Dead by Morning

by Dorothy Simpson

  Thanet shook his head. ‘Not much point. You realise I’ve put my foot in it there, Mike?’

  ‘By telling Mrs Hamilton about Toby? I can’t see that you’ve done much harm.’

  ‘In any case, it’s done now. There’s no point in worrying about it, I suppose.’

  ‘It’ll give them a few uncomfortable moments, I dare say. But I can’t say I feel much sympathy for them. They haven’t done too badly, have they?’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of them, I was thinking of Toby.’

  ‘I shouldn’t lose any sleep over it. The Hamiltons aren’t exactly about to shout it from the roof-tops, are they?’

  ‘No. All the same, for Toby’s sake I think I’ll have to have a word with Mrs Hamilton.’

  Lineham’s expression indicated that he thought Thanet overscrupulous on this point, but he merely said, ‘So what now?’

  Thanet glanced at his watch. Two-thirty. ‘Might as well go back to headquarters, have a session going over the papers. There could be something we’ve missed. And I really ought to glance at the Super’s directive on ODD. He’ll go through the roof tomorrow morning if I still haven’t got around to it.’

  It was a silent journey back, each of them preoccupied with his own thoughts. Back at the office they wrote their reports on the morning’s interviews, then settled down to work systematically through the considerable stack of papers which had accumulated since the case began. They were methodical, both going through each report in turn, in case one of them spotted something the other had missed. In this particular case, when suspects were many and hard evidence against any one of them sadly lacking, it might well happen that some tiny detail which at the time had seemed of no importance could prove to be of crucial significance. The atmosphere in the room was heavy with concentration, the silence broken only occasionally by a murmured comment or enquiry. From time to time Thanet stood up and walked about, conscious that the dull ache in the small of his back was intensifying. He longed to stretch out on the floor, relieve tense muscles of the downward tug of gravity. Instead, he would sit down, pick up the next sheaf of paper and carry on the task.

  By twenty to five he had to admit defeat. Nothing of any importance had emerged. Both he and Lineham were bleary-eyed, their thought processes clogged with the mass of information through which they had sifted. He put down his pen, rubbed his eyes, sat back and stretched. Time to glance at Draco’s notes on ODD before going down to report to the Superintendent at five. ‘See if you can rustle up some tea, Mike, while I look at this.’

  When Lineham got back Thanet was looking much more animated. ‘Something occurred to you, sir?’

  ‘Not to do with the case.’ Thanet tapped the ODD directive. ‘Did you have any thoughts on this, Mike?’ He took the cup Lineham was offering him. ‘Thanks.’

  Lineham sat down. ‘Not really. Why, have you?’

  ‘Possibly. Organisation, Delegation and Documentation. Now, the whole point of this campaign is to improve efficiency. Which one of those three would you say is the most time-consuming?’

  ‘Documentation, I suppose.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Thanet leaned forward across his desk. ‘Now tell me this. How much time is wasted in the front office looking through the files for, say, a key-holder’s card for shop or office alarms that has been put back in the wrong place by some officer in a hurry?’

  ‘Quite a bit, I’d say.’ Everyone in the situation had ground his teeth over this particular bit of inefficiency, at one time or another.

  ‘Well, why don’t I suggest that all that information is put on the computer, instead? It’s being done more and more – Maidstone introduced it a couple of years ago, for example. And not only key-holders’ lists, but names and updated addresses of station staff, charge cards, details of emergency action plans …’

  ‘But if all that information was stored on the computer what happens if you need it in a hurry when the computer operator is away at lunch or, even worse, off sick?’

  ‘Obviously it would mean that everyone in the station would have to be trained to use the computer.’

  Lineham groaned. He wasn’t into computers. ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘Come on, Mike, don’t be faint-hearted. It would all be in a good cause and besides, it wouldn’t be too difficult. Not if we got hold of a simple, user-friendly system. Just think how much time it would save in the long run!’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘I think I’ll suggest it. If Draco doesn’t like the idea, then too bad, but at least I’ll have come up with a positive suggestion.’ Thanet glanced at his watch. Two minutes to five. ‘I’d better go down to give my report.’

  At the door he turned. ‘Oh, by the way, while I’m away, give Mrs Hamilton a ring, tell her her calculator wasn’t in the van.’ This was clear from the report on the van’s contents. Thanet had checked. ‘She must have dropped it somewhere else.’

  On the way downstairs he was again conscious of that strange, almost physical sensation at the back of his mind. He had felt it before, many times, and it meant that his subconscious had registered something which his conscious mind had not, and the information was trying to get through. Experience had taught him that it was pointless to try and work out what it was. Sooner or later it would surface in its own good time and the best way to speed up the process was to think of something else.

  Outside Draco’s office Thanet paused, braced himself. What sort of a mood would the Super be in this afternoon? A better one than this morning, he hoped. He knocked.

  ‘Come in.’

  Draco was sitting in front of an immaculately tidy desk, pens and pencils neatly aligned, in-tray empty, out-tray full, empty blotter before him. He looked relaxed, composed, positively benign. ‘Ah, Thanet. How’s it going?’

  Thanet gave a succinct summary of the day’s findings, Draco nodding from time to time, putting in a question here and there. It looked as though the session was going to go off without incident and, encouraged, Thanet decided to float his new idea.

  ‘By the way –’

  ‘Just a minute …’ Draco held up a hand. He was peering out of the window, which overlooked the main entrance to the building and enabled the Superintendent to keep a watchful eye on comings and goings. If anyone sneezed in this building, Draco liked to know about it. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Thanet, but who’s that?’

  Thanet rose and crossed to the window. Walking towards them were two men deep in conversation, one in uniform, the other in civilian clothes. He assumed Draco wasn’t referring to Inspector Storey, an old friend of Thanet’s now working in Maidstone, and he’d never seen the civilian before. ‘Sorry, I don’t know. Some member of the public coming to –’

  ‘No, no,’ said Draco testily. ‘That’s Councillor Watford, I know him. The other man, in uniform.’

  ‘Inspector Storey. He’s one of the instructors at the Police Training School in Maidstone.’ The words came out mechanically. Thanet was barely aware that he had spoken. He was staring at the two men, dumbfounded.

  Of course! Why hadn’t he seen it before?

  ‘Wonder what they’re doing here,’ muttered Draco, heading for the door. ‘Was that the lot, Thanet?’

  ‘What? Oh, sorry, sir. Yes.’ His suggestion could wait until the morning meeting tomorrow. Besides, he couldn’t wait to tell Lineham …

  He followed Draco out of the office and took the stairs two at a time.

  Lineham glanced up, startled, as Thanet burst into the office.

  ‘Mike! Listen to this!’

  Thanet watched the light dawn in Lineham’s face as he talked.

  ‘I see! Brilliant, sir! So what do we do now?’

  Thanet told him.

  TWENTY-TWO

  ‘Let’s hope they haven’t gone to bed.’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so, Mike, it’s only ten o’clock.’

  It was five exhausting hours later. After making the necessary appointment, clearing it with the Sussex police and ringing Joan and Louise to tell
them they’d be late home, Thanet and Lineham had set off on the longish drive to Worthing. The interview there had verified Thanet’s hunch and presented them with a clear motive where none had apparently existed before. Now they were about to put his theory to the test.

  Thanet shifted in his seat in an attempt to ease his back and rubbed his eyes, which were beginning to feel gritty with fatigue. He was glad he wasn’t driving. He glanced across at Lineham who still looked relatively fresh.

  ‘I gather you got the problem with your brother-in-law sorted out?’

  ‘Yes. Or at least, he did. Went back to his wife this morning.’

  ‘Good.’

  Lineham leaned forward to wipe the windscreen, which kept on misting up. Since darkness fell the temperature had plummeted rapidly and along the sides of the lane the grass and clumps of tangled undergrowth were encrusted with frost.

  The sergeant was driving carefully, leaning forward slightly to peer at the road ahead. ‘Lucky we haven’t had any rain today, or it’d be like a skating rink.’

  ‘Mm.’ Thanet was preoccupied with the interview to come.

  ‘Of course, it still doesn’t necessarily mean one of them did it,’ said Lineham, for the third time.

  Thanet realised that the sergeant was merely armouring himself against disappointment. ‘I’m aware of that, Mike,’ he said patiently. ‘But it’s a powerful motive, you must admit. And I’ve just got this feeling …’

  The gateposts at the entrance to Longford Hall loomed up ahead and Lineham put his indicator on. ‘Even if you’re right, I still don’t see how we’re going to prove it.’

  Ay, there was the rub indeed. ‘I know.’

  ‘I mean, we’ve no more evidence against them than against any of the others.’

  Yet again Thanet experienced that flicker at the back of his mind. What was it that he was trying to remember? Was it possible that there was something he had missed, some minute scrap of evidence that could turn the tide in his favour? Not that, if his theory proved correct, an arrest would give him much satisfaction. After the initial excitement over that flash of inspiration he had felt progressively more and more depressed and now he felt only a dragging weariness at the prospect of the interview ahead. He braced himself as Lineham drove into the stable yard and parked. Whether he liked it or not, he had to go through with it. Murder had been done and if one of these two were guilty it was his clear duty to bring the perpetrator to justice, whatever his personal feelings in the matter.

  They walked across the cobbles to the stable block, climbed the indoor staircase and knocked at the door at the top.

  It was a few minutes before it was opened by Desmond Byfleet, peering out into the semi-darkness. ‘Oh, it’s you, Inspector.’

  ‘May we come in?’

  Byfleet stood back to let them pass, closing the door behind them. ‘We were just about to go to bed.’ He was in his shirtsleeves, tieless, carpet slippers on bare feet. Without a jacket he looked thinner than ever and more vulnerable, as if with the outer layer of cloth he had peeled off his defences.

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you so late, but we’d like a word with you both.’

  ‘Do you have to see my wife? She’s very tired.’

  Thanet shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated. He meant it. ‘I’ll have to talk to her sooner or later. Better to get it over with.’

  Byfleet hesitated a moment or two longer, apparently trying to make up his mind whether to refuse point-blank, the muscles in his cheeks moving as he clenched his teeth. Then he turned away and flung open the sitting-room door, switching on a light inside. ‘I’ll go and see.’

  The sight of the cosy, welcoming room reinforced Thanet’s distaste for the coming interview. He strolled restlessly about, his gaze wandering abstractedly over the attractive soft furnishings, the books, plants, records, chess-game, bowl of odds and ends on the coffee table. He sat down heavily, his back protesting at the softness of the cushions. ‘I’m not looking forward to this, Mike.’ What if he were wrong? He could see the headlines. WOMAN MISCARRIES AFTER POLICE HARASSMENT. He rubbed his eyes, shook his head in an attempt to clear it. It had been a long day.

  Lineham had chosen an upright chair which stood in front of a small writing desk. He picked up one of the ornaments on it, a glass paperweight, and peered into it as if it were a crystal ball. ‘Fascinating things, these.’ He put it down hastily and stood up as Byfleet entered the room, followed by his wife.

  Thanet rose too. ‘I apologise for disturbing you at this hour, ma’am.’

  She attempted a smile but said nothing, walking past him to sit on the settee. She was wearing a man’s woollen dressing gown, her husband’s presumably, loosely tied across her protruding belly. The shade, a drab fawn, did not become her, leaching any colour from her sallow skin and from the lank, lifeless brown hair.

  She looked as tired as he felt, thought Thanet. Scarcely surprising, really. If he was right, she couldn’t have had much sleep over the last few days.

  Byfleet sat down beside his wife and covered her hand with his.

  Thanet glanced at Lineham to check that he was ready and the sergeant nodded. Go ahead.

  ‘There’s no point in beating about the bush, so perhaps it would be best to begin by telling you that we have just come back from Worthing, where we have seen your mother, Mrs Byfleet.’

  Mona Byfleet blinked and blindly put out her other hand to her husband who took and clasped it. Neither of them said a word, just stared at him, awaiting the next blow.

  ‘She was naturally very distressed when she heard what had happened. She realises that you and your husband had no idea, when you married … It must have been an awful shock for you.’

  Thanet paused expectantly. He didn’t want to spell it out if he didn’t have to.

  Desmond Byfleet cleared his throat. ‘We don’t know what you’re talking about, Inspector.’

  Thanet shook his head wearily. ‘It’s no good taking that line, Mr Byfleet. We know, you see.’

  ‘Know … what?’ Mona Byfleet spoke for the first time, in a near-whisper.

  ‘That your mother told Mr Martindale and that he must have told you, Mrs Byfleet, when he called you into his room, the night he died.’

  ‘We still haven’t the faintest idea what you’re on about, Inspector.’ Byfleet’s voice was stronger now. He had obviously decided on the line he was going to take and was sticking to it.

  His wife was less certain. She shot him an agonised glance and said, ‘Des …’

  Byfleet gave no overt sign of having realised that she was on the point of capitulation. There was no frown, no shake of the head, just a brief exchange of glances. But the message still came over loud and clear. Stand firm.

  She glanced back at Thanet. Don’t say it, her eyes pleaded. Please, don’t say it.

  But he had to, somehow, Thanet realised, or they would get nowhere. He sighed. ‘Perhaps it will help if I tell you a story.’

  Byfleet clicked his tongue impatiently but his wife, recognising perhaps that Thanet was proposing an oblique approach to the subject in order to cushion the blow, laid a restraining hand on his arm.

  ‘Once upon a time,’ said Thanet, ‘there was born in London’s East End a girl called Brenda. She had eight brothers and sisters and her father was a drunkard who couldn’t keep any job down for more than a few weeks at a time. Needless to say she couldn’t wait to get away from home and in 1949, at the ripe old age of seventeen, she married the first man who asked her and moved to the Midlands.

  ‘Unfortunately it wasn’t long before she discovered that she had jumped out of the frying pan into the fire. Her new husband was a bully and a brute and not long afterwards, when she was seven months pregnant, he beat her up so badly that the baby was born prematurely.’

  He had their attention now. They were gazing at him as if mesmerised.

  ‘This was the last straw as far as she was concerned. In hospital she refused to see her husband again and
on the day she was due to be discharged she left earlier than the time arranged and, having borrowed the train fare from one of the other women in the ward, came straight to London, leaving her baby boy behind. Being premature, of course, he would in any case have had to remain in hospital for some time but this was, she felt, the only way she could get away from her husband and be certain that the baby would be well looked after. She had had this plan in mind right from the moment of that last, brutal beating and although the baby seemed healthy enough she insisted on his being christened immediately after the birth. In fact, the husband refused to have anything to do with the child, who was brought up first in a children’s home then in various foster homes.

  ‘Meanwhile, Brenda changed her surname and, despite the nationwide appeal for her to come forward, disappeared into the lowest stratum of London’s catering trade where employers didn’t bother about National Insurance cards and were only too glad to get cheap labour. For some time she washed dishes, waited at tables in the smallest and meanest cafés and then, when she felt it was safe, reverted to her married name, legitimately got hold of a National Insurance card, and began to work in earnest towards furthering the career she had meanwhile decided to pursue. Shrewdly, considering her lack of qualifications, she chose the hotel business. I won’t go into the details. It’s enough to say that beginning on the bottom rung and by working twice as hard as anyone else, in five years she managed to work her way up to Housekeeper in a smallish hotel. During this period she also divorced her husband. Then, late in 1954, she managed at last to get the kind of job she’d always been aiming for, a post as Housekeeper in a hotel out of London, on the South Coast. At this time she was still barely twenty-three and perhaps it’s not surprising that now; for the first time, romance entered her life. It was a small, family-run hotel, and the Assistant Manager was the son of the owners. In due course Brenda and he were married and the following year they had a daughter.’ Thanet paused. ‘In a minor way a fairytale ending, as I think you’ll agree. Unfortunately, the story doesn’t end there.

  ‘In due course first the owner and his wife were killed in a holiday air crash and then Brenda’s second husband died, so the ownership of the hotel passed to her. Her daughter grew up and when she left school worked in the hotel with her mother. Although she wasn’t exactly antisocial she was never the type of girl to have lots of boyfriends and it wasn’t until she was in her late twenties that at last she met a man she liked. He had recently moved down to the South from Birmingham. For some reason – shyness, perhaps? – she kept their association a secret. Finally, when they began to talk of marriage, she broke the news to her mother and asked her to meet him. She was taken aback by her reaction. From the outset, before she had even met him, Brenda seemed prejudiced against him. The girl put it down to over-protectiveness of an only chick and told herself that when her mother met the young man and saw how respectable and hardworking he was she would become reconciled to the idea. Instead, the meeting merely served to harden her mother’s attitude. The young man, she insisted, was unsuitable, completely wrong for the girl.