A Fatal Truth

by Faith Martin

  Two days later, DI Jennings sat at his desk, reading the headlines of the Oxford Tribune, the local daily that had once been his favourite of the city’s three newspapers, and swore bitterly under his breath.

  Superintendent Henry Malting, sitting opposite him, pretended not to hear it. In fact, he’d indulged in his own fair share of such swearing shortly after coming in to his office and getting waylaid by the Chief Constable.

  Unlike his DI, Malting tended to read only the Oxford Times, so he’d been unaware of the ‘scoop’ in the more downmarket, but very widely read newspaper that liked to appeal to the more scurrilous-minded of the city’s population.

  It had taken his CC to point it out to him, and then demand that something be done about it. In true, pass-the-buck style, Malting was now passing the order down to Jennings.

  Now, as he gave his man time read the article, he wondered, not without some amusement, whom Jennings would choose to pass the problem onto. Whoever it was, the poor sod would probably not be impressed.

  The whole thing was clearly a mare’s-nest dreamt up by either a bored or gung-ho journalist, designed to do nothing more than stir up interest and gain the paper yet more readers. Never mind that it caused trouble for the police! Or needlessly harassed a family already touched by tragedy.

  DI Jennings was thinking much the same thing, as he glumly perused the offending article. From the deliberately eye-catching and mischievous title, to the sly innuendoes peppering the text, it was as aggravating and unnecessary a piece of reporting as he’d ever read. And in his time, he’d read a few doozies!

  WAS THE DEATH OF LOCAL ‘FINANCIER’ THOMAS HUGHES REALLY AN ACCIDENT?

  Many of our readers will probably know the name of Thomas Hughes. A life-long resident of our fair city, he was the son of a local shop owner who rose in prominence to build a modest but nevertheless impressive empire for himself, starting out first with a series of chandlers’ shops, before quickly moving on and diversifying into coal, aviation and shipping. Many of our older readers will remember the ‘golden age’ of aviation fondly, when Hughes Aircraft provided shuttle services across the country, back in the years between the wars, for the more well-heeled traveller.

  Since then, of course – many readers will remember rather less fondly – there have been two other offshoots of Hughes Enterprises, the ill-fated Hughes Radio and Hughes Premium Bonds Consortium, both of which folded after six and eight years respectively, with considerable losses to their investors. But not, as the authorities made a show of pointing out at the time, with any personal losses to Mr Hughes or his other business interests.

  So is it likely, this reporter found himself asking, whilst attending the inquest on the death of Mr Hughes during last week’s bonfire festivities, that such an unpopular but canny and careful man should have met his death in such a lackadaisical manner?

  What man, I found myself asking, when confronted by a shed burning down around him, or a barrage of fireworks going off right past his face, wouldn’t simply run for safety?

  Why was the medical evidence of a ‘blow to the head’ allowed to pass with barely a raised eyebrow?

  With the man’s entire family gathered together in one place, how is it that not one of them saw anything of how the fire started? Or could give the authorities even the most uninspired of guesses as to what could have happened? And just how likely is it that not one of them noticed when Mr Hughes went into the shed or came out of it, before it was too late to save him?

  Rumours have been spreading of ructions in the dead man’s immediate family for some time now – the same family that has just inherited the vast wealth so ruthlessly accumulated by the businessman.

  Which leaves us at the Tribune wondering whether the police might not have been altogether too quick to close this most suspicious of cases without even a proper investigation. Could it be that some discreet pressure might have been exerted in certain places to let the matter rest before being properly investigated? If so, we at the Tribune protest – and in no uncertain terms. After all, no matter how prominent a person or family, the law applies to us all equally.

  But rest assured, even if the authorities are prepared to look the other way, we at the Tribune will continue to ask questions – as unwelcome as they may be. So if any of our readers have any information at all about Mr Thomas Hughes (perhaps you were one of the many who suffered financial losses after investing in any of his defunct schemes?) we would be pleased to hear from you.

  We would also like to take this opportunity to humbly suggest that our local constabulary takes a second look at this most outlandish and distinctly odd death of one of our city’s more controversial figures.

  Jennings glanced at the byline, but didn’t recognise it – which made him think that it was probably a new reporter, anxious to make a name for himself.

  ‘I don’t know this Duncan Gillingham chap,’ Jennings grunted. ‘Seems to me he’s flying close to the wind in some of his statements, too.’

  ‘Hmmm, but he’s been careful to refrain from saying anything definitely libellous,’ the Superintendent replied with a cynical smile. ‘The paper’s legal eagles would have made sure of that before allowing it to go to press. It’s all innuendoes and “ifs” or sly suggestions.’

  Jennings sighed heavily. ‘Do you know the owner of the paper, sir?’ he asked cautiously. In his experience, most of the city’s movers and shakers belonged to the Masons – as did most senior police officers, come to that. And if a discreet word could be had in that gentleman’s ear, it was possible that all his unpleasantness could be made to just fade away.

  Superintendent Maltings caught on at once and gave a weary smile. ‘Only vaguely, I’m afraid. See him on the golf course too from time to time, but have never played a round with him. From what little I know of him, though, he seems a sound enough chap. This –’ he tapped the newspaper with a slight sneer ‘– doesn’t seem to be in his line at all. Which makes me wonder.’

  Jennings eyes widened slightly. ‘Wonder, sir? Do you mean – he might know something that we don’t? You surely can’t think there can possibly be anything in it?’ he asked, his voice rising a notch.

  ‘Personally, no. I’ve had a look at the case file, of course, but even at a quick glance, it looks open-and-shut. Even better, it was one of Dr Ryder’s cases as well, which helps enormously. Whether you like or appreciate the old vulture or not, Jennings, you have to admit that he’s not the sort to let anything much slip past him.’ He broke off and eyed his DI quickly. ‘He hasn’t mentioned anything to you about it, has he?’ he added sharply.

  In the past, and whenever he’d smelt a rat, the curmudgeon of a coroner had been known to stick his nose into the odd closed police case or two, and (much to everyone’s annoyance) been proved right.

  But already Jennings was shaking his head, his relief clear on his face. ‘Not heard a squeak from him, sir,’ he said, with heartfelt satisfaction. ‘So I think we can take it that this is just a bit of muck-raking and tub-thumping on the part of this Gillingham chap?’

  The Superintendent smiled grimly. ‘No use trying to wriggle out of it, Jennings,’ he advised him sardonically. ‘I’m afraid the powers that be are fuming over the suggestion that we’ve been asked to sweep it under the carpet, as it were. I’ve been ordered to give the case another look over – officially, and obviously, as it were. Not that it will come to anything, you understand. It’ll turn out to be a complete waste of time, you mark my words. But with public scrutiny now on us, we have to be seen to be taking a proper interest.’

  Jennings knew what was coming next and sighed. ‘You want this station to check into it, sir? Strictly speaking, shouldn’t that be Headington’s job?’ he asked hopefully.

  Maltings grinned. ‘Another good try, Jennings, and my first thought too,’ he admitted, unabashed. ‘But the powers that be want an “independent” eye cast on it, and since it was Headington Station’s baby to begin with, and they conducted the initial i
nvestigation, it falls to us to pick up the baton where they left off. The high-ups don’t want this rag –’ he nudged the paper again disdainfully ‘– to have any excuses for slinging more mud our way.’

  But Jennings wasn’t going to go down without a fight. ‘We’re hard pushed at the moment sir,’ he complained. ‘Sergeant O’Grady is hot on the post office robbery in St Ebbes, and my other officers are still investigating Roddy Blackwood and that business over Littlemore way. We’re sure he’s using his fleet of lorries to—’

  The Superintendent held up his hand in a pacifying gesture. ‘Good grief, man, you don’t have to put any of your best people on it,’ Maltings said, a shade wearily now. ‘Surely you have some dozy spare constable or other that you can hand it over to? He doesn’t need to be all that experienced. He just needs to be seen asking questions and doing something to reassure the public that we’re doing our job properly. And it needn’t be for long either – a few days, a week at the most. Just until the paper loses interest and goes on to the next big story. You must have someone who fits the bill?’

  At that, DI Jennings began to smile. It was such a happy smile that, for a moment, Superintendent Maltings couldn’t help but smile himself.

  ‘Well, there’s always WPC Loveday, sir,’ Jennings said blandly.

  ‘WPC … Oh, the girl who … Ah. Yes, I know the one you mean,’ the Superintendent said thoughtfully. ‘Hasn’t she just finished her probationary period as well?’

  ‘Yes sir,’ Jennings confirmed, a shade morosely. In truth, he’d been hoping that WPC Trudy Loveday might have left the police force before completing her two-year probationary period. But now he was slowly becoming resigned to the fact that they were stuck with her.

  ‘Actually, you know, she might just be the ideal choice, Jennings’ Maltings said, suddenly warming to the idea. ‘After all, she had all that good publicity not so long ago concerning that case with the Earl’s son, so handling the press should be right up her street. What’s more, the reading public already know her name. And the bloody papers can’t say we aren’t taking them seriously if we assign the case to her. Even though we aren’t – taking them seriously, I mean!’ he laughed.

  Jennings could see his superior’s point. A little while ago, his WPC, with the help of Dr Ryder, had helped solved a murder and in the process, Trudy Loveday had prevented an attack on a Lord of the Realm. His grateful father, the Earl, had then insisted on holding a dinner in her honour and presenting her with a letter of thanks. The papers (including the Tribune) had covered it closely and had helped make the WPC a bit of a local heroine, praising both her bravery and professionalism. So they could hardly cry ‘foul’ now if she was given the Hughes case.

  ‘I’ll call her in now, sir, and give her the good news,’ Jennings said, with a brief grin that was as much grimace as smile.

  ‘Well, I’ll let you get on with it then,’ Maltings said, rising quickly to his feet and mentally washing his hands of the matter.

  ‘Sir,’ Jennings said dryly.

  Chapter 4

  Two hours later, Trudy Loveday collected her police-issue bicycle from the shed and trundled it reluctantly out onto the street.

  At five feet ten, she was a slim girl, with masses of long dark brown curly hair that she kept tightly restrained in a bun and mostly hidden under her police cap. Having finally reached the age of twenty, she was glad to leave her teenage years behind her, but as she mounted her bicycle, checked behind her for traffic and started to pedal energetically towards Carfax, she felt considerably older than a mere score years.

  Her last big case, when, with the help of Dr Clement Ryder, she had tracked down the killer of a young boy, had definitely left its scars on her – mostly mental ones, it had to be said. But she was well aware of all of them as she turned left at the famous clock tower and headed down St Aldates, past the beauty of Christ Church college and its cathedral, and towards St Ebbes and Floyds Row, where the coroner’s offices and the morgue were situated.

  It had been some months since she’d last seen Dr Ryder, and she was not sure how she felt about seeing him now. Such ambivalence almost shocked her.

  When she’d first met Dr Ryder, he’d been unhappy about an old case and had relentlessly harassed her senior officers into letting him investigate it, with the aid of a police officer to make it official. And she had no illusions as to why her DI, Harry Jennings, had chosen her for the task.

  She’d been just eighteen then, on probation, and considered pretty much a nuisance by all her male colleagues. Reduced to filing, making the tea and walking her beat, she’d been little more than a glorified clerk. So she’d jumped at the chance to do an actual investigation – even if everyone thought the coroner was on a wild goose chase.

  But the old vulture was too wise and wily to indulge in such a foolish pastime, and by the end of the case, they had laid a murderer by the heels. It had been a heady, exciting time, and she had felt vindicated and full of enthusiasm for her choice of career.

  A second case, again with Dr Ryder, had also ended with success. As had a third, although that had not ended as she’d expected.

  And then had come the incident last Easter – and the death of a young boy. Although she and the coroner had again succeeded in solving the crime, both of them had nearly died. And Trudy, for one, was still feeling the fallout from such a near miss.

  Ever since, she’d been worried that she might have lost her nerve, but as every day passed with her fulfilling her usual duties without incident, she’d felt her confidence returning. But now her doubts came flooding back. It annoyed her – and scared her.

  As she nimbly dodged around a red bus with the familiar pale lime-green stripe down its sides, she was pleased to note that it wasn’t her father driving. Frank Loveday’s route covered the Cowley area as a rule. No doubt, though, if he had been behind the wheel, he’d have given her a good talking to when she got home about the somewhat cavalier way that she’d been cycling. And no excuse that she’d had her mind on other things would have been accepted!

  She sighed, stuck out her hand to indicate right and dodged inside some black wrought iron gates and into the cobbled courtyard of Floyd’s Row. Like a lot of the city, it had probably been there, in some form or other, since medieval times. She dismounted and carefully propped her bicycle against one of the red-bricked walls that composed most of the single-storey complex before slowly trudging across to the offices.

  It felt odd to be coming here solely to pick the coroner’s brains as a potential witness, and as she forlornly made her way to his office, she actually found herself wishing that it had been another coroner who had handled the Hughes case. The echoes of their last case together still weighed heavily upon her, and she felt a creeping sense of shame wash over her at her reluctance to meet Dr Ryder again.

  The coroner’s secretary looked surprised to see her, as well she might. There wasn’t much of Dr Ryder’s official business that she didn’t know about, and since she wasn’t aware of any case he was working on that needed Trudy’s input, she looked a little put out to find herself in the dark.

  ‘Hello WPC Loveday,’ she said crisply. ‘Is the doctor expecting you?’

  ‘No, sorry. I don’t have an appointment,’ Trudy admitted, making the older woman look a shade happier. ‘I just called in on the off chance that I could see him. It’s police business,’ she added, a shade unnecessarily. Although she regarded Clement Ryder as a mentor and, to some extent, a friend, she was well aware that they weren’t exactly social with each other, and she felt compelled to make it clear to the man’s secretary that she knew her place.

  ‘Of course. I’ll just check to see if he can spare you a few minutes,’ the secretary smiled gracefully.

  Trudy nodded, and began to pace up and down. This was going to be the first time that she and the coroner had got together since Easter, and she couldn’t help but think that nothing good could come of it, whilst a more robust part of her was telling herself
off for being so lame.

  ‘Dr Ryder can give you ten minutes, Constable,’ the secretary said, holding the door open with a friendly smile. Her eyes, however, narrowed slightly as she took in the young girl’s pallor and the tight look around her mouth, and as Trudy passed her, the older woman shot her a sharp, speculative glance.

  Trudy, unaware of the scrutiny, forced a smile to her face as she entered the familiar office. ‘Dr Ryder. Thank you for seeing me,’ she began formally.

  Perhaps her tone had been a bit too official. Or perhaps her tension was palpable, for she saw the happy smile of greeting that had been about to rise to his face freeze and then retreat.

  ‘Trudy, how lovely to see you again,’ he said cautiously. ‘Please, sit down.’

  Trudy took a deep breath and pulled out a chair. She reached into her satchel and rummaged through her accoutrements for her notebook and pencil.

  ‘Thank you, Dr Ryder. I’m here about the Thomas Hughes case.’

  Chapter 5

  Clement leaned back in his chair with a slow frown. He was dressed in a dark grey suit with a discreet navy stripe, and a navy and red tie. His head of thick, white-and-grey hair gleamed in the grey November light coming through the curtains. In the fireplace, a large coal fire glowed invitingly. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ he asked.

  Trudy shook her head. ‘No, thank you. This shouldn’t take long,’ she said with another forced smile. ‘DI Jennings has been asked by our superintendent to cast a second, more detailed look over the death of Mr Thomas Hughes. It was your case, I believe?’

  Clement smiled briefly. He felt a little hurt by her rather chilly, brusque manner, but he was wise enough not to let it show. Clearly something was bothering his young protégé and until he learned what it was, he was prepared to tread carefully.

  In an effort to lighten the mood, he decided a compliment probably couldn’t hurt anything. ‘Don’t say Jennings has finally seen the light and begun to give you more responsibility? That’s wonderful, Trudy’