by Roger Keevil
“Legal ones, madam?”
Amanda’s heated flow stopped dead in its tracks. “What on earth do you mean, inspector?”
“I’m recalling a remark which Mrs. Ronson was heard to make to you, Miss Laye. It referred to your time as a student, and the gist of it was that it was unfortunate that you had not studied law at that time. I wonder why she might have said that?”
“I really can’t remember …” Amanda seemed to have become unexpectedly vague.
“Perhaps I could refresh your memory. It was over dinner. There was a Middle-Eastern style dish being served.” Constable gave a bland smile. “Oh. There we go again. The subject of the Middle East cropping up once more. And not for the first time. Strange, since you told us that it formed no part of your most recent travels. Although I gather that you have contacts in that particular region.”
“I have contacts throughout the world, inspector.” Amanda had recovered her composure. “That would appear to be the nature of my job, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’m sure it is, madam.” Constable disregarded the hint of acid in the minister’s tone. “And no doubt some of these contacts would be closer than others. Friends, one would hope. Particularly warm friends, in some instances?”
“Would you care to explain exactly what you are getting at, inspector?” said Amanda haughtily.
“Not what I am getting at, Miss Laye,” replied Constable. “What interests me is what Mrs. Ronson was getting at when she made certain remarks to you. This mention of law intrigues me. Might she have been concerned over some of the legal aspects of our foreign policy? But,” he continued before Amanda had a chance to interrupt, “these things are a long way above my pay grade. And fortunately, she will have had Mrs. Nye to consult on legal matters. Do you know, I may decide to ask if she has any thoughts in that area.” He moved towards the door, leaving Amanda uncertain as to how to respond. He paused. “And I shall try not to keep you under restriction longer than I have to. Bearing in mind that I am working under direct orders from the Deputy P.M. in Downing Street. And as for any delay in pursuing your overseas liaisons, I’m sure your staff will be perfectly capable of staving off awkward questions. Isn’t that what the Foreign Office does best?”
*
“Did you see those eyes, guv?” commented Dave Copper in an undertone, as the two detectives stood once again in the corridor. “When we first walked in. Definitely not a happy lady. I thought she was going to blast you on the spot.”
“There was indeed a rather intimidating mixture of fire and ice,” agreed Andy Constable with a rueful chuckle.
“Maybe those specs of hers have got safety glass in them,” grinned Copper. “And that’s what protected us from the Gorgon stare. Mind you, you did manage to take the wind out of her sails soon enough.”
“A delightfully mixed metaphor, sergeant,” smiled Constable. “One of your best so far, I think. But you’re right. The level of outrage subsided surprisingly quickly.”
“Why do you reckon that was, guv?”
“Well, I think it has nothing to do with geography and this recent trip of hers, no matter what she may say to draw our attention in that direction, and all to do with history, both long and medium-term.”
“What, as in university term, sir?”
Constable laughed. “My compliments, Copper. Good pick-up. And you may well be right. I think we may have enough pieces to put together quite an interesting picture. One which could give us a reason why Miss Laye could find herself on the wrong side of the Prime Minister, with all that that implies. I will muse on the subject, once we’ve got our last couple of interviews out of the way. So, it’s Mr. Grade next, isn’t it?”
“It is, sir,” confirmed Copper. “Our hotel manager’s old pal.”
“Or possibly not,” demurred Constable. “Let’s see what he has to say.”
Milo Grade, propped up once again on his bed, was taking a bite from what appeared to be an enormous ham and tomato sandwich as the detectives entered his room in response to a rather muffled ‘Come in!’. “Oh lord,” he exclaimed untidily through the substantial mouthful. “Busted again. Every time you come in here, inspector, you find me lounging around eating. Well, it does something to pass the time, and this is a remarkably good sandwich.” He polished off the remainder.
“I’m glad Mr. Knightly is looking after you so well, sir,” said Constable affably. “I suppose it’s only natural to take care of our old friends.”
Milo pushed himself slightly more upright. “You said something before about me knowing him, didn’t you, inspector?” he said with a faint hint of irritation in his tone. “And I think I told you then, I really don’t remember him.”
“I don’t suppose it’s important, sir,” replied Constable. “I imagine it’s the same at any large educational establishment – I mean, you would know that better than anyone, wouldn’t you? Not that much mixing between courses, the Foodies not having much contact with the Spannermen, and so on. Or so I gather. Would that be one of the things you would want to address in your Department, I wonder?”
“I’ve got too many things on my plate to worry about social mixing at universities,” said Milo irritably. “And I don’t see how relevant it is to what you’re supposed to be doing anyway, inspector. Surely you’re here to talk about more important things than the work of my ministry.”
“Ah, well that is where you would be wrong, sir,” responded Constable, resuming his former position in one of the room’s tub chairs and nodding to Copper to seat himself likewise. “Because the topic of your ministry’s work cropped up during several conversations we’ve been told about.”
“Really? I don’t see …”
“I think you and Mrs. Ronson exchanged words several times since your arrival here, didn’t you, sir?” pressed on Constable.
“We spoke, certainly. That’s what tends to happen when the Prime Minister summons her colleagues for a series of meetings, inspector,” was Milo’s acerbic retort.
“And if the snippets we’ve heard are accurate,” continued Constable, unruffled by Milo’s attitude, “Mrs. Ronson seems to have been particularly concerned about the matter of fraud.”
Milo looked disconcerted. “Well … I mean …” He bit his lip. “Oh, all right, inspector.” He heaved a deep sigh. “I might as well be honest. Yes, it’s a worry. There’s been talk that annual national exam results haven’t been all that they should be. And that some of the figures might have been massaged to make them look better than they actually are. But this is nothing to do with me. We’re talking about the time before I took over the Department, so it can’t be laid at my door. But that must be what people heard us talking about. And you can’t seriously think that I would want to murder the P.M. over the failings of my predecessors. The idea’s ludicrous. It just goes to prove that eavesdropping is a very unreliable source of information.”
“That, sir, is unfortunately often very true, sir,” agreed Constable. “But it doesn’t take us away from the point that it sounds as if Mrs. Ronson was concerned about the matter. And I’ve been looking for any straws in the wind which indicate areas of conflict between the Prime Minister and her colleagues. However absurd. So let me speculate. There is a situation in schools which Mrs. Ronson finds intolerable. You are the minister in charge. You have a responsibility to put the matter right. But what if the P.M., for whatever reason, thinks you aren’t up to the job? What if she decided, in the light of this meeting, that you should be getting your marching orders? That could well be a fatal blow to your career. And you’re still relatively young for a minister – your career might never recover from such a setback, and then where would you be? So isn’t it plausible that you might take drastic action to avoid that eventuality? Mightn’t a man desperate to save his career decide to kill the woman who held his fate in her hands?”
“Over a bunch of school statistics?” scoffed Milo. “Oh really, inspector, this is beyond a farce! If your detecting skills can’t come
up with something better than that, then I think you should seriously consider a change of career.”
*
“Our Mr. Grade seems to have lost his sense of humour, guv,” remarked Dave Copper, not taking particular care to lower his voice as he pulled the door closed behind him. “And didn’t he tell us that he gets flippant when he’s nervous? Not much sign of that now, is there?”
“There is not,” smiled Andy Constable in agreement. “But perhaps he snaps when he’s really nervous.”
“Of course, in one way, he hasn’t got anything to be nervous about any more, has he?” mused Copper. “I mean, if he was worried that Mrs. Ronson was going to sack him, she certainly won’t be doing that now. And he was pretty up-front – eventually – about this exams thing.”
“Hmmm.” Constable still sounded dubious. “In which case, what’s troubling him? If he’s prepared for us to consider the school results business, in which he says he is in the clear because it’s all the fault of his predecessors, is he using that to distract our attention from something else? Maybe I should be taking his advice and putting my detecting skills to finding a better answer.”
“That’s one for your sitting-down-and-thinking session, isn’t it, sir? I bet you’ve got one planned.”
“Eventually, I hope. We shall go and find Sergeant Singleton to see what she has discovered, and with luck we shall be in a position to review all the information you’ve gathered together in that notebook of yours. Once we have disposed of this seemingly endless parade of interviewees, of course.”
“I can’t offhand remember a case where we’ve had quite so many people in line to talk to, guv,” remarked Copper. “Thank goodness there’s just the one to go.”
“Ah, yes. Mrs. Nye. There were a couple of things I wanted to cross-check with her, weren’t there?” Constable gave a brisk rap at the door of the Blue Room. There was no answer. “Oh, for goodness sake, don’t say she’s gone off somewhere.”
“Maybe it was her door Mr. Stalker heard, sir,” suggested Copper.
“Well, if it was, it’s really rather irritating. I did ask specifically …” Constable knocked again, and failing to get a reply, pushed open the door and marched into the room, Copper at his shoulder, only to stop dead in his tracks.
“Might as well put my book away for the moment, sir,” murmured Copper in a strained voice after a long pause. “I think our list just got one suspect shorter.”
Chapter 13
Deborah Nye lay huddled on her side among the luxurious cushions of the room’s four-poster bed. For one brief moment, Andy Constable had found himself hoping that the occupant was merely asleep, but even as he formulated the thought, he realised that the unnatural stillness had a quite different explanation.
The inspector moved towards the bed to take a closer look, and then turned swiftly to his junior. “Copper,” he rapped out, “get Dr. Neal here double quick. Tell him to bring his bag. Then find Sheila Deare, wherever she is, and get her up here as well. Now!”
With a brief ‘Sir!’ of acknowledgement, Dave Copper sprinted off along the corridor in the direction of Perry Neal’s room.
Constable approached the still and silent figure of the Justice Secretary and reached out a tentative finger to test for a pulse in the throat, hoping against hope that his first impression might be mistaken. As he did so, Dee’s curtain of hair fell back, to reveal a hypodermic syringe buried up to the hilt in the side of the victim’s neck. Constable let out a slow depressed-sounding sigh.
“Your sergeant said you wanted to see me urgently, inspector,” came Perry Neal’s voice from the doorway behind him. “Was there something …?” The health minister’s voice died away as he took in the scene before him.
“Please examine Mrs. Nye, doctor,” replied Constable in a level voice. “As quickly as you can, if you will. She appears to be dead, but I may be mistaken. Perhaps there is something that can be done.”
“Of course.” Perry hurried to the bedside. He checked for a pulse. He lifted an eyelid. He reached into his bag for a stethoscope and listened intently, before stepping back with a deep sigh. “I’m sorry, inspector. She’s gone. Only a matter of minutes this time, if I’m any judge, but I don’t think there’s anything to be done. But …” He hesitated. “I don’t understand. What’s the syringe doing there? Is that something to do with you?”
“Not at all, sir,” replied the inspector grimly. “But I think we may safely say that it has a great deal to do with Mrs. Nye’s death. I wondered if perhaps you might have an explanation.”
“Me? No. I mean, I carry syringes with me, but that isn’t one of mine. Look.” Perry burrowed in his bag and produced a package of hypodermics encased in their sterile wrappings. “See, the seal’s intact. Anyway, this is a different type.” He suddenly caught his breath. “Oh, for goodness sake, inspector, you don’t think I had anything to do with this, do you?”
“I have to consider every possibility, sir.” Constable refused to be swayed by the other’s apparently horrified reaction. “Of all the people in the building, I can’t at the moment think of anyone else likely to be in possession of such an item. So, would you have any thoughts on the possible cause of Mrs. Nye’s death? Something’s obviously been injected here. But what?”
Perry shook his head helplessly. “I couldn’t say. Not without a proper examination. I mean, it’s all too far out of my field.”
The inspector gazed at the huddled figure in the bed for a few moments and then turned back to Perry. “Then I think there’s nothing more you can do here to help me, doctor, so if you would be good enough to return to your room, I’d be grateful. Oh, and I’m sure I probably don’t need to say this, but I shall expect you to keep this situation to yourself.”
“Since you’re keeping us all away from one another, inspector, that isn’t going to be exactly difficult,” replied Perry.
“As you say, sir.” Constable regarded Perry steadily as the minister retrieved his bag and, with an awkward nod, turned and left the room, almost colliding with a somewhat breathless returning Dave Copper.
“Inspector Deare’s on her way up, guv,” he reported. “She was back in the kitchen.”
“Did you tell her what’s happened?”
“I thought I’d leave that job to you, sir,” said Copper. “She was just coming off her phone to someone senior - I didn’t like to ask exactly who - and she didn’t look as if she could cope with very much more in the way of bad news.”
“She’s going to have to get used to it,” retorted Constable grimly. “Right. On the subject of phones, you can dial our doc up on yours, and then hand it over, while you go and roust out Sergeant Singleton, who I assume is still checking over the Prime Minister’s room next door. Tell her we’ve got another crime scene for her attention, and I’ll break the glad tidings to the doc that his last day at work just got even more interesting.”
“Andy,” crackled the voice on the phone. “Getting a bit impatient, aren’t we? I hope you aren’t expecting any progress reports on your latest victim. My new guest hasn’t even arrived yet – I gather the van’s on its way as we speak.”
“I’m sorry to say you’re going to have to turn it around and get it back here, doctor,” said Constable. “Fresh developments, I’m afraid.”
“If they’ve forgotten something, I’ll tan their hides,” growled the doctor. “I haven’t got time to waste. I’ve got a long and happy retirement to look forward to, once I’ve got you and your dead friends out of my hair.”
Constable couldn’t repress a humourless smile at the doctor’s turn of phrase. “Sadly, that happy moment is going to have to be postponed a little longer, doctor. And you say ‘latest victim’. If only that were the case.”
“What are you talking about, man?”
“There’s been another death.”
“What!”
“And it’s another murder. Mrs. Deborah Nye, the Justice Secretary, has been killed. Some kind of injection, by the lo
ok of it, but I need you to tell me what’s involved.”
The doctor sighed profoundly. “And I suppose I’ve got to clamber back into my car and come and take a look at the body?”
“I think I can spare you that at least, doc. I’ve got a doctor on the spot – the fact that he’s also the Health Secretary may or may not be a bonus – and other than the fact that he’s testifying that the lady’s dead, I don’t think there’s much to be added. Plus we have someone from SOCO here, so with her report and photos, I’m hoping that you’ll have enough to form your conclusions.”
“Well, thank you for that, at least. Now, you’d better go away while I get on to the van driver and turn him round. I dare say you have more pressing things to do than talk to me.”
“That, doctor, couldn’t be more true.”
“I’ll be in touch.” The line clicked off.
Constable became aware that Sheila Deare and Una Singleton were both standing just inside the door to the room, with Dave Copper hovering behind them. The SOCO sergeant was already intent on the recumbent form of Dee Nye, and at a nod from Constable, moved forward and began calmly to examine the body and its surroundings, while Sheila’s face wore an expression of stunned bewilderment.
“I’m afraid, Sheila, that your day just got worse,” said Constable.
The security officer seemed to be having difficulty containing her bemusement. “How can this have happened? I mean, who …?”
“Your team of ministers is sheltering a double killer,” replied Constable shortly. “No other explanation. Unless we have a conspiracy with more than one perpetrator. Either way, it looks as if the late Prime Minister was not such a good picker of people as one would wish.”
