The Chief Inspector's Daughter

by Sheila Radley

  But what good would that do Jasmine? Alison was not interested at that moment in either justice or retribution. Nothing could bring Jasmine back or undo what had been inflicted upon her … the horror of what had been done to her … or take away the memory of that sight, the head, the limbs, the blood—

  Molly, listening anxiously at the foot of the stairs, heard her daughter retching in the bathroom. She waited until she heard Alison return to her bedroom, then went upstairs with the offer of a cup of tea.

  ‘No, Mum! For goodness sake stop trying to force food and drink down me! I’m not convalescent, I just want to be left alone.’

  Molly tried not to look hurt. ‘Would you like to go back to bed then? Another sleep would do you good.’

  ‘No! If I sleep I’ll dream, and that’s the last thing I want to do. I might go for a walk—’

  ‘But it’s getting dark. And anyway, I don’t think that would be wise, dear. A reporter from the local paper called about an hour ago, wanting to talk to you. I said you were asleep, to put him off. Your father wouldn’t like you to talk to anyone outside the police about what’s happened.’

  ‘Do you think I want to talk to anyone about it?’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to talk to your father. He thinks you might be able to remember something that will help him. He rang a little while ago to ask how you were, and said he’d come to see you as soon as he could.’

  ‘Oh no …’ Alison could imagine how it would be: her father, kind, patient, intolerably persistent, forcing her to turn again from that window at Yeoman’s and look minutely at every detail of the murder scene … forcing her not only to look, but to describe … ‘No, I can’t do it! I won’t, he can’t expect it of me! She wasn’t just my employer, she was my friend—’

  ‘But you’ll have to talk to him,’ said Molly earnestly. ‘It’s your father’s job to find out as much as he can.’ She frowned, her eyes soft with anxious sympathy. ‘I suppose Martin Tait could do it instead, if you’d prefer that. Would you rather talk to Martin, dear?’

  Alison flung herself face down on her bed, thumping her pillow with anguished frustration that her mother understood so little of what she was going through. ‘No! Oh God, can’t you get it into your head that I don’t want to think about it or to talk about it to anyone? Haven’t you any imagination?’

  ‘But Alison, it’s a police matter. It’s official, you must realize that.’

  ‘I don’t care. I don’t give a damn about the police. What can they do to bring Jasmine back?’

  ‘Ssh, dear, ssh. You rest here quietly, and later on I’ll bring—’

  Alison rolled over and sat up. Her eyes were feverishly bright, her fists clenched. ‘Just leave me alone,’ she said in a low, angry

  voice. ‘Do you hear? That’s all I want, from any of you. For God’s

  sake leave me alone.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘This antique dealer we’re going to see, George Hussey – isn’t he one of the men you met at Jasmine Woods’s party?’ Quantrill asked.

  ‘Yes, and one that I didn’t take to: overdressed and smarmy and patronizing. The type who makes such a point of being a ladies’ man that you automatically suspect that he dislikes women.’

  ‘Oh yes? What was his attitude to Jasmine Woods?’

  ‘Effusive. Apparently she’d been a customer of his from way back, and he’d sold her most of her netsuke – before they started shooting up in value. He’d know exactly how much her collection was worth. He was open enough about it; told me that she’d enriched herself at his expense but that he valued her custom and friendship too much to bear any grudge … or words to that effect.’

  ‘Har,’ said Chief Inspector Quantrill.

  The country road circled a walled churchyard, and was immediately transformed into the village street. Lest there should be any doubt as to its identity, a plaque erected by the district council bore the name The Street. This was doubly superfluous, since there were no other streets at all in the village. The remainder of Thirling consisted of outlying farms and former farms, like Yeoman’s.

  But although it was a small village, Thirling took itself seriously. The Street was no cottage-y, flower-bowered picturesque straggle, but a double line of buildings in an interesting mixture of ages and sizes and styles and functions; a proper, business-like place, with a garage, a pub, a butcher’s shop and a general shop-cum-post office interspersed among the houses. Most of the buildings fronted directly on to the pavement and were faced, if not entirely constructed, with brick or stone. One of the larger houses, Regency, in grey brick with a central bow window surmounted by a delicate ironwork veranda, was lettered discreetly ‘Antiques’.

  Tait parked at the side of the road a few yards beyond the shop, and the policemen walked back to it. Dusk was gathering, and the lights were on in the display room. The antiques, seen through the window, appeared to be distinctly up-market: a few carefully chosen and presented pieces of furniture, chiefly in mahogany or rosewood. There were some smaller inlaid wooden items – portable writing desks, jewel boxes, tea caddies – and against the Wedgwood green walls stood two display cabinets containing porcelain and silver.

  No one was in the lighted room, but as the men approached the door a car nosed out of the arched gateway at the side of the house. It was a big BMW with a Belgian registration, driven by a man with a cigar in his mouth. He gave a perfunctory glance left and right, snapped his headlights full on and zoomed up the street as though he had never heard of speed limits.

  ‘Get him?’ said Quantrill; it was not speed he was concerned about.

  ‘Got him,’ said Tait, scribbling in his pocket book. He hurried back to his car to radio a message to county headquarters, and then rejoined the Chief Inspector. There was a discreet ‘Closed’ notice on the main door leading to the display room, and so they walked through the gateway to the side door. A slim young man with a bush of curly hair and tinted metal-framed glasses stood in the doorway, pulling a short leather jacket over his thin black sweater.

  ‘We have just closed,’ he said, in tones that suggested that it might be no trouble at all to re-open. He looked the policemen over with interest.

  ‘We’re not customers,’ said Quantrill.

  ‘Pity. Personal for Mr Hussey, then?’ He smiled at Tait, opened the door a little wider and called, ‘George – couple of fellas to see you.’

  ‘Coming,’ said a plummy voice from inside the house. George Hussey’s well-tailored paunch sailed towards them down the passage with a following breeze of aftershave. ‘Good-night, then, Christopher. Thank you for staying on while I was busy.’

  ‘No trouble. Any time, George, you know that. ’ Bye.’ The young man, Christopher, smiled again at Tait. ‘You must come earlier another day, and I’ll give you a conducted tour.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be worth your while,’ said Tait equably.

  Christopher laughed, swung himself into a small open car that stood in the cobbled courtyard, and waved at the three men as he began to roll past them.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ Hussey called.

  ‘Looking forward to it.’ Christopher’s car disappeared through the arch into the street.

  ‘My assistant,’ Hussey explained. ‘He did tell you that we’re closed?’

  ‘We’re not customers,’ Quantrill repeated with brisk distaste. He had been a policeman in the days when homosexual relationships, even between consenting adults in private, were illegal. He had no wish for the reintroduction of that particular law – in his experience it had been a blackmailers’charter – but he was too old a copper to shed his prejudices easily and he was confident that he knew a couple of queers when he saw them. He introduced himself and his sergeant. ‘May we come in?’

  Hussey backed away from the policemen, his small mouth opening with evident alarm. His dark-rimmed glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose, but he adjusted them quickly. ‘Well … yes, come in, but I can assure you—’

 
He retreated reluctantly down the passage, which led to a semi-circular inner hall. A delicate staircase with no visible means of support curved up against one wall. From a niche at the foot of the stairs, a plaster bust lettered Homer stared blindly towards a bust in another niche, an equally sightless Cicero. The hall was furnished with an early nineteenth-century Grecian sofa; Hussey motioned half-heartedly towards it, but Quantrill preferred to stand.

  ‘We’re interested in netsuke, Mr Hussey. Netsuke and Chinese jade.’

  The antique dealer smoothed back his already smooth hair. He was standing directly under a wall light which gave his dark hair an oddly matt appearance; dyed, Quantrill decided with pitying contempt.

  ‘Netsuke …’ repeated Hussey uncertainly. ‘Well, I think I have a few I can show you, but they’re rather poor specimens, I’m afraid. One doesn’t often come upon good netsuke now, more’s the pity. And I haven’t any jade at all.’

  ‘Has anyone tried to sell you any netsuke or jade today?’ Quantrill asked.

  ‘Today? No … why should they?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard about Jasmine Woods?’ said Tait.

  Hussey’s head jerked round. ‘Jasmine? Of course, the village has buzzed with the news. I believe that one of your policemen was making enquiries earlier today, but it was Christopher who saw him. I was out. Yes, poor Jasmine – a terrible tragedy.’ He stared at Tait through his thick lenses. ‘Aren’t you a friend of hers? Didn’t I see you at her last party?’

  ‘Yes. We talked, if you remember, about her netsuke – most of which you said she had bought from you at ridiculously low prices.’

  The man’s hands flew to his bow tie. He adjusted it, smiling unconvincingly. ‘I believe I did joke about the value of her collection. One likes to know that one’s advice has benefited one’s friends.’

  Quantrill found the use of ‘one’irritating and pretentious. ‘Her jade and netsuke were stolen,’ he said abruptly. ‘We’re anxious to find the thief.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Hussey agreed. ‘Of course, if anyone were to bring any of the pieces to me, I should recognize them immediately.’ He took several short steps towards the policemen, evidently hoping to shepherd them back down the passage. ‘Rest assured that if I see or hear anything at all suspicious, Superintendent, I shall notify you at once. One does one’s best to co-operate with the police.’

  Quantrill elected to sit down, finding the Grecian sofa as unyielding as it looked. ‘Just Chief Inspector, thank you. Tell me, Mr Hussey, what was your Belgian customer buying?’

  ‘Er … Belgian?’

  ‘The man who went off in the jet-propelled BMW five minutes ago,’ said Tait. ‘Weren’t you busy with him while your assistant stayed to mind the shop?’

  ‘Oh – that Belgian. One has so many foreign customers. Mr Wouters visits me quite often, and I like to offer him a drink and a cigar in my sitting-room while we do business. He specializes in silver, and I had found a rather handsome pair of Georgian candelabra for him.’

  ‘Did you sell him any netsuke?’ Quantrill asked. ‘Or jade?’

  ‘No! I told you, I haven’t jade at all, or any netsuke that would interest him. Good heavens, do you want to search my premises?’

  It was a waspish retort rather than an invitation, but Quantrill accepted it promptly. Not that he imagined there would be anything to find, but it was too good an offer to refuse. He sent Tait out to the car to call up a couple of men.

  ‘I couldn’t help wondering why your Belgian friend was in such a hurry,’ he told Hussey.

  ‘He had a boat to catch, I imagine.’

  ‘Probably. But just to be on the safe side I’ve sent word through to Customs to be on the lookout for him. We don’t want any of Jasmine Woods’s collection to slip out of the country without our knowledge.’

  Hussey’s head lifted, stretching its supporting fold of flesh. ‘Are you suggesting that I sold any of her collection to Mr Wouters? That I had it to sell?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Quantrill. ‘I expect he goes to other antique shops while he’s over here. But the Customs men will talk to him. Sergeant Tait and I are more interested in Jasmine Woods.’

  ‘When did you last see her, Mr Hussey?’ asked Tait, who had returned and was now standing with one elbow propped on the ledge next to Cicero.

  Hussey went to the niche and moved the white bust to one side with ostentatious care. ‘As a matter of fact, yesterday afternoon. We’ve known each other for years, as I think I told you. Poor girl … Yes, a customer on Saturday sold me a delightful Victorian silver porte-bouquet, and I thought Jasmine might like it. I knew that Mr Wouters would be coming today and that he would be interested, so I wanted to give her first refusal. Such a charming girl – Thirling will be a desert without her.’

  ‘You knew her very well, then.’

  ‘Ah, no. Only moderately well. We saw each other, informally, quite often, but we didn’t exchange confidences. We respected each other’s privacy.’

  ‘About how long were you with her yesterday?’ Quantrill asked.

  ‘Let me see – I went there about 1.30; Jasmine and I both live alone, and we keep irregular hours. I must admit that I hoped she’d suggest luncheon, and she did: a very palatable omelette aux fines herbes. After that we drank coffee and talked cookery and antiques for a while, and I left in mid-afternoon. I came back just before four o’clock.’

  ‘Was anyone else at Yeoman’s while you were there?’

  ‘No-one – though Jonathan Elliott was leaving just as I arrived.’

  ‘Did she say anything about seeing anyone else yesterday, or about going out?’

  ‘She did mention that her sister had invited her to supper in Yarchester, but she wasn’t sure whether she would go. She said that she hated to ruin her brother-in-law’s Sunday – they didn’t get on, you know. Besides, she wanted to work. When she had a book on the go, Jasmine usually worked every day, but yesterday had turned out to be rather more social than she’d expected. Apparently Smith – a tiresomely scruffy boy, I’ve always thought, but Jasmine was very kind-hearted and tolerant – invited himself in for coffee; and then the Elliotts went there for drinks; and then of course my own visit was unexpected. She didn’t say for sure, but when I left my impression was that she intended to spend the evening working on her book.’

  ‘And what did you do, after you returned here?’ Tait asked. ‘How did you spend yesterday evening?’

  Hussey bridled a little. ‘If it’s of any interest to you, I took a nap. Then I cooked myself a steak, somewhere about seven o’clock, and watched television for the rest of the evening.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Of course alone. I live alone, I told you.’

  ‘I thought you might have had company for the evening. Your young friend Christopher for example?’

  Hussey’s plump jaw tightened. He was angry, but he covered his anger with disdain. ‘My private life is my own concern, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘but as it happens you have drawn quite the wrong conclusion. As I told you, I spent yesterday evening alone watching television: a Pinter play on BBC2. And don’t start wondering whether I simply looked that up in the Radio Times, because I can tell you exactly what the set looked like and what the cast was wearing—’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said Quantrill. ‘Not for the moment, anyway. We’ll probably come back to you.’

  ‘We shan’t find any of Jasmine Woods’s jade or netsuke in his possession,’ said Quantrill. ‘If he did handle them, with or without knowing anything about her death, he’ll either have hidden them somewhere else or got rid of them as quickly as possible. He was shifty about something, that’s for sure.’

  ‘No-one likes admitting that he was alone with a murder victim shortly before the event,’ said Tait. ‘And there are all kinds of other reasons why he might have a guilty conscience. Perhaps he’s been fiddling his income tax, or his VAT returns.’ He stopped his car, a short distance down the street from the antique shop, and switched off th
e engine while they discussed their next move.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Quantrill, heavy with disapproval, ‘it’s going to be worthwhile keeping an eye on Mr Hussey and his friend Christopher.’

  ‘That sounds remarkably like prejudice,’ said Tait, fingering the steering wheel of his Citroën with absent-minded pride.

  ‘I don’t deny it. You didn’t like the man either.’

  ‘I didn’t like him socially. I couldn’t stand his patronizing attitude. But I don’t get uptight about anyone’s propensities, as long as they’re not illegal. As he said, people’s private lives are their own concern. I provoked him quite deliberately, just to get his reaction, and you heard what he said: he was far more concerned with spitting in my eye than providing an alibi for himself. No, I’m inclined to believe him. I doubt if he’s anything other than a lonely, fussy old bachelor. I’m sure he’s far too fastidious to be an accessory to a crime like that.’

  Quantrill drummed his fingers on the dashboard as he watched two uniformed constables who had appeared under a lamp on the other side of the street. Small as the village was, they were still trying to complete their house-to-house enquiries by calling on the people who had been out during the day. That was what most detective work consisted of, a time-consuming slog of questioning and checking facts. Judgement came into it, of course, but judgement without facts to back it – as he had cause to know, with Rodney Gifford – was irrelevant.

  ‘Hussey’s an unlikely accessory, I grant you,’ he stated. ‘But if murders weren’t done by, or in connivance with unlikely people, they wouldn’t be so difficult to detect. After all, we don’t know what the circumstances of the murder were. I reckon that, given enough passion or greed or fear, almost anyone is capable of almost anything.’

  ‘And I was the one your daughter once reproved for thinking the worst of people!’

  ‘Let’s say that we’ve both got nasty suspicious minds.’

  Quantrill tore the wrapper from a packet of mild cigars, and took one out. Tait, a non-smoker, glared his disapproval and opened the car window to its fullest extent. The Chief Inspector coughed as the sharp evening air reached his lungs, paused with the cigar in one hand and his lighter in the other, and sniffed appreciatively.