Who Saw Him Die?

by Sheila Radley

  Her forehead was marked by cuts and abrasions, livid against her pale skin. Hours of crying had swollen the rest of her features, and they had now stiffened into immobility. She made no attempt to raise her heavy eyelids as her visitors approached.

  ‘Hallo, Mrs Goodrum,’ said the sergeant gently. ‘D’you remember us – Hilary Lloyd and Chief Inspector Quantrill?’

  The bereaved woman’s hands, lying limply on her lap, opened and closed in a gesture of indifference. Hilary sat on the bed and took one hand in her own. It was cold and unresponsive. She pressed some warmth into it, and as she did so a remnant of moisture seeped out from under Felicity’s lowered lids and, too weak to form tears and fall, dampened the puffy skin immediately below her eyes.

  ‘I’m glad your son’s with you,’ Hilary went on. ‘Matthew, I think you said.’ She looked up and gave the boy a friendly grin: ‘Hallo, Matthew.’

  His brown eyes were, she recollected from her visit to The Mount, those of his mother; but his high-browed, fine-boned features and the downward curve of his mouth gave him a haughty look quite unlike hers. By way of reply to the sergeant, he mumbled with embarrassment. He was patently relieved when the Chief Inspector suggested that, while they talked to his mother, he might like to go out and chat to the duty constable.

  ‘And I believe you’re expecting your parents. Do they have far to come?’ Hilary continued, trying to coax Mrs Goodrum into speech. Quantrill stood well back, content to watch and listen. This was one of the occasions when he was operationally thankful that his CID sergeant was a woman.

  Mrs Goodrum’s voice, when it emerged, was a bleak whisper. Hilary encouraged her halting words about her parents, at the same time disengaging her own hand so that she could take her notebook from her bag. But as soon as the notebook appeared, Felicity’s voice faltered to a stop.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Hilary. ‘I hate to do this but I’m afraid we have to take a statement from you about what happened last night, I really am so very sorry …’

  She hesitated, momentarily speechless herself. Grief was an old acquaintance of hers; ten years ago, she had watched the man she loved waste and die.

  That had been terrible enough. Even having known for months that Stephen’s disease was terminal – having accepted that he would die, having prayed for an end to his pain, having rationally contemplated and planned for a future without him – she had found herself totally unprepared for the finality of his death and for the emotionally disabling effect of bereavement.

  And so how much worse it must be for Felicity Goodrum! Bad enough for her to have had her happy marriage brought to such a shatteringly sudden end; bad enough for her to have seen her husband die. But to have seen him murdered … to have been splattered with the contents of his skull … that was beyond Hilary’s imagining. Suppressing a shudder, she clasped Felicity’s hand in sympathy and was glad to feel a tentative response.

  But there was work to be done. Considerate but firm, she took her witness through the events of the previous evening. Mrs Goodrum’s voice, though toneless and barely audible, was reasonably steady, but her eyes remained downcast. Then Hilary came to the critical period.

  ‘And so your husband stood in the open doorway of the lighted conservatory and shouted, “Who’s there?” or words to that effect. What happened then?’ she asked.

  Felicity’s face remained stiff, mask-like. Her swollen eyelids were lowered so far that they might have been closed. She made two attempts to speak, sipped some water from the glass that Hilary offered her and then, hardly moving her lips, whispered ‘There was a flash … and a roar … and everything blew apart …’

  ‘And you saw no one? Before the flash, I mean.’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘But why do you think it happened? Why do you think anyone would want to kill your husband?’

  Painfully, as though her eyelids were fastened together with lashes made of velcro, Felicity forced herself to open them. Her eyes, brown as her son’s but dulled and bloodshot, stared at nothing but horror and desolation.

  ‘I have no idea …’

  Nothing could persuade Felicity Goodrum that her husband might have had enemies. He had never claimed to her that he was a saint, but she knew for a fact that he was honest, reliable and considerate. She believed him to have been a good (though no doubt mischievous) youngster, a good (though no doubt exacting) employer, and a good (though strangely unappreciated) first husband. And she knew that he was kind: the kindest man she had ever met.

  No, she had seen none of Jack’s former business associates. All his affairs, whether in connection with business or with his first marriage, were dealt with through his solicitor and his accountant. Jack had wanted to keep their life at The Mount private. As far as Felicity knew, no one had ever called there to see him, and no one had telephoned asking to speak to him personally. He had not seemed worried by anything, not even by the burglary; annoyed, but not worried.

  ‘How did his first wife take their divorce?’ asked Hilary.

  ‘Badly, I believe.’ Felicity was talking more easily now. ‘I can’t blame her for that … But Jack was very good to them financially, of course. He settled their house and its contents on her, as well as making provision for all of them.’ A peripheral anxiety deepened the lines on her face: ‘He has two grown-up daughters. They’ve never bothered to keep in touch with their father, but they must be told …’

  The Chief Inspector assured her that it would be done. ‘And that’s a fine young son you have,’ he said, hearty now that the emotionally charged interview was over. ‘About the same age as my own boy.’

  And if Matthew was anywhere near as difficult, surly and uncooperative as Peter, Quantrill reflected, a fat lot of comfort he’d be. But it would hardly do to imply that. ‘He’ll be a great comfort to you, I’m sure,’ he asserted, and escaped into the corridor, leaving Hilary to do and say all the appropriate, police-womanly things in farewell.

  Quantrill had intended, anyway, to have a word with the boy, but it was Matthew who interrupted PC Brown’s eleventh jolly anecdote and made the approach.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said, diffident and anxious. ‘I’m Matthew Napier, not Goodrum. It wasn’t my father who was killed.’

  ‘So I understand,’ said Quantrill. He looked the boy over approvingly, glad that his haughty appearance was countered by good manners.

  ‘I thought I’d better tell you,’ went on Matthew. ‘I didn’t want you to think there was anything … well, suspicious about my being dry-eyed. I mean, I’m sorry for my mother, of course, but –’

  ‘You’ve no need to explain. I don’t suppose you had time to get to know your stepfather very well?’

  ‘No, I’d already started boarding school when they were married. I stayed with them at The Mount for the half-term holiday, last month, and that’s the most I ever saw of him.’ Matthew frowned, obviously wanting to say more, but intent on choosing his words carefully. ‘Jack was very … generous.’

  ‘So I understand from your mother. She either can’t or won’t believe that he had any enemies, but the fact that he was murdered disproves that. And what I’d like to ask you, Matthew –’ the Chief Inspector gave the boy an avuncular smile’ – since you’re a dispassionate observer, is whether you think Jack Goodrum knew that somebody was after him? Did he give you the impression, when you were there at half-term, of being worried, or wary? Did he seem uneasy when the doorbell or the telephone rang?’

  Matthew shook his head. ‘I don’t think anyone came to the door while I was there. I don’t remember hearing the telephone, either – but I do know that Jack had asked for their number to be kept ex-directory.’

  ‘Why was that, d’you think?’

  ‘My mother said it was because they wanted to make a fresh start.’ Matthew paused, his eyelids lowered as hers had been. Choosing his words again, he stood scraping the toe of his shoe on the polished floor of the hospital corridor. ‘I suppose he might have been trying to sha
ke someone off …’

  ‘And you know who that was?’

  ‘I can guess.’

  The boy looked up, his brown eyes hot and unhappy. Then he said, plunging into the narrative: ‘My father came to see me at school last Wednesday week – the 12th. He’s Austin Napier QC. He took me out to lunch and told me he was still married in God’s eyes to my mother, and that we had to go back and live with him in Highgate. I told him that we didn’t have to do as he said any more, and then he started to smarm me up. I knew I wasn’t supposed to tell him my mother’s new name, or where she was living, but he tricked it out of me. He’s brilliant at that kind of thing …’

  PC Brown, who had been listening, fascinated, couldn’t contain his incredulity. ‘Your father’s a barrister? And you’re suggesting that he went after your stepfather with a shotgun –?’

  Matthew dismissed the constable haughtily. ‘Not in person, no. I don’t suppose my father knows how to handle a shotgun,’ he told Quantrill. ‘He certainly doesn’t possess one. But – look, sir, if he wanted murder done, he’d know how to find someone to do it.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ said the Chief Inspector drily. He was interested, but not sure how far Matthew Napier was telling the truth. If the boy disliked his father – held him responsible for the break-up of the family, perhaps – the accusation could be nothing more than an act of vindictiveness.

  Matthew reddened with vexation. ‘Yes,’ he insisted, almost tearfully. ‘I’m not making this up, you know – my father’s capable of anything! He’s mad – I mean seriously mad. If you don’t believe me, read these!’

  He pulled from his pocket a bulky manilla envelope and thrust it at the Chief Inspector. Mystified, Quantrill discovered that it contained cuttings, six months old, from most of the national newspapers. They turned out to be reports, in gleeful detail, of the unsuccessful appeal of a London barrister against a divorce that had previously been granted to his wife on the grounds of his unreasonable behaviour.

  The reports were headed by separate photographs of the couple. The woman was Matthew’s mother, looking a good deal older and more strained than the happy woman Quantrill had first met as Jack Goodrum’s wife. The barrister was unfamiliar. But he answered to the description of the stranger who, on the afternoon of Wednesday November 12th, had asked a Breckham Market newsagent for the address of the man whose murder Quantrill was now investigating.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Shortly after midday, Chief Inspector Quantrill and Sergeant Lloyd set out for London to interview Felicity Goodrum’s first husband.

  Quantrill decreed that they would go by train rather than by car. He saw no shame in admitting that he didn’t know his way round the capital, but when Hilary said she had a street map and offered to navigate he was quick to assert that the journey would be faster by train. What worried him about driving in London was the possibility that he might make a fool of himself in front of her by getting stuck in the wrong traffic lane; much better for his image to use trains and taxis – and if the Super wouldn’t wear his subsequent claim for expenses, he’d gladly bear the cost himself.

  It was a very long time since Quantrill had been to London. The capital was less than two hours by direct train from Breckham Market, but he saw no reason to go there if he could help it. A dirty, noisy, overcrowded place, in his opinion, and populated almost exclusively by foreigners. Even some of the graffiti were in Arabic …

  It was even longer since he’d been on a train. When he heard the cost of the tickets, he blenched. But he had been impressed by British Rail’s advertising campaigns for their high-speed inter-city service, and he looked forward to travelling in executive comfort with Hilary by his side, and to buying her a really good Sunday lunch in the restaurant car.

  What had not occurred to him was that the high-speed inter-city service didn’t extend to the Eastern region. The rolling stock on the Yarchester-Breckham Market-London line was some high-speed region’s cast-off, shabby and unreliable; and although a restaurant car service was advertised on the Sunday lunch-time train, it was not available on that particular day.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Hilary pointed out as he apologised for the second time. ‘And at least,’ she said philosophically as they joined the queue for light refreshments in the buffet car, ‘we can get a drink.’

  ‘I’ve never heard you say that before,’ Quantrill said, surprised. ‘I thought you didn’t drink anything but wine …’

  Hilary looked at him gravely. ‘On days when I’ve had to help account for the scattered pieces of someone’s head – especially someone I’d met and rather liked, even though he might have been a villain – I go for the hard stuff.’

  The sergeant lunched on brandy with a splash of dry ginger, and a quarter of a small packet of cheese-flavoured biscuits. The Chief Inspector – reluctant to be seen making a pig of himself, but he couldn’t help the fact that he was both hungry and thirsty – consumed two cans of beer and a pork pie.

  It was while he was enjoying the pie, which his wife would never allow him to eat, that he realised he’d forgotten to tell Molly his whereabouts. She knew that when he was on a murder enquiry she could expect him home when she saw him, but he wouldn’t ordinarily take off for London without letting her know.

  Today wasn’t ordinary, though. Today he was going to spend four uninterrupted hours on trains with Hilary, and it was a perfect opportunity to establish a more personal relationship. He pushed aside his cardboard plate, with a remnant of pastry to indicate that he wasn’t really greedy, leaned forward with his elbows on the table and gave her his warmest smile.

  ‘Feeling better?’

  Her own smile was a good deal more circumspect. ‘Yes thanks. Did you remember to ring your wife before we left, by the way?’

  He could have done without the reference to his marital status. ‘She wouldn’t expect me to,’ he said untruthfully. ‘We’re … well, we’re not that close any more …’

  Hilary’s mouth twitched. ‘Would that be anything to do with last night, when you couldn’t be found at the Town Hall because you’d sneaked off to the pub instead of watching My Fair Lady …? If that put you in the dog-house, I’m not surprised.’

  ‘Ron Timms as well, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Quantrill said. ‘We could have got away with it if the performance had been interrupted just once, but twice was bound to mean trouble.’ He sighed, for effect. ‘Are you thinking of getting married, Hilary?‘ he asked, with a casual don’t-do-it air that he hoped would conceal the importance, to himself, of the question.

  ‘Oh yes – I quite often think about it,’ she said lightly. ‘In general terms, that is.’

  ‘You’re not actually engaged then?’ he persisted, indicating the ring on the third finger of her left hand. Its significance had always puzzled him.

  Hilary looked at her diamond eternity ring with something like surprise. Obviously it was so familiar to her that she no longer noticed she was wearing it.

  ‘That’s … different,’ she said. ‘More of a grand romantic gesture, made when I was very young.’

  Quantrill knew that that he’d already overstepped the bounds of politeness. Hilary’s private life ought to be none of his business. But having trespassed as far as this, he couldn’t stop himself from asking a final question.

  ‘So there isn’t anyone … special, at the moment?’

  ‘When would I find the time?’ She laughed as she said it, but he detected a warning of frost.

  ‘Another brandy?’ he said hastily.

  ‘No thanks. Coffee would be a good thing, though. I’d better keep a clear head for our interview with Felicity Goodrum’s ex.’

  When Quantrill returned from the buffet car balancing waxed-paper cups of coffee for them both, he found Hilary re-reading the newspaper cuttings about the Napiers’divorce.

  ‘It was an impossible marriage, wasn’t it?’ she said. ‘Austin Napier’s obviously a very difficult man. And I don’t suppose he’ll take kindly to being
interviewed.’

  ‘What seems so odd,’ said Quantrill, ‘is that if he did sus out for himself where Goodrum lived, and then sent a yob a few days later to burgle and foul the house, the yob should have had to go to a pub and ask where he could find Mr Goodrum. That doesn’t make sense. And of course it doesn’t make Napier a murderer either. He’ll certainly deny that.’

  ‘I suppose he may not be prepared to talk to us at all,’ said Hilary.

  ‘Or he may insist on doing so only in the presence of his solicitor.’ Quantrill looked at his watch. ‘That could keep us hanging about for hours, especially as it’s Sunday. What time’s the last train back to Breckham Market, Hilary?’

  ‘Eight-thirty. But I’d hate to travel on it – it’s a stopping train, and doesn’t get in until just before eleven.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Quantrill frowned, wondering what Molly would say if he didn’t turn up until that time of night, having left the house at seven this morning. Perhaps he’d better ring as soon as they reached Liverpool Street to let her know where he was.

  And then a happier thought occurred to him. He looked boldly at Hilary. ‘We may end up having to stay in London overnight,’ he said, with meaning.

  ‘Really?’ There was no doubt that she sounded pleased. An unexpectedly wholehearted smile lit her face, and Quantrill’s hopes soared.

  ‘Oh, that would be nice,’ she said. ‘I could go and stay with my friend Elizabeth, in Putney.’

  They went from Liverpool Street Station to Highgate by taxi. Hilary, sitting gracefully composed in her corner, took a lively interest in their journey through Islington and Holloway. Quantrill, completely out of his element, ignored the wet grey streets and stared with gloomy fascination at the meter as it clocked up its astronomical fare. The Super would never wear this …

  Austin Napier QC lived in a house in a tall, late eighteenth-century terrace built of yellow brick that had weathered to a dignified dark grey. The uniformly cream-painted sash windows were handsomely proportioned, the doors surmounted by semi-circular fanlights with delicately varied tracery. Each door had a brass knocker, and having looked in vain for a bell Quantrill rapped the dolphin knocker on Napier’s black door.