by Faith Martin
But there was no sign of either the remaining chick or his wife when her erstwhile colleague opened the door, made a show of checking her credentials, and somewhat reluctantly led her through to a small living area.
Off on one side, she could just see through the window a glassed-in extension that his wife would probably call an orangery, where several rather sick-looking plants struggled against the cold of the January day and the minimal hours of daylight.
‘You’re lucky to catch me in. I work three nights a week as a night watchman, so I’m often in bed this time of day. So, what’s all this about?’ Gordon asked her flatly.
At sixty-one, he was a heavy man, rapidly going bald, and had a pair of rather boiled-gooseberry blue eyes. A large nose did little to enhance his looks, and red-veined cheeks told Trudy he was probably partial to the booze too. Nicotine-stained fingers plucked aside one of the curtains as he peered outside, perhaps to see what his neighbours thought of this visit by a uniformed police officer.
Which was odd, surely, Trudy thought, for a man who’d once worn the uniform himself? What did he have to be ashamed of?
But when Trudy looked out into the lane beyond, she noted that, like the Gordon residence itself, the houses here were all rather nice. Modestly detached, with several showing the recent additions of garages, extensions and the odd conservatory or two, there wasn’t a council house in sight.
‘Well, Constable?’ Richard Gordon barked, and Trudy knew she was blushing again, having been caught letting her mind drift.
‘Sorry, sir, I haven’t been on the job that long,’ she said smartly, trying to play the little-lost-lamb card. She’d found it amazing how much she could learn, from middle-aged men especially, if she acted like a poor, helpless female in need of male help. ‘I expect, in your day, a man with your experience would have got down to the nitty-gritty already,’ she added, figuring it wouldn’t hurt to stroke his ego a little either. Another lesson she’d long since learned was that it was almost impossible to flatter a man too much. ‘It’s about an old case of yours, sir,’ she added.
Of course, that was stretching it a bit. The Fleet-Wright case had never been ‘his’. As a lowly beat constable, his sole role had been to respond to the original call, assess it, and report back as to what the situation warranted. Once he’d left the Fleet-Wright residence after that, he’d played no further part in the case – except to give evidence at the inquest.
‘Well, sit down then,’ Richard said a shade impatiently, indicating the armchair of a rather nice three-piece suite in beige rayon. Instantly, she wondered how much it had cost, and quickly darted her eyes around the room, taking in the rather swanky lampshade in one corner, and the sheepskin rug in front of the gas fireplace.
‘Thank you, sir.’ She beamed at him, hoping she wasn’t overdoing it. ‘You may have read in the papers about the murder of man called Jonathan McGillicuddy?’
Richard shot her a sharp look. ‘You’re not on that are you, Constable? You look young enough to still be in your probationary period!’
‘Oh no, sir. I’m not on the murder case, I mean,’ Trudy said hastily. ‘I wish! No, sir, I’ve been seconded to the coroner’s office to help the current coroner with an old case. Gisela Fleet-Wright?’
Instantly, she saw the older man stiffen, and his expression, which had ranged from condescending to vaguely amused as she chattered and gushed, now went curiously blank. A moment later, however, he was frowning and making a good show of a man trying to cast his mind back. But Trudy wasn’t deceived. She would willingly have bet a month’s wages that this man remembered the case perfectly well.
And again, she felt a growing sense of excitement. Was it possible that the old vulture really was on to something significant and important, after all?
‘Not sure I recall the name,’ the former PC said vaguely.
‘A young girl, sir. Found dead in bed. The coroner’s verdict returned death by misadventure. She’d accidentally taken too many pills?’
‘Oh, yes. Yes, of course, now I remember. Shame. A pretty girl. Young too. Yes, her mother called the doctor, and the doctor called us in.’
‘That’s right,’ Trudy said brightly. ‘What can you remember about that case, sir?’
Richard, who had sat down on the sofa, now laid his arms across the back of it and shrugged. ‘Not much.’ On the coffee table in front of him lay an issue of that morning’s Oxford Mail, opened at the crossword puzzle. Trudy knew it also carried the piece Marcus Deering had had put in, after DI Jennings had sanctioned it.
The thinking on that was clear enough, she supposed. Obviously the killer was looking for some kind of sign of remorse on the part of the businessman, and the piece in the paper was meant to appease him. She truly hoped it would work, but somehow didn’t think it would.
Anthony Deering was recovering in hospital, having only sustained some minor wounds in the car crash. Luckily, he’d managed to slow down the big car he’d been driving sufficiently enough to prevent real injuries. But it hadn’t taken the police mechanics long to ascertain the man’s brakes had been interfered with in a deliberate act of sabotage.
‘It was a sunny day when you found her, I believe, sir?’ Trudy prompted, since it was clear that former PC Gordon was in no mood to be helpful and wasn’t about to volunteer information.
‘Yes, that’s right. She was lying on the bed looking as if she was asleep. The windows were open, I remember. And the gardens were lovely. I remember thinking that when I first answered the call.’
Of course, McGillicuddy would have worked on those gardens too, in the early days of his courtship with the daughter of the household. Trudy felt a pang of sadness as she acknowledged he’d never be able to plant another flower or shrub again. Briefly, she thought of his poor mother, sitting alone in her quiet house.
‘You were on the beat?’ She forced herself to keep her mind on the job at hand. Both Sergeant O’Grady and Rodney Broadstairs had told her off in the past for empathising too much with the victims and not concentrating on her police work.
Grimly she told herself to damn well toughen up.
‘Yes. I’d just checked in, actually. That’s why the desk sergeant, who knew where I was, asked me to look into it. I wasn’t more than five hundred yards away when the attending doctor called it in.’
Trudy nodded. Sometimes you just happened to be in the right place at the right time.
‘So what’s this got to do with the McGillicuddy case?’ Richard suddenly demanded, and for a moment Trudy looked at him blankly as he scowled back at her. ‘When I first asked you what this was all about, you mentioned the recent murder,’ he reminded her.
Trudy flushed again, this time genuinely feeling stupid for having forgotten that. ‘Oh, yes, sir. Well, Mr McGillicuddy was a former boyfriend of Gisela Fleet-Wright. There was some speculation that her recent breakup with him might have led to her death.’
‘But it didn’t, did it?’ Richard snorted impatiently. ‘Didn’t the mother put her hands up for it? Something about her daughter not taking her medication, so she accidentally gave her too much or something?’
‘Yes, sir. You followed the case then?’ Trudy said blandly.
‘’Course I did. I found the poor girl, didn’t I?’ The older man bristled. ‘Something sad, like that. You take an interest.’
Trudy nodded. She supposed that could be true enough, so why didn’t she believe him?
She was aware she’d taken an instant dislike to her former colleague, but she wasn’t letting that affect her judgement. No, it was something else that was bothering her about all this. She was sure the man was prevaricating, if not downright lying to her.
At that moment, however, the front door opened and a woman’s voice called through. ‘Hello, Dickie, I’m home. I got some steak and kidney for… Oh, sorry, I didn’t realise…’
Glenda Gordon was a few years younger than her husband, and probably several stones heavier, with a round, pleasant face, a mass
of dyed-brown curls and big hazel eyes. She looked at Trudy uncertainly, taking in her uniform and shooting her husband a quick, questioning and – yes, Trudy was sure of it – distinctly anxious look.
‘This is WPC Loveday, Glen,’ Richard said, very casually. ‘She’s just asking me for some help with an old case of mine. Nothing to worry about. Why don’t you pop the kettle on.’ He got up. ‘The constable was just leaving anyway.’
Was I? Trudy thought grimly. But a quick glance at the shuttered, unhelpful face of the older man told her it would be pointless pressing him any further now. She knew that look, having seen it on perpetrators’ faces before, and it told her he would only dig his heels in and become even more stubbornly unhelpful if she pushed him.
‘Yes, thank you, sir.’ Trudy forced herself to smile. But as she passed Glenda, she saw that the woman was biting her lip – a sure sign she was worried about something.
The house behind her remained eerily quiet as she made her way through the small hall and out to the front door, and she knew the married couple were waiting for her to leave before they started talking to one another.
How she wished she could be a fly on the wall when they did!
All the way back to the station, as Trudy sat swaying on the bus, she tried to figure out what it was that was bothering her about the whole interview. It was more than just the fact that former PC Richard Gordon had been less than honest. She simply couldn’t shake the feeling that something obvious was staring her in the face that she’d yet to see.
She knew she still had a lot to learn, and sometimes her inexperience annoyed and worried her. Worse, it could sometimes make her second-guess herself.
It wasn’t until she was walking down St Ebbes that it finally struck her. How did a constable with five kids end up retiring early and living in a nice little detached house in upmarket Kidlington?
The killer of Jonathan McGillicuddy read that morning’s article in the Oxford Mail by Sir Marcus Deering with a great deal of interest.
And a thin, rather sardonic little smile.
CHAPTER TWENTY
‘The boss wants to see you,’ Phil Monroe, the desk sergeant, said the moment she stepped into the station house, and Trudy gave a tight little nod.
Was she in trouble? It wasn’t often the DI actually deigned to notice her, let alone actively seek her out, and her first instinct was to cast her mind around for some misdemeanour she might have committed.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Phil, grinning at her, reading her mind easily. ‘He didn’t sound like he was out after blood.’ Two years off retirement, he had a granddaughter Trudy’s age and often gave her encouragement where he could.
‘That’s a relief!’ Trudy gave a brief smile. She half-turned to go, but Monroe was anxious to get the gen on the latest station-house gossip. Which, as everyone knew and accepted, was one of the main prerogatives of a desk sergeant.
‘I hear the DI has thrown you to the wolves then? Or, in this case, the vultures?’ he said slyly.
Trudy gave a wry grin. ‘If you mean our esteemed coroner, then yes. I’m helping him out with an old case.’
‘Bit of a tartar, our Dr Ryder,’ the desk sergeant said. ‘Bloody brilliant chap, mind you. Nothing gets past him.’
‘No. I think that’s why DI Jennings consented to let me help him. He’s worried he might be on to something,’ Trudy admitted. ‘And you know something?’ She leaned forward a little and lowered her voice. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t.’
‘Ah,’ Phil said appreciatively, nodding eagerly. Here was juicy gossip indeed. ‘What you working on then? An unsolved murder?’
‘I wish!’ Trudy said, frowning. ‘The original coroner’s verdict was death by misadventure. A young girl took too many pills. I think the old vult—I mean, Dr Ryder, suspects it was really suicide.’
The desk sergeant nodded, looking a little impressed now. ‘Nasty, that. Suicides – especially when it’s a youngster.’
Trudy nodded. ‘I agree. And I don’t really see why, even if the wrong verdict was given, we should pursue it,’ she muttered. For some time now, she’d felt a pang of conscience over this issue. And since everyone else confided in the desk sergeant – indeed, it was almost a prerequisite that they did – she thought now was as good a time as any to get it off her chest and seek his wisdom.
‘Say Gisela Fleet-Wright did kill herself, and her parents covered it up. Is that so terrible?’ she demanded. ‘I mean, I don’t see what good can come of raking it all up again. It’s not as if her parents haven’t suffered enough, is it? I just don’t see the point.’
‘Hmmm. Fleet-Wright? That name rings a bell,’ the desk sergeant said thoughtfully.
‘Mrs Fleet-Wright confessed at the inquest that she might have been responsible for giving her daughter too many pills. Nothing came of it – I mean, no formal charges were brought against her.’
‘No. That’s not it.’ The desk sergeant shook his head. ‘I remember that case vaguely. But this was something else… something that came across my desk… something minor but… Fleet-Wright…’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘No, can’t think what it was.’ He tapped his temple ruefully. ‘Old memory’s not what it was. But I’ll remember it sooner or later,’ he promised her. ‘Like as not when I’m lying in bed at three o’clock in the morning. Don’t worry, though. When I do, I’ll let you know.’
Trudy thanked him and scuttled off to the DI’s office to see what he wanted. And as she did so, she wondered why she hadn’t, as yet, quite come up with the gumption to ask Dr Clement Ryder outright why he seemed so hellbent on proving Gisela had killed herself.
It wasn’t as if she thought he was a particularly vindictive man.
DI Jennings informed the station house’s only WPC that she would have to do some extra shifts, along with all the other PCs, now they had acquired a prime suspect in the Marcus Deering/McGillicuddy case.
This was the first Trudy had heard of it, and she listened intently as her senior office briefly filled her in.
Apparently, a victim of the warehouse fire had settled locally, finding work as a gamekeeper. When pulled in for questioning, he hadn’t satisfied Jennings at all on the issue of whether or not he held Deering, or the company he’d once worked for, responsible for his injuries.
‘He had motive, and clearly, living in the area, opportunity. As for means – anyone could have picked up that spade and bashed Jonathan over the head. And most men have some basic working knowledge of cars – certainly enough to half-file through a brake line. So we’re going to be keeping a close watch on him from now on. And if he goes anywhere near the Deering estate, we’ll nab him. Which means round-the-clock surveillance. That means extra shifts and all hands on deck. Including you, WPC Loveday.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Trudy said happily. She’d never been detailed to observation duty before, and was looking forward to it. And adding another skill to her repertoire never hurt. Although the DI then proceeded to warn her that surveillance involved long, boring hours watching a suspect or a suspect’s residence, often while sitting in a cold car or some other equally cold spot, Trudy didn’t care.
‘You’ll still work with Dr Ryder, naturally, but just let him know you won’t be exclusively at his beck and call,’ Jennings concluded. ‘And talking of our Dr Ryder, you might as well give me a verbal report now on your progress so far. It’ll save you writing one up for me later. Where have you been today?’
Trudy could tell the DI didn’t like it when she mentioned she’d been talking to an ex-cop, but when she’d finished her report, he merely sighed.
‘All right. Carry on then.’
It wasn’t until she’d got to the door, however, that he stopped her. ‘WPC Loveday?’
‘Sir?’
‘What’s your opinion of the case? Do you think Dr Ryder is on to something?’
Trudy hesitated for a moment, knowing that, for the first time, her superior officer was actually asking her opinion on somethi
ng. And it was important she get it right. But exactly what was he asking her? Did she agree that the witnesses at the inquest had lied? Yes, she did. Did she think pursuing a grieving family in order to force them to admit their daughter had killed herself was ‘being on to something’? She wasn’t quite so sure.
But something, some tiny niggle of instinct, told her she shouldn’t lose faith in the old vulture just yet.
‘Yes, sir,’ she finally said. ‘I think there’s probably something… suspect… about the Fleet-Wright case. But it’s too early, yet, to say what exactly.’
She didn’t think it would be politic, at that point, to tell the DI about her suspicions concerning former PC Gordon’s affluent retirement either. With her boss under pressure from Sir Marcus, the Chief Constable and the press to solve the McGillicuddy case, the last thing she wanted to drop into his lap was the possibility of police corruption.
With a heavy sigh, Jennings nodded, and indicated she could leave.
It took Trudy a little while, but eventually she found PC Richard Gordon’s personnel file. However, after studying it she had to admit that, if he’d had rather an undistinguished career, there was certainly nothing about it that set off alarm bells.
Trudy was not naive, and she knew some coppers were ‘on the take’. For most of them, it amounted to little more than getting good deals on meat at the local butcher’s, or never paying for a drink in a pub.
Occasionally, though, something more serious happened.
But she could find no evidence that, during his thirty years on the beat, PC Gordon had ever seriously overstepped the mark. No raids on fences in his beat area that hadn’t panned out, or robberies in premises included on his patrol where a blind eye had been turned. And although he’d had a few complaints lodged against him, what copper didn’t? And most of the complaints against PC Gordon had been made by inebriated members of the public who had objected to being manhandled into the cells.
