The Lately Deceased (8 page)

‘The husband must have plenty of cash too, by the sound of it,' said Grey. ‘I shouldn't think he can be in urgent need of the ready.'

‘What about the two cousins, though?' queried Stammers. ‘That boozy little chap and his wife. Perhaps they have expectations.'

‘It's no good speculating,' Meredith cut in abruptly. ‘We'll wait till we get the will tomorrow. Meanwhile there's another line of enquiry to be thought of.'

The others waited for him to enlarge on this theme.

‘The marital set-up of this crowd seems a bit fluid, to say the least. If parties like these are frequent, I'm not surprised that separations and divorces are as common as they are. A quick jab with a knife would relieve a lot of jealous feelings and save a packet in divorce court fees.'

Grey considered this with eyes almost shut. ‘That would necessarily bring it home to one of two people straight away.'

Old Nick shook his head.

‘Not necessarily,' he said. ‘Walker might have been on to something when he suggested that the wrong person got murdered. It could happen, you know, in pitch-darkness with twenty or more screaming drunks blundering around. In fact, we may have twenty correct motives to fit to one wrong body!

Grey gave a mock groan of despair.

‘Couldn't we just call it an accident, Super, and all go home?' And then he added, struck by a sudden thought. ‘I suppose it couldn't have been an accident, could it?'

‘Not an accident, perhaps, but it could have been manslaughter. With a lot of young fools messing about in their cups, some young idiot might have gone too far in jabbing about him with a hatpin or whatever it was.'

Old Nick replied emphatically. ‘Not a chance,' he said. ‘Not when there's just one clean upward stab in just the right place, just the right depth. Remember, this party ran on libido, not hooliganism.'

‘The Super's right,' Stammers intervened. ‘Moreover, in my opinion you are not going to find your murderer among the youth and beauty at the party. I'll lay even money the killer was in Margaret's own age group.'

‘It has to be an inside job, then?' Grey asked.

‘Oh God, yes!' replied Old Nick with exasperation. ‘The thing is crazy enough as it is, without trying to bring an outsider into it. Unless you can find me a homicidal maniac hanging around Marylebone last night, it's got to be one of this shower.' He pointed at the pile of statements.

‘Let's pick out the probables, then,' persisted Grey, undeterred. He quietly sorted through the forms until he had a small sheaf of buff papers laid out on the desk.

‘What about these. Super?' he asked handing the papers over. Meredith scanned quickly through them, reading out the names and main points in their statements.

‘Geoffrey Arthur Tate, public relations officer. This chap seems to be a close friend of Walker's. Says that relations between Walker and the deceased were distant but amicable. Doesn't say much about the party, only that there was a lot of drinking, but no fights or threats.'

He turned to the next paper and read it aloud.

‘Eve Louise Arden, twenty-six, television artist. I remember her, a nice little blonde. But she doesn't seem to have the slightest connection with this business.'

He turned to the next one, and his brows came together in an effort of concentration. ‘Leo Prince … I know his face, but I can't place it. He says he's a theatrical agent.'

‘That could cover a wide range of fiddles,' said Stammers.

‘Yes, I'll swear he's on the books at the Yard somewhere, probably under another name. Masters, get hold of him first thing tomorrow and sweat him a bit. See if he's using a different name. Then check the prints we found at the flat; his might be on the record. I'll stake my boots he's an old customer in some shape or other.'

Stammers could tell that Old Nick, for all his grousing, was enjoying himself. His unusual talkativeness was a sure sign of his contentment.

‘Abel Franklin, cameraman. No, nothing that matters there. His story is the same as all the rest.'

There was silence for a moment as the superintendent looked through the remainder and found nothing worth comment.

‘What about this Myers business, then?' he demanded, leaning back and throwing down the bundle of papers. ‘When can we hope to hear from the hospital?'

‘All they know is that he was found at the bottom of his basement flat steps about an hour after leaving that party,' said Masters. ‘They say he has a fractured skull and they'll give no opinion as to when, if ever, he's likely to come around.'

‘Nothing to suggest foul play?'

‘Not a thing, sir. He was found by the man on the beat lying at the bottom of the area steps. The gate at the top was open and he could quite well have staggered into the open gap in the dark, especially if he was drunk. We don't even know how he got home to Canonbury. If he took a taxi from the flat in Beachy Street why didn't the driver see him fall, or hear him? Or, if he didn't drive straight home – say he stopped the cab halfway and walked the rest – why should he do so? There must be some reason behind it, whatever he did. We're trying to trace the taxi driver who took him, if there was one, but no luck so far.'

Meredith considered these words for some seconds.

‘Any need to put a man at the bedside?' he asked at length.

‘I asked the doctor that, sir,' Masters replied. ‘He said no, he might be in coma for days, or even weeks. He promised to let us know the moment he showed any signs of life.'

Meredith sighed. ‘Ah well, if he's as much use as the rest of these witnesses, he may as well stay in a coma … he'll be no loss to us.'

The discussion went on for some time longer, each possible motive being applied to each witness as their statements were reread. Little progress was made and at nine o'clock they broke up to go home, unable to make any more progress until they'd heard what the lawyer had to say about the will in the morning.

As they left the station, Meredith reminded Masters to keep up the search for the missing Moore couple.

‘If anything comes in by midnight, call one of the inspectors – after that get hold of me at home.'

With a gruff ‘goodnight' he vanished into the wet darkness of the station yard.

Masters turned to the inspectors. ‘Right, then; if either of these damn people turn up, I'm to get one of you out, is that it?'

Grey muttered under his breath as he turned the collar of his camel-hair coat against the damp night.

‘Hope to hell they stay where they are until morning! I'm damned if I want to get out again on a foul night like this!'

As it happened, at that moment Colin Moore was slumped in a corner of the lounge bar of the ‘Duke of Wellington' public house, less than half a mile away. The middle-aged barmaid was watching him covertly, uneasy at his solitary and prolonged drinking. She went behind the bar into the saloon and spoke to the landlord, a tall craggy ex-guardsman.

‘Have you seen that chap in the lounge, Mike?' she asked. ‘He's looking real queer, just staring at the table, except when he asks for another drink. Been there for hours, he has. I don't like the look of him at all.'

The landlord moved into the other bar and looked across to the corner. He saw a fair-haired man of about thirty sitting motionless behind a table, staring fixedly at a half-empty whisky glass. Handsome in a pale, watery way, his boyish face was set in a blank mask-like expression, his blue eyes unblinking.

‘Oh, he's all right, just drinking away his sorrows. Probably his girlfriend has given him the push.'

The landlord reassured the woman and went back to the saloon, but the barmaid continued to look over at the raincoated figure. Colin had been there for four hours and had spent the previous six hours in a club in Brewer Street. He was quite drunk, though in control of his limbs and some of his senses.

Having spent all day on this ‘bender', he knew nothing of the hue and cry for him. When the previous night's party had come to its tragic end, he had made his way back to his car, parked in the mews behind the flat, and had sat there waiting for Pearl. She had come after a few minutes and slipped into the passenger seat without a word. He drove off and they sat in silence for a mile or so.

Then Pearl had said, ‘You lousy worm!'

Her voice was low, but carried intense contempt. He had had to resist an impulse to smack her across the face. Instead he held his tongue, but she was determined to goad him beyond endurance.

‘Playing with little girls at your age?' she sneered. ‘Aren't I enough fun for you now?'

‘You!' he jerked out. ‘Fun! Oh, my God! You're no better than a bloody little whore.'

As an answer, Pearl lifted the slim leather handbag that she carried on her lap and hit him violently across the side of the face with it. A corner of the bag caught him in the left eye and tears blinded him for a moment. The car lurched across the road and screeched to a stop as he instinctively stamped on the clutch and brake. They finished up on the wrong side of the street, with the front wheels in the gutter and the rear sticking out into the road.

‘Get out!' said Colin thickly, putting a hand up to his injured eye.

‘Get out yourself, you swine!' she had replied.

‘All right, I will!' He plucked the ignition key from the dashboard, got out of the car and walked over to the gutter, holding the key at arm's length. Finding a drain he deliberately dropped it through the grating. Without so much as a backward glance, he continued walking along the quiet street, and kept going until he met a cruising taxi. Going straight to their flat in Hampstead, he washed, shaved, and then left again before Pearl could come back.

He had done all these things automatically, his rage slowly dying into a mood of black despair. He wandered around the shopping streets for a time, looking into windows with unseeing eyes, then began a round of the clubs and public houses that had lasted for the rest of the day. Eventually, he ended up at the ‘Duke of Wellington' and now that it was closing time he wandered dazedly out into the street, the landlord heaving a sigh of relief at getting rid of him without any trouble.

Colin managed to flag a passing cab and, after mumbling his address, fell into the rear seat for the journey home. As he dragged himself wearily up the flight of outside stairs to the front door, a torch beam sprang out of the darkness and bathed him in painfully bright light.

‘Put that damn light out,' he mumbled, staggering for the first time as he shielded his eyes.

A stolid voice spoke from behind the torch.

‘Would you happen to be Mr Colin Moore, of this address, sir?' The policeman switched off his light and came across the porch to take him by the arm.

Colin's reeling mind took in the shape of the helmet and the black pyramid of the caped figure in the gloom.

‘What do you want? Have you been waiting for me?' he asked.

‘Yes, sir, you've been wanted urgently all day. I've been here five times myself. You're wanted for questioning at Comber Street station right away.'

Colin made an attempt to think straight.

‘What is this? I don't know what you're talking about. Why the hell should I go to a police station for questioning at this time of night?'

The constable, seeing that the other was not going to fall down the steps after all, released his hold on his elbow and shone his torch on the lock of the door.

‘If you don't mind, sir, I'd like to use your phone to ring the station. Perhaps they can send a car for you.'

Colin obediently fumbled for his keys. As he pulled the bunch from his pocket, the memory or another key he had dropped down a drain came suddenly back to him. He gave a rather foolish laugh.

‘Oh-oh, I remember now! You want me for abandoning a vehicle or causing an obstruction in the Queen's highway. Sorry, but I was in no mood to park the thing properly before ditching that bitch. Still, it was good while it lasted!'

They had got the door open by now and, as Colin fumbled for the light switch, the policeman tried to make sense of the words.

‘I don't know anything about any traffic offence, sir. I think you are wanted to help with some information on a more serious matter. Your wife's whereabouts are a mystery too; can you tell us where she can be found, sir? It's most important.'

There was a flood of light in the hall as Colin touched the switch and, immediately, he made for a small cloakroom on the left, where a washbasin could be seen through the open door.

‘I'm going to stick my head under the tap first, chum,' he mumbled. ‘If you want the phone, it's in that room and if you want my wife, I should go down to hell and have a look around there!'

With this comment, he disappeared into the washroom.

Ringing his station, the constable explained the position to the station officer, who promised to ring Comber Street and find out what was to be done.

Within a couple of minutes, a wet but more sober Colin appeared, as the station rang back telling them that a squad car was coming to pick Moore up and take him to Comber Street.

‘Now can you tell me what all the fuss is about, if it's not my car that's the trouble?' he demanded of the constable.

‘No, sir, I can't; at least, not in any detail. All I know is they want to talk to you in connection with a sudden death at which you were present.'

Colin took a cigarette from a box on the table with a shaking hand. He offered one to the policeman, who declined.

‘Oh, hell, yes! But surely they don't want to talk to me in the middle of the damn night about that?' He lit up and went on rather aggrievedly. ‘Especially as I'm feeling a bit under the weather.'

‘Sorry, sir. I'm just carrying out orders.'

Colin spoke almost to himself, picking shreds of tobacco from his tongue.