shape up.” He shrugged his overcoat closer to him. “Come on. We’ll try next door. See if there’s anyone in.”

He led the way back across the kitchen, stepped gingerly round the body and its attendants, and out to the rear of the house.

“We beat the press hawks coming this way,” he explained to a disinterested Thurrock. “What’s the word on Sandra, do you know?”

“Paramedics reckon she won’t recover,” the young detective said. “Or at least, that’s the version I’ve heard.”

Behind the two joined houses were large gardens. The Lumbs’ was unkempt, untidy, the hedgerows ragged and untended, and the fence no more than a line of wooden pallets propped upright and wired together. By contrast, the neighbour’s garden had one or two well cared for flowerbeds, neatly trimmed hedges and a bit of a lawn in the centre. It reminded Shannon that his own garden was in need of some attention before the onset of winter … if the rain would hold off … if he could find the time.

Knocking on the door, he dug into the inside pocket of his jacket and brought out his warrant card as the door opened.

“Yes?”

Shannon judged the man answering to door to be about 50 and standing over six feet tall. A lean, wiry frame, with little in the way of portliness about it, topped with agile eyes and a distinguished head of grey hair. A man who had been in one of the Guards regiments, Shannon would bet.

“Good morning, sir. I’m Detective Superintendent Shannon, Scarbeck CID.” He flashed his warrant card.

“Gerald Humphries,” replied the householder.

“I wonder if we might have a word with you.”

Humphries looked slightly shocked. “What about?”

“If we could come in, sir,” Shannon insisted. “We won’t keep you long.”

Humphries hesitated a moment, then with a nod stood back to admit them, and led them through the kitchen into the living room.

Following him, Shannon was struck by further dissimilarities between the neighbours. Apart from a modern computer set on a workstation in one corner, walking into Humphries’ living room was like stepping through a time warp, or looking through Croft’s website as detailed by Millie.

In the centre was an old fashioned tiled fireplace on which stood a wind-up carriage clock, one or two china ornaments and a couple of photographs of Humphries with an older woman, who Shannon took to be his mother. In the hearth was a gas fire with a wooden surround, its ceramic radiants stained a dark brown with age: the kind of domestic appliance Shannon had only ever seen in old episodes of dramas like
Coronation Street.
Under the window, hemmed in by mahogany dining chairs, its leaves lowered, was a polished dining table, with a lace tablecloth covering it. On the table, the pieces set in their opening positions, sat an old fashioned, hand carved chess set. The three-piece suite was a cottage affair, with broad teak arms and legs, while at the rear of the room stood a large, mahogany display cabinet filled with ornaments and photographs, mostly theatrical publicity stills;
Coco The Clown, Ronnie Hilton, The Great Zepelli & Georgina, Max Miller
.

Humphries took a fireside chair and Shannon perched himself on the settee while Thurrock loomed in the background, notebook out, pen poised.

“As you may have guessed, sir, there’s been an incident next door,” Shannon explained. “I wondered if you may be able to throw any light on the matter?”

“Not really.” Humphries voice was soft, educated, almost inaudible.

Shannon persisted. “You didn’t hear the sounds of an argument at all?”

“No.”

The man’s reticence began to irritate Shannon. This guy needed something to kick him out of his time warp and bring him into the 21st century. “Look, Mr Humphries, you may as well know, if you don’t already, that Alf Lumb is dead. He’s been stabbed.”

The shock tactics worked. Humphries’ face paled. “Oh dear god.”

“And not long after he died,” Shannon pressed on, “Sandra threw herself off the top floor of Spinners. She’s unlikely to survive.”

“Good grief.” Humphries looked as if he were about to burst into tears.

“The way we see it,” Shannon continued, “Sandra killed Alf after one of their famous fights, and then committed suicide. We need to know what went on in there this morning, and lacking first hand witnesses, we’re going to need their neighbours’ help. You’re the nearest neighbour.”

Humphries stared at the fire, almost hypnotised by the flicker of the gas flame behind the stained radiants. He sighed. “I’ve lived next door to the Lumbs ever since I moved here about five years ago, and arguments between Alf and Sandra were quite common as you’re obviously aware.”

Shannon confirmed it with a nod.

“But I heard nothing this morning. However, I did bump into Sandra out on the street. She was dressed in a housecoat type of thing under her topcoat, and she was wearing slippers, not shoes. The furry kind. Mules, I think they’re called. I asked her if everything was all right, and she said – er –” Humphries blushed. “I’m sorry, I can’t repeat it. The language was awful.”

“Street vernacular?”

Humphries nodded and blushed. “She told me to mind my own effing business.”

Shannon reappraised his assessment of Humphries. Not an army man after all. Anyone unable to deal with the modern lack of manners could never have seen military service. Humphries had obviously led the soft life and never seen anything more shocking than pictures from the Middle East.

Shannon allowed Humphries a moment. “I think most of us would have dodged Sandra, especially as we know she was carrying a large knife.”

Again Humphries was shocked. “I never saw a knife.”

“Trust me, sir, she was carrying one,” Shannon asserted. Modulating his brusqueness, he asked, “You obviously knew them well?”

“I told you, I’ve lived next door to them for about five years now,” Humphries reiterated. “Since she fell out of work, Sandra and I developed a good, er, relationship. I use the word advisedly. There was nothing intimate in it. I called round for tea in the mornings and we’d chat about things. Life on the estate. You know.”

“You don’t work then, sir?” Thurrock asked from the rear of the room.

“No. No, I don’t,” said Humphries. “I’m retired. I was a local government officer for many years. Bristol. Treasurer’s department. Senior administrator. I retired five years ago when my mother fell terminally ill. I sold the house to keep her out of hospital and we moved here, to Scarbeck. She, er, had relatives who came from this area. Mother passed away soon after, and I was left with a lot of time on my hands. I put two days a week in at a charity shop in Scarbeck, and I passed an hour or two, a couple of days a week with Sandra. Just gossip really. And I used to chaperone her appointments with Felix Croft.”

Shannon had been about to ask if Humphries could add anything else but at the mention of the hypnotist, he exchanged a surprised glance with Thurrock. “Felix Croft?”

“Yes,” said Humphries. “If you check the kitchen cupboard, Sandra keeps the appointment card in there. In a little milk jug. She suffered from depression you know. I recommended she call that Croft fellow. He’s well known at the university and he had this spot on Radio Scarbeck some time ago, appealing for volunteers for some research program. I –”

The superintendent cut him off. “Yes, thank you, Mr Humphries. We know Croft.”

“Who doesn’t?” said Humphries. “A nice enough chap you know, but when he works with a female client, especially when he’s in their houses rather than at the university, he has this rule about there being a third party in the house to make sure there’s no, er, funny business. You know what I mean. Sandra asked me if I’d chaperone her appointments and I was quite happy to do so.”

“You attended all her sessions?”

“Not all of them, no. Sometimes she would go to the university, but when he was here, so was I. For most of them, anyway.” Humphries suddenly looked worried. “Now look here, I don’t want to imply that there was anything untoward… I mean, Croft is a famous man, a professional man, and highly respected at the university. I’m sure he wouldn’t...” He trailed off lamely. After a moment when he appeared to gather himself together, he went on more speculatively. “Mind you, he did have a few arguments with Alf.”

“So did half the town.” Shannon stood up. “Well, thank you for your help, Mr Humphries. I’ll get an officer to take a formal statement from you, and if we need to ask you anything else, we’ll be in touch.”

They came out into the cold, rainy day, and Shannon asked, “Well, young Thurrock, what do you make of all this?”

The other shrugged. “Mummy’s little boy. Never grew up. I’ll bet he still tucks a handkerchief up his sleeve.” Abruptly, he changed the subject. “Croft. Again.”

“My thoughts precisely, and where is our friendly neighbourhood pain in the arse? At the station.” Shannon fished his car keys from his pocket. “Come on. I need a word with him.”

25

Croft was left alone in the interview room for the better part of an hour, disturbed only by officers occasionally popping in to offer him tea. Somewhere along the line one of them brought a copy of the note he had received.

And as he waited, his apprehension grew. Sandra’s death disturbed him, but had nothing to do with him. Trish’s disappearance distressed him and no one else seemed to care. Questions to the officers dropping into the interview room, men and women who either did not know of or care about his troubles, drew a blank, and as the time progressed, so his anxiety increased.

What the hell was wrong with these people? Why were they not concerned over a missing woman?

“
Two
missing women, sir,” one female officer corrected him when he broached the matter. “If your lady friend is missing, she’s not alone. We had another woman taken yesterday from Fenton Road filling station.”

Croft recalled that he had heard something on the radio, but he had not been paying particular attention.

He settled down and tried to work on the verse he had received in the morning post.

Mal’s drab un gows over the top

don’t matter a fag over dice or trivia bint

I pail a ricin scart won’t be suspended

going to glory in gr8t big bang not a whimper

l8r with many relax wile rawl tarn fez

looses number wun spot to shade then hark

Applying his natural bent for puzzles, he made notes as he worked through it line by line.
Trivia or dice
, he guessed, was an anagram, but no matter which way he worked it, he could make no sense from it. The best he could do was
I craved, I riot
, which made as little sense as
trivia or dice
.

The same could be said of
mal’s drab un gows
and
wile rawl tarn fez
but it was while he was working on these puzzles that another constable brought him a separate sheet of paper on which the police linguists had translated the piece into something approaching English.

Mal’s drab un goes over the top. Doesn’t matter a fag over dice or trivia bint. I pail a ricin scart won’t be suspended. ([S]he is) going to glory in great big bang not a whimper, later, with many relax while rawl tarn fez, loses the number one spot to shade then hark.

Bringing in the information he already had, allying it to the previous day’s hints at The Heidelberg Case, he soon worked out that
rawl tarn fez
was Franz Walter and
shade then hark
was The Handshaker, and reasoned that the first two anagrams were the names of victims.