Shallow Grave (Bill Slider Mystery)

by Harrod-Eagles, Cynthia

  ‘No, I don’t mind,’ she said, answering him literally, ‘but I can’t give you too long. I’ve got to get to a patient, and I expect the roads are terrible this morning, what with the strike and all.’

  ‘They don’t seem too bad,’ Slider said, sitting. ‘I got here from Turnham Green all right.’

  Miss Rogan perched on the arm of the chair opposite and folded her arms, a compromise between staying and going which had the, no doubt unintentional, effect of enhancing Slider’s view of her legs and her bosom. ‘Righty-o, then. What did you want to know about Cyril? I hope you’re not intending to upset him? He’s a real cantankerous old divil, and he can be a pain in the nick sometimes, but I wouldn’t want him disturbed at this late stage.’

  ‘Late stage?’

  ‘He hasn’t got long to go,’ she said bluntly. ‘He’s fighting gamely, but it’s a losing fight. A few weeks – a couple of months at most.’

  ‘I see,’ Slider said. ‘And what treatment do you give him?’

  ‘Me personally? Well, I work for the Princess Elizabeth Clinic, which is a private health clinic specialising in the treatment of terminal illnesses, like cancer, which is what Cyril’s got. The PEC’s philosophy is to adopt a holistic approach to disease and pain management.’ This part sounded like a quotation from the brochure. ‘As part of that holistic approach I provide physiotherapy, massage and other hands-on treatment. Raising the physical and mental levels of well-being through physical contact can have a big effect on the immune system.’ Her eyes widened a little and she dropped into normal speech. ‘A lot of old people die, you know, because no one touches them any more. We live in our bodies, and we need to be kind to them.’

  ‘So you give Mr Dacre physiotherapy and massage as part of his treatment?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Always at home?’

  ‘Sometimes at the clinic, when there’s equipment there I want to use. He gets his drugs and radiotherapy there, of course, and he comes to see me at the same time. I encourage him to swim to improve his muscle tone – there’s a pool at the clinic – and I give him heat treatment there. But I visit him at home twice a week – more, if he’s having a bad spell.’

  ‘All that must be pretty expensive,’ Slider suggested.

  ‘Not my province,’ she said shortly. ‘I don’t send out the bills.’

  ‘But it’s not on the National Health?’

  ‘Oh, no, it’s private medicine. A lot of the patients have insurance, of course, but that hardly ever covers everything we do at the PEC.’

  ‘So Mr Dacre must be pretty well off to afford it?’

  She shrugged. ‘He doesn’t look as if he’s short of a bob or two, does he, living in that big house? But if you want to know about his financial position, you’d have to speak to the PEC’s secretary. She’s the one who sends out the bills.’

  Slider nodded to that, and said, ‘What I wanted to know from you was, how disabled is he really?’

  ‘Cyril? He’s not disabled. I told you, he has inoperable cancer.’ She looked puzzled, and then her brow cleared. ‘Oh, you mean the wheelchair business?’

  ‘Is he able to walk at all?’

  ‘Oh, he can walk all right. I told you, he’s not disabled; he’s just weak. It’s understandable at his age, even without the extra burden of his illness; but I’m sorry to have to say, in his case, he’s also lazy. I have to bully him into doing things, or he’d just sit around all day feeling sorry for himself. Probably never get out of bed at all. And his daughter encourages him, I’m afraid. I gather she’s always waited on him hand and foot, and that’s the last thing he needs now.’

  ‘So he can walk? Get out of his chair unaided?’

  ‘Oh, yes, if he wants to. He can push himself up. He’s surprisingly strong in the arms still – I suppose it was all that mountaineering when he was younger. Did you know he used to be a climber?’

  ‘I’ve seen the photos in the drawing-room.’

  ‘He went on well into his fifties, and even after that he still went hill-walking. He was very active right up until he got ill. He talks about it a lot. I think he resents not being able to do what he used to do, so in a contrary way he kind of revels in doing nothing at all – cutting off his nose to spite his face, you know?’

  ‘Yes, it’s understandable,’ Slider nodded.

  ‘And then, I think he likes to keep Mrs Hammond running about after him. It’d probably be better for him not to have her around, in some respects. But of course the stage will come – pretty soon, in fact – where he really can’t help himself, and then he’ll need her.’ She eyed Slider with birdlike curiosity, trying to fathom his thoughts. ‘This is something to do with that woman’s death, right?’

  ‘Did you ever meet her?’

  ‘What, Jennifer Andrews? Not to say met her, really, but I passed her in the doorway once or twice. Cyril couldn’t stand her. I always got an earful when she’d been round to the house. I think she was probably quite good for him in a way – got his circulation going, and took his mind off his troubles for a bit!’ She smiled to show this was a joke, revealing even teeth of dazzling whiteness. Teeth, hair, skin, figure – and she did massage as well, Slider thought. She was like an updated version of a Stepford wife. He had always wondered why Ira Levin set such store by housework.

  ‘Does he only use the wheelchair downstairs, or is it taken upstairs for him as well?’

  ‘Oh, he has it by his bed, and comes down in it in the morning. He has a lift – haven’t you seen it?’ she said. ‘Not a stair-lift, the real thing. They installed it years ago when Mrs Dacre was in her last illness. One of the spare bedrooms was turned into a sort of vestibule for it, and it comes out in that room between the front door and the kitchen. That used to be Cyril’s study, until he had his desk moved into the dining-room. Well, he likes it better there anyway. He can see everyone go past his window. Nearly everyone comes in round the back, you see.’

  ‘Yes, so I understand. The front door sticks.’

  She dimpled at him. ‘To tell you the truth, Cyril won’t let Mrs Hammond have it fixed. He likes being able to keep an eye on who visits her. He teases her dreadfully, the naughty man.’

  ‘Teases her? About what?’

  ‘Oh, about her husband leaving her, and not being able to keep a man, that sort of thing. And now he’s made this joke for himself about her having hundreds of men chasing her, and every time a man comes to the door – the postman, the milkman, anybody at all – he goes on about, “Here’s another of your gentlemen followers.” It makes her blush, poor thing, because of course she’s well past the age for getting married, and she can’t like having him keep reminding her that her husband ran off with a girl half his age.’

  What a prince the man was, Slider thought.

  She stood up, and looked at the smart watch that clasped her slim wrist. ‘Well, look, I really do have to go, if that’s all the questions you wanted to ask me?’

  Slider stood too. ‘Just one more,’ he said. ‘Does Mr Dacre have sleeping pills?’

  ‘No, not as such. He doesn’t like the idea. But he does have flunitrazepam for the pain, which has a sedative effect.’

  Slider took out his notebook. ‘What’s the name again?’

  ‘Flunitrazepam. The PEC’s using it experimentally to control intractable pain, especially at night, so that the patients can get a good night’s sleep. It’s not available on the National Health, but some of our people are getting very good results with it.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Sick Transport, Glorious Monday

  When he got back into the car, he found the traffic had suddenly thickened, as though everyone who’d skived off work because of the strike had decided at the same moment to abandon their lie-in. At least the creeping and stopping gave him a chance to use his phone without violating moving-traffic regulations. He dialled Tufty’s number, and tried him with the name of the drug Miss Rogan had mentioned.

  ‘Oho!’ T
ufty bellowed with mighty interest. ‘So that’s how the milk got into the coconut!’

  ‘Mean something to you?’

  ‘Flunitrazepam, my old banana, is the chemical name for Rohypnol, or in other words, our old friend the Roofie.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Slider, enlightened. New friend rather than old friend; and no friend at all, come to that. ‘That’s not nice.’

  ‘Do you think your victim might have been slipped one?’

  ‘It’s possible. The old man had them, who owns the house where she was found. He goes to a private cancer clinic that gives them out.’

  ‘Well, flunitrazepam would certainly do the job.’

  ‘Can you test for it?’ Slider asked anxiously.

  ‘Now I know what I’m looking for, I can try,’ Tufty said. ‘It leaves the bloodstream after thirty-six hours and the urine after seventy-two, but since she died within minutes, there’s a good chance we’ll be able to detect it. I’ll do my best, anyway.’

  ‘Thanks, Tufty,’ Slider said. ‘Let me know as soon as possible, will you?’

  He rang off and sat staring at nothing, remembering what he knew about Rohypnol. It was a tranquilliser ten times stronger than Valium, which induced a trance-like state and mental blackout which could last for up to twelve hours. It had been used by some doctors to treat back pain and insomnia, and was in circulation on the black market in Scotland as a cheap substitute for heroin; but more notoriously, especially in America, had been implicated in date rape, and it was in this context that it had come to Met police attention. The small purple pill was colourless and odourless when dissolved in alcohol, and after about ten to fifteen minutes – or less if the drink was gulped down – the drinker would turn into a helpless zombie without ability to resist and without memory afterwards of what had happened. Memory of events usually returned some days later when the drug had passed out of the system, which made it difficult to prosecute, even if the victim came forward. Many didn’t, unable to understand what had happened to them, thinking perhaps they were going mad or hallucinating.

  He shivered a little, his mind working on, whether he liked it or not. It was his job to track down the killer, but he didn’t like it – he never liked it – when he got close to the answer. He didn’t ever want to have to realise about anyone that they were capable of such a monstrous act as murder. And this murder—! There was something of the hunt in it. He saw Jennifer Andrews on her last day, increasingly frantic, running from place to place – no, not stock-taking, seeking escape. But one by one the earths were stopped, until finally she had gone to ground. No matter that her character had been flawed, her conduct faulty, her motives less than pure; she had still been dug out and killed. How much had she known about her own death? But he didn’t want to think about that.

  He picked up his phone again and rang Atherton. ‘I want you to meet me at the Old Rectory. Park on the other side of the square, though – I want to talk to you first.’

  ‘Have you got something new?’ Atherton asked, recognising the tone of voice.

  ‘I’m not sure if it’s nuts or not. That’s why I want to talk.’

  ‘He needs me! Thank you. Thank you. You’ve made a young man very happy,’ Atherton said, in a tremulous voice.

  ‘Shut up and get going,’ said Slider.

  * * *

  Atherton drew up behind him and sprang from his car with something of his old eagerness. Slider pushed open the passenger-side door and he slipped in.

  ‘Why are you driving this old wreck?’

  ‘Because Joanna’s got my old wreck. Don’t breathe on anything: it’s got to get me home tonight.’

  ‘So what’s cooking?’

  Slider hesitated a moment longer before plunging in. ‘It was the AA man who put me on to it.’

  ‘What, Mr Milne?’

  ‘For once—!’ Slider pleaded. ‘The dog was the key element. I didn’t see it at first, not consciously, but it always bothered me, nagging at the back of my mind. There was something not right about it. Look, you said there are only two possibilities: either the dog didn’t bark, or they didn’t hear it.’

  ‘Succinct, elegantly phrased: sounds like me,’ said Atherton.

  ‘But if the murderer was out on the terrace in the small hours, morrissing about with a corpse and a tarpaulin – which we know he must have been – why didn’t it bark?’ Atherton looked at him cannily, trying to read his thoughts. Slider continued, ‘The AA man had a dog that he said no-one else could do anything with.’

  ‘A common boast.’

  ‘So here is your starter for ten: name the one person who could have stopped the dog barking during nocturnal corpse-shifting activities.’

  Atherton got there. ‘Isn’t it this time of year your head goes in for servicing?’ he said. And then, quizzically, ‘You’re not kidding me. You are seriously setting up old Professor Branestawm for murderer?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he’s about two hundred years old and wheelchair-bound. If he was a car, this car would give him points.’

  ‘Ah, but he’s not wheelchair-bound,’ Slider said. ‘Eileen Rogan, his physiotherapist, says he’s weak, not crippled.’

  ‘Oh, that’s where you’ve been!’

  ‘She says he can walk, and he’s quite strong in the arms. She even hinted that he could probably do more than he lets on, but likes having his daughter wait on him. Suppose even Eileen Rogan isn’t aware of how strong he really is? Suppose in a good cause he’s quite strong enough for a one-off operation?’

  ‘But why suppose it?’ Atherton countered.

  ‘Because the private clinic he attends prescribes him flunitrazepam tablets for the pain at night. And flunitrazepam is the chemical name for Rohypnol.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Atherton. ‘Roofies, or how to induce quietus in your date’s bare bodkin.’

  ‘Praise God for an intelligent bagman.’

  ‘I do my homework, that’s all. Okay, his possession of Roofies is one point to you. Walk me through it. You might start with motive.’

  ‘Cyril Dacre is a clever man, embittered by personal tragedy. Several people have said, or hinted, that he has a warped sense of humour, and I got a little of that impression myself. He has no liking or respect for women, and he particularly hated Jennifer Andrews: a vulgar, attention-grabbing woman who patronised and embarrassed him. He told me she was ripe for the plucking. In the shadow of death himself, inflicting it on someone else may no longer be unthinkable to him; and his mind could well be unbalanced by pain and illness to the point of acting out his thoughts.’

  ‘Could and might butter no parsnips.’

  ‘True, but play the possibility through with me. You know that Jennifer told Defreitas she had one more person to visit?’

  ‘At a quarter to twelve, yes.’

  ‘I have a witness who saw her going into the Old Rectory at that time.’

  ‘You have been busy this morning. Why did she go there?’

  ‘I don’t know. For some reason. The question is rather, why didn’t Cyril Dacre mention it before?’

  ‘Another point,’ Atherton allowed. ‘But maybe he didn’t see her.’

  ‘Being a regular visitor she goes to the back door rather than the front, knowing that the front door sticks, and in doing so must pass Cyril Dacre’s window. Miss Rogan says he takes a keen interest in all comings and goings – suggested that’s why he won’t get the front door fixed. I think he saw her pass the window, and was suddenly overcome with the irresistible desire to get rid of this ghastly woman for good. Maybe he was in pain; maybe she waved cheerily as she passed, or blew him a kiss—’

  ‘Whatever. You’re winning so far,’ Atherton said.

  ‘Frances Hammond is in the kitchen,’ Slider continued. ‘Coming from the direction of the footpath, Jennifer doesn’t pass the kitchen window, so Mrs Hammond doesn’t know she’s there. Dacre whizzes out in his chair and intercepts Jennifer at the back door. He invites her into the drawing-room, and
offers her a drink.’

  ‘Which she accepts because—?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t she? She knows him – why should she refuse? She’s been drinking all evening. She likes drink. She likes men’s company, even an old man like Cyril. He can be charming when he wants to, and he was celebrated in his heyday; and he’s still, presumably, rich. We know she liked rich and eminent people. We also know she was always trying to get in with the Dacre set. She’d probably feel flattered if he showed her attention: I imagine he didn’t usually.’

  ‘All right,’ Atherton said grudgingly. ‘It plays.’

  ‘Like Broadway,’ Slider said sternly. He went on, ‘It’s late and Cyril was about to take a Rohypnol tablet to give himself a night’s rest. He slips it instead into Jennifer’s whisky or whatever, and chats charmingly until she suddenly goes blah. Now that she’s helpless, even in his – putatively – weak state he has no difficulty in smothering her with a cushion.’

  ‘I’ll give you this,’ Atherton said. ‘It makes sense of the drug angle. In his weakened state, he’d need to drug her to be able to smother her, whereas if Eddie – or any other red-blooded male in the throes of sexual jealousy – killed her, you’d expect him to do it on impulse and overcome her with his physical strength. Drugging and smothering is much more like an old man’s murder – a calculating, clever old man’s murder.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ Slider said unhappily.

  ‘But what about the dog? If the dog’s the key to your theory, do you think it’s going to sit by quietly while the murdering goes on?’

  ‘There would be no violence, no struggle. No sound, even. Unless the dog’s tuned to alpha waves, it wouldn’t even know she’d died. And Dacre’s the one person who can shut it up with a glance or a word.’

  ‘I suppose it might not even have been with him at that point. It might have been in the kitchen with Mrs Hammond. Although then you’d have expected it to bark when Jennifer arrived, and alert Mrs H.’

  ‘Dacre usually kept the dog with him. But I’ll come back to that. It’s later that night that his influence over it becomes crucial,’ Slider said, ‘because he’s got to move the body out to the terrace. That’s what I keep coming back to. If the dog had barked in the night, Mrs Hammond would have heard it, because she sleeps over the kitchen and she’s a light sleeper. If it didn’t bark, it could only be because the person moving around was Cyril Dacre.’