The Temptation

by Vera Morris

  ‘Bring back what I may need,’ he said.

  Laurel nodded, looking ready to put Nancy in an arm lock if there was further trouble.

  He felt round the edge of the French windows while he waited.

  A light came round the corner. ‘I locked her in. I don’t think she’ll be sending me a Christmas card. These any use?’ She showed him a large screwdriver and a tyre wrench.

  ‘I think the direct method is called for. Ready?’ he said.

  ‘Go ahead. If it’s a mistake we can get the glazier in tomorrow. The firm can afford it. Or do you think we should call the police?’ She pointed the light at the window.

  He shook his head. ‘Let’s hope we don’t need to call them when we get in. Stand back.’ He covered his eyes with one arm and smashed at the pane above the handle with the tyre wrench. Several times. Exploding, cracking, shattering. He expected neighbours to rush out. Tinkling sounds as shards of glass fell to the ground, prevented from falling inwards by the curtains. He knocked out jagged edges at the sides of the pane as Laurel held the torch steady.

  Satisfied, he pulled back the curtain and felt for a key. He grunted, moved closer to the door, pushed his arm in further. ‘No key.’

  ‘Sam said he couldn’t get out,’ Laurel said, her voice squeaky

  He smashed the lock, then he pushed against the door. It moved, but there was still resistance.

  ‘Bolts, probably top and bottom,’ he said.

  Laurel groaned. ‘Any minute now PC Plod will come round the corner and arrest us for burglary.’

  ‘Not forgetting locking up an old lady in a car.’ He picked up the wrench. ‘Want a bet? Top, bottom or both? Loser buys double whiskies for winner.’

  ‘Both,’ Laurel said.

  ‘OK, I’ll go for top, old people don’t like bending down. Watch out, the glass might come down on your head.’ He bashed at the top pane. The noises seemed louder than last time. He had to stand on tiptoe to reach in. He found the bolt and was surprised it slid down easily. The door still didn’t open, although it bent a little as he pulled it. ‘You win. Drinks on me.’ He bent down and smashed the bottom pane.

  He pulled the door open, large pieces of glass exploded on the stones outside the window.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ Laurel said.

  He opened the door and more shards pinged off the stone flags; he pulled back the heavy curtains, they felt like velvet. Laurel shone the torch round the room. It was as she’d described it to him: the black Art Deco furniture, the music system and Sam’s collection of records and tapes.

  There was an acrid smell.

  ‘Someone’s been burning paper,’ Laurel said, as she shone the beam of light over the room. The moving shaft of light stopped. ‘Frank!’

  An arm hung over the side of the black settee, its fingers loose, pointing to the floor.

  ‘Don’t move until I’ve put the light on, and watch where you’re treading, Laurel. Don’t touch anything. Please shine the light on the wall so I can find the switch.’ He was reverting to Detective Inspector Diamond, just as Laurel had changed back into a teacher to control Nancy. Old ways die hard.

  He fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief, it wasn’t pristine but it would have to do. Avoiding the settee, he made his way to the wall switch Laurel had focused the beam on, and pressed it down. Light flooded the room from a central modern chandelier.

  Lolling on the settee was the gaunt figure of a man, his face hidden by a crumpled black-and-white cushion, its partners on the other end of the settee and the armchairs.

  Frank carefully lifted the cushion. ‘Is this Sam?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The other side of the cushion was stained with blood and saliva. Sam’s face was blue, his eyes bursting from their sockets, bits of black-and-white threads round his snarling mouth and between the incisors. Blood oozed from his nose and mouth, and his bitten tongue stuck out from between the retracted lips.

  ‘He fought, didn’t he? He didn’t want to die,’ Laurel said, tears trickling down her cheeks.

  He looked at Sam’s emaciated arms and stick-like legs, revealed where the pyjama trousers had pushed up, his swollen belly obscene in contrast to the rest of him. The yellow skin and eyes gave clues to the disease which would have soon killed him.

  ‘Could Clara have done this?’ he asked.

  ‘Nancy said she thought she wanted to kill him.’

  ‘Why would she do that when it was obvious he hadn’t long to live? Where is she?’

  Laurel stood looking down at Sam, the torch, still on, dangling from her hand.

  ‘Laurel, would you phone the police? I can’t see a phone in here, there’s probably one in the hall. Keep the torch on until you find the light switch.’

  He watched as she opened the sitting-room door. He heard the click of a switch.

  ‘Frank! My God, Frank.’

  He rushed to her. She was looking up, her eyes wide, her face blanched. Hanging from a rope fastened to the banisters at the top of the staircase was the body of a woman dressed in green, her neck stretched, the head inclined to one side, her pale face partly obscured by dark, loose hair. Her blackened tongue poked from her mouth, leering at them.

  Laurel turned away and Frank held her close. ‘Is it Clara?’

  He felt her head nod.

  ‘Cut her down, Frank, for God’s sake cut her down.’

  He needed to get Laurel away from the swaying body. But where? Not to the other corpse in the sitting room. He couldn’t see a phone here. Bloody hell, didn’t they have one at all? ‘Laurel, you’ll have to find a neighbour and ask to use their phone. I can’t see one here. Don’t let Nancy come in. Dial 999 tell them the address and there are two dead people. Could be a murder and suicide.’

  She pulled away from him. ‘I know what to do, thank you. I’m not an idiot.’

  That was better.

  ‘Why don’t you sit with Nancy in the car, until the police arrive.’

  ‘What shall I tell her? She’s cold and wet, and she was in a state before this. Shall I ask the neighbours, if I can find any, if she can go into their house for a while until we can take her home?’ She paused. ‘I could ring Dorothy, she’d come over. Perhaps Nancy could go back to Greyfriars. I don’t think she should be by herself.’

  ‘Excellent. Although the police may want to interview her as soon as possible.’

  ‘Bugger the police.’

  ‘My own sentiments entirely.’ He squeezed her shoulders. He opened the front door which had a Yale lock and an old-fashioned key in the key hole. The Yale was on, but the key hadn’t been turned.

  ‘Good luck.’

  He would have time to take a closer look at the bodies and a snoop round before the flat-feet came.

  Chapter 12

  As soon as Laurel was through the front door Frank went back to the sitting room with its awful presence. Sometimes a dead body seemed to have more substance than the living person. In death Samuel Harrop couldn’t be ignored. Frank looked round the sitting room and then examined the body more closely. There was no doubt the man had fought and struggled with whoever had suffocated him. If this was Clara’s idea of a mercy killing, she hadn’t given him a peaceful death. The poor man, with his frail body and wasted muscles, would have been easy meat. His clothes were disarranged, probably happened as he struggled; the dressing gown open, and his pyjamas gaping, his distended abdomen bulging between the open flies. Why did Clara kill him when he was only a few weeks, if that, from death? Why give him such a terrifying end if she wanted to spare him pain? Sam had been a specialist, a doctor; he’d have the means to end his life if he wished, or Clara could have used that method to end his life. It didn’t add up.

  He could tell from Laurel’s expression she was blaming herself, thinking if she’d acted sooner, or made sure Clara had contacted Nancy, this wouldn’t have happened. She would take it badly; she might want to leave the partnership, thinking she wasn’t good enough for this kind of work
. He must talk to her. Perhaps he was getting ahead of himself and he was reading her wrong, but he didn’t think so. He knew she didn’t want to be involved with the David Pemberton case, and thought herself inadequate because of her sensitivities.

  He looked carefully at Sam’s body and bent down to look at the hand still trailing over the edge of the settee. Some bright green strands were caught in the thumb nail. As green as the wool suit on the figure suspended by its throat in the hall. He couldn’t see any material under any of the other nails. The closeness to the body made bile rise in his throat as the first threads of death filled his nostrils: the smell of ammonia from the urine Sam had released in his death throes, his unwashed body already decaying, and the burnt paper smell from the fireplace all mingled to form a potent and retch-inducing stink. He wished he’d had his silver vinaigrette with its inner pad soaked in lavender oil. He had used it at post-mortems when he was a detective inspector; he could do with it now.

  He moved to the fireplace, knelt down and looked at the ashes; the acrid, powdery smell was stronger here. He couldn’t make out what had been burnt. Why burn documents when it didn’t matter what was in them as you wouldn’t be here to care? Unless they contained information which would ruin your reputation. Presuming it was Clara who burnt the papers after killing Sam, why care about your reputation when you’ve just committed the worse crime possible?

  He bent closer. Some of the edges of the papers were untouched by the flames; he couldn’t be sure but they looked like bank statements; he could make out a few capital letters: an I, next to it a D, then a burnt space, then another D, an unburnt space, more burning, then finally a K. There was something familiar about the letters. He rubbed his hand over his mouth, concentrating. MIDLAND BANK. His own bank. Why would you, after murdering your husband, start burning bank statements? For light relief? He’d better not try that one out on the police when they arrived.

  He wasn’t looking forward to this role reversal. Was he up to being a witness? Or even a suspect? They’d have to explain why they broke in. Would they be believed? He left the fireplace and quickly moved to the hall. He didn’t have much time. Clara’s hands, level with his eyes, dangled by the sides of her body, fists clenched. Using his handkerchief, he turned over one of her hands and looked at her nails. They were beautifully manicured and coated with unchipped dark pink nail polish. Often suicides by hanging, once in the throes of death, try to pull the rope, or cloth, from their necks. Clara’s nails had survived not only the struggle when she smothered Sam, but her own death. He wasn’t happy. He hoped the police would be unhappy, too.

  The smell of death was increasing; even though it could only have been hours since they were both alive. Clara’s nyloned legs were stained with excrement and urine, her sphincter muscles relaxing in death, releasing the contents of her bladder and rectum. Some of it had pooled on the marble hall floor. A terrible way to die. You had to be desperate to have the courage to tie the knot, and in this case, climb over the upper banisters and hurl yourself into space. Wouldn’t a woman such as Clara have realised what a pathetic and undignified figure she would make, swinging from a rope, legs dangling, showing her stained underwear? From what Laurel had told them in the meeting Clara valued her status as Sam’s wife and prized her position in the town. It was not a neat death. Another fact that didn’t add up.

  He climbed the stairs to try and get a look at Clara’s face, the rope and the knot. The rope looked new, or unused. It should be easy to find out when and where she bought it, or perhaps it had been around some time; the dismissed gardener, or cleaner, might be able to help. The rope was firmly tied to the oak banisters; they’d taken her weight without any sign of damage. He couldn’t see the knot under her chin. Pity. For the first time since he’d left the police, he regretted his decision. He wanted to investigate these deaths. He was afraid the easy answer would be accepted: mercy killing followed by suicide. It might be true, but there were other alternatives. Although who or why someone would want to murder Sam and Clara he hadn’t a clue.

  He looked at his watch. The police would soon be here. He ran down the stairs and looked at the other ground-floor rooms. A dining room, no sign of any violence; the kitchen, nothing interesting except for two glasses and a medicine bottle, half-empty. Again he used the handkerchief; the bottle contained morphine; he sniffed the glasses. One of them had held the drug. Why not give him an overdose instead of killing him with a cushion?

  A smaller room looked like a study; Sam’s? There were shelves of books, mainly medical, also scientific periodicals and books on opera and classical music. More interesting was a filing cabinet, its drawers pulled open; the named files were empty. Even if each one had contained only ten sheets of paper, they’d have produced more ash than the amount in the fireplace. Someone had emptied the files in a hurry. Was it Clara? Or had someone else taken away the contents of the files and burnt some uninteresting papers in the hearth in the hope the police would think that’s where all the contents of the filing cabinet had landed up?

  There was the sound of a car pulling up; he hurried back to the hall and waited for the bell to ring. He ostentatiously used his handkerchief to open the door.

  A short, squat man, dressed in a Gannex raincoat and trilby, glared at him. Behind him were two other men, both in plain clothes, one of them was Johnny Cottam, a young constable who had been promoted to a detective constable after the Nicholson case. Good, someone he knew and trusted. Behind them were two uniformed constables.

  ‘You’re Frank Diamond?’

  Ah, a James Cagney look-a-like. ‘Yes.’

  The man barrelled past him, his wide shoulders catching Frank as he strode into the hall. He came to an abrupt halt before the body of Clara. He whirled round. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Revie.’

  ‘I’ve heard about you.’

  ‘And I’ve heard about you.’

  ‘Nothing good I hope?’

  ‘Correct.’

  He tried not to smile. Revie took off his raincoat and trilby and threw them to one of the PCs, who raised his eyebrows. Revie’s hips were as wide as his shoulders, but his body looked hard under the navy suit. His small, bright blue eyes stared beneath straight, dark eyebrows and the Marcelled waves of his dark hair shone with Brilliantine.

  Revie turned to Cottam. ‘Contact a pathologist. Try and get Ansell if you can. He’s the best.’

  Cottam hesitated on the front door step, looking as if he wanted to ask a question, before leaving.

  Revie went up in Frank’s opinion. Ansell had been crucial in the forensic evidence he’d produced to get a guilty verdict in the Nicholson case. Perhaps there was some hope of a sensible conversation with Revie.

  ‘Right, Sonny Jim, where’s the other body and what the hell were you and that woman doing breaking into the house?’

  On second thoughts, perhaps not. He pointed to the sitting room. ‘My name, by the way, is Mr Diamond and my associate is Miss Bowman.’ No point in pandering to a bully.

  Revie’s small eyes became even smaller. He turned and shouted into the night. ‘Cottam, come back and drive Mr Diamond to Leiston police station. Where’s Miss Bowman?’ Cottam came back in, looking bemused.

  ‘She’s with Nancy Wintle, Sam Harrop’s sister, presumably at a neighbour’s. Did she give you the address? Nancy didn’t see the bodies, we kept her in the car.’

  ‘So you and Miss Bowman were in the house together? Did you touch anything?’

  Frank explained about the light switches, he didn’t mention the glasses or bottle in the kitchen.

  ‘Right, Cottam, find Bowman and take her with you. Don’t let them talk to each other.’

  Frank could see it was going to be a long night.

  Chapter 13

  Friday, March 12th, 1971

  Laurel sat at her desk in the dining room of Greyfriars, pretending to read through the notes on the David Pemberton case. She tried to concentrate, but other images swam before her eyes: Nancy’s grief-s
tricken face, Clara Harrop’s body hanging at the end of a rope and the hideous expression on the face of the dead Sam Harrop; also, she couldn’t get the sickening smells of their bodies out of her nose. Worse of all was the guilt of her failure to get hold of Nancy and to return to the Harrop’s house on Wednesday afternoon. Everyone was reassuring her she couldn’t have acted in any other way, but if she’d followed her instinct and got Sam out of that house, he’d still be alive, and so would Clara.

  Dorothy came into the room. ‘Mabel’s making some tea. Would you like a cup? It’s nearly four, you’ve been sitting there long enough. Come on, Laurel, buck up. This is no time for introspection, we’ve got work to do.’

  Laurel didn’t know what to say or do. She felt numb. Normally Dorothy’s bossiness would have roused her to make a pithy remark, but not today. She looked up. Dorothy was frowning at her, her glasses on the tip of her nose. Thank goodness for Dorothy. She was upset for Nancy, but she wasn’t wallowing in it; she didn’t blame herself for starting the investigation off by asking her to help. She tried a smile.

  Dorothy smiled back. ‘That’s better. Leave the paperwork.’ She moved closer and whispered, ‘Come and help me with Mabel, she’s a bit upset.’

  ‘What about?’ she whispered back.

  ‘Something to do with Stuart, I think.’

  She shook her head. ‘Those two, you’d think they were teenagers the way they’re carrying on.’

  Dorothy giggled. ‘Romeo and Juliet: I can see Mabel on a balcony, and when young Stuart appears she pours hot tea all over him.’

  Laurel sniggered. ‘Dorothy Piff, to think you were once a respectable school secretary.’

  ‘It’s mixing with the like of you and Frank that’s brought me down to this level.’

  They were still laughing as they came into the kitchen.

  ‘I’m glad someone’s happy,’ Mabel said, pouring tea into three cups. ‘Though how you can laugh when Frank’s at the station being grilled by that Revie man, I don’t know. Next thing we’ll hear is he’s arrested for murder.’