‘Mr Martindale certainly wouldn’t have won a popularity poll around there!’ said Lineham.
‘No.’ Thanet shuffled the papers together. ‘Right, Mike. Go over these again while I’m in the meeting, check we haven’t missed anything. We’ll have to interview a lot of these people again, see if we can get any more out of them – that’s Mrs Byfleet, Mrs Hamilton, Mr Tiller. And we must also try and fit in Mr Tiller’s girlfriend, Mrs Rankle, both the Fevers and of course this Mrs Victor, in case she can tell us anything more. It sounds as though she could be an interesting source of gossip, perhaps we ought to try and see her first. So ring and get the interviews set up.’
Thanet glanced at the clock again. ‘Sorry, must dash.’ One minute to go. If he was late Draco would be furious and they’d waste half the meeting listening to a lecture on the importance of punctuality.
NINE
Thanet made it to the meeting with ten seconds to spare. He slipped into his seat and noted Draco’s customary glance at the clock. After murmured greetings all round Draco picked up the sheaf of papers lying exactly in the centre of the blotter on his desk and cleared his throat.
Apart from Draco and himself there were two other men in the room: Chief Inspector Tody, who acted as Draco’s deputy should the Superintendent be unavailable; and Inspector Boon, Thanet’s long-time friend and colleague. Each was watching Draco in characteristic manner, Tody with an ingratiating half-smile, Boon with an ironic twinkle in his eye.
There was a sense of expectation in the air, Thanet realised. Something was up. He looked at Draco again and yes, the signs were there: the familiar glint of self-satisfaction overlaid by missionary fervour, the almost audible crackle of energy which emanated from him. It looked as though the long-rumoured new campaign was about to begin. Mentally, Thanet braced himself. What now?
‘Good morning, gentlemen. Incidentally, I think that we should soon try to amend that state of affairs. There should, if we are to keep abreast of the times, be at least one woman present. That is, however, not what I want to talk to you about this morning. This morning I want to talk to you about a scheme for further improving the efficiency of our police force here in Sturrenden. Oh, I know what you’re saying to yourselves.’
Draco’s Welsh accent was becoming more pronounced, Thanet noticed, a sure sign that he was getting into his stride. He often felt that the Superintendent’s style was more suited to the pulpit than the police force.
‘You’re saying, “Haven’t we had enough changes for the moment? Don’t we need – indeed deserve, a bit of a break?”’
Draco brought the flat of his hand down upon his desk, making everyone jump. ‘No! That is the very moment, I tell you, when standards begin to slip. Complacency is our enemy. It leads to lazy minds, lazy work practices and, above all, lazy policing.’
Draco sat back, tucking his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat and deliberately looked at each man in turn. ‘Now I’m not denying that you’ve all worked very hard to make this a more efficient force over the last year, and the results show, as I’m sure you’ll agree. But I think you’ll also agree, when you’ve heard my new proposals, that there are a number of areas in which there is room for further improvements.’
You had to admire the man’s enthusiasm if nothing else, thought Thanet. Must remember to give those cards and letters to Swift, he reminded himself, concentration flagging as Draco carried on in the same vein, see if he can track down any of Martindale’s old girlfriends. Not that at this stage there would appear to be any urgent reason for doing so, but it was a lead, however unpromising, that ought to be followed up.
Draco was still on his preliminary speech. Oh, do get on with it, you Welsh windbag, Thanet urged silently.
He was thinking about Martindale, about how extraordinary it was that anyone could arouse in so many people such a degree of animosity that it could survive apparently undiminished an interval of more than twenty years, when, with a loving glance at the papers in his hand, Draco finally came to the point.
‘After considerable thought I have identified the three main areas in which improvements need to be made. Organisation, Delegation and Documentation.’ He spelt it out letter by letter. ‘O-D-D. Which, as you’ll no doubt realise, spells “Odd”.’ He waited for the small ripple of amusement before smiling himself. ‘Yes, I thought you’d appreciate that. And if the acronym affords the men some light relief, then that’s all right by me. I don’t in the least mind appearing a figure of fun so long as they buckle down and get on with implementing my proposals. It will, of course, be up to you to see that they do.’
He stood up and handed a sheet of paper to each of them. ‘Here they are. I’d like you to take them away and study them and come back to me tomorrow with comments – constructive, of course. No, don’t read them now, there’s no time, you’ll all be wanting to get back and get on with your work. So, briefly, could we have your reports, please.’ He sat back, folding his hands over his waistcoat.
Although he made it as succinct as possible Thanet’s report was of necessity the longest, the finding of Martindale’s body in the ditch being by far the most important of yesterday’s events. He wondered if Draco was going to raise any objections to an intensive investigation, but apparently the discovery of the fibres on the van had convinced the Superintendent that for the moment at least Thanet and his team were justified in devoting their energies to finding out exactly what had happened.
‘I might even pop out to Sutton myself later on,’ said Draco, causing Thanet’s heart to sink. ‘You’ll be needing to see several of these people again, as well as interviewing new witnesses. I suggest you begin with the chap who barged into the hotel and had a row with Martindale – what’s his name? Fever, was it? And with this woman Rankle.’
Thanet forbore to say that by now Lineham should already have a series of appointments set up. If Draco came looking for them, with any luck he wouldn’t find them. If this made the Superintendent mad, too bad. Hoping that he wouldn’t have to waste too much time in elaborate games of hide and seek with Draco, he made his way back upstairs to his office, where he found Doc Mallard talking to Lineham. As usual the little police surgeon was looking spruce and cheerful and was scarcely recognisable as the sardonic scarecrow of a man he had become after the lingering death of his first wife. Thanet never ceased to marvel at the miracle which remarriage had wrought in his old friend.
‘Ah, Luke. Just telling Lineham here that the PM is set for this afternoon. I’ll let you know the findings as soon as I can.’
‘Thanks Doc.’
‘How’s it going?’
Thanet shrugged. ‘All right, so far. Did Lineham tell you we found the van?’
‘Yes. Belongs to the people at Longford Hall, I gather. Does the plot thicken?’
‘I’m not sure, yet. It could have been a simple hit and run.’
‘As non-committal as ever,’ said Mallard, twinkling at Thanet over his half-moons. ‘How you ever have the nerve to complain when I can’t be too precise about time of death I don’t know.’ He picked up his bag. ‘Well, I’ll be in touch later, then. Happy hunting.’
When Mallard had gone Lineham gestured at the paper in Thanet’s hand. ‘Anything interesting, sir?’
‘The Super’s latest campaign.’ Thanet handed it over. ‘Haven’t looked at it myself yet.’
Lineham took it eagerly. ‘Thought something was brewing.’ He grinned. ‘Does he realise …?’
‘Oh yes. ODD. It’s his crafty way of taking the sting out of it all.’
Lineham, reading, groaned.
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Thanet. ‘I’m not going to read it until I’m feeling stronger.’
‘At this rate we’re going to end up doing so much paperwork there won’t be any time for policing. Do you realise …’
‘Mike, I said, don’t tell me. At the moment I don’t want to know. Now, did you get those interviews set up?’
‘All except the ones with Sam T
iller and Mr Fever. I’m still trying to get hold of them.’
‘Right. You carry on while I have a word with Swift. I want to put him on to tracing some of Martindale’s former girlfriends. Are we seeing Mrs Victor first?’
‘Yes. At eleven.’
‘Fine.’
By 10.30 they were on their way. The sky had cleared, the sun had come out and in the town the few remaining areas of blackened slushy snow were thawing fast. Out in the country it was a different matter. Along the sides of the lanes, where the sun had not yet penetrated, the snow still lay in drifts, piled up against tangled brown hedges on which there was as yet no hint of green. In the open fields it had melted in patches, stippling the brown of ploughed earth and tender green of winter wheat with random frostings of white. Tall trees stood winter-stark against a sky the milky blue of opals.
‘What I can’t get over,’ said Lineham, pulling into the side of the road to allow a lorry to pass, ‘is the degree of bad feeling against Martindale. Sam Tiller obviously felt so strongly about him that he threatens to leave if Martindale stays on, Jack Talion tells him bluntly he isn’t wanted, this Mr Fever barges up to the Hall and has a row with him because Martindale passes the time of day with his wife, and even Sam Tiller’s girlfriend launches straight into some kind of argument when she bumps into him in the village. It’s incredible! Really makes you wonder what he’d done.’
‘I was thinking the same thing myself, earlier. I’d really like to know just what all these people had against him. And was it the same thing, or did they all have different, individual grudges? The trouble is, I suspect it’s not going to be easy to find out.’
‘Perhaps it doesn’t matter, sir. Perhaps it’ll turn out to be a simple accident. Someone ran into him by chance – the roads were very icy that night, remember – and couldn’t face owning up. So when they discovered he was dead they just dragged him into the ditch and left him there.’
‘Could be. Though in that case we haven’t a chance of finding out what happened unless a witness turns up or someone actually walks into the police station and confesses. Still, we’ll just have to see. What did you say the Victors’ house is called?’
‘Casa Mía. And it’s a bungalow, at the far end of the village. There’s a For Sale sign outside, apparently.’
They were just entering Sutton and Lineham slowed down. Like so many of the smaller villages in Kent it had no obvious centre and consisted of a straggle of houses, a pub, a garage, a church and a village school, now converted into a private dwelling.
The severe shortage of building land in the South-East meant that Casa Mía, like most new houses in rural areas, had been squeezed into what had evidently been the garden of the older house next door. It had been built, Thanet guessed, by someone who had cherished the dream of a villa in Spain and had had to settle for the next best thing. Its Moorish arches and wrought-iron embellishments looked as out of place in this very English setting as a tart at a vicar’s tea party.
Lineham parked the car in the road and they got out. The inappropriately tall iron gates were flanked by brick pillars topped with stone pineapples.
‘Delusions of grandeur,’ murmured Thanet.
A curtain twitched as they walked up the drive and Thanet just had time to realise that the doorbell chimes were playing ‘Home Sweet Home’ before the door opened.
‘Mrs Victor?’
The woman patted her towering beehive of dyed blonde hair and gave a coy smile, revealing suspiciously white and even teeth. She was, he guessed, in her late fifties, and many sessions on either sunbed or beach had tanned her skin to a deep, rich brown, unfortunately drying it to the texture of a prune in the process. She was carefully if heavily made up and was wearing unsuitably youthful clothes – tight trousers and flower-strewn sweater. Thanet gave her a warm smile as he introduced himself. She looked exactly as he had hoped she would, a woman with too much time on her hands and little to do but take an interest in her neighbours’ affairs.
She peered anxiously over his shoulder down the drive before inviting them in. ‘I’m expecting my hubby home any moment.’
It was clear that she didn’t want the interview to begin until he arrived. In the living-room the Spanish theme continued, with heavily carved furniture in dark oak, incongruously juxtaposed with the ubiquitous dralon three-piece suite, and a garish painting of a Spanish flamenco dancer over the synthetic dressed stone fireplace. Mrs Victor fussed about, settling them comfortably and insisting on providing them with unwanted cups of coffee. ‘It’s all ready, it won’t take a tick.’
‘Wonder if her husband was due home anyway?’ said Lineham, when she had left.
‘Or if she rang him after you set up the appointment, you mean?’
‘And if so, why?’
Thanet shrugged. ‘Perhaps she’s the little woman type, doesn’t feel comfortable unless her husband is at hand to give her moral support.’
Lineham’s lip curled. ‘I thought that sort of attitude had gone out with the ark.’
‘I can’t see why you’re so surprised at the idea. There must be thousands of women – Isn’t that a car in the drive?’
Lineham half rose to glance out of the window. ‘Jaguar, E reg. Must be doing well.’
Outside in the hall footsteps went past towards the front door and there was a murmur of voices.
Of all the many different aspects of his work interviewing was the one Thanet enjoyed most and it was with a keen sense of anticipation that he stood up as the Victors entered the room.
TEN
‘Inspector Thanet?’ Hand outstretched, Victor advanced, picture of an honest citizen eager to do his duty.
Thanet, experienced in encounters of this kind, sensed a secret bubble of excitement in the man. Was it merely that Victor was relishing the drama of being involved, however peripherally, with the death which must be the talk of the village, or was there something more?
Short and burly with sparse curly hair and copious side-whiskers, he was formally dressed in dark suit and discreetly striped shirt. Only his tie, vividly patterned in orange and mustard-yellow whorls, betrayed the taste which had bought and furnished Casa Mía.
‘The coffee’s all ready,’ murmured his wife, and by the time the three men were seated she had brought it in.
Victor began conventionally enough. ‘Naturally the wife was wondering what you wanted to see her about.’ He took a cautious sip of the scalding liquid. ‘I mean, she told the policeman who called yesterday everything she knew about this Mr … What was his name?’
‘Martindale.’
‘That’s right, yes. Which wasn’t much. I mean, she’d never set eyes on him before Tuesday afternoon and at the time, of course, she didn’t realise who he was. It was only when his coat was mentioned …’
‘Black-and-white checked tweed,’ said Mrs Victor, entering the conversation for the first time. ‘Very nice, too.’
‘Yes, Dor, we know that.’ A hint of impatience, there. He turned back to Thanet. ‘So …?’
‘We just wanted to clear up one or two points, sir. Clarify your wife’s impressions.’
‘I see.’
Obviously he didn’t, but he pressed gamely on. ‘Well, any way we can help, of course …’
And there was that glint of excitement again, as if Victor was hugging some secret knowledge to himself. Thanet began to wonder if the man’s presence had nothing to do with his wife and he was really here because he had a titbit of information to impart. If so, no doubt he would come out with it in his own time.
‘Thank you. Now I understand, Mrs Victor, that on Tuesday afternoon you saw Mr Martindale twice?’
‘Yes.’ She put her coffee cup down on the low carved oak table beside her and looked at her husband, waited for his encouraging nod. ‘I had to go to the post office, see, to get some stamps. It’s at the far end of the village so of course I had to pass the garage. That was where I first saw this man, this Mr Martindale. At least, I suppose it was hi
m?’ She glanced doubtfully at her husband.
‘Tell the Inspector what he looked like, Dor,’ said Victor, as if encouraging a child who lacked confidence.
‘He was in his late forties, early fifties, I should say. Medium height, brown curly hair, going a bit thin on top.’ An involuntary glance at her husband’s own sparse locks before she hastily averted her eyes. ‘I didn’t see him all that clearly then; it was later, after he’d been talking to Mrs Rankle, he passed quite close to me.’
Victor glanced at Thanet for confirmation and he nodded. ‘Sounds like him.’
‘I noticed him,’ said Mrs Victor, getting into her stride, ‘because of course he was a stranger and we don’t get many around here, we’re a bit off the beaten track. So naturally I wondered who he was. Especially …’ She pulled herself up. ‘Well, no, not especially, I suppose … But anyway, he was talking to Mrs Fever.’
Thanet, intrigued, tried an oblique approach. ‘Mrs Fever is a friend of yours?’
‘Oh no! It’s just that …’ She stopped, looked to her husband for help.
He sniggered and said, ‘Fever has a reputation for being jealous as hell. His wife can’t so much as look at another man without him going off the deep end, so she tends to avoid little tête-à-têtes with anything in trousers.’
Interesting. ‘You’ve actually seen him lose his temper over this?’ Thanet wondered if Victor had made a pass at Mrs Fever himself, and had learnt about Fever’s possessiveness the hard way.
‘Not exactly. We don’t mix much, in the village.’ He glanced at his wife and gave a bitter little laugh. ‘To be honest, they’re not exactly a welcoming lot around here. Keep themselves to themselves and if you’re a newcomer … Doreen and me’ve got fed up with it. We’ve decided to move back to Maidstone.’
‘So how did you find out that Mr Fever was inclined to be jealous of his wife?’
‘That was me,’ said Mrs Victor. ‘One day when my car was in for repair I had to go into Sturrenden on the bus and I heard two of the women from the village talking …’
Dead by Morning Page 9
