‘But you think Tintern was cunning enough to foresee the need for secrecy and provide for it?’ said Swaine.
‘I do. But the proof must be sought from the vicar. The Super will, no doubt, do that tomorrow.’
Bullimore said: ‘You bet I will.’
The door opened and Brant came in. He said: ‘That girl Rosie didn’t give the numbers for all the local calls. But beside Osborn, we know he contacted Baker.’
‘Thank you. Find Hill and try to let us know what Tintern’s up to and whether he shows any signs of leaving the bar.’ Brant turned to the door. As he did so, it burst open, and Tintern stumbled in. For a moment he stood staring at them, and then turned to flee. Hill was blocking the way. Bullimore said: ‘Come in, Mr Tintern, we want to talk to you.’
As he stepped forward, Tintern held out an arm as if to hold him off, and then, with a little moan, started to crumple at the knees. Hill stepped forward and caught him. Lowered him to the ground. Swaine said: ‘On to the bed with him.’
They lifted him gently. Swaine loosened his collar and examined him. Even used a stethoscope and took his blood pressure with the sphygmomanometer he carried in his bag. The others stood around, watching and waiting.
Swaine finally straightened up. ‘Acute schizophrenic breakdown. I don’t know much about psychiatry, but I do know the medical symptoms. Dilated pupils, moist palms, moderate tachycardia, and a systolic blood pressure of about fifteen mils above what it should be.’
‘Is he in any danger?’ Bullimore asked.
‘No. We shall need an ambulance for him, but I think a good night’s rest in hospital and a dose of largactil will see him as right as he ever will be in the morning.’
‘But tachycardia—that’s heart trouble, isn’t it? And high blood pressure . . .’
‘Doesn’t amount to anything. Tachycardia only means excessive rapidity of the heart beat. It’s due to what I believe is known in these cases as sympathetic excitement.’
Bullimore rang for an ambulance. Swaine stood by his patient. Green said to Masters: ‘Why did a chap like that learn judo?’
‘I don’t know. But my guess is he thought it would even things up. It’s a well-known fantasy with some of these characters that they like to imagine themselves taking on all comers. And a chap with an asthenic build like Tintern’s . . .’
‘A what?’
‘Sorry. I got it out of the doc’s book. Asthenic. It means weak, willowy, nervy-looking. It’s the classic build for a schizo. A chap like him couldn’t take on anybody without the help of judo or a machine-gun. So I suppose he learned judo. But as I say it’s only a guess.’
‘Sounds good enough to me,’ said Hill.
Bullimore came across. ‘It’s on its way. With an escort. He’ll be kept under surveillance.’
‘Fine.’
‘You’ve done a damn fine job for us, Chief Inspector.’
‘I’m pleased we got it cleared up so quickly. Now your women needn’t be frightened of the dark any more. And I’ll let you have my report by lunchtime tomorrow.’
Bullimore said: ‘There are a couple of things you haven’t explained. First, the soldering iron.’
Masters grinned. ‘This is a guess. And I’ll leave you to prove or disprove it. It concerns the belongings of these women which we haven’t found despite our searches. My belief, based on my knowledge of Tintern’s mind and finding that soldering iron, is that he put them all in a metal canister, soldered the lid on, and put them into the church wall. In the cement they’re pumping in.’
‘And you expect me to find it? He could have done it weeks ago.’
‘I don’t think so. Look at it this way. Suppose you were an architect accustomed to rebuilding old churches. One of the usual practices on these occasions is to immure—in a container—certain present-day articles which will prove of interest in hundreds of years’ time, when it comes to be discovered. Almost without exception, one of the articles so buried is a current newspaper. Right, so far?’
Bullimore nodded. ‘If you say so.’
‘Now you are not only an architect involved in these practices, but you are also a murderer with certain small articles belonging to your victims that you want to dispose of. You are running liquid cement into cavity walls. What better hiding-place for these articles is likely to occur to you, than to bury them in the cement?’
‘None. It’s a damn good idea. Couldn’t be bettered.’
‘Right. But you are not a mason or a workman. If you are seen stuffing gloves and purses into the cement, somebody might ask questions. So you think again. Nobody will ask questions if you follow the usual practice and bury a canister. You know where to obtain one, because you’ve used them before. But this time, because the contents will be incriminating, you don’t get a workman to solder the lid on. You buy yourself a soldering iron and you do it yourself in the privacy of your own bedroom. And because you usually include a newspaper, what better idea could you get than to wait for, and include, a newspaper that contains an account of the murders to which the other articles are vital clues? Think of the sensation that might cause in a couple of hundred years’ time. And if, in addition, you’re a schizophrenic, think how such future notoriety will feed your delusions of grandeur. Besides, burial of these articles in a church wall will be a splendid act of religious symbolism. So that’s what you do. When did the story break in the newspapers?’
‘Last Wednesday.’
‘Say Tintern did his soldering on Wednesday evening, he would have his canister ready for burial on Thursday. Go and ask the foreman at the church where it was put.’
‘Would the foreman know?’
‘I think so. He’d be able to do it openly, you know. It’s a custom, so nobody would suspect anything.’
‘Right. I’ll do that. And now, last of all, how did he persuade them to meet him?’
‘Another guess—because we shall never know. But these women were living humdrum lives. Not one of them was really doing anything. Playing at decorating hats or indulging in social work to ease the boredom. You’d know about that better than I would. So put yourself in their place. One day, out of the blue, comes a call from a man whom you had known in far-off, more carefree days—a man whom you’d not been too keen on at the time, but who, in spite of that, had made such a success of his life that he was now a national figure in his own field. And when he revisits the area after many years, one of the first things he does is ring you up. Flattering? Of course it is. Already you are viewing the past with rose-coloured spectacles. The man you didn’t think much of has seemed for a long time to be not so bad after all. Perhaps you misjudged him. After all, he’s now famous: accepted. Who are you to steer clear of him when he singles you out for attention? Remembers you after so many years? You don’t snub him now. You welcome the call. He’s still a bit odd. But all geniuses are odd, aren’t they? And what does his oddness amount to? Very little. All he’s asking is that you should come out for a drink and a chat about the old days without telling your husband. He says—with a laugh—that he’s a bit scared of jealous husbands. A joke, perhaps, but why not humour him? After all it will be a bit of fun—a bit of a daring change—to go out secretly with an old flame. So why not? Why not go out and meet him? Have a nostalgic evening with no husband or children or anybody being the wiser? Why not meet him?’
Bullimore said: ‘By crikey, you’ve an imagination. And you make it sound as if you were there.’
*
Tintern was taken away. Swaine said: ‘He’s going to hospital, so I’m not going with him. But I could do with a drink. What about it?’
They accompanied him to the Sundowner.
Shirl said: ‘I hear Mr Tintern’s been took bad.’
Swaine said: ‘He’s not a strong man. I sent him to hospital.’
‘I am sorry to hear that. The usual for you gentlemen?’
Masters thought this was typical. A life and death crisis dismissed in half a dozen words. He wondered if Shi
rl would understand that an argument about change at her bar had helped to uncover a mass murderer. He supposed it was better that she shouldn’t.
Swaine raised his glass: ‘Here’s to the health of your blood.’
‘And here’s to your bloody good health,’ said Green.
*
Masters was packing his suitcase at ten o’clock the next morning. The phone rang. It was Bullimore. ‘You were right. A flat copper box. One end soldered on amateurishly. Stuffed full of you-know-what. And the vicar says you were right about the publicity.’
Masters said slowly: ‘Fine. That wraps it up for you very nicely.’
He put the phone down and returned to his packing.
SWEET POISON
For Richard
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter One
The first Thursday in July. A growing rain falling. Under his mackintosh, Detective Sergeant Brant was sweating. He’d brought the big Vauxhall as close to the rear main door of the Yard as he could. He was doing the packing. Detective Sergeant Hill had done the inside humping—piling bags and suitcases just inside the door. As he returned for the last time from the car, to make sure everything was on board, Brant said: ‘And I watered my garden last night!’
Hill was now listening to a transistor held close to his ear. He said, without rancour, ‘So you’re the bastard who bespoke it, are you?’
Brant was about to reply. Hill held up his hand for silence. Brant opened his mac, shook the skirts, and made a spray of droplets around his feet; took out a handkerchief to mop his face; and finally produced a packet of Richmond and lit one. Hill held his hand out, wordlessly demanding a fag. Brant grunted and offered the packet. For a few moments Hill continued to listen, the cigarette unlit between his lips. Then he lowered the set. Brant said: ‘What’s up? Test Match?’
‘At half past nine in the morning? No. Weather report. Clearing from the west. We should run into good weather.’
‘Where?’
‘In Devon.’
Brant grimaced and went out to the car, returning with the road map. ‘Whereabouts in Devon?’
‘Don’t know exactly, but I heard his nibs say Devon and something about the north coast.’
Brant turned over the pages. ‘Staines. Then the A.30 till it forks into the 303 the other side of Basingstoke. Andover, Amesbury, Wincanton, Taunton, then the 361 up to the coast. That’s a couple of hundred. Share it half and half?’
Hill nodded. ‘I’ll take over after lunch.’ He stepped to the door and peered at the sky. Leaden. No break in the clouds. He lit the cigarette and continued to stare upwards. Brant said: ‘You’ll get a crick in the neck.’ He sidled past Hill, opened the car door, took off his mac, bundled it into a ball, and slid into the driver’s seat.
Detective Inspector Green joined Hill at the door. Hill said: ‘Any sign of Chiefy?’
Green grimaced. ‘Still gassing to the Chief Super. Can’t we have anything but bloody rain in this country?’
‘It’s fine in the west.’
‘It won’t be when we get there.’ Green lit a Kensitas, put his head down and made a heavy-footed dart round the back of the car to get the nearside back seat.
Detective Chief Inspector George Masters joined them ten minutes later. He was wearing a grey Windsor check suit, brown brogues and an unbuttoned, scarlet-lined, white showerproof that just reached his knees. He paused for a moment on the step. ‘All aboard?’
Hill grunted an affirmative and went round to the front passenger seat. Masters got in beside Green. Brant started up and half-turned to look at Masters.
‘Make for Barnstaple in Devon. We should be able to reach Wincanton in time for lunch.’
They were clear of the worst of London’s traffic before the rain began to let up. Brant switched off the wipers for a ten-second test and then switched them on again. But the droplets were now so fine as to be little more than a mist. The improvement in the weather seemed to loosen tongues. Green, who so far had sat as if cowering in his corner, straightened up to say: ‘What’ve we been let in for this time?’
‘Murder.’
Green didn’t like the reply. At the best of times he was little less than hostile to Masters. For Masters to try to be funny at his expense was putting the boot in. Green said: ‘Don’t be more of a mule-calf’s daddy than you have to be. Or do we have to put in a written application for information now?’
Masters laughed unexpectedly. He said: ‘You mean moon calf, don’t you?’
‘I meant what I said. A mule’s the offspring of a he-ass and a mare, isn’t it?’
Masters said nothing. Ahead, through the windscreen, he could see the first patch of blue: grey-white cloud below it, darker cloud above. He filled his pipe with Warlock Flake. As soon as he lit it, the heavy, close atmosphere inside the car was filled with floating strata of blue smoke. He puffed away reflectively. Thinking about Green. He and the Inspector were not each other’s greatest admirers. Rarely in open conflict these days. They just didn’t speak the same language. Green was left wing. If Masters had been an M.P., he’d have been a member of the Monday Club. Their views were different on every topic, fact or supposition. Masters thought that perhaps this helped in murder investigations—to see both sides of the coin. But he was uncomfortably aware it often led to ideological differences which spoiled the harmony of teamship in so small a group engaged upon sensitive work.
The sand and pine country of Hampshire. Green suddenly perked up. It was familiar to him—evocative, nostalgic. He said: ‘I did a lot of my training round here early in the war. Spent most of my time fighting bracken fires in the summer.’
The strengthening sun completed the process of bringing Green out of retreat. He turned to Masters. ‘Would it be too much to ask exactly where we’re going, and why?’
‘To a little village called Throstlecombe on the North Devon coast. On the bay between Barnstaple and Bideford.’
‘Isn’t that nice! A couple of hundred miles to see the sea! What is this Throstlecombe place? I’ve never heard of it.’
‘Neither had I until this morning. But it appears there’s a holiday camp-cum-motel there.’
‘No! Not somebody bumped off among a great sweaty crowd of holidaymakers?’
‘I’m afraid so. Hundreds of ’em.’
Green sneered. ‘Typical. And because of that the locals have called us in before the body’s cold, I suppose.’
‘You may be right. The woman died on Tuesday evening. The local coroner was due to go on holiday so he held the inquest yesterday afternoon before he pushed off.’
‘Just like that? Brought in a verdict of murder against person or persons unknown and then scarpered? Persons unknown! Hundreds of ’em, all scattering to the ends of the earth by Saturday morning, for a bet.’
Masters tamped his pipe. ‘That’s one of the reasons we’ve been called in. But there are others, apparently.’
‘Such as?’
‘Unspecified, so far. So we’ll have to wait until we get there to hear all the snags. But here’s what I do know.
‘In Throstlecombe there’s a veterinary surgeon. On Tuesday morning a young widow called Fay Partridge . . .’
‘How young?’
‘Thirty-two or three.’
‘Very young to be a widow.’
‘Very young to die, too.’
‘What did she die of?’
‘I’m coming to that in a moment. Mrs Partridge took her two poodles from the holiday camp to the vet’s in the village on Tuesday morning because they were off-colour. Surgery opened at a quarter to nine, and she didn’t appear until just after the hour, so there were six or seven cases before hers. She sat down to wait, and after a bit she, too, began to feel ill.’
‘
Mulligrubs?’
‘I don’t know whether it was bellyache, or not. But she looked so bad that the vet’s receptionist asked if she’d like a glass of water. By the time she got back with it Mrs Partridge had collapsed. The vet rang for an ambulance. Mrs P. was carted off to hospital, leaving her dogs behind. The vet went on with his work, leaving the poodles till last. He thought he’d be saddled with looking after them until their owner was well again. To his dismay—and, I should think, great consternation—one of them died while he was examining it. The other lasted until teatime then it, too, kicked the bucket. He spent an hour or two wondering how he could break the news to Mrs Partridge, and had just plucked up enough courage to reach for the phone, when the hospital rang him to say Mrs P. had just died and would he supply as much information as he could about her collapse, because the doctors themselves weren’t at all happy about things.’
Green said: ‘Plain as the nose on your face. They were all poisoned.’
‘Quite. That’s what the local police thought. But neither the medicos nor the vet could find any traces of poison. All three died of massive, diffuse, toxic necrosis.’
‘Toxic? You said there was no trace of poison. What’s toxic mean if it doesn’t mean poison?’
‘Toxin means poison. Toxic is the adjective describing the results of the action of poison. But it doesn’t necessarily indicate what the poison was. In this case all the signs were there, but there was no clue to the identity of the actual substance.’
Green lit a Kensitas. ‘I don’t believe in unidentifiable poisons.’
Masters and Green Series Box Set Page 53
