A Dead Question

by Gerald Hammond

  ‘Shaken Baby Syndrome?’ Honey asked hopefully.

  ‘Industrial injuries. He’s going to look out a few cases.’

  Honey made a grunt of disappointment. Industrial injuries might be a more fertile area for biased evidence and corruption but evidence of bias or corruption would be much more difficult to prove. ‘If you’re in the factory this morning, how would you like to make and take a phone call for me?’

  ‘I would have been charmed. But I’m giving evidence of arrest in Glasgow. Arrested here for an assault in Barrowland. A total waste of time, but the motions have to be gone through.’ Sandy planted a quick peck on her cheek before she could turn it away and made his usual hurried exit.

  Honey glanced at the clock. Prue Bishop would not be at her desk yet. Later in the morning she would find it possible to do her phoning from the office and call in at the birthing classes for which she had been enrolled and which she had never so far managed to attend. She had never believed it worthwhile to anticipate an approaching discomfort. Dentist’s appointments lurked forgotten until her computer told her that the day had arrived. Without thinking much about the ordeal to come, she was satisfied that a thousand generations of women had managed to continue the species. The fact that a large percentage of women went on to have a second and even a third baby suggested that it could not be as painful as portrayed by a host of film actresses. The present state of medical science made the process relatively safe and no more painful than it had to be, but a token visit to the classes might appease her many would-be nursemaids.

  It seemed opportune to open her email. She booted up and signed in. Once she had managed to eradicate a host of advertisements from her service provider, an announcement from her supermarket of forthcoming bargains, several charity solicitations and an offer of pornography at discount prices, she was left with three serious communications; the newsy letter from an old friend in Monaco she filed for later attention; her father acknowledged her email and had started tactful enquiries; and there was an email from Canada to the effect that the Doctor’s sister-in-law frequently had friends and relations staying. Dulcie McGordon might well have moved on, even married again and changed her name. A good photograph would enable proper but discreet enquiries to be made.

  A photograph might be near to impossible. Asking around in the hope of finding a snapshot would probably cause a storm. Perhaps an Identikit . . . But even that presented problems. She had only seen Dulcie McGordon in the distance and far from recently. She shook her head, closed down the computer and called down a curse on the head of Detective Superintendent Blackhouse. It was far from the first such damnation that she had uttered, but it seemed that Somebody Up There was not listening. It was yet another reason to disbelieve in a personal God.

  She found June in the kitchen, ironing shirts. June’s usually sunny face looked sulky. Honey had seen the same expression on the face of an arrestee who was just deciding to make a groundless complaint of police brutality. ‘You’re not really going to be difficult when I want time off?’ June asked. ‘My Jim never knows when his free days are going to be changed. And I always make up the time.’ She passed a vicious iron over one of Sandy’s shirts.

  ‘Of course you do,’ Honey said, lowering her weight into a chair. ‘And I’m not going to be difficult, not unless you go running to the boss every time I go for a stroll up the farm track. Let’s just try to be helpful to each other.’

  June thought it over and then nodded. ‘All right.’

  ‘Start with this, then. And, mind, this is very confidential. You know Mrs Deakin next door?’

  June folded the shirt, made another pass with the iron and laid both aside. ‘Not to say know. We’ve said “Good morning” over the wall a time or two and maybe said that it was hot or cold or too windy to hang out the washing. She seems a pleasant enough body but keeps herself to herself.’

  ‘Could you get to know her better?’

  ‘Aye. Likely. I’ve had the feeling that she’s maybe a bit lonely but didn’t want to be the first to open up. I felt the same but I had my next date with Jim to look forward to and I’ve family not so far away. I thought you might not like me bringing the neighbour’s staff into your house,’ June added in a tone of conscious virtue.

  ‘Bring anybody you like in, as long as it’s in your part of the house and they’re clean, sane and sober; I thought that that was understood. It’s this way,’ Honey said. ‘The Doctor may be a perfectly respectable gentleman, but the question has been raised that he may have some guilty secret. We don’t know what or life would be very much easier, but we’d be just as happy to find that he’s perfectly innocent as we would be to find that he’s up to no good. And he is not to know that he’s being looked into, that’s important. I’m sure you can see what a difference it would make if we had somebody gathering gossip on the inside.’

  June pursed her lips. ‘It’s important?’

  ‘We don’t even know whether it’s important or a nothing. We only know that the Doctor showed signs of feeling guilty about something serious but we don’t know what. I can only say that if it’s nothing then there’s no need for anybody to be hurt.’

  ‘That seems sensible. I’ll help if I can,’ June said. She had already brightened at the prospect of being included in her employers’ investigations, which she always looked on as having a special glamour, combining as they did mystery with the scales of justice, added to which was the awe with which her present boyfriend, who occupied a much lower rung on the same ladder, spoke of the senior officers.

  ‘Without giving the game away? I’m sure you can manage that,’ Honey said. ‘And if you come up with anything really useful . . .’ Honey paused and thought. It went against the grain to offer a monetary reward out of her own pocket for a task that she should never have been landed with in the first place. It might even prove to be the thin end of the wedge. ‘An extra week’s holiday with free accommodation on Crete.’ The family owned several shares in a timeshare on Crete and it was often standing empty. If they were getting free accommodation, Jim could pay the fares.

  ‘There’s one other thing,’ Honey added. ‘If you can get hold of a photograph of Mrs McGordon without starting anybody thinking, that would be a huge help.’

  *

  During the enforced period of bed-rest, Honey had half forgotten how to drive and everything in the Range Rover had been adjusted to suit June and the weekly shopping. First she had to reposition the seat to make room for the bump and to allow for her disinclination to fold in the middle. Then she had to gather her wits and remind herself of the various moves to be made. The Range Rover had an automatic gearbox but it was still necessary to coordinate various movements of the hands and feet while watching the movements of traffic, pedestrians and animals. The knack of driving on autopilot seemed to have deserted her. She had to think about what she was doing. Some activities are so dependent on the response of the reflexes that they become more difficult if subjected to conscious thought; happily, for Honey, driving was not one of them. She kept her mind on the vehicle and the road and, although Edinburgh rush hours get ever longer, there is still a lull in mid-morning and again in the early afternoon. She arrived unscathed at Police HQ (‘the factory’, as it is known to most of its occupants), parked with a dry mouth and carried a cup of coffee to her desk. Some minutes were wasted in assuring colleagues that she was fit, that the gestation was proceeding to plan and that she was only in the office to make and receive a phone call, before she could get down to that task.

  Prue answered the phone and there followed the inevitable interval of baby talk – a subject of which Honey was becoming heartily morning-sick. Only Sandy, it seemed, ever wanted to talk to her about anything else and he had not been very forthcoming of late. They disconnected and Prue called back immediately. Evidently the switchboard constituted a satisfactory identification. ‘All right,’ Prue said. ‘Now that I know that you are who you say you are, I’ve prepared an email with what you wa
nted.’

  Honey gave her home email address. They exchanged more good wishes and broke the connection. The email, Honey thought, had better contain some gems of information after so much time and trouble. She set off to return to her Range Rover.

  It was with mixed feelings that she found herself alone in the lift with Detective Superintendent Blackhouse. On the one hand, he was quite her least favourite person in the whole world; on the other, the encounter afforded her a chance to show by her manner how little she appreciated being handed impossible tasks during what should have been her time for rest and the thinking of pure and beautiful thoughts. It would be the Superintendent’s fault, she thought, if her baby’s first sight of the world entailed darting suspicious glances at it from the corners of her eyes.

  Mr Blackhouse, however, was not in a mood for noticing the body language of his subordinates. ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded. ‘You’re supposed to be at home. I was about to phone you there.’

  Honey was surprised by this evidence of consideration in one who usually cared little for the health or comfort of his juniors. He must be concerned for his future godchild. ‘I’m quite all right,’ she said. ‘I just had to come in to take a phone call.’

  The Superintendent was magnificently uninterested. ‘You’d better hurry back straight away. Somebody is waiting to get in touch with you with some significant information.’ And with that, the lift pausing at his floor, he stepped outside and the doors closed again. Honey was left to wonder whether a rude answer, a quick resignation and acceptance of the role of wife and mother would really have been such a terrible outcome.

  Chapter Seven

  Habits, once contracted, are rarely quite forgotten. Honey’s old habit patterns had made their comeback. She found herself able to drive again without conscious thought. She carved her way through the early lunchtime traffic without even being aware of it. The downside to this was that her mind was free to notice the bodily discomfort of sitting in just the wrong position and making movements that did not go well with her expanding condition. She decided that she would please her nannies by refusing to drive herself in future. The time for her appointment at the birthing clinic had arrived and would soon be gone, but they would just have to get by without her and she without them.

  ‘You didn’t tell me when you’d be back,’ was June’s greeting.

  ‘I didn’t know when I’d be back,’ Honey retorted gently.

  ‘You’re supposed to be at the birthing clinic.’

  ‘I was on my way there when a very, very important officer, senior even to Mr Sandy, told me to scoot back here because somebody has some information for me.’

  June backed up against the coats to let her past and then followed her to the sitting room door. Her face showed relief and enlightenment. She produced a slip of paper. ‘This’ll be what it’s about. There was a lady phoned, asking. You’re to call this number, urgent.’ June’s abruptness was explained. It had been drummed into her that the passing on of messages was a sacred duty and that death was the only possible excuse for failure or even delay.

  Honey took the slip of paper into the study. The number looked faintly familiar. The phone at the other end had time for only one ring before it was lifted. A female voice quoted the same number. Honey introduced herself by no more than her married name. ‘Please stay at home,’ the voice said. ‘We’ll be with you in a few minutes.’ The entire conversation had occupied barely five seconds. For a completed exchange between two women, Honey thought, it must be worth a place in the Guinness Book of Records. Between men, it would be considered about average. She had no illusions about the garrulity of her own sex.

  It seemed to be a safe assumption that this person, lone or accompanied, was the informant promised by the Superintendent and therefore could be presumed to be safe. Honey arranged her tape recorder under the coffee table again. When, after ten minutes, the doorbell rang she started the recording and waited while June answered the door.

  ‘The two ladies, Ma’am,’ June said. ‘They wouldn’t give me their names.’

  ‘Tea please, June.’

  ‘I shan’t be staying for more than a minute,’ the younger visitor said.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Honey said. ‘But you’d think it very odd if I ordered tea but left you out. Nobody says that you have to drink it. But I think I know who you are anyway. Please sit down.’

  The visitors sat. ‘There’s no secret about my identity,’ the younger visitor said. ‘I simply mustn’t be associated with this business. As you seem to be aware, I’m Mrs Blackhouse.’

  Honey managed to hide her surprise, but it took an effort. She had seen the blonde woman in the distance, dancing attendance on the Superintendent at some of the more formal social occasions, but without any likelihood of being introduced. She had assumed that any woman of around thirty – at least twenty years younger than the Superintendent and with more than her fair share of sex appeal and all the signs of youthful good humour – would have to be a daughter rather than a wife. Or a daughter-in-law? Mr Blackhouse had never been forthcoming about his family.

  She was not a daughter-in-law. ‘My husband asked me to bring Felicia Aston to meet you. You may have seen her visiting the house next door.’ This was said with a meaningful look.

  ‘Not that I ever noticed,’ Honey said; ‘but I can be very unobservant at times.’ She returned the look with a nod. Understanding had been exchanged.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Mrs Blackhouse said. ‘I’m not to join in any discussions at all – my husband was very clear about that. I’ll leave Felicia with you. You’ll see that she gets home?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  They heard the front door close behind her. A car started and was driven away. It seemed that Mr Blackhouse’s word was as much law at home as among his subordinates. June arrived with the tea-tray and noted the disappearance of one guest with no more reaction than a raised eyebrow and carried away the surplus cup. Since being admitted into the inner circle of investigators, June seemed to be coming to accept that normality no longer had quite the same force.

  Mrs Aston (Honey noticed rings on her finger, including a good diamond and ruby engagement ring) spoke for the first time. She looked around. ‘I like what you’ve done with this room,’ she said. ‘I don’t call that much of an introduction, but Gemma was always the hasty one. As you’ve gathered, I’m Felicia Aston. And you’re Mrs Laird?’

  ‘Honoria, usually known as Honey.’

  Mrs Aston half rose and reached to shake hands. Like Mrs Blackhouse, she was aged around thirty but slightly the older of the pair. She was a larger than average woman but well proportioned. Her clothes were expensive, conventional and disciplined. Her auburn hair was styled elegantly but firmly. Although her face was equally well proportioned and could have been beautiful, a strong jaw and a proud nose robbed it of femininity and gave it a look of almost masculine strength. While Mrs Blackhouse had looked as though she might be firm, Mrs Aston, once she made up her mind, would be immoveable. Her dress was conventional, unexceptionable and expensive.

  ‘Now that we’ve introduced ourselves,’ Mrs Aston said, ‘perhaps you could tell me why I’m here.’

  ‘I only have a vague idea as to why you’re here,’ Honey said. She decided to tread warily. ‘But I’m sure that I can work it out if you tell me what led up to it.’

  Mrs Aston shrugged, rather elegantly. ‘I suppose. I’ve known Gemma Blackhouse since Day One – we were at school together. We make a point of meeting up sometimes. Well, it’s only too rare for the husbands of friends to get on with each other just as well as their wives do. But then, Josh Blackhouse is a lovely man, isn’t he?’

  Honey forced herself to nod and smile. They surely couldn’t be talking about any other Blackhouse. She wondered what sort of woman would think him lovely. There were many other words that she could have applied to the Superintendent but none of them carried the same mean
ing. She wondered what facet of his appearance or nature was under consideration. Honey could only assume that the Detective Superintendent had an alternative personality to be switched on only on social occasions.

  ‘We met for dinner last night,’ Mrs Aston resumed, ‘the Blackhouses, my husband and I and another couple. And Josh said that he wanted me to speak to you.’

  ‘What direction had the conversation been taking?’ Honey asked.

  Mrs Aston accepted tea and a small cake. She looked at her perfect fingernails while she considered. ‘Mostly we’d been talking about the mess the NHS is getting into and particularly how lucky you’d have to be to get referred from your own area to where the best treatment is or where the more expensive drugs get prescribed. We knew a man who gave up his job and moved house into an inner-city area to give his wife the best chance of surviving cancer of the pancreas. And as for transplants . . . You can beat the system and go private, but the cost is phenomenal.’

  ‘What else?’ Honey prompted her.

  ‘That was most of it. The men talked rugby and the women talked clothes.’

  ‘Mrs Blackhouse said something about next door.’

  Mrs Aston’s proud nose went up. ‘I only came to his house once, to collect a prescription, although he does see patients here when it suits him. But I mentioned that I’d been a patient of Dr McGordon. I switched to one of his partners about a year ago and left to register with a different practice quite recently.’

  Honey felt the need to walk ever more gently. ‘That would be so that there could be no objection to an increasing friendship?’

  The other looked at her sharply. ‘Are you a friend of his?’

  That told Honey what she needed to know. ‘Certainly not. Are you?’