Masters and Green Series Box Set

by Douglas Clark

  ‘How d’you know?’ Green asked him.

  ‘For one thing, we haven’t access to it.’

  ‘Your firm is the agent.’

  ‘We own the block. We manage it for ourselves. But that’s not the point. Our firm is divided up into watertight compartments. Brian here is the architect and does property surveys. I’m the auctioneer. Anything for sale, from a second-hand bath to a thousand-acre farm, is my pigeon. Property management is another department, and neither Brian nor myself ever hears about it except at board meetings. I don’t know where pass keys are kept, but I’d guess they’re in the property-department safe to which neither of us has access.’

  Masters looked at Brian. ‘Do you confirm that?’

  ‘Certainly. When the police wanted the key last Monday night we had to roust out Joe Little, the property manager, to get it for us.’

  Masters turned to Green. Green said, ‘That sounds fair enough—for the moment.’

  ‘What the hell d’you mean?’ Harry Dent growled. ‘For the moment?’

  ‘It means we’re taking your word for it unless and until we have reason to think otherwise.’

  Dent was about to reply, but his wife prevented him. ‘Now, Harry. Don’t lose your temper. These gentlemen are only doing their job.’

  ‘Maybe they are. But it’s obviously so bloody silly to think Brian or myself killed Sally.’

  Masters said, ‘Somebody did. Can you suggest who, Mr Dent?’

  ‘No, I can’t. If I knew who it was I’d scrag them myself.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. You were fond of her.’

  It was a statement. Dent didn’t deny it. Masters waited a moment and then said, ‘Mr Brian told us of Miss Bowker’s activities in the afternoon up to the time he brought her here for tea, at which time, I understand, you both made them very generous offers of help with the house they intended to buy.’

  ‘Oh, he shouldn’t have mentioned that,’ Mrs Dent said.

  ‘Why not, ma’am?’

  ‘It was a little family secret.’

  ‘Maybe. But it showed me very vividly the regard in which you held Miss Bowker. And that is of great interest to me.’

  Mrs Dent gave him a little smile. He was impressed by the quality of her false teeth.

  ‘Now. Tea. What was on the menu?’ he asked.

  ‘Very ordinary. A plate of sandwiches—cucumber I think. But Sally didn’t have any of those, poor dear. She just had biscuits. Semi-sweet, you know. Thin arrowroot and Marie. That sort of thing. You see, I knew what she could eat, and with her parents not being near to look after her, I took care to see she got the right food—at any rate when she was here.’

  ‘It does you credit, ma’am. No cakes with fillings or icing that might have upset her?’

  ‘Dear me, no. A Victoria sponge with raspberry jam in the middle. But she didn’t have any, although she could have. It wouldn’t have done her any harm.’

  Masters turned to the men. ‘You both ate everything without feeling any ill effects?’

  ‘I didn’t touch the biscuits,’ Harry Dent said. ‘Never do, except with cheese.’

  ‘I had one or two off Sally’s plate,’ Brian said. ‘She said mother had overloaded her a bit.’

  ‘Oh, Brian, I didn’t. She could have left the ones she didn’t want.’

  ‘Of course, Mum. Sal was only joking.’

  ‘Can we move on a bit? What happened after tea?’

  ‘Sally and I washed up,’ Brian answered. ‘Then while mother got dinner ready, we went in for a swim.’

  ‘In your own pool?’

  ‘Yes. Here, I say. You don’t think the chlorine in the water upset Sal, do you?’

  ‘Why? Was it strong?’ Green asked.

  ‘No. Not very.’

  ‘I’m sorry to be so pernickety,’ Masters continued, ‘but let us go through step by step. You washed up in the kitchen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When did you decide to swim?’

  ‘I don’t know, really. We do it so often.’

  ‘It’s become a ritual?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But Miss Bowker would need a swimsuit.’

  ‘She always carried one at weekends—in her bag. A wispy bit of a thing. Bikini.’

  ‘Oh, Brian, it was beautiful,’ Mrs Dent said. ‘It was thin cotton in one of those soft, deep-plunging styles without any pads or bones. It made her look so young and lovely. It was turquoise and green and went so well with her fair complexion. And with the colour of the water in the pool, too. It crumpled up into no more than a handful, and then sprang out without a crease. I always admired it and wished I dare wear one like it.’

  ‘She certainly looked marvellous in it,’ Brian said.

  ‘Where did she change?’ asked Masters.

  ‘In the downstairs cloakroom. Mother used to put towels in there …’

  Mrs Dent interrupted, ‘It sounds awful, giving them the downstairs cloakroom as a changing-room, but honestly, Chief Inspector, you should see the mess they make of everything. They just come out of the water and traipse through the house, dripping water on the carpets and polished floors. I had to put a stop to it. And besides, the cloakroom is very handy. Just next to the kitchen, and the floor in there doesn’t matter because it can be mopped.’

  ‘Very wise, ma’am,’ Masters said. He turned to Harry Dent. ‘And you, sir, where were you at this time?’

  ‘Watching the box. I wanted to see the last half-hour of the Test, and I just sat there until seven, when I went up to change before Alderman and Mrs Bancroft came.’

  ‘That’s very clear. Now, what time did you come out of the pool, Mr Dent?’

  ‘Sally got out about seven. She changed first and gave herself her injection. I came out when she called to say she was clear.’

  ‘I see. Now, her injection. She always carried a box with her syringe and bottles I believe?’

  ‘In her bag. With the bikini and the usual junk you find in women’s handbags. Sally always used the sling variety. They seemed to suit her, and they had the capacity she needed.’

  ‘Where did she leave her bag? At the side of the pool?’

  Mrs Dent said: ‘She always kept it with her, poor dear. It was so important to her.’

  ‘Usually, Mum. But not when we went swimming. She always left it in the cloakroom.’

  ‘Why was that, Mr Dent?’ Masters asked. ‘So it didn’t get splashed?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that. She couldn’t have cared less. But she never swam unless it was pretty warm. Dr Sisson told her to be very careful about catching cold. Any infection is about ten times worse in a diabetic than other people, apparently. So, for it to be warm enough for Sally to swim, the flags round the pool had to be hot to the feet. And that’s too hot for insulin. She’d never leave her bag on the pool surround or lying out in the sun. She left it in the cool of the cloakroom.’

  ‘I see. Thank you, Mr Dent. So Miss Bowker injected herself. Now, according to my information, that injection should just have finished one phial.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Mrs Dent said. ‘She dropped an empty one into the pedal bin in the kitchen when she went to call Brian.’

  Masters thanked her for the information and then asked, ‘You sat down for supper at what time?’

  ‘Prompt on half-past seven,’ Mrs Dent replied. ‘We had to be very strict about times with Sally. She had to have her meal exactly half an hour after her injection.’

  ‘What was on the menu?’

  ‘It was a very ordinary meal.’

  ‘Nonsense, Mum. It was a splendid meal,’ Brian Dent exclaimed. He turned to Masters. ‘You’re wondering whether the meal could have upset Sally?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Dent, I am. I must. She felt sick when you took her home, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. But it couldn’t have been Mother’s food. We all ate it. Melon—Sally had glucose on hers. Thin, lean steaks, with no fat. New potatoes which Sally didn’t have …’

&nbs
p; ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she had her weekly drink on Saturdays and she had to leave some of her calorie and carbohydrate allowance to make up for it.’

  ‘I see. Go on with the menu, please.’

  ‘New carrots and peas. Followed by stewed plums and cream, biscuits and cheese. Sally had no cream.’

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Sally had black with saccharin. And her liqueur. The drink I told you about.’

  ‘Liqueur?’

  Mrs Dent said, ‘Yes, poor lamb. She said that if she was restricted to one drink a week she might as well have the sort she liked best. She loved liqueurs. Before she became diabetic she always liked liqueur chocolates, didn’t she Brian?’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ‘I can always remember the first gift you took her was a box of liqueurs. I remember thinking how sweet it was of you to find out in advance what she really liked.’

  Brian coloured as his mother spoke. It obviously embarrassed him. Masters remembered how that afternoon he had said that his mother thought no girl good enough for him. He thought she would obviously make a fool of the lad if he hadn’t had enough good sense to stop her.

  ‘What liqueur?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, she liked Benedictine most of all,’ Mrs Dent answered.

  ‘A very good choice. Did she take Benedictine last Saturday?’

  ‘Unfortunately, no. We’d run out.’

  ‘My fault,’ Harry Dent broke in. ‘We’d run out of everything except Anisette. I’m responsible for drink and I didn’t cotton on that we were so low in liqueurs. You know how it is. You buy whisky and gin regularly, but replenish with liqueurs once in a blue moon. But Sal didn’t mind. Said she rather liked it in fact, though it’s not to everybody’s taste.’

  ‘Did everybody take liqueurs?’

  ‘Only the women. We three men took brandy.’

  ‘And after dinner?’

  ‘We sat round and talked until Sally said she’d like to go home,’ said Brian. ‘I took her.’

  ‘She didn’t eat anything else?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Masters got to his feet. ‘Thank you all very much. I think I’ve got a complete picture. If I haven’t I can always get in touch to clear up any points.’

  ‘Has it helped?’ Mrs Dent asked.

  Masters smiled. ‘Who can tell, ma’am? I firmly believe that everything helps in some way. I’m wrong at times, but one thing I can say is that I’ve never been successful without getting the whole picture. Perhaps it’s because I haven’t got a lot of imagination, or I can’t visualize what I don’t actually see.’

  Harry Dent said, ‘Don’t try to fool yourself—or us. We’ve heard of you, you know. I reckon I wouldn’t mind having you in business with me.’

  ‘I’ll remember that, Mr Dent. Policemen retire early, you know. When the time comes I might be glad of a job.’

  When they were in the car Green commented, ‘Well, that appeared to be all square and above board. But I don’t think you pressed that key issue half hard enough.’

  ‘Sorry. Why didn’t you step in?’

  Green shrugged. It was now dark and the gesture was lost on Masters, who said to Hill, ‘What about prints?’

  ‘About six sets on the syringe case. All male except Bowker’s.’

  ‘And the handbags?’

  ‘Male and female on all of them.’

  ‘Did you find one with a turquoise and green bikini in it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s the one. We’ll try to identify the prints tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s not going to give us much time for a lie-in,’ Hill said.

  6 |

  Hill and Brant had delivered the floorcloth to the hospital pathology laboratory and were back at the Bristol before Masters and Green came down for breakfast on Sunday. When he arrived, Masters asked, ‘Did they say what time the result of the test would be ready?’

  ‘Nobody there to ask,’ Hill replied.

  ‘Then who did you give it to?’

  ‘A lab technician. He said Heatherington-Blowers and Bruce, the bacteriologist, would begin work about half-past nine.’

  Green said, ‘I’m ordering a mixed grill. I’ve never been in a pub before where they actually advertise a mixed grill for breakfast. I’ve concocted my own now and again. You know, ordered bacon, eggs, kidneys, sausages, the lot, all on one plate. I wonder whether their idea of a mixed grill will be the same as mine.’

  ‘They’ll probably put a lamb chop in it and bring you the mint sauce,’ said Brant. ‘Mint sauce is lovely at breakfast time.’

  ‘The one you’re talking about and the one I won’t get’ll make two.’

  ‘As it looks like being another hot day,’ Masters said, ‘I’ll have orange juice and boiled eggs. Meanwhile I could do with a cup of coffee.’

  Hill poured. ‘Those prints …’ he began.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How will we identify them?’

  ‘Perhaps you won’t be able to just yet. But separate out Sally Bowker’s, mine and the Inspector’s. Dr Sisson will have handled the carrying-case, so get his by going and asking for them. Then go to the Station and ask who went to the flat, and get theirs. After that, see what you’ve got left.’

  ‘That’s a load of mullarkey,’ Green exclaimed. ‘Talk about shots in the dark!’

  Masters’ eggs arrived in a double cup. As he took the top off one he said, ‘You don’t think the prints are important?’

  ‘No. And neither do you. You’re just casting around, seeing what you can dredge up.’

  ‘This is a very good egg. Free range, I should think. And done just right. White hard, yolk soft. You were saying?’

  ‘That you haven’t got a clue.’

  ‘Oh yes I have. Several.’ The mixed grill appeared. ‘Now that’s a fine foundation for a man to go to work on. No mutton, I see. But a nice helping of the offal you swore you’d never touch again. I assure you, as far as this case is concerned I know exactly where I’m going. The only fly in the ointment will be proof. Certain facets of that may present difficulties. The trouble is that I shall have to sit back and wait for some time. So I shall arm myself with several of the more lurid Sunday papers and retire to the garden for an hour or so.’

  ‘What are you trying to do?’ Green asked. ‘Boost morale among the troops faced with a hopeless situation?’

  Hill and Brant said nothing. Masters had surprised them too often [[illegible]] them to doubt his word. Green, who had been more in the swim than they had, was in a stronger position to scoff. But Green had the unhappy knack of scoffing at the wrong things. They knew this very well. They left the table together. When they were out of ear-shot Hill said, ‘Do you really think he’s got it sewn up?’

  ‘I’ve never known him say he has when he hasn’t.’

  ‘So you think he’s sure he knows who it is, but he’s short on proof?’

  ‘That’s what he says. I’m not going to argue.’

  Green was reading the News of The World. Masters was attempting a crossword too difficult for him. He put it aside and filled his pipe. Green grunted at some item that he was reading, and put his feet up on a nearby chair. ‘D’you think Harry Dent belongs to some club or goes to a particular pub at lunchtime on Sundays?’ Masters asked.

  Without looking up, Green said, ‘How the hell should I know?’

  ‘I want to talk to him privately.’

  Green lowered his paper. ‘What for?’

  ‘And I want a word with Alderman and Mrs Bancroft.’

  Green lit a Kensitas. He blew smoke out of the corner of his mouth and said, ‘Now I know you’re up the creek. With a fishing-line. You’re casting like mad. With little hope of a bite, I reckon.’

  ‘You read your paper for a bit,’ Masters suggested. ‘And order some coffee. I’ll get Bancroft’s address from the phone book.’

  ‘Order the coffee as you go through. I’m involved in less mundane things.’

  ‘If
you’re reading the bits I think you are, they’re of the earth, most earthy.’

  Over coffee, at which the sergeants joined them, Masters said to Green, ‘As you’re so immersed in the newspapers, you and Brant can stay here in case Heatherington-Blowers calls. If he does, take a message, or if he particularly wants to speak to me, tell him I hope to be back for lunch, and I’ll call him then.’

  ‘Right. You’re going to see Bancroft?’

  ‘I’ve said I’ll be there by eleven-fifteen, so Hill and I will be off.’

  ‘You’ll get nothing from him except confirmation of last Saturday’s menu.’

  ‘The trouble with you is you know what you’re going to hear in advance. I don’t. I’m continually being surprised. I like it that way.’

  ‘Suits me.’

  Masters and Hill passed through the hotel to the car. Hill drove through the almost deserted Sunday streets and made good time round the by-pass to an area of Edwardian houses, still well maintained, and obviously in what the house agents usually call ‘a select area’. Bancroft opened the door to them, and Masters felt faintly surprised to find him a man of—at a guess—some years short of fifty. For Masters the term alderman conjured up the justice in fair round belly, with an agate-stone ring on the forefinger; and a nose that rolled its loud diapason after dinner. Bancroft didn’t fit the picture. He was a small man, not more than five feet six, but carefully made and well cared for. His hair was greying slightly, but there was a lot of it, brushed neatly. The face was brown, not thin, not fleshy, but handsome with an air of character that allows certain features to be picked out in a crowd as being above the common ruck. His clothes were well pressed, but gave no hint of being Sunday suitish. Masters liked him on sight. ‘Come you in and sit you down,’ he said. ‘I’ll call Cordelia. She’s picking parsley for the lunchtime potatoes.’

  Cordelia was taller than her husband. Not much. And the disparity was not obvious unless looked for. She didn’t surprise Masters. Having seen Bancroft, this was the woman he would have expected as his wife. A good figure, just thickening slightly round the beam to indicate she was not quite as young as—without artificial aid—she appeared to be. She wore a pale blue linen skirt and a white pique shirt open at the neck. Masters wondered why all women couldn’t buy such simple shoes to enhance their under-pinning. He didn’t realize that most could probably not afford to do so: that in all forms of female clothing simplicity comes dear and is synonymous with quality.