She looked up at the ceiling but without seeing the damage. It was the gesture of one who is hard pressed. ‘Do I have to be the one to tell her? She’ll only go on about God and miracles.’
‘She could be right. Was it you or your brother who brought home joints for your father?’ He awaited her answer with misgivings, not enjoying the prospect of having to be the heavy father.
‘That was me,’ Beth said to his relief. ‘Spike didn’t know. He gets a bit virtuous about that sort of thing. But I was sorry for the old boy and I couldn’t think of anything else I could do to make it easier for him.’
Keith nodded. He could not show approval. But at least the girl had meant well for once. ‘Run along now,’ he said.
‘If you tell anybody, I’ll deny it,’ Beth said.
‘I expect so. Now, go.’ He chased her outside before she could think of any more questions.
*
They had waited in the car, with some attempt at patience, for nearly an hour before Keith returned, looking pleased with himself, and settled again into the rear seat.
‘I was right,’ he said. ‘I got the key of the summerhouse, broke your seal, dug out Sam Hendrickson’s file of insurances and phoned the company. They’ve got a record of his first policy on the computer but there’s no trace of the later two. I phoned the doctor as well, of course. What do you make of that?’
Superintendent Munro began to make a hissing sound.
‘I think you’d better explain, Dad,’ Deborah said tactfully. ‘Go into more detail. Just so that we know we’re all talking about the same thing.’
Munro, who had been on the point of an outburst, grunted agreement and subsided.
‘But it’s all quite clear,’ Keith said. ‘Strathling’s a gambler. We’ve none of us ever found him on a Saturday except in front of the horse-racing on the haunted fishtank, and Sir Peter mentioned bumping into him at the races and in casinos. That would explain his being strapped for cash. Deborah said that the house didn’t smell prosperous. You’ll likely find that he’s in debt for more of a lump sum than he’d have been able to raise on his pension.
‘And then, I suppose, while he was facing the prospect of compulsory retirement within a few years and with nothing in the kitty, he realised that he was taking in large sums in premiums and passing them on to his firm. Much of that money would be eaten up by administrative costs, some more was available for investment and in most years, if they’d figured the actuarial risks correctly, only a part of the remainder was paid out in claims.
‘He was dealing directly with many of the policy-holders. Why shouldn’t he pocket the premiums and fill out policy forms himself? That way, and given a little luck, he could build up a reserve which his creditors never knew about. If he told each policy-holder to deal only directly with himself, why would they do otherwise – especially if he told them that they would save commission that way, or some such nonsense?
‘Insurance companies aren’t in business for charity. Essentially, they’re in the position of bookmakers, taking the premiums and offering odds which can be expected to show them a profit in the longer run. The policy-holder is a punter, betting on his own victimisation by robbers or by the fates. Strathling would only be making the sensible decision to be the bookie rather than the punter. As a gambler, the notion would appeal to him.’ Keith slapped his knee as another memory came to him. ‘Sir Peter said that the company had been getting very sticky about paying claims. That would be Strathling, not keen to settle claims out of what he’d come to look on as his personal nest-egg.’
Munro gave a low whistle. ‘And then Sam Hendrickson fell ill,’ he said.
‘Exactly. Strathling had underwritten the last two policies himself. Hendrickson, after all, was the younger man and could be expected to outlive him. So, when Hendrickson fell ill, Strathling visited the sick man and saw for himself that his condition was far from good. He suggested that the Hendricksons might move into the house next door to him, where he could keep a weather eye out. At that time he probably intended no more than to get early warning of any worsening of Sam’s health, so that he could have funds on hand or be ready to skip out with as much cash as he could lay his hands on.’
‘And Hendrickson phoned the company and found him out?’ Gowrie suggested. ‘Was that the motive for killing him?’
‘Mr Hendrickson couldn’t speak on the phone,’ Deborah pointed out. ‘Mrs Hendrickson would have had to do the speaking for him, and she didn’t or she’d certainly have told us.’
‘The company could have written to him direct, mentioning only one policy,’ Gowrie persisted.
‘Strathling was manager of the area office,’ Keith said. ‘He’d have originated, or at least have had to sign, any such letter. Do I have to keep reminding you that I never said that anybody killed anybody else? Strathling took to visiting the invalid – almost every day, Mrs Hendrickson said. And one Saturday, when the television switched to covering basketball or ice-skating or something, he visited him again.’
A moment of silence was broken by a clap which made the superintendent jump. It was Gowrie, slapping his knee. ‘And . . . found . . . him . . . dead!’ Gowrie said triumphantly. ‘Now I think I’m with you.’
‘And found him dead,’ Keith echoed. ‘We should have known from what was on the word-processor. Gibberish, followed by his shorthand for “I’m all right, just tired”. Classic symptoms of another stroke on the way, according to the doctor. Remember, Strathling was nearly undone when Mrs Albany kept him talking because she thought that Sam had looked worse than usual.
‘And now Sam Hendrickson, a big policy-holder, was dead, immediately after a farmhouse fire. A claim from the widow would spell disaster. Perhaps he simply couldn’t meet both claims. Certainly not without blowing his carefully – and riskily – accumulated nest-egg.
‘But he had an idea and, beastly and despicable though it was, he had enough nerve to carry it out and nothing whatever to lose. Sam’s policies were invalid if he should be found to have committed suicide. Strathling didn’t know that there were a couple of twenty-bore cartridges tucked away in Sam’s drawer. He crossed the road to Mr Albany’s house, asking him some question about the serial numbers of Albany’s guns. That entailed his being left alone in the study for a few minutes, and he purloined one twelve-bore cartridge.
‘As soon as he could get away —’
‘He must have been hopping with impatience when Mrs Albany trapped him for a chat,’ Deborah said, ‘because Mrs Hendrickson could have decided to visit the invalid at any moment.’
‘He was. Albany said so. When he did manage to escape, he crossed the road again and ducked through the hedge back to the summerhouse. Sam Hendrickson’s corpse was still undiscovered. So he typed the suicide note on Sam’s word-processor. He was hurried, because Mrs Hendrickson might come at any time; but a few typing errors would be typical of Sam.
‘And then he took down and loaded the twelve-bore gun, put the muzzles in Sam’s mouth and pulled the trigger, effectively destroying any evidence of the stroke, and escaped back home damn quick before the sound of the shot brought Mrs Hendrickson and others to the scene. He’d have checked himself for blood-spots and changed his clothes if necessary, and then gone round to join the horrified group in the summerhouse.’
Silence fell in the car. The radio chattered suddenly with a message for a cruising panda car. ‘Damnable,’ Munro breathed. ‘Just damnable.’
Gowrie stirred at last. ‘It fits,’ he said. ‘And it’s the only explanation which fits the known facts perfectly in all respects.’
‘You cannot say that yet,’ Munro said repressively. ‘Not until you have had time to gather every obtainable fact and also to imagine and test every other possible explanation.’ He gave a sigh. ‘But I think that Mr Calder will probably turn out to be right. At the moment, if Mr Strathling has been defrauding his company or its policy-holders, we have quite enough to hold him on.’
‘There’ll c
ertainly be evidence to that effect in the house,’ Gowrie said, ‘if he’s been issuing fraudulent policies from there.’
‘We’d be the better of a warrant,’ Munro said.
‘I don’t think we have time. I think Mr Calder’s right again. Imagine it. First there was a suicide. Mr Calder produced evidence that was not so. They they’re asked to co-operate in a fresh investigation. Mr Calder and his lassie ask a hantle of questions and then he comes across the road looking like the cat that swallowed the canary and sits in the car with us under all their windows but right outside Mrs Hendrickson’s gate, which means also outside Strathling’s gate. He sends the lassie to ask Mr Albany about the cartridge. We should have listened when he suggested the summerhouse. They’ll be talking over the fences or phoning each other. “He asked me this, what did he ask you?”’
‘And the guilty man will guess that he is found out,’ Munro said sadly. ‘He will be getting ready to run for it. He may be destroying evidence. We have been less than clever. This would happen at the worst time of the week, for men or magistrates. Well, we will just have to knock at the door and invite him to make a statement. If he refuses, we will have to pull men back from their golf or football and mount a watch right through the weekend.’ He took up the radio microphone. ‘I’ll see if we have got a car to spare.’
Keith nudged his daughter and got out of the car. ‘He may have started running already,’ he said softly, ‘and he didn’t go this way. Nip up on to the footbridge and see if there’s anybody walking away along the canal side.’
‘All right, Dad,’ Deborah strode off.
The two officers were out already and walking up the path to the Strathlings’ house. As Gowrie rang the front doorbell, Munro continued round the side of the house. Keith followed him. Munro stopped at the gap in the hedge. Now that the gap was no longer in regular use it was already closing up with the new growth of spring. Keith could see old Mrs Orton at her window. He gave her a wave and she waved back. She made signals which he was only too sure that he could interpret.
‘Detective Inspector Gowrie does not seem to be getting an answer,’ Munro said uneasily. He moved to the back door, Keith again following.
‘I think your bird’s flown already,’ Keith said.
‘The house is not silent. Listen.’
A muffled thudding could be heard from the upper floor. It could have been anything. It could have been the heels of a dangling body, drumming against a wall.
‘That doesn’t sound right,’ Keith said. ‘We’d better break in.’
Munro looked unhappy. ‘They could make trouble, if there’s nothing wrong. It could even be a trick, to put us on the wrong footing.’
‘And it could be somebody’s death-throes.’ The windows were double-glazed but the back door was singly glazed in small panes. Keith put his elbow through one of them and reached down to the lock. ‘Clumsy me!’ he said. ‘Look what I’ve done.’
They followed the thumping sound up the stairs and into a severely furnished bedroom. The house was spacious but Deborah had been correct in commenting on the lack of expensive trivia and the unprosperous smell. The sounds were coming from a built-in wardrobe. Keith turned the key and opened the door.
Mrs Strathling came stumbling out. Two pairs of tights had been used, one pair as a gag and the other to tie her hands behind her back. She looked less than glamorous in tights, a panty-girdle and a longline bra, with her hair flying, make-up smudged and the beginnings of a black eye.
Superintendent Munro made a strangled sound and changed colour. ‘Look after the lady,’ he said. ‘I will let Gowrie in.’
Keith loosened the gag first. He was in no hurry to free her hands. She was as large as he was, probably as muscular and certainly in a sizzling temper, and he was in no doubt that he would be low on her list of favourite people.
As soon as her mouth was free, a pent-up torrent of abuse was released. Her genteel accent had vanished and had been replaced by darkest Glasgow. The target was not himself but the absent Mr Strathling. ‘I was meant to gae wi’ him,’ she said more than once. ‘But no. Yon bugger was o’er greedy to share the wee puggie he’d managed to put by.’ She faced the two police officers who had arrived, stunned, in the doorway and her voice rose to a screech. ‘Near thirty grand he’s got in his trammels, and he leaves me wi’ a mortgaged house and no’ a penny to keep it wi’. Dear God, I’ll be slaving at the bank for the rest of my natural life!’ Tears were ravaging the remains of her make-up.
‘Here.’ Keith gave up his half-hearted attempts to undo the knots at her wrists. He pushed her into the arms of the scandalised Munro and shot out of the room. Deborah was at the foot of the stairs.
‘I could see a man,’ she panted. ‘He was miles along the canal bank towards the lock, carrying two suitcases.’
Keith turned back into the bedroom. Mrs Strathling had paused for breath. ‘Where’s his car?’ he asked.
‘Ahint Henderson’s shop.’
‘Tell your men to watch the Square,’ he snapped at Munro. He descended the stairs three at a time, grabbed Deborah by the elbow and ran her out of the now open front door.
‘Here,’ Deborah said. ‘Hi! Where’s the fire, Dad.’
‘I wish you hadn’t said that.’ He unlocked the jeep and pushed her inside, running round to hurl himself into the driver’s seat. The little vehicle jerked into motion as soon as the engine fired. ‘Nowhere, please God! Catching him’s the police’s business now. But who do you think he hates most in all the world?’
‘You, I suppose. You rocked his little boat for him all right.’
‘Didn’t I just! His car’s parked behind Henderson’s shop, along by the lock, his wife says. He must’ve made ready to bolt.’ Keith hauled the jeep, on yelping tyres, round on to the road into Newton Lauder. ‘Maybe he’ll only make a run for it, but his chances aren’t good. In fact, they’re non-existent. Munro should be broadcasting his car number to every force in Scotland by now. Strathling may decide to hit back at me before trying to run. That way, he might have revenge even if he lost everything else. He’ll get a stiff term in the nick anyway. Another sentence, probably concurrent, would be neither here nor there. Wallace is supposed to have insured the shop through him but the insurance company knew nothing about it. We’re not covered and Strathling knows it.’
‘Oh Dad! What about the house?’
‘I’ve got that covered with a different company, so with a bit of luck he’ll ignore it. Wal wanted me to transfer my insurance to Strathling. Wait ’til I see him! It’s your mother I’m worried about, alone in the shop. We can’t beat him to his car, but he’s got a longer way round to come.’ Keith shot across the Square under the bows of a squealing furniture van and into the side-street beyond. He stopped in the lane behind the shop, blocking it completely. ‘I’ve been burnt out of business twice in my life and I’m not wanting a third time. Come on. You can explain to your mother. Keep her in the back shop and watch out of the window in case he thinks of coming that way.’
‘I don’t feel very well,’ Deborah said, and he saw that she looked as if she might be sick.
They cut through the garden belonging to the upstairs flat and Keith let them in through the back door of the shop. Lunchtime was on them and Molly was alone and on the point of locking up. ‘We have an emergency,’ Keith said. ‘Go into the back shop. Deb will explain.’
Molly hesitated for a second while curiosity fought with caution. The recollection that Keith was never peremptory without good cause prevailed.
Keith was left alone in the shop, far less certain that he was right. Ben Strathling was probably driving furiously towards his chosen airport, probably across the Border, in the hope, almost certainly vain, of outstripping the police net. Word might take longer to reach the English police, but surely not long enough. Perhaps he would dump the car in some city and melt into the crowd.
But, just in case his first hunch had been correct, what would Strathling do? Keith backe
d in among a rackful of shooting-coats and thought about it. His mouth was dry and he could feel tension in his belly.
He had at first had a vague mental picture of Strathling entering the shop, overpowering Molly and then wandering around with a can of petrol. But somehow the picture was unconvincing. Keith tried desperately to see into Strathling’s mind. Such wholesale methods would be unnecessary. Once before, the shop had been burned. He could remember only too well the damage which a small fire had wrought, helped by the boxes of cartridges and the cans of propellant powder. He wondered whether to arm himself and decided against it. The police did not take kindly to a gunsmith who took up arms against a member of the public, however guilty the latter might be.
Another worry hammered at his brain. Suppose he had guessed wrongly and Strathling was headed for the house! He was on the point of calling to Molly to phone somebody, anybody, to get out there when his thoughts were interrupted. Through the shop-window he saw Strathling’s Jaguar slide into view and vanish again.
Seconds later, Strathling himself appeared, walking through the traffic as though he were immortal. A furious Mini swerved around him and hooted. Keith’s heart skipped a beat when he saw that the man was holding a bottle in his hand and a brick under one arm. Of course! Lobbing a Molotov cocktail through the door would be quicker and safer by far. All that he had needed were a bottle and a rag and the can of petrol that most motorists carry in the boot, plus a brick to open the way.
Without stopping to think, Keith rushed to the door and wrestled with the locks. Through the glass, Strathling saw him and checked in his stride. As Keith got the door open, Strathling let the brick fall and struck a match. Keith paused to pull the door to behind him. The thick glass might stop a bottle but it might not. Flame flowered at the neck of the bottle. On an impulse which he afterwards admitted to have been crazy, Keith hurled himself forward.
The Worried Widow Page 21
