Face Value (Richard and Amelia Patton)

by Roger Ormerod

  ‘And the note, Ted? The note through the door?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The truth, or I’ll kill you.’

  ‘All right. Lemme go. That was me. Just now. Before you come along. It’s the truth. But only that.’

  I thrust him away. My heart was beating wildly and I felt insecure on my feet. I stared blindly at the revolver in my hand, then put it away in my pocket. When I looked up I could see the brothers running away, Ted staggering. I shook my head, muttering to myself, and began to walk after them slowly, my eyes to the ground.

  I sat a long while in the car before my heart settled and my mind focused. Slowly I lit my pipe. The clock on the dash said three-thirty. The conference should just about be starting.

  10

  Lord, the number of conferences I’ve been to! And they’re all the same — a waste of time, to my mind. You get to a point where the officer in charge of a case knows what he’s got and what he’s going to do about it. So he calls a conference. It’s just to be polite. He gets a lot of suggestions and opinions, and probably intends to ignore every one of them.

  There was really no hurry, because I could have written the script. But in any event, I hadn’t got a hurry left in me. I’d plodded past the desk, aware of the sudden silence when they saw what I was carrying, and I’d forced my weak legs up the four flights to the top floor. Here we had the only room big enough to take the two borrowed men and all the sergeants who’d been involved, but who really hadn’t been given time to dig into it. And Brason, I hoped.

  I could hear them before I reached the top landing. It was all partitions up there, empty side rooms, and the one big one at the end. By that time I was moving quietly, and made not a sound when I slipped into the cubicle next to the conference room. No chairs in there— they’d bagged them all. I leaned into the corner, and slowly, not taking any notice of my instructions, my legs gave way, and I slid down to a sitting position on the floor.

  Merridew was into his preamble, trying to exert his authority, but I could tell, even through the partition, that he wasn’t happy about things at all.

  ‘...but if anybody thinks of any point, however trifling...’

  I could hear him fading off with a sigh, but the throat clearance was Donaldson’s.

  ‘I don’t think there’s any doubt we’ve got a straightforward domestic murder here. A wife kills her husband. She seems to have shot him with a shotgun...’

  ‘Seems to...’ Merridew cutting in unhappily.

  ‘...through a hole in the front window,’ Donaldson pressed on, unshaken. ‘We might have some discussion on how that hole was caused, and on other small details.’

  Merridew raised his voice. ‘We haven’t even got a murder weapon.’

  ‘A shotgun,’ said Donaldson in a flat voice, ‘which was then thrown away. Exactly where it was thrown should emerge during later interrogation. I propose to charge Mrs Trowbridge with murder, and bring her back here. I’m sure we can persuade her to clear the few remaining points.’

  ‘But there’re too many points,’ Merridew grumbled. ‘So very many we can’t explain.’

  ‘Details,’ said Donaldson incisively, dismissing them.

  ‘Then suppose we discuss one or two.’

  ‘All right, sir, we’ll discuss them.’ The disgust in Donaldson’s voice came through very clearly.

  They did that. You get the same thing every time. Several of the men clearly didn’t appreciate what was going on, but had to get themselves noticed. Two marks for trying. But as far as most of them were concerned the case was ended. A woman had shot her husband. It had happened before, and it would happen again. Simple and uncomplicated. You therefore had her in, and in due course she would sign a statement in which she admitted it.

  What the hell did it matter that the victim’s shotgun had been standing, fired and not reloaded, against the wall? Who cared where the glass from the pane had fallen? And what possible importance was it that the light switch might or might not have been on?

  I nearly thumped the wall with exasperation, but my fist would’ve gone through. That would’ve been a laugh, a fist sticking through the other side! I heard myself chuckling, and it threatened to run out of control, so I stuck the fist in my mouth instead, and held on.

  In the end, Merridew tapped it down, calling them to order.

  ‘All right. I think you’ve all had your say. Now, let’s take the difficult points in order, and perhaps Mr Donaldson will outline what he’s got in mind. Now...motive?’

  I could see the smile in Donaldson’s voice. ‘I think that’s fairly obvious. She’s given us a long rigmarole about her relationship with Kendall — all that guff about trying the best she could for him, and not refusing any of his demands in case it undermined his trust in her.’ Contempt dripped from him. ‘She tried to convince us it didn’t spill over into her private life, but I don’t know. We’d have to get the psychiatrists on it. But I’ll remind you, gentlemen, that we don’t have to produce a motive. Only show that she killed him. Oh, they’ll put it up as a defence, no doubt. They’ll plead diminished responsibility, on the grounds that she couldn’t help herself. And that’s not our worry, either. So let’s forget all this psychology nonsense, and get on with the case.’

  ‘Oh no,’ I whispered.

  ‘Now,’ went on Donaldson, having disposed of motive, ‘we come to the discharged shotgun inside, and the hole in the window pane. Assume Mrs Trowbidge reached the front door unobserved...’

  ‘As simply as that?’ Merridew that was, being acid.

  ‘Assume she did, sir, for the moment. The victim heard her in the porch, rushed to the window, and discharged his shotgun sideways through the glass, though the angle must’ve been too fine for him to hit her.’

  Merridew interrupted. ‘You’ve got something to say, Brason? Come on. We’ve heard nothing from you yet.’

  Brason came in, all hesitant. Good lad. ‘The hole, sir, I don’t think it was caused by gunshot. I’ve seen such a hole. It should be more regular than the one we’ve got.’

  ‘You’ve got an alternative?’

  ‘Yes, sir. If the window was flung open, and if somebody was standing by the porch holding a shotgun, then the muzzle could’ve gone through the glass and the splinters would’ve been just where they were found.’

  A silence. Donaldson no doubt absorbing that. Then he came in crisply.

  ‘Flung open? Why?’

  ‘In welcome. After all, this was his wife.’

  ‘Welcome, by God! But she’d have been carrying a shotgun.’

  ‘The idea of a welcome, sir, is borne out by the fact that his shotgun was put aside, as though he’d no longer got any fear from somebody he knew so well. Then he rushed to the window and flung it open.’

  It was the same theory as we’d already discussed, but Brason seemed to have the confidence to carry it through. Donaldson tried sarcasm.

  ‘He welcomed her! Carrying a shotgun, she came across that yard, and he welcomed her. But first of all, he took a couple of shots at her, then leaned his shotgun against the wall, and decided to welcome her, instead. Oh, come on, man.’

  ‘Let’s hear the rest of it,’ said Merridew, interested. ‘Can you give us any more, Brason?’

  But Brason had given some thought to the linking clue I’d offered him. I could’ve hugged him.

  ‘I can go on, sir. I know that on the face of it it’s self-contradictory. But we’ve got a man who’d kind of fortified himself in that cottage. So you’d think that only somebody very close to him would stand a chance of getting anywhere near. It’s his wife we’re considering, but even she wouldn’t stand a chance if she was seen coming down that path with a shotgun. But we’re only saying that, because we found him in daylight, and the light switch was off— so everybody assumed the murder was done in daylight. But if you imagine a different scene — a night-time scene — then it’s all very different.’

  He stopped. Thought he’d finished, perhaps. Donaldson
was very gentle with him, considering.

  ‘I hope this can be substantiated.’

  Led on, Brason continued: ‘He could’ve been sitting there, with the light on. But against a bright night sky he could’ve detected a movement.’ Romantic imagery, now! ‘He’d dive for the light switch and flick it off, then go to the window and open it...see a shadow out there...give it one barrel, then the other, and miss both times. Slam the window shut and run for his spare cartridges...and she’d shout out: “It’s me, darling, Amelia.” Or something like that. And then...well, what I’ve already said. He’d be in the dark by then. He’d lean the shotgun against the wall and rush to the window again, open it...and realise she’d got a shotgun of her own, because it went through the glass. In a panic he’d shut the window, but there was the hole. He saw the gun shoved through, put up his hands in front of his face...and I suppose that’s all there is to say.’ He ended on an exhausted downbeat.

  I made a move. It took me ages to lever myself to my feet. I’d never felt so old. I nearly forgot the shotgun and the doll, but managed to move slowly into the corridor. I made it to the door into the conference room.

  ‘Good,’ Merridew was saying, while I did all that. I edged the door open a couple of inches, and his voice came in louder. I waited to pick the best moment. ‘Very good. Thank you, Brason.’

  It’s all very well,’ said Donaldson. ‘But it still leaves...’

  ‘What?’ snapped Merridew impatiently. He’d enjoyed Brason’s little story.

  ‘A few points.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The pathological evidence is that the shots were fired from no greater range than three feet.’

  ‘Brason’s theory covers that.’

  ‘But he was found nearly ten feet from the window.’

  ‘The force of the charge. Two barrels, remember, together.’

  ‘But there was no blood at all near the window.’

  Merridew made a dismissive noise. His right hand was in view. I could just see it moving.

  ‘And besides,’ Donaldson persisted, not intending to surrender all the credit and plunging hectically into his imagination, ‘if a shotgun barrel was pushed through glass, some bits of it’d get down the barrel. And the autopsy...’ I could see him clearly now. He began to search for the autopsy report in his file, but Merridew put a hand to his arm.

  ‘I don’t think it would be likely.’

  ‘There was no mention of glass particles in the flesh,’ protested Donaldson.

  It was time. I pushed the door open, and said: ‘You started without me.’

  They turned. Judging by all their expressions I must have looked a bit rough. My legs were spread, because I didn’t feel too firm, and my voice had matched their weakness. There was a silence. In one hand I was dangling by its string the doll with the broken neck and a tuft of beard, and in the other the rusted shotgun.

  I walked forward. There was a general shuffle as the men clambered to their feet, and a rattle as chairs were moved from my path. I made a straight line to the table, and banged down my two burdens on the surface under Merridew’s nose.

  ‘What’s all this?’ Merridew growled.

  My gesture could have done with more authority. ‘Two things,’ I said, ‘that’ve been used as threats to Clive Kendall.’

  ‘We’re not talking about Kendall,’ said Merridew wearily, though with a hint of kindness.

  ‘Aren’t we?’

  ‘Richard, we’re discussing the murder of her husband by Mrs Trowbridge.’

  I turned, one hand supporting me on the table surface. My eyes ran over the faces, surprised and shocked, with only Ken in any sympathy with me at all, and that perhaps only pity. I turned back. Took a breath.

  ‘But the doll’s got a beard,’ I explained to Merridew, shaking it by its floppy neck.

  ‘Richard...now please go away,’ he said softly.

  ‘And we all know Kendall hasn’t got one now,’ I said, not too loudly.

  Donaldson had been remarkably patient. I could hardly have expected it to last any longer. ‘We’ve got to get on with this.’

  ‘And this shotgun’s from the cottage,’ I went on. ‘It was used as another threat to Kendall.’

  ‘We’re not discussing Kendall,’ hissed Donaldson, now becoming more angry. ‘He’s trying to break this up, sir.’

  ‘I’ll handle this.’ Merridew was pale, control almost stifling him. I could see he wanted anything but this. ‘Latchett, can’t you take Mr Patton for a cup of tea in the canteen.’

  Ken was on his feet, but I caught his eye warningly. I had to have time, judging by the way my mind was mangling it up. Ken sat down again.

  I turned back to face Merridew. ‘And there’s this,’ I said with an effort, producing the revolver. ‘I found it in Kendall’s bungalow.’

  ‘Kendall! Kendall!’ shouted Donaldson.

  ‘You’ve broken into —’ began Merridew.

  ‘Yes. And found that. It’s not been fired.’

  ‘And you handled it?’ Donaldson demanded in outrage.

  I flicked him a glance. ‘It was slicked with oil. No prints. It’d been cleaned. I brought it here. To show you.’

  Merridew decided to be firm. ‘Richard, I’m ordering you to leave this room at once.’

  ‘Look down the barrel, sir.’

  ‘He’s trying to confuse the issue!’ Donaldson appealed, I thought a bit frantically. ‘This!’ He swept the doll from the table with a furious gesture. ‘And this!’ He picked up the rusted shotgun and hefted it. ‘Oh my God, a gun that hasn’t been fired for a century!’

  ‘Look down the barrel, sir.’

  Merridew lifted the pistol, humouring me. He flicked out the cylinder and stared down the barrel.

  ‘See it?’ I asked, my voice rough. ‘The light catches the sparkles. It’s glass. Tiny splinters of glass.’

  The rusted shotgun crashed against the wall as Donaldson hurled it away from him. ‘That’s it, then,’ he growled. ‘That’s the bloody limit. He comes in here, determined to break up my conference...Sir, he’s got that pistol — God knows from where — and he’s shoved it through a pane of glass somewhere, and brings it here...Christ, it’s just a fraud. You can’t listen to this...’

  ‘Be quiet,’ said Merridew icily. He stared Donaldson in the eye, until the Chief Inspector slowly sat down again. ‘Now...Richard....’ He moved to come round the table, but hesitated when I faced him down. He leaned towards me and spoke softly.

  ‘Richard, I know this has hurt you. You like the woman. I’m aware of that. And perhaps she’s felt something for you. But she’s killed her husband, and I don’t think there can be any doubt about that. She did it because of the control Kendall had over her, and I can see how that’d hurt you, too. But you can’t affect things, now. These things you bring us....’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Oh, Richard, you’re not helping her at all.’

  I held his eyes for a moment. I was swaying. His face blurred. ‘Go home, there’s a good chap,’ he said gently.

  Then I turned away. I passed Brason blindly. He was on his feet, but I had to ignore him. He’d done as I wanted, and now I couldn’t carry it on. Ken was at the door. I shook my head when he tried to follow me, and as I moved away down the corridor I heard the door close quietly behind me.

  11

  It had begun to rain by the time I reached Amelia’s place. I was reluctant to get out of the car, but whether that was physical or mental I don’t know. I sat there for a good five minutes. I could see that she was standing at the window in a darkened room, but I gave her no sign. In the end, she came out with a raincoat over her shoulders.

  ‘Aren’t you coming in?’

  I lifted my head. Her face was stiff with tension. I made no answer, simply opened the door and got out beside her. I took her arm, and we went into the house together.

  ‘Go into the back room,’ she said. ‘It’s warmer there. You’re shivering.’ She watched me turn away, with worry in h
er eyes.

  I stood with my back to the gas fire while she went into the kitchen. It was quite dark outside. I waited for her to return, as I’d expected, with a tray of tea things.

  ‘I’ll do some sandwiches,’ she said enquiringly.

  I realised I was hungry, and nodded. As she turned away I said: ‘There might not be much time, Amelia. We’ve got to talk.’

  ‘I’ll only be a minute.’

  I sighed, stared at the tea tray, my thoughts floating unfocused around it, and I still hadn’t got hold of them when she returned.

  ‘They’ll be here soon,’ I told her. ‘Donaldson’s going to charge you with the murder of your husband. Then he’ll take you away.’

  ‘Do sit down,’ she urged me. ‘Try a cheese sandwich.’

  ‘They won’t let me get near you, then. I’ll be able to do absolutely nothing for you.’

  ‘If you must stand, put your cup on the mantelshelf. But eat something, Richard.’

  I picked up a sandwich and waved it at her. She wasn’t comprehending. ‘I’ve shown them the threats made against Clive Kendall. The hanged doll, the rusted old shotgun, and the note.’

  ‘Note?’ She frowned, shaking her head, confused.

  ‘But they take no notice,’ I complained. ‘Even the pistol meant nothing to them.’

  ‘Pistol? You’re not making much sense.’

  ‘I found Kendall’s revolver. It hadn’t been fired, but it’d got slivers of glass in the bore.’

  She was watching me with concern. I felt restless, yet at the same time unable to move. I didn’t want to watch her reactions.

  ‘I’m sure you’ve done all you could,’ she said soothingly.

  ‘You’re not taking this seriously, that’s the trouble.’

  ‘I’m frightened. Yes, I’m really very much afraid. But it seems kind of unreal, as though it’s not happening to me. How can they say I’ve killed my husband, when I loved him so dearly? Tell me that, Richard.’

  I gulped tea and spluttered, then reached for my pipe and stared at it in disgust.