by K T Findlay
Holmes deliberately refrained from telling her that Thomlinson had pulled exactly the same trick to get Walker off killing his wife. He didn’t want to mention Walker at all if he could help it.
Sally nodded. 'Excellent! That's exactly the kind of thing I was hoping you’d tell me. I think that warrants a drink!' and she started to pour more whisky into the cone.
'Stop! Please! I've told you all I know. I'm really sorry about your husband! It was wrong of me. I’m so sorry. Please don't kill me!'
She laughed. 'My dear fellow, I’m giving you your favourite drink. I promised to let you go and I will. Straight out the door and off to hell! It's cause for a celebration surely, for a devilish lawyer like yourself! You’ll feel right at home when you get there! Do drink up!' She continued to pour steadily.
Holmes began to writhe in his bonds once more, keeping his mouth clamped firmly shut, but when the level rose above his nostrils he had no choice. He began to swallow as fast as he could, trying to lower the level as she poured ever more into the cone. Sally made him drink a whole bottle’s worth before she stopped and allowed the level to fall back below his nose.
She sat in front of him and just talked. She talked of meeting Graham for the first time, of their courtship, their first kiss, the first time they’d made love, marriage and the joyful bits of their lives together. As the alcohol took its toll and drunkenness began to overwhelm him, she moved on to describe their last day together, his smile as he waved goodbye for the last time and the devastation that overwhelmed her world when the police came to tell her the bad news.
Then, staring deep into his eyes, she told him of the fury, the rage that had consumed her in court that day when his killer had walked free because of the corruption of one man, and the lies and trickery of another.
His eyes began to roll with the booze. Sally looked at him coldly and emptied a third of the second bottle into the cone to flood his nostrils. Almost comatose with alcohol poisoning, Holmes hardly noticed as the fiery fluid caused his larynx to slam shut, cutting off his oxygen.
His body twitched and spasmed as it fought the conflicting demands of getting some air and keeping the liquid at bay, but the mind had already left. In the end it was a much easier death then she'd planned for him.
Feeling a little let down, Sally watched the surface of the whisky still, as the body’s twitching gradually came to a halt. Eventually, even the bubbles from his mouth and nose ceased, but still she waited, staring silently into his dead eyes, daring him to move.
◆◆◆
Emma's guests were putting themselves to bed in the spare rooms while she made up the couch for Alan.
'Is he all right?' asked Mary.
Emma laughed. 'He'll be fine. He might have a headache in the morning, other than that, just fine.'
Half an hour later, the last of the lights went out, and the dinner party drifted off to sleep.
◆◆◆
Once Sally was sure that Holmes was dead, she began to empty the cone using a large turkey baster. It took her a bit of time and effort, each squeeze of the rubber ball sucking just a hundred millilitres into its plastic tube, but eventually she got it all.
Then she carefully removed the inner tube from his lower regions. Being a gentleman, he hadn’t used it. One less thing to clean up!
After the cone and door seal were removed, it was time for the false trails. Using two tweezers, she took one of the redhead’s pubic hairs and jammed it between two of his front teeth, taking care to leave the root end on the outside. Then she delicately placed one of the redhead’s head hairs in the teeth of his flies and zipped them shut. Lastly, she retrieved the knickers from the bowl and packed them back into his mouth so they sat behind his teeth.
Moving quickly before rigor mortis set in, she removed the head clamp, wrist and ankle straps, then went to the garage to get Graham’s mechanic’s creeper, a low platform on four castor wheels. She brought it next to the chair and undid the chest strap.
She allowed his body to fall onto the creeper and wheeled it out to the garage. There she used another of Graham’s toys. She’d laughed at him when he’d bought the mobile engine hoist, but it came in very handy now to lift Holmes’s body into the back of the Mini.
He went in on his left hand side, with his back to the rear of the vehicle. She had to bend his legs into a foetal position to be able to fit him into the narrow space. Then she closed the rear doors and went back to the kitchen.
'I wonder…' she murmured. She opened the telephone white pages and looked up Morris.
Pewter Street, Ornamental Estate.
'What a small world.' she thought.
Slowly, with lights off, Sally, still in her Selina disguise, guided the Mini down the track in her field and across the road into The Narrows. Quietly and responsibly, trying not to attract attention, she drove through the lanes to Ornamental Estate and took the first right into Pewter Street.
Laughing gently to herself, she found Morris's house and brought the car to a halt. She pulled the lever to open the rear doors, then pressed the button to operate the electrical screws. The whir of machinery sounded much louder in the still of the night, but eventually she was rewarded by the slither of fabric as the body began to slide. Holmes landed on his back with a thump, before coming to rest on his right hand side, still curled up.
Sally closed the rear doors, and drove quietly back home.
One advantage of her chosen method was there was very little mess to clean up. She whipped around the lounge with mops and cloths and returned the whisky bottles to the secret cupboard. Finally, she went outside and hoisted a flag with a single vertical arrow on it to tell Emma she’d been successful, then went to bed. It was 2 AM and she had to get up in the morning.
Sally slept better than she had since the crash, and dreamed of Graham. He was smiling.
10 Here’s looking at you kid
Peregrin closed the door of his Rover SD1 and walked up to the police tape at the crest of the rise. It was 7:30 AM.
'By heavens Tony,' he said to his sidekick Tony Peterson, 'two degrees is an ungodly temperature for a Sunday morning! So what have we got?'
Peterson lifted the tape to let Peregrin into the crime scene. 'Initially it looked like a drunk who’s died in the street, but I’m not so sure.'
'What do you mean?' asked Peregrin.
'Best you look for yourself sir.' smiled Tony.
Peregrin pointed to the tarmac. 'Have you cleared the road around the body for clues so we don’t contaminate the scene?'
Tony nodded. 'Yes sir. No footprints obviously and there was nothing of note on the street surface, nor in the gutter, nor on the footpath. Apparently the street cleaner came around on Friday so it's pretty pristine. We haven't done a house-to-house, nor have we looked in the gardens, nor have we spoken to anybody except Henry Pratt. He's the guy who called us. He was walking his dog and found this chap just two doors down from his own house. He says he didn't hear anything last night.'
Peregrin bent down to look at the body. 'Well, I can tell you who he is. His name’s Andrew Holmes. He’s a lawyer and I quite literally bumped into him last night as Hilary and I were leaving the theatre just after 10 o'clock. He said he was in a real hurry to get somewhere.'
'Where on earth would he be hurrying to at 10 PM?' asked Tony.
Peregrin pursed his lips. 'Hilary asked the same thing. But there's no question about it, he was. You said you thought he was drunk?'
'Yes sir. He reeks of the stuff.'
Peregrin sniffed. 'I take your point. Whisky. An Islay malt, probably Laphroaig.'
Tony looked at him in astonishment. 'How the hell do you know that?'
Peregrin shrugged and gave a shy grin. 'Part knowledge, part cheating. The Islay malts all tend to have a strong smoky character, but ones like Lagavulin, Ardbeg, and Bruichladdich tend to be a touch more pungent than Laphroaig. Then there's the fact that I happen to know Laphroaig was his favourite. So, a bit of a cheat.'
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Tony snorted. ‘And here’s me thinking I’m working with Sherlock Holmes! Well, let’s see you explain this one away. Have a look at his clothes.’
Peregrin took a Biro out of his pocket and carefully moved the fabric of Holmes’s jacket and shirt. 'Now that is interesting. How does someone stink this badly of whisky yet have none at all splashed on their clothes?'
‘Exactly!’ said Tony.
Peregrin sniffed more thoroughly around Holmes's head, then looked carefully at the skin and hair. 'It's in quite a narrow band, from halfway up his neck to between his nostrils and his eyes. And there seems to be traces of a ring of glue around his neck, at the bottom of the whisky band. I've never seen anything like it.'
Tony stared at him, his mouth open. 'Are you saying somebody put a bag over his head, taped it around his neck and drowned the bugger in very expensive whisky?'
Peregrin glanced up at him. ‘Just a guess. I could be quite wrong of course.'
He stood up and looked around. 'I think though, that we can dispense with the idea that he staggered up here himself and dropped dead of alcohol poisoning.'
'How can you be so sure?' asked Tony
'Simple.' said Peregrin. 'His clothes tell us he didn't walk here. His shoes are still shiny with no visible scuffs on them. His shirt, jacket, and trousers are all still neatly pressed, just like I saw him last night. If he'd been drunk, staggering around with enough booze to kill him, he'd have been tripping into things, stumbling, scratching himself on stuff, and eventually falling. There’s no sign of any of that. So on balance, I’d say it was more likely that he was killed somewhere else and then dumped. If you still have any doubts, there's one more thing that suggests that.'
'What?' asked Tony.
Peregrin bent down again and carefully pointed his Biro at Holmes's mouth. 'He's got some form of fabric in there, behind his teeth. I've never known a drunk to do something like that. And it looks pretty dry to me, certainly not soaked with whisky. I think we should call it in as a suspected murder.'
◆◆◆
Meanwhile, Sally was pulling up outside the McEwan house for a pre-golf breakfast with Hilary, Alison, and Felicity.
'Where’s Peregrin?' she asked.
'He's had a callout.' explained Felicity. 'Sounds like a guy drank himself to death in Ornamental Estate. How's that for class?' she laughed.
'Really? I thought Ornamental Estate was supposed to be exclusive!' smiled Sally.
'That just means they’ve got enough money to buy the booze!' laughed Alison.
'Oh well, let's cross our fingers and hope that Felicity isn't dragged into it as well. We better mark up a three ball just in case.' said Sally.
‘The eggs are ready!' called Hilary from the kitchen.
Sally’s stomach rumbled in anticipation as she strolled up to the kitchen island to help serve the food. 'Excellent! Scrambled eggs on toast. Just what a girl needs on a cold morning, plus a cup of tea of course!'
'There's a pot already made on the bench behind you. Bring it to the table please. The mat’s already out for it.'
Alison ground some black pepper onto her eggs. 'What makes a man drink so much that it kills him?' she asked.
'Stupidity.’ said Hilary.
'Lack of self control.' volunteered Felicity.
'The lack of a good woman.' added Sally primly.
'Or the love of a bad one!' grinned Hilary, and the four of them dissolved into giggles.
◆◆◆
Back at the corpse, the police machine was into high gear. Peregrin was pleased that Detective Chief Inspector Charles Goodwin was assigned as the Senior Investigating Officer.
'He's a good chap, but more importantly he won't tie us up in unnecessary red tape.' he told Tony. 'And I'm glad it's him and not me. All that paperwork! Not my scene at all.'
Goodwin had moved quickly, trying to maximise the Golden Hour. By 8:15 a doctor had confirmed the death, four uniform constables were guarding the site, two detective constables had been assigned to work with Peregrin and Tony to do house-to-house interviews, a forensics team had arrived unbelievably quickly from Dalton and a temporary Major Incident Room (MIR) had been set up in the police station. He’d also arranged for a pathologist.
◆◆◆
'Oh clucking bell!' swore Felicity, looking at her pager. 'I didn't even get to tee off!'
'Oh dear. So it was a suspicious death.' said Hilary. 'That’s your Sunday gone. At least you were able to finish your eggs.'
Felicity gave her a rueful smile and headed out to her car.
‘Give him my regards!’ shouted Sally, amused that nobody else would get the joke.
Peregrin assigned Detective Constables Susan Linklater and Eric Taft to help Tony interview the Pewter Street residents.
Ornamental Estate was an unusual development in that there was only one row of homes between each pair of streets. Each property had its frontage, with its entrances and garages, coming off the bottom street, while the back garden abutted the road above. The idea was to stop anyone being able to build out a neighbour’s view and it worked.
Pewter Street was at the bottom. On its downhill side was a grassy park planted in shrubs and flowers to beautify the entrance to the estate, so there were only the eight uphill houses to interview.
Tony had volunteered to take number four, the house immediately opposite the body’s location. 'I know the family.’ he told Peregrin. ‘When I first moved to Throcking, I had a girlfriend called Caroline for a couple of weeks. Her parents live here.'
'Fair enough.' said Peregrin. 'You go off and play Happy Families, and I'll go up to the top of the estate and see if there’s anyone at Holmes's place.'
Tony and Caroline had split up amicably over a year ago, so Tony wasn’t expecting a hostile welcome. He was grateful though, when Caroline’s mum Betty answered his knock. He’d always got on well with her. Father Alf was an altogether more challenging personality.
‘Hello Mrs Morris. I’m afraid it’s all business today.’
She smiled warmly at him. ‘Oh I don’t know. It’s good to see you again Tony. But what exactly is going on with that fellow out there? They tell me he’s dead.’
‘Dead as a doornail. I’m really sorry Betty, but I’ve got to ask you the same set of questions that I’d ask anybody else.’
‘All right love, let’s chat in the living room.’
Before sitting down, Tony admired the view over the park, with the sea behind it at the end of the estate’s single entry road.
‘Well, to start with, did you see anything at all before the police and ambulance arrived?’
‘No dear. You can’t see the road from here because of the hedge on the left and the garage on the right.
‘And you didn’t hear anything either?’
‘Not a sound, but I’m a heavy sleeper and the bedroom is on the east side.’
‘How about Alf?’
‘He wasn’t here, and no, we’re not divorced yet, despite what you might be expecting.’
Tony laughed.
‘He wanted to catch up on the paperwork, so he spent the night in the shop in Dalton. He phoned me goodnight about ten thirty, but he thought he’d be working through to at least one I haven’t heard from him since then, so I presume he’s still there.’
‘And Caroline?’
‘She’s at Oxford. It’s her first year there. It’s Hilary.’
‘Who’s Hilary?’ asked Tony, perplexed and wondering what McEwan’s wife had to do with things.
‘Not who dear, what. It’s the name of the second term.’
‘What on earth do they call it that for?’
‘No idea. Tradition I suppose.’
And that, other than a bit of personal chitchat, was that.
◆◆◆
Peregrin strolled back down to the western end of Pewter Street, then up Cardin Drive, walking past Crystal, Hallmark, Delft, Wedgewood, and Cartier before he reached Fabergé at the very top.
�
��Clever buggers.’ he thought, noting the steady increase in visible status as he mounted the hill. ‘Bigger sections, bigger houses, higher status street names, better views. Smart thinking.’
Exactly in the middle of Fabergé Street sat the Holmes residence, the biggest property in the estate.
He walked up the left side of the circular gravel drive, around the ornamental pond and up the steps to the front door. It opened to reveal a well groomed, smartly dressed man in his mid-fifties, with cloths tied around his feet.
‘Yes?’ he said. ‘How can I help you sir?’ The man spoke in a calm, but confident manner, his voice a naturally deep velvet.
Peregrin proffered a smile along with his identification. ‘Detective Inspector Peregrin McEwan sir, enquiring about Mr Andrew Holmes. And you are?’
The man checked Peregrine’s identification with care before answering. ‘I’m Mr Holmes’s man servant, Algernon Makepiece. Algy for short. I’m afraid Mr Holmes is not home at present, but I would be delighted to take a message for you.’
‘I’m afraid Mr Holmes has met with an accident Algy, so I’d like to speak with his next of kin.’
Algy’s eyebrows rose. ‘His next of kin? I do hope it’s not serious Inspector. I’m afraid Mr Holmes has just one relation, his brother Freddy, and he’s currently overseas in the Americas. I’m probably the closest thing you’ll find to his next of kin other than Freddy. I’ve been with Mr Holmes since his father died eleven years ago.’
