Dead Man's Bluff

by Roderic Jeffries

  He sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘The incident I was called out to was a fire with two bodies and at the moment it looks like a murder case. One of the men was probably Daniel Knott.’

  ‘Am I supposed to know him?’

  ‘I couldn’t place him immediately. He’s from the Knott family who’ve owned the same land out at Endley Cross from the year dot. The only time I’ve ever won a prize at school, it was one of the Knotts presented it to me.’

  ‘You’ve never told me you actually won a prize at school!’

  ‘It was when I was fairly young.’ He leaned back until he was supporting himself on his elbows. ‘He was a very tall and a very distinguished man with a beard and a monocle and he spoke like God. Much more terrifying than the headmaster. He must have been this bloke’s grandfather.’

  ‘Where do they live in Endley Cross?’

  ‘It used to be Knott Hall, but apparently the big house has been abandoned. The present bloke’s in what was probably the farm manager’s cottage. He’s made a right old mess of the farm and no mistake.’

  ‘Who’s the second dead man?’

  ‘We don’t know for certain, but it looks very much like an animal foodstuffs salesman.’ He yawned. ‘Is there any grub going?’

  ‘I put some meat pie in the oven, but goodness only knows what that’s like by now. I’ll come down and cook you some eggs.’

  ‘There’s no need for you … ’

  ‘I’m not having you going to bed starving.’ She climbed out of bed and put on a housecoat over her pyjamas.

  He stood up and yawned again. ‘I wonder what the special meal was that Dawn had prepared?’

  ‘Knowing her standards of cooking, probably some overdone chops,’ she replied, with the satisfied tones of a very good cook indeed.

  Chapter 5

  The next morning, Clayton drove the mile to the central police station and arrived at eight-thirty. He parked his car in the courtyard and went inside, along the corridor, and up the stairs to his room.

  It was a badly proportioned room, painted in a most depressing shade of brown, yet he had managed to invest it with some cheer. On his desk was a photo of Margery and another of his daughter, Brenda, who was in London training to be a nurse: on two of the walls he had hung some coloured prints of the Lake District, a part of the country he loved to visit. In the bookcase — large, Victorian, and made from mahogany — there were a number of text books and several old, bound volumes of Punch whose very dated jokes always amused him. Margery swore they were responsible for his sometimes appalling sense of humour.

  He sat down and stared at the ‘In’ tray. Inevitably, the post had brought a further flood of paper-work: requests for witness statements, requests from the Alien’s department, circulars and forms from county HQ … He pushed the tray to one side and took from his coat pocket the paper bag in which were the false teeth and laid it on the blotter.

  There was a heavy knock on the door and Detective-Constable Pritchard entered. ‘Morning, sir,’ he said, in his booming voice.

  ‘Morning, Bob.’

  ‘HQ were shouting for you ten minutes back. Detective-Superintendent Barry wants a chat with you.’

  ‘Right, thanks.’

  ‘I’m still trying to get hold of someone from Louthy Foodstuffs, sir, but so far all I can raise is a night watchman who doesn’t know anything about anybody.’

  ‘Keep trying.’

  ‘Will do.’

  There was a refreshing boisterousness about Pritchard, thought Clayton; an impression of hard-fought rugger games and smutty songs roared out over pints of beer.

  After Pritchard had gone out, Clayton rang the detective-superintendent at HQ.

  ‘Morning, Jim. These two deaths — don’t you think I should have known about them a lot earlier?’

  ‘I got through to you last night as soon as I knew the facts, sir.’

  ‘It was pretty late on, you know.’

  Clayton shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘If it’s a murder case,’ said Barry, ‘we’ll have to call in the Yard.’

  ‘Surely, sir, there’s no need … ’

  ‘Call’em in smartly and their costs don’t come on the county rates. We’ve always got to think of the money.’

  ‘Why call them in at all?’

  ‘A murder case collects a lot of publicity.’

  ‘We can handle it perfectly well, whatever it collects.’

  ‘I’m giving the orders and if the PM says murder, we call the Yard in, is that clear? I’m not having everything fouled up and the county force getting a load of stinking publicity.’ He rang off.

  Thanks a lot, thought Clayton, as he replaced the receiver. Barry was a man who had reached high rank in spite of himself and, having reached it, he spent most of his life terrified of making mistakes. Given the chance to shift responsibility, Barry jumped at it. In the present instance, long before anyone could be certain specialized help was needed, Barry was all but hammering on the doors of Scotland Yard for help, his one desire to make certain that if anything went wrong, he could not be blamed.

  Clayton reached across for the ‘In’ tray and reluctantly sorted through the mail. After throwing a good half into the waste-paper basket, he returned the rest to the tray for attention at a later date. He went down to the divisional superintendent and made his daily report on the crime situation in the division.

  He was back in his office and about to leave for the mortuary when Pritchard reported to him for the second time.

  ‘I’ve at last got through to one of the managers of Louthy Products, sir — admitted he never reached the office before nine-thirty. Some job!’ Pritchard laughed his deep, booming laugh. ‘He says that their representative for this area is a bloke called Alexander. He lives in digs in Relstone and here’s the address and telephone number.’ He pushed across a sheet of paper.

  Clayton read the address. ‘Get on to that number and see if Alexander is about. If he isn’t, I want a full description.’ He pushed the papers across his desk.

  ‘Roger, wilco, and out.’

  Pritchard must have been watching an old RAF film on the TV, thought Clayton. ‘Telephone me at the morgue as soon as you know something.’ He walked across to the door, then stopped. ‘How about the silver theft?’

  ‘It’s all safely in hand, sir.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘I told Sergeant Morris I’d had a word with the owner and got a list of the stolen silver. Sergeant Morris said he’d see the description was circulated to all the usual channels.’

  ‘D’you think you could manage to remember to report to me before any definite action is taken?’

  ‘No trouble at all, sir,’ Pritchard assured him.

  Clayton left his room, went downstairs, and out to his car in the courtyard. He drove across south Gertfinden to the morgue, an old and depressingly dirty building which had been scheduled for replacement for many years.

  The PM room was far cleaner and better equipped than the rest of the place, thanks largely to the two pathologists who most frequently used it and who had threatened to refuse to work in it unless the walls were tiled, good working surfaces were installed, and they were given a rotating table and other essential equipment.

  The post-mortem began at ten. The pathologist and the mortuary assistant were dressed in green rubber gloves and aprons, surgical hats, and wellingtons. The pathologist’s secretary sat on a small stool and took down the dictated notes, while around the edge of the room a forensic scientist, the police photographer, the exhibits officer, and Clayton stood and waited.

  Clayton hated PMs. It wasn’t the actuality of the event that distressed him, but the fact that nothing else so utterly brought home the final degradation of death. He could never console himself with the thought that once he was dead he wouldn’t give a damn what people did to his corpse.

  ‘Inspector,’ said the pathologist.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Clayton moved away from the bench
and stepped close to the dissecting table, now tilted, on which lay the remains of one of the charred bodies.

  The pathologist held up an X-ray film that had just been developed. ‘See this — there are several objects, probably metal, lodged in or near the backbone.’

  Clayton stared at the X-ray film at the point where the pathologist’s gloved finger pointed, but could make out nothing that held any significance for him.

  The pathologist handed the X-ray to his secretary and then called for a large scalpel.

  A uniformed PC looked into the room, saw Clayton, and used his hand to mime a telephone. Clajrton went outside, into the warm sunshine.

  ‘There’s a message for you, sir, from Detective-Constable Pritchard. Alexander’s landlady says he left his digs about half-past one yesterday afternoon and she hasn’t seen him since. She’s not been worried because he’s often gone away for several days at a time.’

  ‘Did Pritchard get a description?’

  ‘Nothing of any use, sir. He says Detective-Sergeant Morris has said for him to go to the digs and speak to the landlady, but he knows you don’t like him doing anything without your permission.’

  Clayton could well imagine the coarse bellow of laughter that must have followed those last few words. ‘Tell him to carry on to Relstone — but he’s not to forget to clear himself with the divisional officer.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  The constable returned into the building, using a doorway to the left of the PM room. Clayton lit a cigarette and smoked it, enjoying the added pleasure which came from knowing he ought to have returned immediately to the PM room. When he did go back, the pathologist spoke sharply. ‘You’ve been gone a long time.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. It was an important telephone call.’

  The pathologist beckoned to his assistant, who passed across a small plastic bottle. ‘This is what was lodged in the backbone,’ said the pathologist.

  Clayton took the bottle and opened the screw-lid. Inside were several tiny balls of lead, each one of which was flattened to a greater or lesser degree. ‘Shot-gun pellets!’ He looked up. ‘But this isn’t the body with the wound in the head.’ As he spoke, he realized he would never make a more obvious remark. This body had virtually no head.

  The pathologist resumed work. Clayton screwed back on the lid of the plastic bottle and handed the bottle to the exhibits officer.

  *

  The post-mortem was over. The forensic scientist, after signing the exhibits book, carried away in a large and battered suitcase a number of plastic jars containing specimens. The police photographer had a last word with Clayton, then left in a hurry because he was already overdue at county HQ at Relstone. The post-mortem assistant tidied up the second body, in so far as it could be tidied up, in readiness for replacing it in a chilled locker. The pathologist, helped by his secretary, stripped off gloves, apron, hat, and wellingtons, and washed carefully with a carbolic soap. When he’d dried himself, he spoke to Clayton. ‘I suppose you want a quick report now, before I send in the usual written one?’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind, sir.’

  The pathologist took a cigarette-case from his pocket and helped himself to a cigarette. He did not think of offering one to his secretary or the DI. ‘Both bodies are male, both lie within the age group of twenty-four to fifty. Body number one — the top half of which was virtually destroyed by fire — had been shot. He was dead before being attacked by the fire. He had an arthritic condition in the right hip — not very advanced. Height around six feet, but as with all estimates of height from bone lengths, there’s room for a wide range of error. You have the dental plates found in his remains?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Body number two suffered equally extensive burning, although the site of maximum damage was different. Height about the same. He had suffered a heavy blow to the lower part of the back of his head, but the burn damage makes it impossible to say more than that it was probably caused by a blunt instrument about an inch in diameter. That blow was sufficient to kill him, yet there are signs of asphyxiation — some small haemorrhages on the lung surfaces — so that he must have lived after it. It’s amazing what injuries the body will temporarily survive.’ The pathologist rubbed his chin with his long, delicate fingers. ‘There’s a point of interest here — he was dead by the time the fire reached him. There are no smoke particles in the surviving air passages.’ Clayton, hot and stuffy, ran a finger round the inside of his collar. ‘What does that add up to, sir?’

  ‘Nothing definite. Since he was found face downwards, he could have fallen on to something soft that sculptured his face and prevented his breathing — he’d have been unconscious so there’d be no question of his being able to lift his face. His body was very extensively burned, but as happens even with external charring of this degree, the internal organs and body fluids have been remarkably well preserved. The contents of his organs and his body fluids will naturally want close investigation.’

  ‘You’ve said it looked as if he’d had a meal of meat, dumplings, and greens?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Clayton spoke slowly. ‘It’s an odd meal to eat on a day as hot as yesterday was.’

  The pathologist spoke briskly. ‘Some people will eat anything, any time. I once knew a wealthy man who used to like strawberry jam with caviar. He died from Bright’s Disease, which seemed a fitting end to such depravity.’

  The story was lost on Clayton: he’d no idea what one should eat with caviar. He shut his notebook and slipped it into his pocket. ‘Many thanks, sir. And if we could have the written report as soon as possible … ’

  ‘I’ll do it when I can and not before,’ snapped the pathologist. ‘You’ve got the second man’s dental plates?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Clayton tapped his left-hand coat pocket. ‘I’m beginning to feel like a second-hand false teeth salesman.’ The pathologist glared at him, then hurried out. He left the PM room and returned outside to the warm sunshine. As he lit a cigarette, he wondered vaguely if he should try to cut down on his smoking as Margery was always trying to make him. As soon as the present case was over, he told himself.

  He crossed the flagstoned courtyard to his car and as he sat down he checked the time. It was long past lunchtime and it now occurred to him that he had forgotten to tell Margery he might be delayed: he decided he’d not go home, but would have a quick snack at the police canteen. The woman behind the counter in the canteen told him lunches were served from twelve until two and after that they were not served: no one was going to make her work herself to an early grave. Clayton smiled, said he understood, but asked if there wasn’t perhaps just one plate of something he could have to keep his ulcer at bay. He had a warm smile and the woman relented and brought him a plate of ham and egg pie and salad.

  Returning to his office after lunch, he found four fresh crime reports on his desk: a smash-and-grab in west Gert-finden, two cars reported stolen from Westhurst, a case of vandalism in the main city park, and a minor assault at a village pub in Fallock. With the reports was a note from Morris to say that he was investigating the smash-and-grab, but had asked the uniformed branch to deal with the other three cases. As usual, Morris had taken the right steps. Clayton grinned. A most amazing man!

  He telephoned county HQ and spoke to Barry.

  ‘I’ve been expecting to hear from you all morning,’ complained the detective-superintendent.

  The PM has only just been completed, sir.’

  ‘All right, all right. So what’s the verdict?’

  ‘One of the men was shot and the other had been battered about the head.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ moaned Barry. ‘Have you identified them?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Why not? Why haven’t you? How often do I have to tell you … ’

  Clayton noticed a large white spot on his right trouser-leg and he tried to scratch it off with his thumbnail. He made a worse mess of things. Over the telephone, the complaints went o
n for a while, then Barry said that as it was now definitely murder he was applying to London for immediate help from the murder squad. Clayton tried again to argue against this action, but Barry was solely concerned with shifting the final responsibility from off his own shoulders. He cared nothing for the feelings and morale of the local divisional force.

  Clayton yawned as he replaced the receiver. He had a vision of himself in a deckchair by the sea, a handkerchief over his face, sleeping peacefully. Regretfully, the vision vanished and he searched in his desk for the list of dentists in the division. He telephoned each practice, asking whether Daniel Knott was one of their patients, and his third call, by a coincidence to his own, proved successful. He said he’d be very grateful for some help from whichever partner had attended Daniel Knott.

  The sunshine was hotter than ever. There was, he thought, a perverse meteorological law which ensured the hottest summer weather when he was most busy at work and the wettest summer weather when he was on holiday.

  The drive was a short one and luckily he was able to park immediately opposite the three-storey Victorian house. He went inside and the receptionist, all glossy efficiency, took his name and crossed the hall to one of the rooms. While the door was open, he heard the shrill whine of a high-speed drill and he very carefully tried not to remember when he had last had a dental check-up.

  The dentist was a middle-aged man with an elongated, mournful face which he held tilted to one side as if work had fixed it in this position. He led the way into a small sitting-room. ‘How can I help you this time, Inspector?’

  ‘You were Daniel Knott’s dentist and I’ve brought you two sets of plates to see if you can identify them.’

  ‘I read in the papers this morning there’d been a nasty fire at his farm and two bodies had been found — there was more than a hint it wasn’t an accident.’

  ‘It wasn’t that. One of the bodies had been shot, the other clubbed, but that’s as far as we know now.’ Clayton took from his pocket the set of dentures found by the first body and the set Miss Corrins had given him. He handed them over.