Shallow Grave (Bill Slider Mystery)

by Harrod-Eagles, Cynthia

  ‘Tosca was investigating the railings so I just waited for a moment to see if they would move away, but when they didn’t, I walked on along the side of the church and made the circuit round it and went home via Woodbridge Road.’

  ‘So why didn’t you go over the footbridge, then?’

  Mr Tarrant frowned slightly. ‘Well, they looked as if they were having an argument. I didn’t want to interrupt them.’ He eyed McLaren, and gave a self-conscious cough. ‘If you want the truth, I’m a little nervous of young people in general; and I’ve once or twice received abusive language and even threats from couples when I’ve interrupted them, quite innocently. I’d always sooner avoid trouble of that sort, and it didn’t matter to me which way I took my walk.’

  ‘So this couple were having a barney, were they?’

  He nodded. ‘That’s what it looked like. Of course, I couldn’t hear what they were saying, being across the road from them. At one point he looked as if he was threatening her. He leaned very close, poking his face at her – you know – like this.’ He demonstrated the aggressive tortoise position of the head. ‘And another time he grabbed her by the shoulder, and she sort of pulled herself away angrily, like this.’

  This bloke should be on telly, McLaren thought. ‘Can you describe what they looked like?’

  ‘Well, she was blonde, I could see that. Short hair. She was wearing a dark dress of some sort – with bare arms.’

  McLaren got out the photo they were using of Jennifer. ‘Is this her?’

  Mr Tarrant looked at it carefully, turning it to catch the light from the window. ‘It might be. I couldn’t say for sure. She had her back to me, you see, so I didn’t see her face. But the hair looks all right.’

  ‘What about the bloke?’

  ‘Oh, just ordinary. Tall. Youngish – not teenage, you know, but a young man. In his twenties or thirties, I’d say.’

  ‘Beard? Moustache? Glasses?’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’

  ‘What colour hair?’

  ‘Just ordinary, really. Brown, I suppose. Light brown. Short. Curly, I think.’

  McLaren jotted things down in his notebook. ‘Do you remember what he was wearing?’

  Mr Tarrant looked apologetic. ‘Well, you see, most of his body was hidden from me by the woman. They were standing face to face, quite close to each other, so I could only see her back, and his head over the top of hers. I really wouldn’t like to say what he was wearing, no.’

  ‘But you saw his face, all right? Do you think you’d recognise him again?’

  ‘I might do,’ he said doubtfully.

  ‘Do you wear glasses at all, Mr Tarrant?’

  ‘For reading. I can see distances quite well. I’m long-sighted, you see.’

  ‘All right. Now, you say this man was tall? How tall?’

  ‘As tall as you, or taller, I should think,’ Mr Tarrant said. ‘He was quite a bit taller than the woman.’

  McLaren considered. Jennifer’s height in life had been five-six, and Eddie was five-eight, a difference of only two inches. McLaren himself was five-ten – nearly five-eleven in his thick-soled shoes. ‘But of course it was dark, wasn’t it?’ he said aloud. ‘And you were across the road.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ the old man said, not quite sure where McLaren was going.

  ‘And what with the whatjercallit – you know, like when you’re drawing pictures?’ He waved his hands expressively.

  ‘Perspective?’ Mr Tarrant suggested.

  ‘That’s it. The perspective could make him look taller than he was.’

  ‘It might,’ Mr Tarrant said hesitantly.

  ‘He might only have been an inch or two taller than her?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it’s possible.’

  ‘And can you say what time this was?’

  ‘A quarter past eleven. The church clock struck the quarter just as I was coming round the corner.’

  Back at the factory, McLaren sought out Slider with Mr Tarrant’s statement in his hand and a song in his heart.

  ‘The time’s perfect, guv. A quarter past eleven. Eddie left the First And Last just after eleven, where he’d been swearing to find Jennifer and kill her. It’s five minutes from there to the footpath. This Mr Tarrant ID’d Jennifer from her picture, and he reckons he could pick out the bloke from a line-up. The description fits as far as it goes – clean-shaven, a bit taller than her, with short, light-coloured hair. I questioned him about vehicles and he thinks there could have been a pickup parked just along from the footpath, where the oil stain was found.’

  ‘What’s your idea, then?’ Slider asked, always ready for fresh input.

  ‘He’s looking for Jennifer, he finds her. End of story.’

  ‘You call that an idea? That’d be a low output for a glass of water.’

  ‘Well, guv,’ McLaren said, thinking on his feet, ‘he’s got his motor nearby. Maybe he gets her into that, pretends to’ve swallowed her story, whatever it was. She thinks they’re driving home. Instead he drives to some quiet place, parks the motor, and kills her.’

  ‘With?’

  ‘Oh, something he’d got in the cab. His jacket, or a bit of cloth or something. Afterwards, when he calms down, he realises what he’s done. Doesn’t know what to do. When everything’s quiet he drives back, lays her out nicely in the trench, does her makeup and hair to make her look nice. Remorse and all that. He spends the rest of the night in his cab somewhere, sleeping. Means to come early the next day to fill her in. But Mrs Hammond gets there first.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Slider, a sound McLaren had come to know.

  ‘You don’t like it?’

  ‘It’s not a theory, it’s a sieve,’ Slider said. ‘For instance, if he’s going to kill her, why not take her home and do it there, in real privacy?’

  ‘The way I play it, he’s never thought it out. He’s just acting off impulse.’

  ‘And how come she was waiting for him by the footpath? What was she doing there?’

  ‘Maybe she was on her way home in her car and he saw her pass and flagged her down.’

  ‘No prizes,’ Slider said.

  ‘Well, guv,’ McLaren said, ‘at least we’ve got Mr Tarrant’s evidence that he saw them quarrelling not long before she died. You can’t get over that.’

  ‘I’ll try not to,’ Slider said. ‘All right, d’you want to go and take over a phone, now, give someone a break?’

  ‘Okay, guv,’ McLaren said philosophically. He had worked long and hard on that statement, but time would prove its worth. He turned to go.

  ‘Oh – and where’s my sandwich?’ Slider called after him.

  McLaren looked blank. ‘Blimey, I forgot all about it.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Bridesmaids Revisited

  By the time Detective Superintendent Porson came to see how they were getting on, a few more pieces had been added. The most interesting, and one that perhaps helped McLaren’s theory along, was that a man leaving the First And Last just before eleven on Tuesday night had seen Jennifer’s car parked on the hard standing in front of the Andrewses’ house as he walked past. He had noticed it because he had recently been looking to buy a new car and had fancied the Mazda RX5 himself, but was going to have to go for something more practical because of the kids. He had noticed it was red and that it had a personalised number-plate, something like a name with an interesting number. He had added that he thought the engine was still ticking.

  ‘That gets rid of one of our problems,’ Atherton remarked, ‘that of the murderer getting her car back home. It looks as if either she met him on foot, and was killed close to the Old Rectory, or was taken away and brought back in the killer’s motor.’

  Other sultanas in the pud were ‘a van of some sort’ parked down the end of St Michael Square, not far from the footpath, at about half past eleven, according to a woman driving past on her way home; this more or less accorded with the oil stain on the road. Then there was a man on the railway em
bankment ‘between half past eleven and midnight’, according to a woman drawing her bedroom curtains in a house on the other side of the tracks. The man had been ‘messing about in the bushes’, said the woman, and when invited to expand her information thought he had been ‘covering something up’ with his coat or a blanket or something.

  A further piece fell into place when an anonymous caller said he had been crossing the footbridge at about half past eleven on his way home from the station and had seen a man and a woman making their way along the embankment. He had assumed they were heading for the bushes for a bit of how’s-your-father. No, she wasn’t struggling or anything; they were holding hands. She was just walking along behind him like he was leading her. No, he didn’t want to leave his name, thank you, but they could bank on his story. He was quite sure it was Tuesday because that’s the only night he’d been out that way.

  McLaren had his faults, but you had to grant he wasn’t dogmatic. ‘All right, he didn’t do her in the cab, then. Maybe he invited her for a walk along the embankment, and did her there, hid her in the bushes, and carried her up through the garden later. It’s better that way, ’cause of not having to drive up in the middle of the night and have the neighbours hear the engine.’

  ‘But why would she go for a walk with him on the embankment?’ Slider asked.

  ‘Why wouldn’t she?’ McLaren said simply. ‘She was his wife.’

  ‘Overcome with passion,’ Atherton suggested ironically.

  ‘Five minutes from home and a comfortable bed?’ Slider objected.

  ‘You’re showing your age,’ Atherton grinned. ‘Younger people like adventure and thrills, acting on the impulse of the moment.’

  Slider frowned. ‘There is Jack Potter’s evidence that she liked doing it in dangerous places; but hidden in the bushes on the railway embankment is not particularly dangerous, especially with her own husband.’

  ‘Dangerous? It turned out to be fatal,’ Atherton pointed out.

  The reasoning went down all right with the Syrup. ‘I don’t think you want to get too bogged up as regards the whys and wheretofores, when dealing with people of this calliper. In my experience they frequently do things that to you and I would seem quite irrationable. Let’s just stick to the established facts as we know them, and let the CPS worry about the presentational angle.’

  ‘We haven’t got many established facts,’ Slider said. ‘Only semi-established possibilities.’

  ‘Well, pickers can’t be choosers,’ the Syrup said comfortably. He swivelled a finger in his ear thoughtfully. ‘Let’s see, Eddie Andrews – he’s had two days to think about it now, hasn’t he, since we let him go?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Hmm. Two days. I should think the onermous silence at home ought to be getting on his nerves a bit by now, don’t you? Remorse and ecksetera eating away at him, not to mention the investigation hanging over him like the Sword of Damascus. He knows that we know his entire statement was a virago of lies. And he knows we’re watching him. With a uniform parked more or less outside his door, he’ll have read the handwriting in the wind, all right.’

  ‘You want me to go and talk to him again, sir?’ Slider suggested.

  ‘Yes, do that. Have a little chat. Shake the kettle and see if it boils. You might just persuade him to put his hand up like a good boy, and save us all a sackload of trouble.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Porson looked at him sharply. ‘And take Atherton with you. If anyone can scare Andrews—’

  ‘Atherton?’ Slider said, in surprise.

  ‘He’s highly articulated – got all the la-di-da chat and the posh grammar. That sort of thing can throw a simple man like Eddie Andrews right off balance.’

  ‘Do you think so, sir?’ It was an unexpected insight.

  Porson met his eyes with a gleam of humour. ‘He scares the shit out of me,’ he said frankly.

  ‘Porson called you articulated,’ Slider told Atherton, when he passed on the message afterwards.

  ‘Like a lorry,’ Atherton said in delight. ‘But I’ve always said I’m in the van when it comes to vocab.’

  ‘I’ll have no truck with puns,’ Slider told him curtly. ‘Let’s get going.’

  Andrews looked terrible: unshaven, dirty, with matted hair and red-rimmed eyes. He let Slider and Atherton in without question or comment, and wandered before them into the sitting room, where he slumped down in a chair without looking at them. The room was untidy, with glasses and crockery on the floor, an empty baked-beans can with a spoon standing in it perched on the television, newspapers strewn about, a duvet and pillows falling off the sofa.

  ‘I’ve been sleeping down here,’ he said, when Slider asked about them. ‘I can’t stand it upstairs. I can’t stand it anywhere, if you want to know.’ He looked round the room as if noticing the untidiness for the first time. ‘Pat didn’t come Friday. She sent a note. She says she’s not coming any more. I don’t blame her.’ He put his head in his hands and rubbed and rubbed at his eyes. ‘This house – I built it for her. Everything she wanted – whirlpool bath, automatic oven. She chose everything – carpets, furniture, wallpaper, everything. Fitted wardrobes, I put in, with a light that comes on when you open the door. Her dream home. Anything she asked for I gave her. Self-defrosting fridge. Automatic washer-dryer. Digital microwave. But it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t keep her.’

  ‘Woman is fickle,’ Atherton commented.

  Eddie lifted his head, his eyes unfocused. ‘She cheated on me. I didn’t want to believe it. I told myself they were all lying. I don’t know. Maybe they were. No, she cheated on me. But she loved me, really. You got to understand. Underneath, it was me she loved.’

  ‘That last night, Eddie,’ Slider said gently. ‘We know you met her after you left the pub at closing time. Down by the footpath that leads to the railway bridge. Someone saw you there talking to her. Did you have a quarrel?’

  He stared as if Slider were talking a foreign language. ‘Quarrel? What about?’

  ‘You tell me. You met her by the footpath, didn’t you?’

  ‘Later you were seen on the railway embankment,’ Atherton added.

  ‘The embankment,’ he said. ‘Yes, I remember. I did go there. When I was walking about.’

  ‘You were hiding something in the bushes. Covering it with something,’ Slider suggested.

  ‘It was Jennifer, wasn’t it?’ Atherton said. ‘Jennifer’s body.’

  ‘Jennifer’s body,’ he repeated. He looked exhausted, run to the end of his strength. The Kindly Ones, Atherton thought, had bayed him at last.

  ‘You were seen walking with her along the embankment to the bushes. But she never came back, did she?’ Slider said. ‘What did you do, Eddie? Tell me.’

  ‘Her body.’ Eddie looked at him in agony, his eyes focused now. ‘She’s dead.’ He quivered all over, as a frightened dog shivers. ‘I’ll never see her again. Oh, what have I done?’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Slider urged, and to Atherton, his gentleness was a terrible thing, as a sword is terrible; and yet to a man fleeing the Erinnyes perhaps a welcome thing. Andrews looked at him with the hope with which such a man might look at his executioner: the hope only of an end to it all.

  ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘I want to tell you.’

  Porson read the statement aloud as he hoofed restlessly about the room.

  ‘I found out she had been cheating on me. I swore I would kill her. I was looking for her all evening. I had been drinking a lot. I met her by the path that leads down to the footbridge over the railway and we quarrelled. I led her onto the embankment and killed her in the bushes and covered her with my jacket. Later when it was quiet I carried her up the garden and put her in the hole I’d dug on Mrs Hammond’s terrace. I was going to fill the hole in in the morning, but Mrs Hammond found her first. Now I’m sorry she’s dead and want to get it off my chest.’

  Porson paused in his peregrination and tapped the paper with his finger-nail. ‘Goo
d work,’ he said. ‘And within the week, too. An expertitious result like this will bring us a lot of kewdos with the Powers That Be, I can tell you, Slider. Especially as it’s a nice, clean, straightforward case: confession plus corroboration, obvious suspect, comprehensive motive, creditable witnesses – nothing to tax the imagination of the twelve men and true. I think there’s no doubt the CPS will prosecute on this one, and a conviction will do us no end of bon.’

  For a rare moment he was still, away in some pleasurable place of plaudit. His big hands twitched as he received a commendation and shook the hand of the Assistant Commissioner, as a dreaming dog’s paws twitch at that special rabbit moment.

  Slider stirred a little, unhappily. Confession is as confession does, he thought, and there was something unsatisfyingly bloodless about this one. The show without the substance. Someone somewhere wasn’t inhaling. But he must try to be specific for Porson: he didn’t know him well enough to play the old instinct card, as he could have done with Dickson in the dear dead days of long ago.

  ‘He doesn’t say how he killed her,’ Slider said. ‘Or how he met her there. And what became of the jacket?’

  ‘Eh?’ Porson said, dragged unwillingly back to cold reality.

  ‘The jacket, sir. He wasn’t wearing one in the morning, and we’ve been over every inch of the embankment and the garden. There was no jacket in his pickup, either.’

  ‘Well, he could have dumped it anywhere,’ Porson said.

  ‘But why would he? It wasn’t as if there was any blood.’

  Porson looked kindly. ‘Well, obviously this statement is only a preliminary starting place. There’s plenty more work to be done; d’you think I don’t know that? But you don’t need to lose any sleep. He’s put his hand up, that’s the main thing. This is not the moment to go picking hairs and getting bogged down in the fine print. Cut yourself a bit of cake, Slider: you’ve done a good job.’

  ‘Sir,’ Slider said, unconvinced.

  ‘Come on, you don’t need me to tell you how the thing works: he feels relief after confessing, and out comes all the rest – if he’s handled the right way up. That’s down to you – asking the right questions is your providence.’