The Soft Detective

by H. R. F. Keating

  He would have been hard put to it to say precisely how he had imagined the Incident Room would have changed in his absence. Rationally he knew that nothing would be essentially different. Yet he felt that Conor’s time being questioned and the thoughts and, yes, hopes of those in the room while that was going on would have left some physical impression.

  But, bar the files on the big central table being the bulkier for some twenty-four hours of reports coming in and checked actions being filed, the place looked almost exactly as it had before. The computer screens ranked along their wall were glowing as greyly as ever, though fewer of them were manned. The remains of half-eaten snacks on paper plates littered the place as previously, perhaps a little more numerously. The big cardboard files in front of Jumbo Hastings may have been some degrees fatter, but otherwise looked unchanged. Only the ashtrays fuller with sharp-smelling stubbed-out ends.

  The chair at the table at the top of the room was now, of course, Verney’s since he had chosen to conduct a hands-on operation. But it looked almost as it had done when he himself had last got up from it. Its in-basket almost as full, its out-basket a little fuller. There were perhaps fewer pads of rough paper on it, and more chewed pencils. The waste bin was, however, just as full of crushed plastic tea and coffee beakers. But that was all.

  Verney, as he presented himself to him, leant closely enough forwards for what he said not to be overheard.

  ‘Take over the day-to-day now, Phil, I want to get back to my own office. But keep me informed. Every detail. Every detail that matters.’

  Again, the barest word. But now it was Phil. Back, though no other indication had emerged, to complete confidence. Still, that was Verney’s style. And it would be easy enough, going, through all the files to bring himself up to date, to see what precisely it had been that had finally cleared Conor.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he answered, with a hidden bound of pleasure. ‘Will do.’

  But, as soon as Verney had gone, he picked up the phone and rang the Frogs Lane cottage. If Verney really had neglected to tell Vicky that Conor was no longer a suspect and could go back to school rather than sit waiting to be called in for another questioning session, then he had better make sure Conor knew.

  However, at the far end the phone rang and rang and was never picked up.

  OK, down to work.

  ‘Sergeant,’ he called out to Jumbo, who from the moment he had come in had given out, for all his scrupulously turned back, a warm gust of welcome. ‘Let’s have the latest files. I’ve got catching up to do.’

  Jumbo brought across a whole armful of bulky clip-in files and dumped them with a loud smack on the table.

  ‘All in chronological, boss’, he said. ‘You shouldn’t have much trouble picking up. I’d start this one from the end, though, I were you. Three places where we found witnesses to young Conor’s trek home.’

  ‘Jumbo. Thanks.’

  And one quick flip-through confirmed it all.

  ‘Jumbo,’ he said, ‘d’you happen to know if Vicky’s been told that Conor’s totally in the clear now?’

  ‘Can’t say I do. Certainly Mr Verney never asked me to tell her. Wouldn’t put it past him never to have thought. He’s not exactly one to consider other people.’

  ‘No. No, I suppose he’s not.’

  Well, I know damn well he’s not. So has Vicky, out there with Conor, decided perhaps to get him out of the way in case he’s summoned back for another interview? Is that why the phone was unanswered?

  But, on the other hand, I may be maligning Verney. He may have phoned Vicky with the good news, and Conor’s gone back to Harrison. And Vicky’s gone … shopping? To the hairdresser? Whatever.

  So, he thought, as he began systematically to go through the new stuff in the files, if Conor’s totally out of the frame - how could I ever have thought…? - then who is in it? Who? One of the bad lads we have on our lists? Two of the most notorious had been brought in for questioning. But none of the doorstepping inquiries had yielded anything even a little hopeful.

  Then, as he let the last of the files flop down in front of him, like an obedient genie rubbed from a lamp the shadow of a notion flicked across his mind. He went quickly back through the file detailing Conor’s walk from the shop in Sandymount out to Frogs Lane and found Di March’s filled-in Action sheet.

  It was, he noted as he went through it again, very competently done. Whatever prejudice March had had when she was on her way to the shop had been thoroughly disposed of by the facts she had gathered there. And she had fully reported them.

  But there was, as he had been faintly aware of from his earlier quick glance, one omission. It had no direct bearing on the action March had been tasked with, and so the gap was perfectly reasonable. But the very absence was putting more and more strongly into his mind what it was that he had overheard, back flattened against the wall just round the corner from the shop’s open door.

  It was something Mrs Damberry had said. Or rather had sung out in vigorous contradiction. Not like those friends of he.

  He could hear her voice now.

  So, regular customers at the shop, besides Conor buying Cokes, were friends of Conor’s. Buying, if they were let, half-bottles of whisky. As well as the Ecstasy they got in all probability elsewhere in Sandymount before most weekends or when there was a party somewhere. But whisky and Ecstasy tablets don’t come cheap. All right, a top dentist like Belinda’s father must be pretty well off, and Alec’s father, the estate agent, certainly won’t be short of a penny. But there’s surely a limit to the amount of spending money either of them will let their kids have. So, isn’t it likely the two youngsters, regularly swanning about down in Sandymount, would have heard, like Conor, of the famous Hampton Hoard? Perhaps even heard Conor himself mention it.

  So, what if the two of them had hatched a plan to get the location of the Hoard out of old Professor Unwala? Was Alec Gaffney, then, the black-coated figure breathless Mr Jones had see lurking in Percival Road? Had it been Alec who had at last yelled out, in a falsetto of baulked rage, You black bastard? Swung that cricket bat, hauled the bookcase over in a feeble attempt to make the death look like an accident? And had then gone on to escape by way of the garden? To vomit there? Likely enough for a first-time killer, still a teenager. And in scrambling over that tall concrete fence, had left a footmark? But wait. Alec Gaffney’s tall, a good six foot. Would he really have size seven feet?

  Except for this last circumstance, the facts fitted well enough for all that they by no means pointed to a clear-cut culprit. But worth going to Verney - Keep me informed. Every detail - and suggesting that, if the Gaffney boy’s presence in Sandymount on Monday evening could be confirmed, then a few informal words with him might produce enough to give us our much-needed firm new lead.

  Yes.

  Ten minutes later he was driving once more through the still-persistent fog down to Sandymount and the corner shop. But this time no need to hover outside.

  ‘Mrs Damberry, good afternoon. You remember me, Detective Chief Inspector Benholme?’

  He was answered with a hugely beaming smile.

  ‘Marguerite Damberry jus’ only talking ‘bout you this morning. You an’ that good-lookin’ son of you.’

  He smiled back, impossible not to.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, i know you were. It’s in the police files. But no need to let that worry you. What you told Detective Sergeant March this morning helped to get my lad out of a bit of a hole he’d foolishly dug himself into.’

  ‘Foolish? No, sir. That boy ain’t foolish. He got he head good an’ screwed on he shoulders. Not like some of he friends.’

  He pounced at this.

  ‘Well, it’s about his friends that I’ve come to see you. The point is we’re anxious to get hold of as many people as possible, witnesses, who were round about here at the time Mr Unwala was killed.’

  Mrs Damberry heaved an immense sigh.

  ‘That poor old man. I misses him. I tru
ly do.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. And if I can find anybody who was around that evening, and who may have seen something they paid no particular attention to at the time, I may be all the nearer to finding who was responsible for his murder’.

  ‘If Marguerite Damberry can help she’d tell you one hundred name. But she can’t. She just didn’t see no one that night, it so foggy.’

  ‘No one at all, Mrs Damberry? I mean, besides my boy knocking your lottery sign flying, did any others from his school come into the shop by any chance? Or did you see any of them outside? In those long black jackets and with those stripy yellow and green ties?’

  ‘Don’t talk to me ‘bout black jackets, stripe ties. That hussy off with hers, I dare say, almost before bell rung for end of school. I never see her in no black jacket, like I ought when she with her schoolfriends.’

  Well, not a Harrison Academy routine to ring an end-of-school bell. But I know what she means about Belinda. And I’m not surprised to hear it. If it really is Belinda Withrington she’s talking about. But is it?

  ‘That’s the blonde girl you may have seen with my son in the past? Called Belinda?’

  ‘That be her. Belinda. What sort of name is that? I never heard of no Belinda, till I hear of that hussy.’

  ‘So you know her? Know her by sight? And was she by any chance in the shop here on Monday evening?’

  ‘She was. And that tall young feller with white face, red, red hair. Trying to buy whisky they was. Giving out and pretending he old enough. But Marguerite Damberry know better. And Mr Patel he scared, scared of losing he licence. So not one drop was they getting.’

  ‘You haven’t ever happened to hear that tall young fellow’s name?’

  ‘No, sir. I ain’t never. But I know he. He not a good boy for your son to be friend with.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you’re right. But, you know, you have to let a boy like my Conor choose his own mates.’

  ‘No, sir. That where, savin’ you presence, you wrong. Marguerite Damberry won’t never let her kids go ‘bout with no riff-raff, no, sir.’

  He felt a little miffed at the unexpected rebuke.

  But, well, he said to himself, her circumstances are different. No doubt there’s plenty of riff-raff about in Sandymount to keep your kids clear of, if you can. But back to inquiries at hand.

  ‘Yes, well… Now about what you were telling me, about that girl Belinda and her redhead friend. What time was it they were in here? Think carefully, if you will. Don’t be offended, but it’s important I get the facts exactly right.’

  ‘You want exac’ facts. You gonna get ‘em. Them two was in here trying to buy theyselves one half-bottle White Horse jus’ two, three minutes after that son of you was knocking down the lottery. He in one terrible state ‘bout something. That for certain. An’ they two going out of here pretty quick, tail between they legs. ‘Cept that hussy girl swearing dreadful an’ saying she could go somewhere else. An’ so she could. Only Mr Patel careful, careful who he sell spirit liquors to round here. This be bad, bad neighbourhood, you know, Mr Detective. Even before they do that thing to poor old Mr Un.’

  Right. I wanted exact facts. I’ve got them. Alec Gaffney was here in this shop, not two hundred yards from where Professor Unwala was murdered, and only half an hour beforehand.

  So, it is possible …

  Chapter Fourteen

  Once again waiting outside the gates of Harrison Academy. Verney had felt that, though the Alec Gaffney theory was possible, it was no more than a theory and could get them no further unless there was some confirmation. So an informal word with Alec had seemed their best try. And where better than just outside his school? Would anything come of such a casual-seeming chat? Although Mrs Damberry had not been able to put a name to Alec, it was almost certain he had been near the murder scene at a time shortly before it had happened. But now, standing stamping his feet in the fog-chilled November dusk till four o’clock, he found he was filled with doubts.

  Damn it, if it went against the grain to believe Conor was responsible, why should I now believe it of his friend, the same age or a bit more, the same background? Is it really likely he’s a murderer? All very well for Mrs Damberry to call him riff-raff, but she can’t be an infallible judge of character. Of course I know boys a good deal younger have killed old people in the course of a mugging. But I never really felt Conor would do such a thing. So why should I think it of Alec Gaffney?

  And why must those damn ships out there keep sounding their foghorns in that way? Bloody gets on your nerves. Prehistoric monsters moving about out there in the fog, yearning for each other. Primitive forces.

  Four o’clock. And suddenly tall Alec Gaffney there in the familar milling exodus of chattering, laughing, occasionally lugubrious pupils, one of whom years before he had been himself. Poll of red hair easy to spot over the scores of other heads, perhaps in close chat with Conor, too short to be seen in the jostling crowd. Conor telling him all about being interrogated by Detective Superintendent Verney.

  But not, if Conor was with him, also with Belinda. Not after the row that had resulted in Conor’s copper seal being no longer in Belinda’s possession.

  Now, in a high-pitched wave of talking, arguing, joking, the first of them were out on the pavement.

  And here’s Alec at the gates.

  No Conor beside him. Well, no particular reason why he should be. Perhaps he’s lingering until the tail-end of the procession. Perhaps, even, he’s manoeuvring to chat up some new girl? Off with the old… Good for him, if it is that way.

  But cut off young Alec. Take him aside, ask him a question or two. See where they lead.

  ‘It’s Alec Gaffney, isn’t it? I think I’ve seen you about with my son, Conor. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Benholme.’

  And at once the look of alarm.

  It almost told him in one instant all he needed to know. Certainly half of it. Plainly this red-headed beanpole of a boy, pale freckledy face, big beak-like nose, had something to hide. Something of which he was, surely, ashamed. Something - is it? - he hopes and hopes no police officer will ever get to hear about.

  But is it that he entered the house in Percival Road and there battered to death old Professor Unwala? Not necessarily. He may simply be scared because he has in the pocket of his long black Harrison jacket, uncovered as always by any warmer outerwear, three or four Ecstasy tablets.

  One thing. Size seven trainers? Quick glance down. And, yes, trainers. White, quite clean. And, hard to be sure, but Alec Gaffney, however tall he is, has got very small feet for his height. Size seven, or seven and a half, to judge from my own eights, like Conor’s small enough.

  ‘I just wanted a word, Alec. Let’s get out of the way of this mob.’

  By placing himself to the boy’s side and a little behind him he got him well clear of anyone overhearing. Around them a tall envelope of fog hovered, its droplets both catching and dissipating the light from a newly lit street lamp.

  ‘Do you know where Conor is, actually?’ he asked, as an unthreatening start. T thought he might be with you.’

  The boy visibly relaxed.

  ‘No. He didn’t come into school today. I thought he—’ He came to a halt.

  Embarrassed, no doubt. On the point of saying I thought he was being questioned by you police. Something of that sort. Well, evidently Vicky’s decided he can miss half a day’s classes. Not go back till tomorrow. Fair enough. He’s had a pasting at Verney’s hands. He deserves a little peace and quiet. Odd, though, that he wasn’t there when I phoned. But Vicky quite likely to have rushed off out with him somewhere when they heard he was no longer wanted at the station.

  He experienced a pang of envy. Wasn’t it a father’s duty, a father’s privilege, to reassure a son, one man to another, after an ordeal such as Conor had gone through?

  ‘Well, never mind,’ he said, with forced heartiness. ‘I’ll see Conor soon enough. But it’s you I want a word with now.’

  ‘
Oh yes?’

  A spark of defiance. Protective defiance? No more than the usual teenager’s attitude to the police? Or a desperate attempt to stave off questions that could easily bring his life to ruin?

  But, whatever its cause, it was going to do him little good. Easy enough to see the sort of thing going on just under the thin defiant layer, and to guess how it could crack. The merest touch of toughness would do the trick.

  ‘Yes, I want a word or two. You’ve heard, of course, of the murder that took place down in Sandymount last Monday evening? Professor Unwala, the Nobel Prize winner?’

  In the deceptive light as the street lamp fought with the fog he had more difficulty than he would have liked in seeing the boy’s reaction.

  ‘Yeah, everybody knows about that.’

  But it sounded as if he was biting off the words of his reply, keeping them to the very minimum. In case something he said betrayed him?

  ‘Well, we’ve had a report that someone, a man or a youth, wearing a black jacket, most likely Harrison Academy uniform, was seen waiting about - it was a foggy evening then, too - in the neighbourhood of the house in Percival Road at the time. And we’re trying to find who it was. To eliminate them from our inquiries. Or in case they saw something or someone that would be helpful to us.’

  Plenty of opportunity there for the boy, if he was in Sandymount for some good reason, to say so.

  ‘But why should you think that the person in a black jacket was me? It might not even have been anyone from Harrison.’

  Again a rising note of defiance.

  Time for a little embroidery.

  Ah, didn’t I say? This person lurking there, lurking or whatever he was doing, has been described as tall and with red hair.’

  Now there was a reaction plain to see even in the chancy light. A look of blank fear. And no answer.