The Key to the Case

by Roger Ormerod

  She simply stopped talking. It did not terminate in her burying her face in her hands, but in a toss of her head to the far view, a defiant toss, a toss of non-surrender to life. Then she turned, and though her eyes were moist and her lips dry, their line morose, she was not otherwise affected.

  ‘It wasn’t quite like that,’ I said delicately.

  ‘Then tell me how it was.’ She bent and retrieved the bow and stood with it in her right hand, and now it was another type of weapon, one that might be wrapped around my head if my tone or words were not acceptable or were in any way derogatory.

  I hesitated. Her scenario would fit into her scheme of things, as it in no way included the distasteful fact that Milo had left Bryan alone at the house every night. But Milo himself had told me that, and there had been no reason for him to have lied. And after all, Ronnie had said something about believing Bryan was living with his mother. He would not have thought so if he’d seen him at the club.

  Francine had to be wrong, and there was no point in trying to soften the impact. So I told it to her as it had been.

  She listened. She was one of those intense listeners who stare at your face, watching the formation of each word on your lips, observing from your eyes the emotion involved in the choice and delivery of those words. I therefore delivered them with care.

  ‘The way it was, as I’ve been told, was Bryan stayed at the house each night behind closed doors. Locked and bolted. Milo phoned—he said—at intervals from the club, to check that he was safe. That night, that special night, he had no answer to his call at midnight, so he jumped in his car and raced home, had to smash in the front door, ran up the stairs, and discovered your son hanging by a length of rope in the bathroom.’

  She flinched at that. It was no more than a flicker of the eyelids. She said nothing.

  ‘You would not have expected that?’ I asked. ‘I mean, you knew how stressed he’d been since the death of Ruby Carter...’

  ‘Which he’d had nothing to do with,’ she inserted.

  ‘...but would you expect him to be suicidal?’

  ‘You’re asking me!’

  ‘As his mother, yes.’

  ‘Why are you asking? Are you in the police?’

  ‘No. As I said, Ronnie asked me to discover an alibi for him. That’s my interest.’

  ‘I see nothing there that links with my son. Your interest, I mean.’

  ‘It would take hours to explain.’

  ‘I’ve got hours. Hundreds and hundreds of them, stretching away and away.’

  ‘But you’d be bored, I assure you. Can’t you just accept that I’ve got a good reason for asking these questions? You don’t have to reply to them. It’s up to you. Shall we do it like that?’

  ‘Hmm!’ She thought about it. ‘We could go inside and talk...’ But she seemed reluctant to do that. ‘No,’ she decided. ‘Say it now. Ask it, whatever it is.’

  ‘Very well. Would you have thought that Bryan was suicidal?’

  ‘No. The very last thing...I taught him—as best I could with Milo trying his best to make a lout out of him—taught him to stand up and face life. Like a man. Like a gentleman, not the sort of creature Milo believes to be manly. Which is himself. But a man who didn’t have to thrust himself forward at people, for fear they’d suspect a weakness. A quiet and strong man, that was what I wanted of Bryan. Not like Milo, who’s weak beneath all the bluster. Not like Milo, having to use force, when he could do better by politely arguing and discussing. A man, sure of himself, facing life, that was what I tried to make of Bryan.’

  But had she succeeded? ‘I can see you would have difficulties,’ I murmured, deciding the odds had been too high.

  ‘Singular,’ she snapped. ‘One. Him. Milo. Who thought I was making a weak ninny out of Bryan, because, for Milo, anything but a bully has to be weak. For Milo, everything has to submit, or it’s for the taking. No asking, no requesting, no persuading. Impatient and brutal—how could such a man be anything but a disturbing influence on a sensitive lad? He ruined my boy. Ruined him!’

  We were hearing more about Milo than about Bryan. Between his parents, the lad had been tossed back and forth, until he couldn’t have known what life was supposed to be about. He must have yearned for peace and tranquility, if only for the chance to seek out his own answer.

  ‘Am I to take it,’ I asked carefully, ‘that you blame Milo for those three rapes?’

  ‘My poor Bryan...’ she whispered.

  ‘He raped three young women, Francine,’ Amelia pointed out firmly. ‘That is a fact.’

  ‘I do not believe in rape.’

  ‘They asked for it?’ Amelia queried in surprise. She might have expected this from a man, but not from a woman. Yet it was impossible to imagine that anyone could succeed in raping this particular woman.

  ‘I cannot believe that Bryan would’ve used force.’ She had to moisten her lips.

  Amelia knew he hadn’t. He’d tried to use the force that Milo would approve, but he’d stumbled over the consideration that his mother would expect of him.

  ‘I don’t think he did,’ said Amelia, her hand resting on my wrist now. ‘You have nothing with which to blame yourself, Francine.’

  She tossed her head back, threw a hand over her hair. ‘I don’t.’ The flash in her eyes indicated she took it as an insult.

  ‘But certainly,’ I said, ‘it wouldn’t make him suicidal. They didn’t, I mean. The three rapes.’

  ‘No,’ Francine agreed.

  ‘But perhaps the rape and the murder of Ruby—’

  ‘That was not Bryan.’ It was a flat statement.

  ‘People thought it was. That could have frightened and depressed him.’

  ‘No,’ she insisted. ‘He would face it squarely—and he did not do that. He had no reason for taking his own life.’

  ‘Then you say he was deliberately killed? If so—by whom?’

  ‘You know who.’

  ‘You don’t really believe that, or you’d have dealt with him before now.’ I smiled, trying to ease the tension.

  She gave a short bark of derision. ‘You can be sure of that.’

  ‘But how, in any event, could that have been? Milo himself had to smash a door open in order to get into the house. Nobody else could’ve got in. Except your naughty Ronnie Cope, of course.’

  ‘What!’ The one word left her breathless.

  ‘Did you know the date he had chosen for the burglary you’d asked him to do?’

  ‘Of course not. There was no date discussed. I didn’t...why? Why do you ask that?’

  ‘Because he went there on the 16th of November.’

  She stared blankly at me, though that date had to be implanted in her mind.

  ‘Coincidence?’ I suggested.

  ‘I don’t know...what are you saying?’

  ‘If it was not a coincidence, then there had to be deliberate intent. For every night in the previous month Aces High had been virtually impregnable. But on that night, the night Ronnie Cope did the job for you, the rear door of the house would have been available to any intruder, during the period Ronnie was inside. You can appreciate—’

  ‘I see,’ she cried wildly, the bow whirling in her hand and hissing in the air, until she flung it aside. ‘I see! You come here with your damned accusation that I...that I...’

  ‘Now please. I didn’t say that. Didn’t intend to imply it.’ I smiled, holding up a hand to restrain her. ‘I mean, Ronnie might have mentioned his intention to somebody else. In fact, I know he did to one person. Or someone overheard it in a pub. At that time—so I understand—there were quite a number of people who would’ve jumped at the chance to get their hands on Bryan—’

  ‘No!’ she interrupted savagely, like a knife cutting me short. ‘You as good as accused me...’

  ‘I did no such thing. Think! Think it out for yourself. You wouldn’t need Ronnie to open up the house for you. You could have chosen any time. After all, if you wanted to enter that house you�
��d only have had to ask. Bryan would have allowed his mother to visit. He’d probably have been delighted. You wouldn’t need—’

  ‘I don’t believe all this! I just do not...’ She half turned away, then whirled back.

  I got in quickly. ‘And in any event, it seems that Bryan was dead before Ronnie arrived.’

  ‘Then why are you saying...oh, I’ve had enough of this.’

  ‘I’m simply trying to find the answer to a very strange incident. May I go on?’ She tossed her head again. I took it for assent. ‘When Ronnie got there he found the bathroom light on and the door bolted. It would seem—I’m sorry if this upsets you—it would seem that Bryan was dead at that time. Milo arrived a minute or two later, and started attacking the front door.’

  ‘Then why do you question—’

  ‘Because the bathroom door wasn’t bolted when Milo reached the landing. You can see—either Bryan was alive at that time and unbolted it himself, or somebody else was there, in that bathroom with him. That somebody therefore had two or three minutes after Ronnie tried the door in which to—’

  ‘I know what you’re saying, damn you. That it was me...me...Oh God! Get away from here. Go...oh, just go away.’

  We stared at her. I hadn’t meant what she’d inferred. I’d been intending to lead on to Milo’s possible motivation. Yet she had gone beyond any recall to normal conversation.

  But I tried. ‘I wished to do no more than make the point...’

  She had turned her back on me and was standing rigid, elbows clasped in her crossed hands.

  I took Amelia’s arm and we turned away, and walked back towards the house.

  At any second I expected to feel the impact of an arrow between my shoulders, with all the power of thirty-two pounds behind it. But there was nothing, not even a parcel of words, flung in our wake.

  At the paddock fence we paused and looked back. She was still standing there, now with her face in her hands, the most motionless object in the breeze-tossed landscape.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘You made a mess of that, Richard,’ my wife said reprovingly as we drove away.

  ‘I certainly did. I hadn’t meant to suggest—’

  ‘But you did.’

  ‘True.’ I was very unhappy about it.

  When we drove out of the park entrance I deliberately turned away from our obvious return route, as it had not been attractive coming. I had a desire for inoffensive greenery and wide, gentle spaces. We were soon in a tangle of lanes, but, there being no hurry, it made a pleasant drive of it, soothing and relaxing, and later very peaceful, in amongst banks of dead bracken and the borders of the Chase.

  Rugeley was signposted. I turned away from it, skirting the Chase now, and back towards Cannock. From then on it was straightforward.

  ‘We ought to come back and see it in the summer,’ Amelia suggested. ‘And explore.’

  ‘The dogs would love it.’

  But neither of us was interested in exploration at this time, other than the mental one of probing the significance of Francine’s reaction. That it had been so violent suggested she had a pressing reason. Now I had to consider it, and had to admit she possibly had a valid motivation for killing Bryan. A woman who would aim always for the gold, and be satisfied with nothing outside the red, would treat anything but excellence in her son as a failure on her own part. Self-condemnation could then lead to rejection, even to destruction, in the same way as she would solemnly burn her arrows if she scored poorly in a tournament, if they’d not—as I’d noticed they were—been metal. All right, so she would have bent them over her sturdy knee. Was it in this way that she had bent the clean, new intellect of the child, Bryan? No...more likely she would have handled it gently so as not to bend it, but to preserve its straight trueness and its perfect flight. It was Milo who had disturbed the true line of the cock feather. Yes...then she would destroy the arrow, in frustration at being unable to understand her deplorable score.

  I didn’t mention this to Amelia. She would dismiss it, rather appropriately, as a flight of fancy.

  ‘We shall be well in time for lunch,’ she remarked, as I’d been silent for so long.

  ‘Yes. Then an afternoon nap, and I’ll be as good as new.’

  It had been intended as a pleasantry, but in fact I would have welcomed a little relaxation after all the running around we’d been doing.

  ‘We’ll see,’ she murmured, as though she had other plans in mind.

  The welcome from all three at the house was invigorating. Jake had discovered he could leap directly into my arms if he took a run at it. I hoped he would grow out of it, as Sheba had clearly been introducing him, in cautious stages, to the river, and he was dripping wet.

  Mary was bright. ‘Had a nice trip?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Amelia. ‘Robin Hood, here, has been showing us his skill.’

  ‘Has he?’ She smiled at me. ‘Richard, your friend phoned. He asked me to get you to call him as soon as you got back.’

  ‘Friend?’ I had a premonition.

  ‘Mr Latchett. Now there’s a nice man.’

  I glanced at Amelia. She frowned, seeing the restful afternoon at risk. I said I would do it straight away, and she followed me into the sitting-room. I had to look up the number.

  Fancy that. The old number, engraved on my mind, had been changed.

  ‘Chief Inspector Latchett, please. It’s Richard Patton, tell him. He asked me to call.’

  There was no more than a minimal delay. Ken must have been sitting with his hand on the phone.

  ‘Richard?’

  ‘Hello Ken. I’m told you want a word with me.’

  ‘More than a word.’ There was a hard undertone to his voice, bluntly official.

  ‘As many as you like.’

  ‘Can you get over here?’

  ‘Now? No. I really can’t Ken. We’re just about to have lunch.’

  I was aware that Amelia, always quick to detect undertones, was close to my side, her head cocked. I bent my legs a little, and, as always, held the phone clear of my head.

  ‘Then after lunch, Richard, please. As soon as possible.’

  ‘You sound...trouble, is it?’

  ‘Trouble? All hell’s breaking out here, and all because you...never mind that now. Get here as soon as you can, will you.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And Richard—come prepared with excuses and explanations.’

  The phone clicked off. Ken was clearly under stress.

  ‘Well...’ said Amelia.

  ‘I’ll have to go of course.’

  ‘Oh yes, you couldn’t refuse. We’ll take the Granada, and I’ll drive.’

  I took her by the shoulders. ‘It sounds like a rather official discussion, love. You won’t want to be there.’ I meant—they wouldn’t want it. Some rather official language could be called for.

  ‘Oh yes I do. You know I’m fully aware of all the facts, and I want to see fair play. I won’t let you be bullied, Richard. I’m not going to stand by and watch them take you away.’

  ‘Away?’

  ‘To a cell.’

  ‘And you’re always criticizing me about using my imagination! Why on earth—’

  She put a finger to my lips. ‘Hush, Richard. You know as well as I do that you’ve gone too far with this business. I don’t know the exact phrase, but it’s something to do with interfering with the course of justice.’

  ‘I’ve interfered on behalf of justice.’

  ‘Ken might not see it like that.’

  ‘Then you shall be there,’ I told her, mainly because she would follow me if I refused to take her. ‘And you can see that justice is done.’

  In this way it was settled. We took the Granada, and she drove. The two dogs were on the rear seat, but they would have to stay in the car. Nobody’s yet come up with a better anti-theft device.

  As we’d been commanded to go there, I directed Amelia to their car park. We entered the building by the side door, and th
e duty officer didn’t get a sight of us. We took a lift, and I located Ken’s office.

  They were there in force, Ken, Inspector Durrell, and Sergeant Rawston. The impression from the sudden silence, which itself seemed to be humming around the room, indicated that there had already been considerable discussion, and of an acrid nature.

  Ken came to his feet. ‘Amelia? I didn’t expect...’ The corners of his mouth quirked. ‘I suppose I ought to have expected you. I understand you’ve met—’

  ‘Oh yes. Sergeant, hello again. And Inspector Durrell. Pleased to meet you all together.’ Like the three musketeers.

  ‘It’s going to be a rather personal matter,’ Ken told her doubtfully.

  ‘You’re wasting your time, Ken,’ I told him. ‘Damn it, you’re short of chairs in here. Never mind, you can have this one, love, and I’ll stand.’

  But no. If I remained standing, they’d all have to do the same. Rawston was out of the door like a flash, and in a few seconds he’d returned, waving a chair in his hefty hand. This he placed for me. I noticed it was one of the hard, straight-backed chairs they used for persuading suspects to a satisfactory and early confession.

  ‘Now,’ said Ken, fussing with the papers on his desk. ‘Richard! I know you like to occupy yourself with other people’s problems, but it seems to me you’ve gone a bit too far with this one. I mean...damn it all, you’ve got your nose into two of our cases now—Sergeant Rawston’s burglary at Major Farrington’s, and the unpleasant business at Milo Dettinger’s place—Inspector Durrell’s case.’ He paused, glaring around, inviting comment.

  ‘Three,’ I murmured. ‘Three, if you’re going to consider the death of Ruby Carter.’

  ‘Now look here—’ Ken began.

  ‘What’s it got to do—’ Durrell interrupted.

  And I cut them both off by shrugging and pointing out, ‘They’re all connected with each other, you know.’

  Ken leaned back, sighing heavily. The sergeant grinned at me, and winked at Amelia. Durrell threw his hands in the air and demanded, ‘Will somebody please tell me what the hell’s going on!’