by Ian Jarvis
‘They’re for my hay fever.’
‘It’s winter. It was bad enough at your party in that club on Saturday, with you falling over everything. I don’t want a repetition in my local.’
Rex grudgingly slid them into his jacket.
‘Thank you.’ Raoul carried the drinks to a table by the crackling fire. ‘I gave the police a statement for what it was worth. They’re questioning everyone who knew her.’
‘It’s murder then?’
‘What? Haven’t you seen the news?’
‘The Royal Marines kept me kind of busy.’
‘It was horrific. Her throat...’ Raoul rubbed his eyes, voice trembling. ‘It was torn out. According to the police, someone with enormous strength ripped it out by hand.’
‘Christ!’ Rex sat beside him. ‘Where was this?’
‘The Yorkshire Wolds, over towards Uncle Rupert’s place.’
‘What was she doing there? Birdwatching, I suppose?’
Raoul nodded. ‘She was photographing owls outside a village called Lamberley when it happened.’
‘Birdwatching in December? I thought owls hibernated?’ Rex shook his head. ‘Do the police know who did it?’
‘They’ve no idea.’
‘Well you’re no suspect. You were at my party Saturday afternoon.’
‘Apparently the killer took her binoculars; the ones I gave her last Christmas.’
Rex clicked open a silver Zippo lighter, the flame set high to give a macho blaze. He examined the engraved Marines crest and sighed loudly.
‘Yes.’ Raoul gazed into the fire. ‘It’s terrible, isn’t it?’
‘You can say that again. I’d staked everything on the Marines. What the hell do I do now?’
‘I meant the murder.’
‘Everything was planned. The SAS only recruit from other regiments. I was going to complete the officer training in the Marines and then transfer.’
‘Into the SAS? Just like that, eh?’
‘Well, not straight away, obviously; probably next summer.’ He fired up the commando lighter again. ‘Or maybe the SBS - they’re like the SAS, but with cool underwater stuff.’
Raoul stared quietly. His younger brother and reality seemed to go together like Elvis and salad. ‘But they kicked you out, did they?’
‘Yeah. God knows what father will say.’
‘He’ll say he’s sick of your wild dreams and, when he returns, you’ll do as he says or he’ll stop your allowance. He rang from New York this morning and I told him what happened.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ stammered Rex, on the edge of tears. ‘I had my whole life planned–an incredible life in the SAS–and now this. After Christmas, I’ll be running a housing company.’
‘You’ll sit on the board with me and work in planning to begin with...’
‘It’s so unfair!’
‘It’s real life, Rex, and you don’t think it’s unfair to spend the money, do you? Grant Homes paid for your place in Hampstead and the Ferrari. Dad gave you a chance, but this is the thing with you - you get something into your head and just go for it, no matter how unrealistic or stupid.’
‘A commission in the Marines isn’t stupid.’
‘I’m talking about this SAS thing and your bizarre perception of the special forces. All that nonsensical training you put yourself through to get into the role. That ludicrous image you cultivated: wearing black all the time and those stupid sunglasses. Why are you still dressing like that, for God’s sake?’
‘It feels good,’ muttered Rex. He ran a hand through his short hair. ‘I don’t know; I’m kind of used to it.’
‘You threw a party to celebrate becoming an officer and you hadn’t even been accepted. It was just a three-day trial to weed out the...’ Raoul paused and cleared his throat. ‘You just don’t seem to think the same way as everyone else. Look, I realise how lousy you must be feeling, but it’s over. You really have to grow up a little now and begin acting like...’ he groped for the correct words, ‘normal people.’
‘Everyone came to the party and I can’t face them. I was kicked off the course after six hours. How can I tell anyone that?’ Rex slumped over the table. ‘I just need time to come to terms with it.’
‘Jesus!’ Raoul dropped his voice to a hissed whisper. ‘Is that a fucking gun in your jeans?’
Rex tugged down his sweater. ‘What about it?’
‘What about it? What the fuck do you think you’re doing with an illegal handgun? Is that thing loaded?’ Wide-eyed and ashen, he looked again at the black clothing. ‘I imagine it makes you feel like a special forces secret agent...’
‘It makes me feel better, okay?’
‘Er, right.’ Raoul coughed nervously. ‘You know, what with your depression and er, everything, I think it might be best if you stayed with someone, rather than moping around your flat.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Wiltshire isn’t the best place to...’
‘I don’t mean here; I’m not the best company right now. Uncle Rupert and Marika didn’t make it to your party. When did you last see them? A few days with a country eccentric might do you good.’
‘Be serious.’ Rex laughed dryly. ‘You know how easily I get bored. I need excitement and something to take my mind off this mess, not relaxation. I need to keep my brain active and nothing ever happens in the wilds of Yorkshire.’
‘Apart from murders,’ snapped Rex. ‘If you want to keep what little brain you have active, why not solve that for the police? God knows, someone should. I’ll be honest, you also need specialist counselling. Not for this, but your entire state of mind.’
Rex paused, eyes narrowing in deliberation. ‘Where was she killed? Where exactly?’
‘I was being sarcastic. I didn’t actually mean you should solve the murder.’
‘Oh, come on. I doubt I could solve it. But you’re right. If I’m up there visiting Rupert, I might just take a look around and see if I can find out anything. Do you remember Merlot?’
‘Merlot? What the hell are you talking about?’
‘The topless model I dated last August. She loved whodunits, not that she ever understood them. I took her on a couple of those hotel murder weekends and I was pretty good; a bit of a natural, they said. I unmasked the killer both times.’
‘I don’t believe this.’ Raoul watched incredulously as Rex downed his drink and walked to the bar for a refill. ‘My God! I really do not believe this.’
Chapter 11
The lunch period allocated to the researchers was ending, and management and office personnel were taking their places in the refectory at Ebor Pharmaceuticals.
‘Do we have to?’ said Amy Clarkson, finishing her coffee.
‘Yes.’ Becca Travis pulled on her lab coat. ‘We work on something for two months and suddenly everything disappears. I want to know why!’
‘Why don’t you see Doctor Keating?’ Amy nodded to an elderly woman who had just entered. ‘She ought to know.’
‘She may be Assistant Research Director,’ said Becca, ‘but Margaret has no idea. I asked her yesterday and Will hasn’t told her a thing.’
‘After Lisa and Di, this seems so petty.’ The young doctor pushed open the canteen door. ‘Why not leave it? I don’t know if it was the new work routine or Will’s behaviour, but those projects never felt right.’
‘He hasn’t been himself for weeks,’ said Becca. ‘Most of the time he seems edgy. Did you notice him yesterday after the police had been?’
The corridor from the refectory ran along the rear of the labs to the busy main lobby where Lynn Chandler manned her reception desk. Another passage, decorated with paintings and cacti, led to the administrative lobby with its leather suite, copiers and shredder.
‘Okay.’ Amy brushed back
her short blonde hair. ‘Let’s get it over with.’
Becca knocked and opened the research director’s door.
‘Yes, twenty in total.’ Will Gillette spoke into the phone, but waved the girls in. He sat in a grey suit with his back to the windows, sunlight streaming onto his desk where papers and files were scattered around the computer. ‘Yes, inform Delon that I’m cancelling the consignments. Yes, thank you. Goodbye.’
Amy glanced at the files as she sat at the desk, noticing Merlax on one and Grandier Haematology. The pale blue sheet was an invoice for something named Porphyrene.
‘Okay.’ Replacing the phone and clicking off the computer, Gillette slid the paperwork into a drawer. ‘What can I do for you two?’
‘What exactly is happening?’ Becca gave a condescending smile. ‘We’ve been on our projects for two months. Batches were prepared on Thursday as normal and we were supposed to start new ones today.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Amy. ‘Then we arrived yesterday to find everything gone.’
‘We’re now working on a lipstick range,’ added Becca. ‘I didn’t get a chance to ask, what with the police. Doctor Keating didn’t know and...’
‘Of course,’ chuckled Gillette. ‘I cleared out South Lab over the weekend. Stapleton cancelled your two projects.’
‘I see.’ Becca frowned. ‘Could we ask why?’
‘The usual reason, finance. You weren’t making any progress.’
‘Perhaps it was the experimental retinols.’ Amy chose her words. ‘I know you insisted on them and I bow to experience, but I was never happy with...’
‘We were losing money.’ Gillette sat forward. ‘And if we’re talking happiness, I wasn’t very happy with you yesterday. Despite the sensitive background of those projects, you almost mentioned them to the police.’
‘They’re conducting a murder inquiry’ Amy laughed. ‘They don’t care about our research. It’s best to give them all the information we can.’
‘Relevant information, yes, but our work had nothing to do with Di’s suicide or Lisa’s murder. I must say, I assumed you were more discreet. We did discuss the need for discretion at the outset.’
‘Well, yes.’ Amy sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right.’
Gillette adjusted his huge spectacles. ‘Anyway, is there anything further?’
‘No.’ Becca climbed to her feet. ‘I like to know what’s going on, that’s all. Sorry to have bothered you, Will.’
‘Don’t be silly; my office is always open.’ He stood up politely. ‘I’d have called to explain the cancellation, only I’ve been busy with the police.’
‘Of course.’ Becca opened the door. ‘Thanks anyway. Bye.’
‘Bye,’ echoed Amy, slipping into the lobby.
Becca waited until the office was closed. ‘Can you believe that? He did it himself? The Research Director claims he went in South Lab and cleaned it out himself.’
‘Come on.’ Amy laughed quietly as they set off towards reception. ‘Before we turn into conspiracy nuts.’
Reaching the turn in the passage, Amy looked back to see Gillette at the shredder with the files from his desk. She watched curiously as the blue invoice from the Grandier Laboratories vanished into the buzzing slot.
Chapter 12
Quist sprawled in the leather chair behind his office desk, sipping contemplatively at a coffee as Larry read through a divorce file with Watson. With his spectacles, snowy hair and moustache, the elderly man reminded the teenager of Geppetto, Quist’s large nose doing little to detract from the Pinocchio impression.
‘I see,’ said Larry. ‘Lumsden here is typical of your cases?’
‘Oh absolutely,’ said Watson. ‘We only get the cream assignments.’ He perched on the edge of the desk eating fish and chips from a newspaper, and leant over to pull a photograph from the file. ‘You’ll notice his wife’s got a bruised eye. She deserved it apparently. She questions him when he comes home stinking of perfume and he’s decided he’s better off without all that.’
‘Sounds like a real beauty,’ said Larry.
‘Yeah, try to imagine a tapeworm with permed hair. We start on his divorce tomorrow; another case to rival the Ronnie Garbutt thrill-fest. Hey, Guv, I wonder who’s going to be running around taking the photos?’
Quist paused in tinkling his ring finger on the mug to deliver a sarcastic look.
‘Aren’t we better waiting until after Christmas?’ asked Watson. ‘I can’t believe you don’t celebrate it. You should come out to the pubs with me on Christmas Eve. I’ll teach you the Macarena dance.’
‘I’d pay money to watch that,’ said Larry. ‘The job’s not too exciting then?’
Watson laughed. ‘You’d get more excitement watching crown green bowling. In the three weeks I’ve been here, we’ve had two divorces and some council cleaner fiddling his sick board by claiming he’d fallen at work.’
‘You have the finesse of a Turkish rat catcher,’ said Quist, watching as the youth crammed chips into his mouth. ‘As to the job, we also serve documents on people.’
‘I serve the documents,’ snorted Watson. He climbed to his feet as a knock sounded at the door. ‘You sit in the car smoking.’ Wiping his greasy hands, he headed through reception, opened the door and froze.
‘Hello,’ said Kevin Selden. The skinhead wore a T shirt, jeans and boots, and the huge Rottweiler stood growling at his side. ‘I wonder if you could help me, mate? I’d like to see that bloke you work for.’
Watson’s jaw fell. His first thought was that the debt collector had damaged his face in an accident, but Selden was smiling politely. He’d also called a black guy mate. This was like a priest calling a nun honey.
‘Er, sure. Come on through.’ Watson glanced at the fangs and glowering eyes as Klansman waddled into reception. Creatures like this could solve the stray dog problem overnight. Existing strays would be eaten, and if people bought their child a dog like this for Christmas, they wouldn’t dare kick it out after the holiday. He opened the office door. ‘Er, a visitor, Guv.’
The Rottweiler began snarling, its hackles rising.
‘Sorry about this,’ grunted Selden. ‘He doesn’t seem to like you and your pal.’
Watson raised his eyebrows. It was hard to imagine it liking anyone, apart from in the gastronomic sense.
‘Good dog.’ Quist reached out to tussle Klansman’s neck. The monster sniffed and began wagging its stumpy tail. ‘Yes, there’s a good doggy.’ A tongue flopped out to lick his hand; it seemed to be actual affection, rather than tasting. ‘Yes, nice doggy. Sit!’ Amazingly enough, it did. He turned to the shocked owner. ‘Now, what can we do for you?’
The skinhead shook himself. ‘I’ve got a personal problem.’ Sitting down, he glared at Larry. ‘Personal and private.’
‘Don’t worry about me.’ Larry rose to leave, as most sensible people did whenever Selden entered. ‘I’m on the three o’clock train.’
‘I’ll see you out,’ said Quist. ‘If you’ll excuse me a moment?’
‘Cheerio then.’ Watson held open the door. ‘Have a great Christmas and good luck with your new shop in Oxford.’ Slurping came from the desk and he turned to see the dog eating his dinner.
‘Bye.’ Larry grinned at the youth, pulled on his tweed jacket, and followed the detective into the reception. ‘Enjoy your meal.’
‘Business is booming,’ whispered Quist. ‘Another potential client.’ He smiled warmly and opened the corridor door. ‘I’m really glad you called on your way home. That long chat last night was just like the old days.’
‘Yes it was.’ Larry picked up his suitcase. ‘You must come to Oxford after Christmas. We’ll have to arrange something.’
‘You can count on it.’ He clasped the old man’s hand and shook firmly. ‘Look after yourself down there.’
‘I will.’ Larry checked his watch. ‘Ah well. Goodbye, Bernie.’ He hesitated, his brown eyes filling up, then dropping the case, he embraced Quist.
‘Go on, you silly old fool.’ The detective hugged him, chuckling. ‘You’ll miss your train.’
‘Yes, we can’t have that.’ Larry paused again, then nodded slowly. ‘Goodbye.’
Quist watched his friend disappear down the stairwell and returned to the office. The skinhead sat picking a scab from his knuckle and waited until he’d flopped back into the chair behind the desk.
‘Sorry about that.’ Quist sipped his coffee, his gaze running over Selden’s muscles; any sports judge meeting this character would definitely demand a urine test for steroids. ‘A personal problem, I believe you said?’
‘It’s the coppers.’ Selden fed the knuckle scab to Klansman. ‘They’re saying my bird topped herself.’
‘Oh, dear! Er, your bird?’
‘Diane Woodall. We were getting engaged.’
An ideal motive for suicide, decided Watson.
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Quist gestured to the Yorkshire Post on the windowsill. ‘I recall her name and the unfortunate incident. I read about it this morning.’
‘I’ve read it too,’ said Selden, scowling. ‘It happened on the railway near the train museum. The cops say she lay on the line while a train chopped her head off. That’s a load of shit.’
Nodding grimly, the detective sat back in the chair. ‘You believe the police are being hasty in their suicide assumption?’
‘That’s right,’ said Selden. ‘Diane wasn’t the sort to take her own life. We were very much in love and she had everything to live for. There has to be more to it.’
Watson couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
Quist spoke tactfully. ‘I imagine that after an awful episode such as this, many relatives feel the way you do...’
‘I’d like to employ you to uncover the truth,’ broke in Selden. ‘It’s suicide as far as the police are concerned, but you could investigate privately. You could visit the railway and talk to the people at Ebor Pharmaceuticals. You could find out what really happened.’
