The Red Chairs Mystery

by L. D. Culliford

  ***

  ‘How are you feeling, Angel?’ They were approaching the Dartford Crossing. The evening light was fading and the Ford’s automatic headlights had just switched themselves on.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Holly sounded ruffled.

  ‘Well, there’s quite a pattern going on, isn’t there; of Mum’s betraying or abandoning their daughters? Punnett’s mother left her. McInnes’ mother informed Wayne of her whereabouts when she was trying to escape him. Rita herself finally left Hazel after Hazel made it clear she supported her father. And your Mum left you and your Dad when you were little. I was just wondering if you’re okay…’

  ‘I haven’t been thinking about it’, replied Holly glibly. ‘Now that you mention it, I suppose it makes it feel better somehow. In a strange way, it’s good to know that this kind of thing happens to others too.’

  Jack realized she didn’t want to pursue the subject. ‘Let’s take a break soon’, he said. ‘Are you hungry?’

  Not long afterwards they pulled into the Clacket Lane service area and went inside for cheeseburgers and fries. When they were seated, Jack pulled out his crossword. ‘Goat’, he said, looking up. ‘That’s “butter”… Four letters beginning with “g”. It’s nothing to do with what you spread on toast. The answer’s “goat”; get it, Holly?’

  ‘How do people think up those things?’ she replied, unimpressed.

  ‘My father used to do crosswords’, said Jack. ‘I’m not like he was in many things, but he did teach me to love the play on words. I’m grateful for that.’

  Holly did not reply. ‘What next?’ she said later, nursing a mug of tea while Jack ate a portion of cheesecake. ‘I’m on a training day tomorrow: “control and restraint” in the morning, and “first aid using defibrillators” in the afternoon. I could come in early to do the report with you, if you like.’

  ‘No. I can do it, Angel. I’ll re-register the case from “crime” to “non-crime” while I’m at it. I think I’ll do it tonight after dropping you off, while it’s fresh in my mind. And I’ll set up a meeting with Wayne for Friday. I know you want Thursday off. Give my regards to your Dad.’

  ***

  It was late when Jack finally arrived home. Brian, in his dressing gown, was sitting at the felt covered dining table where he was attempting a challenging 1,000 piece jigsaw. The picture was of King Tutankhamun’s funeral mask on a black background. After working at the task for several evenings, with less than a third of it complete, he was beginning to feel stumped when he heard Jack’s car in the driveway. Quickly, he went into the kitchen and filled the kettle, setting it to boil, returning to the hallway as Jack was removing his jacket and loosening the knot of his tie.

  ‘You must be exhausted’, he said, giving the taller man a quick friendly hug. ‘Come and sit. You’ve rescued me from the deadly boy Pharaoh… I’ve put the kettle on. Do you want tea?’

  Jack said he’d prefer a cup of hot chocolate, so they went into the kitchen together. While Brian busied himself with heating the milk, Jack sat at the table.

  ‘You look worried’, said Brian. ‘Don’t fret. Was it a difficult interview?’

  ‘Not especially’, replied Jack. ‘Actually, I was thinking about Angel.’ And he related, without giving names or precise details, the triple saga of mothers disloyal to daughters. ‘I had the feeling that this was getting to her’, he explained, ‘Or rather, that it should have been, more than it appeared to be. She’s never spoken about it, has she? I don’t think she’s ever got over the pain of feeling abandoned.’

  Brian’s next comment baffled Jack. ‘You think she’s been for a swim up at Luxor?’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’ he said.

  ‘What I mean, dear man’, Brian elucidated, ‘Is that maybe our charming, lovely and wonderful friend has ended up in “de Nile”!

  ‘Oh!’ He chuckled. ‘So she’s in denial, and we need to be patient. Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right that she was pretty deeply traumatized by her mother’s infidelity and departure, and that she still has a lot of work to do to assimilate it, to grow through it… But she’s not short of courage, that girl. She’ll face it when she’s ready, which will probably be when she feels safe enough to do so and not before. That’s usually how it works. So, yes, our job is not to force the issue but simply to help her feel safe and appreciated for who she is, not necessarily for what she does.’

  ‘I can see three years of therapy haven’t done you any harm ‘, Jack’s sarcasm was distinctly playful, but sounded to Brian as if it had a serious edge. ‘You’ve become quite an expert on human psychology lately.’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve noticed’. Brian, while trying not to feel undermined, was also genuinely gratified. ‘You do realize, I have been working at it; and it’s not just all about me. People are put off by Freudian ideas and such like, I know. Well, he did go overboard about sexuality, I admit; but I’ve been studying the defence mechanisms people use and it is a fascinating subject. It comes in very handy at work, I can tell you, knowing a little bit more than others about what makes them tick.’

  ‘I bet that’s true’, agreed Jack. ‘It would come in right handy in police work as well.’

  ‘Yes’, Brian continued, rather breathless with enthusiasm for his subject. ‘And one thing I’ve discovered is that everyone is in denial about something… Usually quite a lot! For instance, pretty well everyone is in denial about death.’

  ‘Now you’re growing morbid’, said Jack. ‘And I’m bushed; so I’m just going to finish this drink, try and help you with that impossible jigsaw for a bit, and then I’m off to my bed.’

  ***

  Jack’s sleep that night was deep, and included exotic dreams about Pharaohs, pyramids and Cleopatra’s Needle, which he decided not to mention to Brian the following morning. Now, three days after the Norfolk trip, it was Friday. Holly had just arrived from Chichester, and the two detectives were at the door of Wayne McInnes’s mansion, completely unsure as to how he would react to their news.

  The property developer came to the door this time in a tailored, red white and blue striped shirt, open at the neck revealing a heavy gold chain. His cuffs were not yet done up; his golden cuff-links trailing. Below the shirt he wore neat grey-flannel trousers and a pair of soft, hand-made, black leather house shoes. As he ushered the detectives directly into the living room, the whiff of his expensive after-shave trailed behind.

  As she entered the rather stark room, Holly was struck by how masculine the décor was. Shades of light and dark grey dominated, with black leather upholstery on the armchairs and couches, a modern gas fire recessed into the chimney place, and above the mantel the only colour to be seen: an abstract painting, a kind of nondescript grey and white cloudscape, with a pale yellow-brown wash towards the top left, a small vivid ovoid vermilion blob positioned just below the painting’s equator, shifted a few centimetres off-centre to the right, and a brilliant turquoise teardrop on its side towards the bottom left. It had an astonishing effect. Holly didn’t think she liked it at all, but she had to admit the power of those bright blue and reddish spots to draw and hold one’s attention. It was mesmerizing.

  Fortunately, Jack was immune to such visual niceties. Ready to begin as soon as the three of them were seated, he was however forced to pause when the door wafted quietly open again and young Hazel entered the room.

  ‘Hello Dad’, she said coyly. ‘Is this about Mum? I want to listen too please.’

  ‘Of course, Sweetie’, her father replied. ‘Come and sit here with me.’

  Holly could now see what Hazel’s mother had earlier described. Father and daughter were bonded almost umbilically close. Without thinking, Wayne was holding out one arm and Hazel automatically began skilfully threading the links through the cuffs as if she had been doing this for him for years. Such a hand-maidenly vision helped Jack decid
e to say what he had come to say without trying to sugar-coat it for the fifteen-year-old. Rita McInnes had given full permission for him to tell Wayne her story, so he launched right into it without frills, judging now that a brief account would be best.

  He told father and daughter little more than that Rita had been unhappy. She had planned her escape. A friend had offered her a place to stay, more or less rent-free, in another part of the country, and had also made available a small car for her to use. She had set up a separate bank account and was using a new identity for the time being.

  ‘From the police perspective’, he concluded by saying, ‘This is now a domestic rather than criminal matter. Do you have any questions?’

  Apart from switching hands, so that Hazel could fix his other cuff-link, Wayne had remained remarkably still while Jack was speaking. Now, neither he nor Hazel enquired about Rita’s state of health or well-being. Holly was shocked, too, by how little interest they showed in the reasons for her departure, or in the means by which she had carried out her escape. Wayne McInnes simply said, ‘What is she going to do now?’ He did not seem unduly upset. Hazel, her father’s attire satisfactorily attended to, simply sat there hugging her knees, with her feet curled up on the couch, an unsettlingly smug little grin playing about her glistening lips. Holly took to gritting her teeth to avoid revealing the disgust she couldn’t help feeling.

  Responding to Wayne’s query, Jack took the opportunity to pass on the message from Rita that he would shortly be hearing from her solicitor about a divorce.

  ‘I won’t have to go and live with her, will I, Daddy?’ Hazel piped up in alarm.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so, Darling’, her father replied soothingly. ‘Not if you don’t want to… She will get a big settlement from me, of course. I may have to sell off, or make over to her, one or two properties. She’ll be very comfortable if her lawyer’s any good; but at least we won’t have to move out of this lovely home. I’m sure of that. The divorce courts will look favourably on the idea of you staying put because, after all, any house move would threaten to interrupt your education, and no court would allow that to happen.’

  ‘Thank you, Officers’, he said, turning to face them with an air of dismissal. ‘I guess it’s up to us to take it from here… Would there be anything else?’

  As one, Holly and Jack rose immediately to leave.

  The 8th

  Chapter

  Without ever saying so, some of her colleagues tended to think of Detective Inspector Laura Garbutt as heavy. This was not only in terms of physical bulk, but also in the sense of being a relentlessly serious person. She exuded a tiring kind of desperate ‘gravitas’, having no time or patience for levity or distraction. Unconcerned with appearances, she usually wore an unflatteringly tight-fitting tunic and little make-up. Her steely-grey hair was cut short ‘en brosse’ as the French say, which means standing up like the bristles of a brush. She wore plain, steel-rimmed spectacles atop her somewhat fleshy nose, below which incongruously thin lips encircled a slim mouth that sat enfolded by what, being somewhat pendulous, were better described as jowls rather than cheeks.

  In keeping with the no-nonsense personality, her office at Sussex House suggested nothing of a personal nature. There were no pictures, no photographs, no knick-knacks or other items betraying any individuality. There was only a desk bearing a telephone and a computer, plus a rectangular maroon coloured plastic laminate-topped table and six black plastic chairs on the opposite side of the room. Three filing cabinets stood against one wall, and a large bare pin-board hung on another. There were venetian blinds but no curtains on the two south-west facing windows, at one of which the career policewoman now stood, gazing sightless at the rooftops below, the sea in the distance, her mind in uncharacteristic turmoil, too disturbed to take in what she saw.

  Thirty minutes earlier, she had received a disturbing call from the Chichester pathologist. Dr Narayan had failed to get through to Holly, who had switched her phone to silent while at the McInnes house that morning and did not notice the vibration signals, the phone being in her bag rather than on her person. He wanted urgently to tell her that his continuing examination of the female corpse from the golf club had led to an important discovery. Needing to tell someone, the obvious person was, he thought, Holly’s boss.

  ‘The woman’s cricoid cartilage has a faint horizontal hairline crack in it’, he informed the DI. ‘Most likely this means someone applied pressure on it’.

  ‘Therefore she was murdered’, the DI interrupted. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Well… Unlawfully killed… Yes’, he replied. ‘As you know, the cricoid is a circular ring of cartilage at the top of the trachea, holding it open. Press on it and you occlude the airway, so the person suffocates; but it could only have been pressed very gently, because it appears to have sprung back into place. That’s why I didn’t spot the fissure or notice anything else wrong when I first examined it externally. Perhaps the cartilage was weaker than usual because of the under-nourished state of the victim. Perhaps the perpetrator also used a pillow…’

  ‘Oh yes!’ the DI interrupted again. ‘I remember the Home Office pathologist Sir Michael Cherry, years ago. He always told his students that committing murder undetected was easy. “You can’t beat a skilfully placed pillow!” he used to say. Do you agree?’

  ‘I think I do. I did not, in this case, detect any bruising, petechial haemorrhages or other external signs of either violence or suffocation. Anyway, I’ll write up my preliminary report and send it to you and the Coroner.’

  Standing there at the window, the heavy woman was in her heaviest mood, thinking she could have made a colossal mistake. The image of a clothing shop manikin arranged in the red leather chair, giving her the idea of nothing more than a schoolboy prank, had filled her mind the day before, rather than the corpse of a woman indicating a possible murder. She had not taken the case seriously enough. ‘Instead of calling in Angel, I should have put a murder squad together there and then’, she was thinking. ‘Let’s hope the delay won’t make too drastic a difference.’

  She had already told the Chief Inspector, who had immediately taken her to see the Superintendent. He had decided to set up a full investigation squad, meeting later on when all the necessary personnel could be mustered, some of them having to come across to Brighton from Chichester. The Chief Superintendent would be informed, but would probably not intervene directly himself. Holly had also been summoned, of course, by text message. Laura Garbutt, known throughout the force for her steely-eyed efficiency, was now feeling strangely and uncomfortably inept.

  ***

  Holly had always planned to visit her boss at Sussex House after going to the McInnes house with Jack. On arrival, though, she made her way first to the canteen, ordered tea in a proper cup, also a sausage roll, took her tray, made her way to an empty table, sat herself down and took a welcome bite of the roll before she remembered her phone. Retrieving it from her bag and switching off the silent mode, she was surprised to see she had missed three calls and had four text messages. At the same moment, an officious officer, looking in at the door of the canteen, spotted her and made his way across the room.

  ‘You’re wanted upstairs’, he barked unceremoniously. ‘DI Garbutt’s office… Quick-fast!’

  ‘Of course’, Holly replied respectfully, unsure why she had been spoken to so rudely, eyeing the gruff bearer of such questionable tidings as he stood a moment, turned abruptly and began walking away like a Sergeant-Major on parade. Shrugging mentally when he had gone, she took a quick gulp of the tea then wrapped the rest of the sausage roll in a paper napkin, putting it cautiously into a compartment of her capacious bag. She stood up then and went quickly to the counter for a disposable cup, pouring the remains of her tea into it, slamming a plastic lid on top. Then, swivelling round, she sat down again at the nearest table. ‘I’d better phone Narayan first’, she was thinkin
g. ‘It’s no use going to the boss unprepared’.

  Luckily, she got through right away. The doctor told her what he had said to her boss, then added that he had thought of something else. ‘The thing is’, he spoke hesitantly, ‘I don’t know what happens to human cartilage if you freeze it and then let it thaw. It’s possible it could fracture spontaneously’.

  ‘What are you saying?’ asked Holly. ‘Are you saying it’s not murder now?’

  ‘I’m less sure than I was an hour ago’, the pathologist replied. ‘Let’s put it that way.’

  ‘Have you told DI Garbutt?’ Holly was shocked at this new revelation. They had to know for certain that they were dealing with murder.

  ‘Well, I tried telling her’, Narayan continued. ‘I phoned a few minutes ago, but she didn’t want to listen. I think she’s made up her mind that the woman was unlawfully killed and that’s that.’

  ‘She can be a bit stubborn’, Holly commiserated. ‘Thanks anyway… I’ll see if I can pass on what you’ve said’.

  As it turned out, though, she did not get the chance either. On reaching her boss’s office, she was hurried brusquely along the corridor and upstairs to a briefing room where almost forty police officers, technicians and admin staff had gathered. The Coroner’s officer from Chichester had also just arrived. When Holly entered, the room was quiet, Detective Chief Inspector Holroyd already on his feet.

  Hugh Holroyd had degrees in both law and criminology from Cambridge, explaining why he had quickly been promoted above others with significantly more years of service, including DI Garbutt. Few begrudged him this, however, mainly because he had proved himself capable, friendly and reliable. He smiled a lot, spoke little, listened well, and had the happy knack of making people feel they were as intelligent as he was. A lean figure of medium height, often dressed in grey flannel trousers, dark-coloured shirts and a yellow-brown corduroy jacket, his auburn hair thinning prematurely, he never appeared to offer any kind of threat to junior colleagues, only encouragement. With criminals, though, he had a reputation for being more than tough when the occasion demanded.