Seeing the disappointment in Amos's face, Slater relented. "I can help a bit on that, though. From the contents of his stomach I assume he died somewhere around midnight.
"He'd eaten, I should say, about three hours before he was killed. He seems to have had a fair amount of Scotch as a nightcap - not enough to make him drunk but probably enough to make him sleepy. The chances are that he wouldn't have heard an intruder."
There was no point in arguing, so Amos said simply: "Anything else?"
"One or two health matters," Slater volunteered. "Our friend Jones hit the bottle a bit. Not excessively, but his liver was rather enlarged. Also, he was developing a stomach ulcer. Again, nothing serious yet but storing up trouble for later.
"Well, he would have been if someone hadn't cut him short," Slater commented with a hearty laugh.
Amos remained stony faced.
“Rather more serious," the pathologist picked up the thread, "he had had a couple of heart attacks, one major, one minor. If he was still wheeling and dealing he was pushing his luck."
Amos was slightly alarmed. "He did die from the blows to the head?" the officer asked. "I don't want some smarty pants QC getting his client off on a technicality."
"Fear not," came the response. "The heart attacks were history. Heads it is."
Slater laughed heartily again. This was certainly a good day.
“How hard were the blows?" Amos inquired.
“A pretty fair smack," the pathologist replied. “It looks like a quick concentration of blows with one, presumably the last, heavier than the others. Whoever it was meant to be sure Jones was dead."
"Would it have had to be a strong person?"
"Not in the least," Slater responded without hesitation. "That pipe was quite solid. You could get a decent swing with it."
"Thanks," said Amos. "You can put him away again now."
Chapter 10
Murder inquests are hardly worth the bother, Amos remarked to Swift as they made their way out of the back of the police headquarters to their waiting car.
"Would it be impertinent, Sir, to ask, then, why you are so keen to go? It's only the opening. There'll be identification and cause of death, which we already know, and the whole thing will take three minutes maximum from opening to adjournment.
"We won't even get 'murder by person or persons unknown' at this stage in the proceedings."
"We are going, Sgt Swift," Amos replied with good humour, "because murder inquests, predictable though they are, have their own fatal fascination. I can never resist toddling along just to see if anyone unexpected turns up."
This particular occasion would, however, have been one of life's little disappointments had a court official not pointed out the lone figure sitting in one corner as Simon Renshaw.
"He's Jones's solicitor," the official disclosed confidentially.
The only other people present, apart from the coroner, were Sarah Miles, who gave evidence of identification, and the pathologist. The case was adjourned sine die.
Amos introduced himself to the solicitor immediately. Renshaw, balding and greying, was nearing retirement age. His generally sedentary, well fed and wined life had inexorably added inches to his waistline.
But if he had lost his figure and his youth, he had not surrendered his dress code. He wore an immaculate, well fitting pin stripe suit and he was picking his black bowler hat and rolled umbrella from the stand by the door as Amos approached him.
"I have to say, Inspector," he replied to Amos's request for a few minutes of his time, "I don't greatly like discussing a client's private legal business with third parties, not even the police, but in view of the circumstances I'm prepared to help as far as professional etiquette allows.
"My office is just two minutes' walk across the market square. I had set aside half an hour in case the hearing ran over unexpectedly."
The office had the same old-fashioned, reassuring air of its owner, with leather furniture and leather-bound books. Renshaw, of Renshaw, Renshaw and Ogylvie, had given up the quill and ink pot of his father but had declined to progress as far as a ball point pen.
He laid his fountain pen on the desk in front of him ceremoniously.
"I appreciate your concerns," Amos finally broke the silence, "but I do need to know who benefits in Mr Jones's will."
Renshaw did not even have to get out the document.
"Mr Jones made only two wills in his lifetime. The first was a few years after his marriage. He should have made one straight away but like the rest of us he did not wish to admit that he would ever die.
"In that will he left everything to his wife. He made his second will a year ago."
Amos was immediately aroused.
"Did he make many changes?" he asked.
"Not a great deal," came the response. "His wife remained the residual beneficiary but he made a few minor bequests. These were for Sarah Miles, a friend; a chap called Jim Berry who helped him a great deal with his business; and finally the church he had taken to attending in his later years."
"Large amounts?"
"Just a few thousand pounds in total. Mrs Jones was still very well provided for."
“Was Mr Jones content with this arrangement? Are you aware of any plans he might have had to change the will again?”
Renshaw hesitated.
“I'd be obliged, inspector, if this conversation could be kept confidential between ourselves. Mr Jones had indicated to me that he intended to reduce the bequest to Miss Miles but he had not yet settled on a figure. I had the impression that he did not intend to cut her out altogether but it was, after all, the largest of the three bequests.”
Amos subsided. The will offered no real motive for murdering Jones at this particular juncture.
“How well did you know Raymond Jones?” Amos tried a different tack.
Renshaw was ill at ease. He did not regard discussing Jones on a personal level as a breach of professional confidence yet it seemed, if anything, worse, somehow disrespectful.
“I'm sorry to ask,” Amos assured him on seeing his discomfort, “but I must tell you quite frankly that we have a very wide field of possible suspects and nothing that points to any particular individual. Anything that might help us to narrow the scope of the inquiry could set us a long way forward in bringing Mr Jones's killer to justice. I need hardly remind you that this was a particularly merciless attack.”
These words had the desired effect of assuaging Renshaw's conscience.
"My father knew Raymond Jones senior. He ran a general stores in the town - groceries, hardware and so on. He set up before the second world war and kept going through the 40s and 50s.
"Jones senior had two sons and a daughter. The girl worked hard in the shop and kept it going when her father's health began to fail. The two boys showed no such enthusiasm. Neither wanted to put the effort into a business whose days, they felt, were numbered."
Renshaw sighed.
"In a way, I suppose they were right," he went on. "Supermarkets were just starting to come in and the writing was on the wall for traditional retailers. Old Mr Jones couldn't or wouldn't see it and his daughter didn't know how to contradict him.
"The chap was heartbroken that his sons didn't want to follow him into the business and he was of that generation of fathers who thought girls didn't count. He died of cancer in his early 50s, leaving the business, quite unjustly, to the two sons who didn't want it and his own daughter virtually destitute.
"She married a childhood sweetheart who still carried a torch for her, though I think her enthusiasm for the match had waned somewhat over the years. She certainly felt bitter about the whole business but there was nothing I could do for her.
"My father had drawn up the will and it was watertight. He, like Mr Jones senior, believed girls found husbands who would look after them so he did nothing to persuade his client to make proper provision for her. She left the area a couple of years later and I have no idea where she is now.
&n
bsp; "The two boys promptly sold the business and split the proceeds. That was how Raymond Jones got started. He certainly demonstrated a good head for business. He got quite an inflated price.
"You may hear rumours," the solicitor added quite unnecessarily, "that Raymond Jones cheated his brother Leonard on the deal. I can assure you that such suggestions are utterly without foundation. My father acted in the sale of the business.
"Leonard, like his sister, subsequently left Lincolnshire while Raymond set up as a builder's merchant. He saw there was money in building. He diversified into plant hire and construction and sold a thriving business to a medium-sized conglomerate anxious to build up nationwide coverage. He invested the money in more businesses and even bought back part of his construction company a few years later for a pittance. He was a shrewd operator.
"I took over as his solicitor from my father about halfway through his career."
"If Mr Jones was so successful in his business deals he must have engendered a fair amount of envy," Amos commented.
"Mr Jones made friends and foes. He was a very generous employer. He inspired great loyalty in his staff. That was one of the reasons why he was so successful. However, I concede that you can't be in business for that length of time without rubbing some people up the wrong way. Yes, there were those who were jealous. Some of the people he got the better of no doubt resented the fact."
"Do you, or did you, also act for Mrs Jones?"
"I acted for Mr and Mrs Jones when they bought their marital home. Otherwise no. I don't think she's ever had much need of a solicitor. Like father, like son, Raymond Jones believed in male and female territory. He wasn't quite as old-fashioned in that respect as his father. It was though, only at my firm suggestion that the house was bought in joint names purely because it made sense if Mr Jones died first."
Amos was thoughtful.
He said: "In the event, the couple split up. The house was presumably sold and the proceeds divided. Did you arrange all that?"
Renshaw looked slightly peeved.
"I did the paperwork for the sale of the house, yes, so technically I acted for Mrs Jones then as well. But all the arrangements were made by Mr Jones and the money from the sale went straight into his bank account. I was very unhappy about it but Mrs Jones concurred in the arrangement so I thought of it as acting purely for Mr Jones rather than for them as a couple."
And did she concur willingly, Amos wondered.
One final question: “Do you know where Mrs Jones is now?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
Chapter 11
Amos had decided from the outset that he would interview the caretaker himself and the routine statement taken along with those of all the residents in the block was so unhelpful that he doubled his resolve.
Here was a man who saw all the comings and goings. Admittedly, the security guards did, too, but they worked shifts while Nick Foster was bustling around all the time. Besides, Foster had been on the scene a long time and was likely to know the tenants better. The guards could wait their turn, although Amos was certainly going to talk to those who had been on duty that fateful weekend.
Foster was not, however, sweeping leaves when the detective inspector and Swift came looking for him. Amos found him skulking around in his cubby hole of a residence on the mezzanine floor. Foster was a while answering the solid knock on his shabby door - refurbishment was for wealthy tenants like Ray Jones, not impoverished old caretakers like Nick Foster.
The door eventually opened three or four inches. Foster was unable to conceal his considerable nervousness.
"Yes?" he uttered hoarsely.
"Police," replied Amos clearly. He produced his warrant card. Foster open the door another couple of inches and stood waiting, his eyes fixed intently on his visitor’s face.
"It would be a lot easier if I could come in," Amos suggested pleasantly.
“There’s not much room," Foster said sheepishly. "I haven't got much space for myself."
Nonetheless, Amos met with no resistance as he pushed open the reluctant door.
Foster was not lying about the lack of space. Bric-a-brac of all descriptions cluttered the small room, some in boxes, some scattered around the floor. There were ornaments, glassware, a wig on a chair. Foster appeared to be a man of catholic tastes.
"You've quite a collection," Amos observed.
Foster looked shifty. "Just a bit of stuff people have given me over the years. No, not there," he added hastily as Amos made to sit down on a packing case. "The top’s a bit wonky. Don't want you falling in and breaking anything."
"Or hurting myself," Amos remarked dryly. “You live here alone?”
“Yes, I’ve been on my own since my wife died 30 odd years ago. Cancer. They couldn't do much about it in those days."
“Did you come here when the flats reopened after the refurbishment?"
Foster snorted. “I’ve been here a lot longer than that. I was caretaker in the old days when it was owned by the council. They always treated me fair, they did. Not like this lot.”
"You resent the influx of wealthier people, perhaps?"
"That's nothing to do with it. I was stuck in here while all the building dust was flying around. And did they do anything for me? Not likely! I'm still stuck in this cubbyhole of a place with not a pennorth of work done on it."
“And do you resent the people here?” Amos persisted. “Did you resent Ray Jones?"
“You're not pinning that on me," exclaimed Foster indignantly, half rising. “I get blamed for everything else around here. I'm not being blamed for murder."
"Did you know Ray Jones? What was he like?" Amos persisted, ignoring Foster's protestations.
“Jones was all right, I suppose," Foster continued grumpily. "He was all right with me, anyway. Always civil. But I didn't know him properly," Foster was quick to add.
"Did he get on well give the other residents?"
"Some he did, some he didn't. He had a right old barney with that Scott Warren who lives next door to him. I told you about that right after you found the body.
"He was on bad terms with the Smiths on the top floor. Jack Smith hated his guts. Ray Jones did the dirty on him over a business deal and pinched one of his best clients. Mr Smith nearly went bust.
“But he managed to pull his business out of the fire and made good. He was spitting blood when he found out Mr Jones was moving in to the same block of flats but he'd already put a deposit down and the developers wouldn't let him have his money back. Finally they let him switch to a top floor flat so he could be as far away from Jones as possible," Foster chuckled.
“They were going to be next door to each other. Smith had to pay extra for the top floor because it's got a better view. He wasn't too pleased about that, either.”
Foster chuckled again. "I think that annoyed him more than the business deal."
“What was the deal they fell out over?" Swift asked.
"I have no idea," Foster returned. “Why don’t you ask Jack Smith? I'll tell you this, though. They didn't speak to each other if they met."
Foster chuckled again.
“One day I saw them come down in the lift together. Ray Jones must have got in when Smith was on the way down. Jones came out smirking and Smith’s face was as black as thunder.
“He held back until Jones was well clear. It didn't matter so much to Jones. He'd got the better of the deal. I know for a fact that Smith threatened he would get his revenge but he never did. Soon after he moved in he retired, so he'd missed his chance.
“Mind you, Mrs Smith took it worse. She felt her husband had been humiliated. You want to ask her."
"Let's get back to the Friday night," Amos interposed. "What you did you do after seeing Mr Jones and Mr Scott having a disagreement?"
"Yes, that's right!" Foster exclaimed eagerly. "A right dingdong. He's another you should talk to. I told you so last time."
“Your movements on Friday night," Amos prompted w
earily.
"I was sweeping up. It took ages. Not that anyone appreciates it," Foster grumbled. “There was dust everywhere. They were finishing off putting the barrier in. And that silly hut they got from outside Buckingham Palace. Dust everywhere. It was a good job it didn't rain. You can imagine the mess that would have made.
“Anyway," he added hastily as he sensed that Amos’s patience was wearing thin. "Anyway, I cleaned up until about nine o'clock. It was quite warm ... like I say, at least it wasn't raining.
“Then I came back here and watched telly for an hour and went to bed. Well, they don't pay me to work all night," he added defensively. "They don't even pay me to work till nine."
"What did you watch?" Swift asked sweetly.
Foster replied without hesitation. “Have I got news for you. You know, that quiz programme about the papers and where they’re all rude to each other. I like that. Then there was never mind the buzzards or something like that. It's about pop music but I don't understand half of it. I don't even know what the name of the programme is supposed to mean. I got a bit fed up of it so I turned it off and went to bed. I was tired out. I’d been working all day.”
“Did you hear anything during the night?” Swift asked.
“Nothing that all,” Foster replied rather too eagerly. “I told you, I was tired out. Slept like a log. Well, I'm not the night watchman,” he added with a little unnecessary aggression. “It's not my job to check who comes and goes. I wasn't the one deserting my post.”
“What do you mean?” Amos asked sharply.
“That night watchman who was on duty on Friday night. That’s who I mean. Always nipping around the back for a fag. They’re not supposed to smoke on duty, you know. That's why he got me to watch out for him all afternoon.”
“Surely he wouldn't still have been here late at night if he was on duty during the day,” Swift ventured.
“Course he was,” Foster retorted with a note of contempt. “They don't pay ‘em much. That's because they're all thick. They only have to sit there and press a button. They employ anyone. Imbeciles, criminals ... and pay peanuts. They don't run any proper checks on who they employ. So the guards work double shifts to bump up their wages. The same chap who came in at noon was there till midnight. At least, that’s what he told me.
Dead Money (A Detective Inspector Paul Amos Lincolnshire Mystery) Page 4
