Death of an Expert Witness

by P. D. James

  He paused for a moment. No one spoke. Then he went on: “We weren’t going to the village concert because we couldn’t get a babysitter, and, anyway, Sue’s mother was coming for supper. I got home just before six. After the meal—the curry and rice and peas—I saw her off on the seven-forty-five bus. I came straight back here. But I kept thinking of the adverse report, what Dr. Howarth would say, what I was going to do if he recommended a move, how we could possibly sell this house. We had to buy when prices were at their peak, and it’s almost impossible to find buyers now, except at a loss. Besides, I didn’t think another lab would want me. After a time I thought I’d go back to the Laboratory and confront him. I think I had some idea that we might be able to communicate, that I could speak to him as another human being and make him understand how I felt. Anyway, I felt that I would go mad if I stayed indoors. I had to walk somewhere, and I walked towards Hoggatt’s. I didn’t tell Sue what I was going to do, and she tried to persuade me not to go out. But I went.”

  He looked up at Dalgliesh and said: “Can I have a drink of water?” Without a word, Massingham got up and went to find the kitchen. He couldn’t see the glasses, but there were two washed cups on the draining board. He filled one with cold water and brought it back to Bradley. Bradley drained it. He drew his hand over his moist mouth and went on: “I didn’t see anyone on the way to the Laboratory. People don’t walk out in this village much after dark, and I suppose most of them were at the concert. There was a light on in the hall of the Laboratory. I rang the bell and Lorrimer came. He seemed surprised to see me but I said I wanted to speak to him. He looked at his watch and said he could only spare me five minutes. I followed him up to the Biology Lab.”

  He looked across directly at Dalgliesh. He said: “It was a strange sort of interview. I sensed that he was impatient and wanted to get rid of me, and part of the time I thought that he hardly listened to what I was saying, or even knew that I was there. I didn’t make a good job of it. I tried to explain that I wasn’t being careless on purpose, that I really liked the work and wanted to make a success of it and be a credit to the Department. I tried to explain the effect he had on me. I don’t know whether he was listening. He stood there with his eyes fixed on the floor.

  “And then he looked up and began speaking. He didn’t really look at me, he was looking through me, almost as if I wasn’t there. And he was saying things, terrible things, as if they were words in a play, nothing to do with me. I kept hearing the same words over and over again. Failure. Useless. Hopeless. Inadequate. He even said something about marriage, as if I were a sexual failure too. I think he was mad. I can’t explain what it was like, all this hate pouring out, hate, and misery and despair. I stood there shaking with this stream of words pouring over me as if … as if it were filth. And then his eyes focused on me and I knew that he was seeing me, me, Clifford Bradley. His voice sounded quite different. He said: ‘You’re a third-rate biologist and a fourth-rate forensic scientist. That’s what you were when you came into this Department and you’ll never change. I have two alternatives: to check every one of your results or to risk the Service and this Laboratory being discredited in the court. Neither is tolerable. So I suggest that you look for another job. And now I’ve things to do, so please leave.’

  “He turned his back on me and I went out. I knew that it was impossible. It would have been better not to have come. He’d never told me before exactly what he thought of me, not in those words, anyway. I felt sick and miserable, and I knew I was crying. That made me despise myself the more. I stumbled upstairs to the men’s cloakroom and was just able to reach the first basin before I vomited. I don’t remember how long I stood there, leaning over the basin, half crying and half vomiting. I suppose it could have been three or four minutes. After a time I put on the cold tap and swilled my face. Then I tried to pull myself together. But I was still shaking, and I still felt sick. I went and sat on one of the lavatory seats and sank my head in my hands.

  “I don’t know how long I was there. Ten minutes perhaps, but it could have been longer. I knew I could never change his opinion of me, never make him understand. He wasn’t like a human being. I realized that he hated me. But now I began to hate him and in a different way. I’d have to leave; I knew he’d see to that. But at least I could tell him what I thought of him. I could behave like a man. So I went down the stairs and into the Biology Laboratory.”

  Again he paused. The child stirred in her mother’s arms and gave a little cry in her sleep. Susan Bradley began an automatic jogging and crooning, but kept her eyes on her husband. Then Bradley went on: “He was lying between the two middle examination tables, face downwards. I didn’t wait to see whether he was dead. I know that I ought to feel dreadful about that, about the fact that I left him without getting help. But I don’t. I can’t make myself feel sorry. But at the time I wasn’t glad that he was dead. I wasn’t aware of any feeling except terror. I hurled myself downstairs and out of the Laboratory as if his murderer were after me. The door was still on the Yale and I know that I must have drawn back the bottom bolt, but I can’t remember. I raced down the drive. I think there was a bus passing, but it had started up before I reached the gate. When I got into the road it was disappearing. Then I saw a car approaching and, instinctively, I stood back into the shadows of the walls. The car slowed down and turned into the Laboratory drive. Then I made myself walk slowly and normally. And the next thing I remember was being home.”

  Susan Bradley spoke for the first time: “Clifford told me all about it. But, of course, he had to. He looked so terrible that I knew something awful must have happened. We decided together what we’d better do. We knew that he’d had nothing to do with what had happened to Dr. Lorrimer. But who would believe Cliff? Everyone in the Department knew what Dr. Lorrimer thought of him. He would be bound to be suspected anyway, and if you found out that he was there, in the Laboratory, and at the very moment it happened, then how could he hope to persuade you that he wasn’t guilty? So we decided to say that we’d been together the whole evening. My mother did ring about nine o’clock to say that she’d got safely home, and I told her that Cliff was having a bath. She’d never really liked my marriage and I didn’t want to admit to her that he was out. She’d only start criticizing him for leaving me and the baby. So we knew that she could confirm what I’d said, and that might be some help, even though she hadn’t spoken to him. And then Cliff remembered about the vomit.”

  Her husband went on, almost eagerly now, as if willing them to understand and believe: “I knew I’d swilled cold water over my face, but I couldn’t be certain that the bowl was clean. The more I thought about it, the more sure I was that it was stained with vomit. And I knew how much you could learn from that. I’m a secreter, but that didn’t worry me. I knew that the stomach acids would destroy the antibodies and that the Lab wouldn’t be able to determine my blood group. But there was the curry powder, the dye in the peas. They’d be able to say enough about that last meal to identify me. And I couldn’t lie about what we’d had for supper because Sue’s mother had been here sharing it with us.

  “So we had this idea of trying to stop Mrs. Bidwell going early to the Laboratory. I always get to work before nine, so I would be first on the scene quite naturally. If I went straight to the washroom as I normally would, and cleaned the bowl, then the only evidence that I was in the Lab the previous evening would be gone forever. No one would ever know.”

  Susan Bradley said: “It was my idea to phone Mrs. Bidwell, and I was the one who spoke to her husband. We knew that she wouldn’t answer the phone. She never did. But Cliff hadn’t realized that old Mr. Lorrimer wasn’t entering hospital the previous day. He was out of the Department when old Mr. Lorrimer rang. So the plan went all wrong. Mr. Lorrimer telephoned Inspector Blakelock, and everyone arrived at the Lab almost as soon as Cliff. After that, there was nothing we could do but wait.”

  Dalgliesh could imagine how terrible that time of waiting had been. No wonder
that Bradley hadn’t been able to face going in to the Lab. He asked: “When you rang the bell at the Laboratory, how long was it before Dr. Lorrimer answered?”

  “Almost immediately. He couldn’t have come down from the Biology Department. He must have been somewhere on the ground floor.”

  “Did he say anything at all about expecting a visitor?”

  The temptation was obvious. But Bradley said: “No. He talked about having things to do, but I took it that he meant the analysis he was working on.”

  “And when you found the body, you saw and heard nothing of the murderer?”

  “No. I didn’t wait to look, of course. But I’m sure he was there and very close. I don’t know why.”

  “Did you notice the position of the mallet, the fact that there was a page torn from Lorrimer’s notebook?”

  “No. Nothing. All I can remember is Lorrimer, the body and the thin stream of blood.”

  “When you were in the washroom, did you hear the doorbell?”

  “No, but I don’t think I could have heard it, not above the first floor. And I’m sure I wouldn’t have heard it while I was being sick.”

  “When Dr. Lorrimer opened the door to you, did anything strike you as unusual, apart from the fact that he had come so promptly?”

  “Nothing, except that he was carrying his notebook.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. It was folded back.” So Bradley’s arrival had interrupted whatever it was that Lorrimer had been doing. And he had been on the ground floor, the floor with the Director’s office, the Records Department, the Exhibits Store.

  Dalgliesh said: “The car which turned into the drive as you left; what sort of car?”

  “I didn’t see. All I can remember are the headlights. We don’t have a car and I’m not clever at recognizing the different models unless I get a clear look.”

  “Can you remember how it was driven? Did the driver turn into the drive confidently as if he knew where he was going? Or did he hesitate as if he were looking for a convenient spot to stop and happened to see the open driveway?”

  “He just slowed down a little and drove straight in. I think it was someone who knew the place. But I didn’t wait to see if he drove up to the Lab. Next day, of course, I knew that it couldn’t have been the police from Guy’s Marsh or anyone with a key, or the body would have been discovered earlier.”

  He looked at Dalgliesh with his anxious eyes. “What will happen to me now? I can’t face them at the Lab.”

  “Inspector Massingham will drive you to Guy’s Marsh Police Station so that you can make a formal statement and sign it. I’ll explain to Dr. Howarth what has happened. Whether you go back to the Lab and when must be for him and your Establishment Department to say. I imagine they may decide to give you special leave until this affair is settled.”

  If it ever were settled. If Bradley were telling the truth, they now knew that Lorrimer had died between eight forty-five, when his father had telephoned him, and just before nine-eleven when the Guy’s Marsh bus had moved away from the Chevisham stop. The clue of the vomit had fixed for them the time of death, had solved the mystery of the call to Mrs. Bidwell. But it hadn’t pointed them to a murderer. And if Bradley were innocent, what sort of life would he have, inside or outside the forensic science service, unless the case were solved? He watched Massingham and Bradley on their way, then set out to walk the half-mile back to Hoggatt’s, not relishing the prospect of his interview with Howarth. Glancing back, he saw that Susan Bradley was still standing at the doorway looking after him, her baby in her arms.

  5

  Howarth said: “I’m not going to trot out the usual platitude about blaming myself. I don’t believe in that spurious acceptance of vicarious liability. All the same, I ought to have known that Bradley was near breaking point. I suspect that old Dr. MacIntyre wouldn’t have let this happen. And now I’d better telephone the Establishment Department. I expect they’ll want him to stay at home for the present. It’s particularly inconvenient from the point of view of the work. They need every pair of hands they can get in the Biology Department. Claire Easterbrook is taking on as much of Lorrimer’s work as she can manage, but there’s a limit to what she can do. At the moment she’s busy with the clunch pit analysis. She’s insisting on starting the electrophoresis again. I don’t blame her; she’s the one who’ll have to give evidence. She can only speak for her own results.”

  Dalgliesh asked what was likely to happen about Clifford Bradley.

  “Oh, there’ll be a regulation to cover the circumstances somewhere. There always is. He’ll be dealt with by the usual compromise between expediency and humanity; unless, of course, you propose to arrest him for murder, in which case, administratively speaking, the problem will solve itself. By the way, the Public Relations Branch have rung. You probably haven’t had time to see today’s Press. Some of the papers are getting rather agitated about Lab security. ‘Are our blood samples safe?’ And one of the Sundays has commissioned an article on science in the service of crime. They’re sending someone to see me about three o’clock. Public Relations would like a word with you, incidentally. They’re hoping to lay on another Press conference later this afternoon.”

  When Howarth had left, Dalgliesh joined Sergeant Underhill and occupied himself with the four large bundles of files which Brenda Pridmore had provided. It was extraordinary how many of six thousand cases and nearly twenty-five thousand exhibits which the Laboratory dealt with each year had the numbers 18, 40 or 1840 in their registration. The cases came from all the departments: Biology, Toxicology, Criminalistics, Document Examination, Blood Alcohol Analysis, Vehicle Examination. Nearly every scientist in the Laboratory above the level of Higher Scientific Officer had been concerned in them. All of them seemed perfectly in order. He was still convinced that the mysterious telephone message to Lorrimer held the clue to the mystery of his death. But it seemed increasingly unlikely that the numbers, if old Mr. Lorrimer had remembered them correctly, bore any reference to a file registration.

  By three o’clock he had decided to put the task on one side and see if physical exercise would stimulate his brain. It was time, he thought, to walk through the grounds and take a look at the Wren chapel. He was reaching for his coat when the telephone rang. It was Massingham from Guy’s Marsh station. The car which had parked in Hoggatt’s drive on Wednesday night had at last been traced. It was a grey Cortina belonging to a Mrs. Maureen Doyle. Mrs. Doyle was at present staying with her parents in Ilford in Essex, but she had confirmed that the car was hers and that on the night of the murder it had been driven by her husband, Detective Inspector Doyle.

  6

  The interview room at Guy’s Marsh Police Station was small, stuffy and overcrowded. Superintendent Mercer, with his great bulk, was taking up more than his share of space and, it seemed to Massingham, breathing more than his share of the air. Of the five men present, including the shorthand writer, Doyle himself appeared both the most comfortable and the least concerned. Dalgliesh was questioning him. Mercer stood against the mullioned windows.

  “You were at Hoggatt’s the night before last. There are fresh tyre marks in the earth under the trees to the right of the entrance, your tyre marks. If you want to waste time for both of us, you can look at the casts.”

  “I admit that they’re my tyre marks. I parked there, briefly, on Monday night.”

  “Why?” The question was so quiet, so reasonable, he might have had a genuine, human interest to know.

  “I was with someone.” He paused and then added, “Sir.”

  “I hope, for your sake, that you were with someone the night before last. Even an embarrassing alibi is better than none.

  You quarrelled with Lorrimer. You’re one of the few people he would have let into the Lab. And you parked your car under the trees. If you didn’t murder him, why are you trying to persuade us that you did?”

  “You don’t really believe I killed him. Probably you alrea
dy suspect or know who did. You can’t frighten me, because I know you haven’t any evidence. There isn’t any to get. I was driving the Cortina because the clutch had gone on the Renault, not because I didn’t want to be recognized. I was with Sergeant Beale until eight o’clock. We’d been to interview a man called Barry Taylor at Muddington, and then we went on to see one or two other people who’d been at the dance on Tuesday. From eight o’clock I was driving alone, and where I went was my own business.”

  “Not when it’s a case of murder. Isn’t that what you tell your suspects when they come out with that good old bromide about the sanctity of their private lives? You can do better than that, Doyle.”

  “I wasn’t at the Lab on Wednesday night. Those tyre marks were made when I parked there last Monday.”

  “The Dunlop on the left-hand back wheel is new. It was fitted on Monday afternoon by Gorringe’s Garage, and your wife didn’t collect the Cortina until ten o’clock on Wednesday morning. If you didn’t drive to Hoggatt’s to see Lorrimer, then what were you doing there? And if your business was legitimate, then why park just inside the entrance and under the trees?”

  “If I’d been there to murder Lorrimer, I’d have parked in one of the garages at the back. That would have been safer than leaving the Cortina in the drive. And I didn’t get to Hoggatt’s until after nine. I knew that Lorrimer would be working late on the clunch pit case, but not that late. The Lab was in darkness. The truth, if you must know, is that I’d picked up a woman at the crossroads just outside Manea. I wasn’t in any hurry to get home, and I wanted somewhere quiet and secluded to stop. The Lab seemed as good a place as any. We were there from about nine-fifteen until nine-fifty. No one left during that time.”

  He had taken his time over what was presumably intended to be a quick one-night lay, thought Massingham.