‘Was anybody else in sight?’
‘Just Ben Strathling. As I came out of the footpath from the bridge I was facing into his gateway and I could see up the side of his house. He came through the gap in the hedge from the Hendricksons’, hesitated for a moment and then came out and crossed the road. I suppose he was going either to the Ortons’ or the Albanys’. I thought at the time that he was looking furtive, but he always does. I didn’t notice anybody else,’ she added plaintively, as if Keith might blame her for lack of observation or for the failure of others to be on view when required.
‘You saw all that mattered,’ Keith said comfortingly. ‘We’ll leave you in peace now.’
She got to her feet quickly, as if glad to be rid of such threatening guests, but then paused. ‘It was a terrible thing to happen, wasn’t it,’ she said. It was hardly a question. ‘I don’t blame Jenny for not wanting to believe that Sam killed himself, but I’m sure she’s got you on a wild goose chase. I knew Sam Hendrickson when we were students together.’
Keith pricked up his ears. ‘You knew him well?’
‘Not very. He was going out with a friend of mine. We were all left-wingers in those days, I remember, but he never grew out of it. He hated to be fussed over even then, he could get quite nasty about it, and being tied to anybody’s apron-strings would have been quite enough to push him over the edge, let alone that wife of his. Such a maternal woman!’ She hurried them out before they could comment.
‘Meow!’ Deborah said, before they were quite out of hearing.
*
Father and daughter crossed the road together in the midday sunshine, the first sun of the spring to hold any warmth. Keith turned his face upward for a moment. He always liked to feel the first hint of summer to come. The flowers in the gardens already showed brighter tints.
Gus’s van had gone, but a plain car was parked outside the Hendricksons’ gate with Detective Inspector Gowrie at the wheel. Superintendent Munro sat beside him, unfamiliar in plain clothes of stiff tweed. Gus had somehow been a proper if workaday part of the scene but the two policemen, who were trying to blend in, looked as alien as turnips in a rose-bed.
‘They’ll be wanting an update,’ Keith told Deborah. ‘You go and ask Mr Albany – or Mrs Albany, if he’s left for his clay pigeons already – one question for me.’ He spelled it out for her. ‘Then, if we’re not in one of the cars, come and find us.’
Deborah’s eyes widened. ‘You’re on to something, are you, Dad?’
‘The answer to that’s a qualified maybe.’
Deborah strode off, her long legs sweeping her over the ground at almost a running pace. As Keith walked towards the car its door opened and the two policemen got out to meet him.
‘Have you anything for us?’ Gowrie asked. ‘Or can we start our weekend now?’
Keith ducked into the cluttered back seat of the car, forcing Gowrie and Munro to get back in again. ‘Not out there,’ he said. ‘Too many eyes and ears. As it is, I’m afraid I may have said too much. The womenfolk are naturally curious. The men too, some of them. The questions I’ve asked and the answers I’ve got must be going the rounds. I’d suggest that we borrowed Mrs Hendrickson’s summerhouse, except that I don’t think we ought to leave the road unwatched.’
‘That’s easily fixed,’ Gowrie said. He picked up the radio microphone but hesitated before making a call. ‘What do you know?’
‘I don’t know much, but I’m thinking a lot. I know who did it,’ Keith said. ‘I think I know what he did. But I’m damned if I know why. And I’ve no proof at all. I need a few seconds longer to think about it.’
The superintendent was looking more than ever like a disgruntled camel. ‘Och, I wish now I’d never invited you to meddle,’ he said. ‘We’ve had more than our share of crimes around here, and yourself usually on the fringes and interfering. If we announce another murder, my superiors will be wondering what sort of crime prevention we go in for in these parts.’
‘You’ve certainly got a crime,’ Keith said. ‘But did I say anything about murder?’
Deborah appeared at the door before the superintendent could pursue the subject. Keith had to stack up a briefcase, an orange waistcoat, a blue flasher and two bollards to make room for her beside him. She gave him an affirmative nod.
‘Let’s get one or two other things out of the way,’ Keith said. ‘Old Mrs Orton heard a car. She thinks that it was early on the morning Sam Hendrickson died. It was diesel-engined and she heard a penetrating, nasal voice.’
‘Means nothing to me,’ Gowrie said. ‘But it’s a combination which shouldn’t be difficult to trace. You think the car was dropping off the killer? Where did he hide until the middle of the day, and again afterwards?’
‘I don’t think anything of the sort,’ Keith said. ‘Toots, you said you got to know the shotgun users by their voices. You wouldn’t know anybody . . .?’
‘Only one,’ Deborah said. ‘There’s a Mr McPhail – I’ve heard them call him Sandy. He farms somewhere out Greenlaw way. He’s got a voice like stones dropping into an empty skip. And I’ll tell you something else. He has a diesel Land-Rover. Or he had, when they shot for the Joint Council Trophy back in December.’
Munro, who had been slouching despondently, grunted and sat up straight. ‘I’m thinking we should maybe go and see this Mr McPhail,’ he said. ‘There may be others with a voice and a vehicle like that, but one place is as good as another to make a start. If he can account for himself, we’ll get Swansea to furnish a list of the diesel-engined vehicles owned hereabouts.’
‘Hold on!’ Keith said. ‘I thought you policemen were renowned for not galloping off in all directions. The name Plod wouldn’t have stuck to you if you were always so damned impatient.’
‘Mr Calder’s right,’ Gowrie said with a touch of self-righteousness. ‘I’ve been wondering why I knew the name. It’s just come back to me. Mr McPhail’s farmhouse burned down overnight, about the time Mr Hendrickson died.’
‘I think that’s true,’ Keith said. ‘Was it headlined Greenlaw Farmhouse Fire in the local rag? Because I have a mental picture of that headline next to the report of the suicide.’
‘He’ll have been putting a letter through Mr Strathling’s door about the insurance,’ Gowrie said disgustedly. ‘Another red herring.’
‘I don’t think it is,’ Keith said.
Superintendent Munro was reluctant to abandon the promising new trail, and he was even more loath to accept correction from his subordinate. ‘Why would he do that when the telephone would be quicker? He would telephone for a claim form to be posted to him. That is how it is done. No farmer likes writing letters.’
‘He had no phone after the farmhouse burned down,’ Gowrie said. ‘That’s why.’
‘A public telephone —’ Munro began.
‘Near a remote farm?’ Gowrie retorted. ‘Once he was in the Land-Rover it would be as quick to call in on the way by. And I mind something else. He came into the town to fetch a caravan from the hirers. Our men pulled him in for towing it behind his Land-Rover with some other vehicle’s registration number on the back of the caravan. He’s living in it now, out at the farm.’
The two policemen scowled at each other. Munro was first to break off the clash of eyes. ‘It may be that you are right,’ he said. ‘We will ask him. Mr Calder, you were going to say something else. What were you about to tell us before we became side-tracked?’
Keith had been toying with an amusing theory which had the farmer killing Sam Hendrickson in reprisal because one of the Hendrickson family had fired the farmhouse. Perhaps Sandy McPhail had despoiled the daughter, Beth. McPhail, of course, had hidden in the garden of the absent McLaings and Kenny Stuart, out of loyalty to a brother of the soil, had kept silent about his movement, beyond the hedges, to the Hendrickson garden and back again and had harrowed over the betraying footprints . . .
Munro’s question brought him back to earth where, for the moment, he had no desire t
o be. ‘Did you know that Kechnie crossed the road just before the shot was heard?’ He asked.
‘We knew that,’ Gowrie said. ‘But—’
‘And did you know that Mrs Beecher is Kechnie’s sister? And that Sam Hendrickson and his members harrassed Kechnie almost to the point of ruin?’ Keith fell silent and lost himself in thought.
‘How is it that folk will tell you things that they do not bother to tell the police?’ Munro demanded angrily.
‘Perhaps he doesn’t look at them as if he suspected them of selling cut flowers on the Sabbath,’ Deborah said.
Munro ignored the comment. He swivelled round in his seat to look at Keith. ‘So you believe that Mr Kechnie crossed the road, borrowed a leftover cartridge from his sister, Mrs Beecher, slipped through the Strathlings’ garden during the races, shot Hendrickson and remained hidden until the fuss was over and he could return home by the same route?’ There was no reply. ‘Hey?’ he added.
‘What was that?’ Keith said. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t listening.’
Munro, dusky red in the face, repeated the question.
‘No,’ Keith said. The digression had gained him time to organise his thoughts. ‘I don’t think that at all. The persecution of Kechnie must have petered out when Sam Hendrickson fell ill. And revenge was never enough motivation for an intelligent man with a good lifestyle at stake. The only thing that Kechnie told me which I believed was that he hadn’t wanted Hendrickson dead. He enjoyed seeing him helpless. Charming gentleman is Mr Kechnie.’
Gowrie had waited, smiling quietly, through this exchange. Now he stirred and looked round. ‘Mr Kechnie’s phone was out of order,’ he said. ‘We’ve checked that with Telecom. He went over to borrow his sister’s phone, and he was speaking to one of his shops when the shot was fired.’
Superintendent Munro was in no doubt that his subordinate had stood aside to watch him being fooled. He was ready to explode, but Keith jumped in quickly.
‘I was never in much doubt about who might be guilty,’ Keith said. ‘The man who induced the Hendricksons to come and live next door to him and who, just before the shot was heard, went to visit the one house where he could be sure of a chance to purloin a twelve-bore cartridge. Right, Toots?’
‘That’s right,’ Deborah said. ‘I asked Mr Albany. He was a bit snotty about it, but he told me in the end. He keeps his cartridges in a drawer in his study, but his guns live in a cupboard in the hall. So when Mr Strathling came in to ask for the numbers on his guns, Mr Albany had to leave him alone in the study and go to look.’
‘What’s more,’ Keith said, ‘Strathling admitted to going as far as the gap in the hedge once, and he only admitted that after he realised that I knew something. But Mrs Pollock saw him coming back from the Hendricksons’ garden before he crossed over to the Albanys’. And when he returned home from the Albanys’, old Mrs Orton saw him go to the gap again and vanish, and that was at about the time she waved to the farmer. She didn’t hear the shot, but she was seen to wave shortly before the shot was heard. So he went through the hedge and towards the summerhouse, not once but twice, the second time just before the shot.’
Gowrie sat up very straight. ‘If Strathling killed Sam Hendrickson —’ he began.
‘I’m not saying that Sam Hendrickson was murdered,’ Keith said. ‘I never have said that. All I’ve ever said was that Sam didn’t kill himself.’
‘Then what?’ Gowrie said. ‘And why?’
Keith was thinking aloud. ‘You don’t have to prove a motive in court, but it’s a hell of a help.’ He stopped. ‘That visit from Mr McPhail the farmer. I can’t . . .’ He stopped again and then burst out, ‘Damn it to hell! I’ve blown it. He must know by now that I’m going to point the finger at him, but I can’t do any more until Monday. On Monday, I can fill the biggest gap.’
‘Motive?’ said Munro.
‘Blast motive! I’m talking about good, solid evidence of wrongdoing.’
‘Why Monday?’ Munro asked plaintively. ‘What’s so special about a Monday?’
‘Because that’s when the insurance company will open again,’ Keith said reasonably.
‘If you mean Mr Strathling’s company . . .’ Deborah began.
‘Which else?’
‘Well, there was something on the telly the other night. It was a commercial. A new round-the-week telephone service, evenings and weekends included. A phone-line to somebody at the computer, for quotations, instant cover or reports of claims.’
Keith pulled his daughter to him and kissed her on the cheek, an embrace which she accepted reluctantly but with dignity. ‘Then all may not yet be lost,’ he said. ‘If this works, you can dye your hair any colour you like.’
Munro looked over his shoulder. He seemed about to say that Keith’s permission had come too late for him, but Deborah got her oar in first. ‘I’ll hold you to that,’ she said.
‘Hang on here for a few minutes,’ said Keith. ‘If Strathling tries to leave, stop him. Breathalyse him, ask him to produce an alibi for tomorrow morning, anything. But don’t let him drive away or you may never see him again.’
‘Where are you going?’ Gowrie asked.
‘Summerhouse.’
‘It’s sealed.’
‘Blast your seal!’ Keith erupted from the car and vanished through the Hendricksons’ gate.
*
Gowrie looked at Superintendent Munro. ‘He can’t treat us – the police – like that, can he?’
‘Likely not,’ Munro said. ‘But he aye does.’
‘Anybody else would sit still while we did the running around.’
‘It is more restful this way,’ Munro said. He slid his long body down again in the seat. ‘Were we to understand that the mannie McPhail came into it somewhere?’
‘That’s what I took him to be saying.’
‘He doesn’t mean to be obscure,’ Deborah said apologetically from the back seat. ‘He probably thinks that we know exactly what he’s talking about.’
‘Well, we do not,’ Munro said. ‘But we had best wait for him. He has the knack of being on the right track, just now and again.’
Chapter Twelve
Keith collected the keys of the summerhouse from Mrs Hendrickson, parried her questions and hurried up the garden. He had no interest in the summerhouse as the scene of a crime – what he wanted most in the world at that moment was access to Sam Hendrickson’s files and to a telephone where he would not be overheard. He closed the door carefully and looked to see that the windows were shut.
He had finished his calls and was sitting in the wheelchair with the file open on the desk in front of him, mentally sifting the facts in the light of what he had just learned. A breath of air and a soft footfall warned him that he was no longer alone. He span the wheelchair round, half-expecting a furious Ben Strathling.
Beth Hendrickson was in the doorway, fresh-looking in a smart, cotton frock but still showing traces of her rash. She came in the rest of the way. ‘Hullo,’ she said. ‘Have you had German measles? I’m over the worst, but I may still be infectious.’
‘I don’t remember,’ Keith said. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m just going.’
‘No. I want to talk to you,’ she said, as if that settled the matter. ‘I’ll sit right over here.’
Keith decided that, if he were liable to the infection, Thursday’s episode had probably done the damage already. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But first close the door. I gather that you haven’t been telling the police the same tarradiddles you told us.’
She sat down very demurely in one of the armchairs, knees close together. ‘About Spike, you mean? I was only being silly. He irritates me sometimes, sucking up to Mother and hanging around that daughter of yours, hoping that she’ll let him hold her hand.’
Keith would have liked to pursue this hint at Deborah’s innocence but doubted whether he could trust the source. ‘So you tell a completely different set of damn lies,’ he said. ‘Truth isn’t something to use or discard as it
suits you.’
‘I know that,’ she said. ‘It’s just that . . . don’t you find that the world’s full of people who get up your nose?’
This was so close to Keith’s own sentiment that he added it to his list of subjects best avoided. ‘What did you want to talk about?’ he asked.
‘About my mother. She’s got a bee in her bonnet now about fostering handicapped children. Could you talk to her? She seems to think a lot of your advice.’
Keith blinked at her in amazement. ‘I could. But why on earth should I? It seems to be just the thing for her. She desperately wants to help people. She lost your father, and you two will be flying the nest soon. She has a big house.’
‘But it’s my home,’ Beth said as if he were being deliberately obtuse. ‘I don’t want it filled up with snotty-nosed, half-witted oiks. And she’ll be doing it at our expense. Don’t forget that she won’t have any money of her own.’
‘You’re wrong there,’ Keith said. ‘Your father left a lot of investments.’
‘But the insurance policies —’
‘She won’t be broke,’ Keith said.
She sat and stared at him. ‘You know what happened?’ she said. ‘All of it?’
‘I think so.’
‘What, then?’
Keith wanted to promise that she’d be the last to know. Instead, he said, ‘I can’t tell anybody until the police know and have acted.’
‘I have a right to know.’
‘Tell me what right,’ he said.
‘I don’t think Mother’s so far off the beam after all,’ she said after a thoughtful pause. ‘You’re very clever. And an attractive man. For your age. You could easily persuade her if you wanted to. She’s very highly sexed and she’s about due for a new man in her life.’
Keith’s first impression, that he was in for a burst of adolescent hero-worship, faded rapidly at the reference to his age. He came as close as he was capable to being shocked. ‘If you’re suggesting that I should seduce your mother in order to persuade her not to go in for fostering,’ he said, ‘put it out of your mind. If she got a little consideration and affection from you, and if you told her, as you’ve told me, that you value your home, she might not feel the need to try again. Go and tell your mother that I’ve solved the case. The first and largest insurance policy will pay off, also the union’s insurance.’
The Worried Widow Page 20
