The case was beginning to show form and logic.
*
Holter, after appearing at Ashford County Court for an elderly and pugnacious woman who did not mind how much she spent on a case she had brought ‘For the principle of the thing,’ drove back to Crighton and arrived home at 1.10 PM.
As he stepped on to the drive, Charlotte came running out of the house. ‘What’s happened?’ she asked breathlessly.
He looked at her in some astonishment. ‘How d’you mean, Betty?’
‘Why have you come back here in the middle of the day? Something must have happened?’
‘But you asked me to come back to lunch if I possibly could. The case came to a quick end when the other side collapsed.’
‘Oh!’ She fidgeted with the front of her dress. ‘Of course I did. I’m being very silly.’
‘What on earth did you think had happened?’
‘Just for the moment, I thought you must be in some terrible trouble.’
‘Me?’ he laughed. ‘Show me the trouble I can’t get out of!’ He put his arm round her waist. ‘The other Silks on the circuit would like to see me drop down dead so they can have my work, but they aren’t going to have that pleasure for a long, long time yet. Being married to you means I’m as frisky as a twenty-year-old. I told old Jim, when he complained he was feeling old and decrepit, that if he’d married someone young and beautiful he wouldn’t have two toes in the grave now.’
‘Radwick, what have the police been doing in chambers?’
He ignored her question. ‘Last night was wonderful, wasn’t it? I wasn’t tired, you see. If we get to bed early tonight ...’
Her voice was shrill as she put the question for the second time: ‘What have the police been doing in chambers?’ She stepped clear of his grasp.
He answered in an aggrieved tone of voice. ‘You know I haven’t been in chambers this morning, Betty. I expect they’re snooping around somewhere, asking a lot of damn-fool questions. What’s it matter what they’re doing?’
She had been about to say something, but she checked herself. She stepped close to him and replaced his arm around herself. ‘Of course it doesn’t matter, darling. And you’re quite right, last night was wonderful.’
He smiled complacently as they walked into the house.
Except when they had guests, they often ate lunch in the breakfast-room since it was nearer the kitchen than the dining-room. Agnes Utley brought in two chops and Charlotte served them both to her husband. He asked her why she was eating only salad and she replied she was going to diet to try to lose a few pounds around her waist.
He was half-way through his meal when she spoke once more, obliquely at first, about the question of what action the police were taking. ‘Radwick, how’s Oliver?’
He swallowed a mouthful before answering. ‘Never changes, poor devil. Still playing around with briefs marked in single figures.’
‘Have the police questioned him?’
They’ve been worrying the lives of all of us.’ He helped himself to another potato and a large pat of butter.
‘Does it upset him at all?’
‘You can never tell with Oliver. He’s damned odd in many ways. Reminds me of Cassius, lean and hungry.’
‘D’you think they’ve any idea yet about what really happened?’
‘Who?’
‘The police,’ she said sharply. She hastily spoke far more softly. ‘It’s all so interesting for me, Radwick.’ She reached across the small circular table and rested her hand on his as he was about to raise the laden fork to his mouth. ‘You don’t really mind me asking you, do you?’
He looked at her. She hadn’t changed a bit in the four years of their marriage. Her blonde hair was as perfectly blonde, her face was still smooth enough for a girl of sixteen, and as on the day of their marriage her mouth invited and her body promised.
‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.
‘Only how extremely attractive you are,’ he replied, with overdone gallantry.
‘You looked angry.’
‘Well, I wasn’t, because I was remembering last night.’
‘Can’t you ever talk of anything else? Isn’t there anything else in the world?’
‘What’s wrong with talking about it?’ he asked, surprised.
She fidgeted with the fork on her plate. ‘Nothing, but it seems odd in the middle of a meal.’
‘Isn’t it more fun to be odd?’
‘I ... I suppose so. I’m sorry I’m snappy, darling, but I haven’t been feeling completely well.’
He was immediately worried. ‘What’s wrong? Have you called in the doctor?’
‘There’s no need for that, it’s only the heat, or something.’
‘You poor darling.’
‘Oh, Radwick, you’re so wonderful and understanding! I wish I could show you just how much I love you.’
He finished eating his chop. He was pleased with himself, but then a man had a right to be when his wife was as beautiful as Charlotte was and she confessed that she loved him more than she could show.
Chapter Nine
BROCK WAS A MAN who hated criminals. He hated them whether they had been guilty of a mean theft or a brutal murder because they were the people who could destroy any democracy, by which he meant the right of every person, within obvious limits, to live the kind of life he wanted to. Brock hated the murderer of Corry, even though it was obvious that the solicitor had a warped and very unpleasant character, and it was because of this that he doggedly continued to work with scant regard to the hours. He drove up to Rachael West’s house at 7.35 in the evening.
The two hundred-year-old house, originally of clapboard, had been cleverly modernized in a way that allowed modernisations to live in harmony with the ancient structure. As Brock climbed out of his car, he looked through the nearer window and saw a woman, sitting in a chair. He crossed to front door and rang the bell.
The door was opened by the woman he had just seen. She stood a foot shorter than he and was dressed in a cotton shirt and a pair of grey flannel trousers. Her hair was cut short and straight and she wore neither make-up nor jewellery. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Brock, county constabulary. Miss West?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’d like to have a word with you if it’s convenient?’
She studied him for a few seconds and then pushed the door more fully open. ‘You’d better come in. What’s the matter?’ Her voice was harsh and she spoke abruptly, as if in a perpetual hurry.
They went into the room on the right, the one which he had seen when he arrived.
‘Take a seat,’ she said.
He sat down, carefully, on a chair of modern design which looked as if it might either collapse or turn over under his weight. It did neither and after a while he relaxed.
‘What d’you want?’ she asked, as she sat down.
‘It’s the Corry case, Miss West.’
‘Well?’ She picked up a packet of cigarettes from the glass-topped table immediately in front of her. ‘D’you smoke?’
‘Yes, I do.’
She helped herself to a cigarette and then tossed the packet over to him.
‘I think you know Mrs Holter?’ he said, after striking a match which gave both of them a light.
‘I design some of her clothes and have them made up.’
‘As routine, we naturally have to check up where people were at certain times. Mrs Holter says she was here on Tuesday evening. Can you confirm that?’
‘Yes, I can.’
‘All the evening?’
‘She arrived some time after five and didn’t leave until after eight.’
‘I suppose you were working on something for her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does she visit you often?’
‘I can’t see that that’s of any interest to you.’
‘Why not, Miss West?’
‘Because it has nothing to do with the death of this man.’
H
e appeared to be placidly unaffected by her openly expressed antagonism. ‘It’s almost impossible at the moment to say what is connected with Corry’s death and what isn’t.’
‘Then find out the answers to that before you start asking people questions.’
He smiled. ‘I’m afraid I’ve become hardened to my own impertinence.’ He looked round for an ash-tray.
‘On your right.’
He stroked the ash from his cigarette into a small china hollow-backed dog which, until she had spoken, he had thought to be a hideous objet d’art. ‘How often has Mrs Holter visited you in the past month, Miss West?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘You wouldn’t like to hazard a guess?’
‘I should not.’
‘I see.’
‘What do you see?’
He smiled again. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting any work?’
‘That depends on how much longer you’re staying?’
‘You do work in the evenings, then?’
‘I’ve already told you that that’s when Mrs Holter came here.’
‘You won’t mind signing a statement, will you, Miss West?’
‘What d’you mean?’ she asked sharply.
‘It’ll only be to say that Mrs Holter was here last Tuesday evening from some time after five o’clock to just after eight.’
‘Why should I have to sign anything?’
‘It’s a formality. If there’s a trial I’m afraid you’ll be called as a witness.’
She stubbed out the cigarette she had been smoking and lit another. Her fingers, long and elegant and in sharp contrast with the rest of her body, were badly stained a nicotine yellow. ‘If I’ve got to sign. I’ve got to.’
His voice remained quiet and easy. ‘And will your evidence under oath be the same as you’ve just given me?’
‘How dare you suggest it won’t be? I’m not a liar.’
‘I hope not, Miss West, for your sake.’
‘Get out of my house,’ she snapped.
‘Of course. But before I go, perhaps I ought to tell you that I’ve spoken to a man who saw a woman leave the murder building at a quarter to seven. His description of her identifies her as Mrs Holter. She wasn’t really here at a quarter to seven, was she?’
Rachael West drew twice on her cigarette, then stubbed it out with such force that the paper split and tobacco spilled out. She looked at the detective, stood up and walked across to the small built-in cupboard on the far wall. She took out a bottle of whisky and a glass and poured herself out a large whisky which she drank neat. ‘Why didn’t you have the decency to tell me that at the beginning?’
‘In my job, we have to try to understand people, to be able to evaluate them.’
‘All right, so now you think you understand me. Get out and leave me alone.’
‘When did she leave? Or wasn’t she ever here?’
‘I don’t know what the time was. I’m not some bloody time-keeper.’
‘It takes roughly half an hour to drive from here to the High Street in Hertonhurst. My guess is she left here around a quarter to six?’
‘I’ve said I’ve no idea.’
‘Did she borrow your car?’
‘Yes.’
‘How often did she do this sort of thing?’
‘I never counted.’
‘But this wasn’t the first time?’
‘No.’
‘What dress was she wearing on Tuesday?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘That can’t be true. Miss West. As a designer, you’re surely bound to have noticed, especially as you may even have designed it yourself?’
‘Do you have to be so bloody polite about it all?’ she said loudly.
‘I can very easily be ruder if you prefer.’
‘It was the Milano line. Knee length, high waist, no belt, slashed V neck, narrow collar, three-quarter sleeves, and two pleats at the back giving a full back and tight front. The buttons are large and covered with the material of the dress.’
‘And what was the colour?’
‘Tide-side pink.’
‘What’s that like?’
‘A bright strawberry pink.’
‘Thank you very much, Miss West.’
She muttered something and turned her back on him as she poured herself another drink. He left and returned to his car. As he started the engine he momentarily wondered what had secured Rachael West’s loyalty to Charlotte Holler when on the face of it she could have been expected to hate the younger and far more attractive woman.
He drove to Hertonhurst along the back route and when he reached the crest of the hills he stopped the car in the lay-by. The view was one he often sought out. Below was the land, seen as if from an aircraft, a series of small patches in an infinite variety of greens and browns. Beyond was the English Channel and the French coast, a low-lying smudge of grey.
He thought about the case. Charlotte Holter had been in chambers on Tuesday evening. That was certain, even if it could not yet be proved. She had been in the room when Corry was shot. He visualized her sharp, smart beauty and tried to gauge how panicky she probably was by now.
After twenty minutes, he regretfully started the engine, backed out on to the road, and continued on to Hertonhurst and Oliver Resse’s house.
Resse lived in a part of the town which was gradually decaying, but which had not yet decayed. Most of the people there were in the same position he was: professional class by upbringing and instinct, but not by income. The badly designed Victorian houses were almost all in need of considerable repair.
Brock parked his car and walked up the small front garden in which the two beds were filled with weeds-and the grass needed cutting. He climbed the half-dozen stone steps and knocked on the front door. It was opened by a woman, Mrs Resse, to whom he introduced himself. She showed him into the sitting-room, the furniture of which was almost as well worn as in his own police house.
Very shortly afterwards, Resse came into the room, wearing an open-necked shirt and a pair of worn and creased grey flannel trousers. He shook hands. ‘This is unexpected, Inspector, but I hesitate at this early stage to add that it’s also a pleasure.’
‘Very wise of you, sir.’
Resse laughed, a trifle too loudly, as he indicated the arm-chairs. ‘Have a pew and a drink? I can offer you Empire sherry or a beer?’
‘I’ll take a beer off you and I admit that it’ll be a pleasure.’
‘You do know, don’t you, that you can’t drink with a man and then arrest him? It’s considered frightfully unsporting, like shooting a sitting duck.’
‘This isn’t a very sporting case.’
Showing the sense of uncertainty he felt, Resse hesitated, then turned and left the room. He returned with two pewter mugs filled with beer. After handing the detective one mug, he raised his own. ‘To a long friendship and may it never end.’
Brock lifted his own mug. ‘The first today and doubly welcome for that.’
‘But I thought detectives spent their lives surrounded by brandies and broads?’
‘Unfortunately, not in Kent, sir. No saying what goes on in other counties, of course.’ Brock put his mug down on a small wooden coffee table and began to search his pockets. At first, Resse tried to appear uninterested, but after a while he stared directly at the detective. He began to fidget his arms.
Brock eventually brought out three sheets of paper which he unfolded and smoothed down over his knee. ‘I was sent an anonymous letter this morning,’ he said.
‘Good God!’ exclaimed Resse. He realized he had spoken too theatrically and hastily added: ‘But I suppose that happens quite often?’ He sat down in the second armchair and a spring twanged.
‘I wouldn’t say that. The last one was almost a month ago. A woman complained that her neighbour was a sex maniac. She spent six months in a mental hospital but they say she’s cured now.’
‘Really?’
Brock examined each of the she
ets in turn. He looked up and spoke in his usual amiable voice. ‘You wrote the letter, of course?’
‘No,’ said Resse loudly. ‘Why the hell should I do a thing like that?’
‘To try to divert suspicion away from yourself.’
‘Look, I’m not a fool and I wouldn’t ...’
‘You’re not a fool by a heck of a long way, Mr Resse, but you don’t seem to know much about the abilities of the average detective. I typed out the same message on the two typewriters in chambers and sent all the typing off for examination. Traynton’s machine was the one used by the anonymous writer. The paper is identical with the paper in chambers.’
‘If it was Traynton’s machine, he probably wrote the message.’
‘You were the last person to leave chambers yesterday evening.’
‘I ... I may have been. I just don’t know.’
‘It’s an important point.’
‘Why?’
‘The person who typed this letter would have wanted to be on his own when he did it.’
‘It wasn’t I. D’you think I’m the kind of man to write anonymous letters?’
‘Normally, not in a thousand years.’
‘Then why name me now?’
‘You forgot to include yourself in the list of the accused: if someone else had been the writer, your name would have been there. Another point, things aren’t normal for you: you had a row with a man not long before he was murdered. That means you’re panicky and concerned with only one thing — trying to prove you weren’t the murderer. Panic changes a man’s character pretty damn’ quickly.’
Resse’s face flushed and as he drank, his hand trembled. He put the mug down on the coffee table. ‘I said to you it had become a case of sauve qui peut.’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘I sent the bloody thing and that made me feel like some dirty little back street Arab. Holter’s always talking about the brotherhood of the Bar, but as far as I’m concerned there’s precious little relationship left. I had a row with Corry on Tuesday, a really good, bitter, vocal row. I became so angry I was brave enough to tell him what I thought of him, a man who’d not pay his debts just for the pleasure of seeing someone squirm. He jeered at me. He asked me whether all my expensive education had done me two-pence worth of good and whether my wife’s great and noble relations helped to support me. I was going to hit him.’
Dead Against the Lawyers Page 9
