‘If you are about to suggest a trip to England, don’t bother. You are not going to use this case as an excuse to indulge in your passion for holidays abroad at the department’s expense.’
‘But I am certain…’
‘And I am even more certain that you will remain on this island, pursuing your duties in so far as you ever find this possible. A request will be forwarded to England to ask if they can supply any background history which might prove significant.’ Salas cut the connection.
Alvarez thought how odd it was that rank always bred suspicion. True, he had been about to suggest he should go to England, but he had been motivated by duty, not an irresponsible desire to holiday.
He pulled open the bottom right-hand drawer of the desk and brought out a bottle of brandy and a glass. Little so upset a man as to have his motives misunderstood.
CHAPTER 16
The detective inspector had unexpectedly been called out of the station and Detective Constable Perry seized the opportunity to slip into the DI’s office to read his confidential report. ‘This officer,’ it concluded, ‘must learn to constrain his imagination since at times it lifts his judgement into the realms of soothsaying.’ Sarcastic bastard! he thought, as he returned to the CID general room and sat at his desk. Had the DI never listened over-trustingly to an informer?
He looked up as Yates entered and crossed to the corner desk. Rank always used whatever clout was going. That corner of the room was warmer in the winter and cooler in the summer – if there was one.
‘Lewis, come over here, will you?’ Yates called out.
Perry pushed back his chair and crossed the room. ‘Something moving, Sarge?’
‘I’ve had the old man moaning again about misspellings in the reports. He wants the word passed around to all you bright ignorami that someone’s invented a thing called a dictionary. More importantly, there’s a request from Spain, through Interpol; from Majorca, to be exact.’ Yates was exact by nature. Nearing the end of his service, he had his quiet, peaceful retirement carefully planned, much to his wife’s concern, who had hoped he would find a job as a security guard and not be around the house all day, every day.
Perry spoke nostalgically. ‘I had a couple of weeks in Majorca a year or two back; a place called Portals Nous. They’re right. It is all sun, sea, sand, sangria and sex.’
‘I’m too old for the details … They want any information we can give ’em concerning Harry Charles Bailey, now living on the island, last address here, Ekstone House, West Angleton.’
‘That’s a ritzy area. Like as not, he’s a tax-dodger.’
‘Good luck to him if he is. Aged forty-one, married to Fenella Pamela, maiden name Lyon.’
‘I knew a Fenella.’
‘With any luck, she’ll have overcome the experience. Try to find something to make ’em feel we’ve done our best.’
‘Have we been told what this is in aid of?’
‘Bailey’s a possible suspect in a possible murder.’
‘Sounds all very uncertain.’
‘It’s Spain.’
Perry returned to his desk, picked up a pen and clipped it in his inside pocket, left the room. He hadn’t thought about Fenella for a long time. She’d been a classy blonde – or had she been a brunette? – her only fault, slightly protruding teeth which tended to get in the way – unless he was mixing her up with Helen? Anyway, whichever, the only thing she hadn’t liked had been the sangria.
* * *
It was late afternoon when Perry met Yates in the corridor which led from the charge room to the front room. ‘Sarge.’
Yates came to a stop. Always large, he was now putting on considerable weight despite his wife’s attempts to persuade him to curb his appetite.
‘I’ve a lead on Bailey.’
‘Let’s hear it.’
‘He’s an ex-con.’
‘Is he, now? What did he go down for?’
‘Causing death by dangerous driving and driving under the influence.’
‘How long did he earn?’
‘A fiver.’
‘Sounds as if it was a nasty case.’
‘I reckon it must have been. The OiC was a detective superintendent.’
‘For a traffic case?’
‘I’ll say it’s got to have been more than appeared in court.’
‘Knowing you, I suppose you’ll suggest Bailey was in drag and propositioned the arresting officer.’
‘Bloody funny.’
‘Make the report, check for spelling, let me have it to pass on to the old man who’ll ship it off to Majorca.’ Yates took a pace forward.
‘Sarge, don’t you think that first I ought to find out if there were any special circumstances which caused a DS to be in charge?’
‘Not enough work of our own so we can afford to waste time on other people’s?’
‘Then I don’t check any deeper?’
Yates hesitated. He had never made detective inspector because he lacked the ambition necessary to accept the responsibility; he had made detective sergeant because he was stolidly efficient and knew how to defend his back. If there were unusual circumstances to this case and these might prove helpful to an ongoing investigation, Spain needed to be informed; if it ever became known that he was responsible for their being withheld, he’d be in the mud. ‘Dig around, but don’t make a big meal out of it.’
* * *
Perry reread his notes. Bailey, in a Jaguar, had struck a young girl and thrown her to the side of the road on the outskirts of Halfchurch. He’d driven on, to return a few minutes later, arriving after the ambulance and the police. He had been breathalysed and as the reading had been positive, had undergone a blood test. That confirmed he had been just above the limit and he had been arrested and his car impounded for examination. The child had died soon after the accident. Bailey had been tried in Halfchurch, found guilty, and sentenced to five years in jail. He had served just under half the sentence.
Perry tapped on the desk with his fingers. On the face of things, a tragic but straightforward traffic accident either caused by drink or one which would probably have been avoided if the driver had not been drinking. In normal circumstances, the investigating officer would have been of a lower rank than detective superintendent.
He dialled HQ, A Division, spoke to a woman who passed him on to a man who passed him on to a second man who said that no, he couldn’t help with any of the details of the case, it would be a job to search through the records, the odds had to be there was nothing more to be learned … Perry was familiar with the procedure since he used it himself many times. ‘My DI’s curious.’ Rank always counted. ‘There’s something pretty odd about the case.’
‘Really!’
‘Detective Superintendent Turpin was OiC.’
‘Was he?’
‘Why would someone of his rank handle a straightforward traffic incident, even if there was a fatality?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘I suppose he’d be able to answer that?’
‘Could be.’
‘I’ll try and have a word with him, then.’
‘You do that.’
Perry said goodbye, replaced the receiver, looked across at the DC who sat two desks away. ‘Pat, didn’t Superintendent Turpin at County HQ retire last year?’
‘Yeah. It’s Varley now.’
He spoke to a sergeant at county who gave him Turpin’s home address and telephone number and then gratuitously added the comment that according to some, retirement had so softened him he could almost be pleasant.
He phoned the number and spoke to a woman who said she’d have a word with her husband. As he waited, he tried to identify of whom her voice reminded him and came to the conclusion it was the maths teacher at his primary school.
‘He could find time tomorrow morning,’ she said.
‘That’s great.’
‘Will ten-thirty be all right?’
‘I’ll be there on the dot.’
/> He thanked her, rang off. The maths teacher had tried to inculcate in him a love of the subject. She must have become a very frustrated woman.
* * *
Turpin lived in a small country cottage that was surrounded by fields and backed by woods; as Perry climbed out of the CID Escort, he heard the harsh call of a cock pheasant, declaring its readiness for love or determination to defend its territory – he wasn’t certain which. Even the leaden sky, the drizzle, and the cold wind couldn’t lessen his sense of pleasure. Despite being city born, it was his ambition to live in the country.
A gravel path led to a wooden gate and beyond was a well-tended garden and a brick path that took him to the front door. The pheasant called again as he rang the bell, set in the wooden frame. The door was opened by a woman who dressed for comfort rather than style. ‘Come on in. Dreadful day, isn’t it? More like October than July.’
In appearance, she wasn’t at all like the maths teacher, who had been angular and possessor of an ever-runny nose. She showed him into a small sitting room which had a beamed ceiling and a large, wide inglenook fireplace. ‘George won’t be a moment…’ She stopped as her husband entered.
‘Good morning, sir,’ Perry said. Rank ceased on retirement, but it always massaged egos to continue to observe it. ‘Kind of you to take the time to see me.’
‘No bother. There’s nothing to do on a day like this.’
‘The chairs,’ she said.
‘They’re not forgotten.’
‘Just put to the back of the mind?’
‘They’ll get done. Now, how about some coffee?’
‘That’s all in hand.’ She left the room, closing the door behind her.
‘Grab a chair,’ Turpin said. ‘D’you smoke?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘According to the media, every time I light a cigarette, I’m shaking hands with the undertaker. Yet my father and uncle smoked like chimneys and both died of old age.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘I gather you want to discuss a case I was connected with. Which one?’
Perry answered the question.
‘Bailey?’ Turpin said reflectively. ‘A thoroughly decent, likeable chap. The fact his wife divorced him must have made his stay in stir that much tougher.’ He tapped the ash off his cigarette into an ashtray that was in front of a vase of roses. ‘I remember the case more clearly than most because it was a one-off. Not that at the beginning it looked in any way unusual … What’s your particular angle?’
‘To find out if there’s anything about Bailey which would help the Spanish police in their inquiries into a possible murder case.’
‘I’ll tell you what I can and you judge … I wasn’t called in initially because the facts of the case seemed perfectly straightforward. Bailey was driving home one wet night and passing through Halfchurch when he hit an eleven-year-old girl. He didn’t stop. Some time later – as much as twenty minutes, I seem to recall – he returned to the scene and was interviewed by the crew of a patrol car. He was breathalysed and as he was just over the limit, was taken to the station for a blood sample. He was arrested for being under the influence. News came through that the girl had died from her injuries and he was charged with the much more serious offence.
‘He made a voluntary statement. He claimed he had drunk some wine with his meal and had considered himself perfectly capable of driving, but accepted that he’d been over the legal limit. While going along the road in the outskirts of Halfchurch…’
His wife entered, carrying a tray which she put down on the occasional table that was between the two men. ‘Help yourselves; and I’ve put out some digestive biscuits.’
Turpin said: ‘There are only two cups – aren’t you having some?’
‘I must see if Matilda wants any shopping done today.’
‘Is her leg no better?’
‘To listen to her, it’s worse, but I suspect she’s milking sympathy as hard as she can.’
‘Then stop being a milch cow.’
‘Come on, the poor old girl’s over eighty. When we reach that age, we’ll want all the sympathy we can grab.’ She turned to Perry. ‘Can I offer you anything more?’
‘No, thank you, Mrs Turpin.’
‘Then I’ll be off.’
‘Make certain you’re well wrapped up,’ her husband said.
‘Don’t worry, I will.’ She left.
As Turpin spooned sugar into a cup, a gust of wind drove rain, which had overtaken the drizzle, against the single window with a harsh, drumming sound. ‘And they tell us it’s summer! I’ll bet half my pension that in Majorca the sun’s shining and the sea’s like a warm bath. Add in good, cheap wine and fried squid and what more could a man want?’
Perry did not answer that it depended how old the man was. One evening, when it was dark, Fenella – or had she been Helen? – had dared him to join her swimming naked …
Turpin lit another cigarette. ‘I was telling you about Bailey’s statement. He was driving with all due care and attention – ever met a motorist who wasn’t? – when a car tailgated him with flashing headlights. He refused to be hurried so the Jaguar pulled out and overtook and then cut back very tightly across Bailey’s bonnet in a motorist’s two-finger. The road was wet, the overtaking car suddenly skidded and the next thing he knew was that something was thrown up into the air by the Jaguar to come back to hit his near-side wing; it was only then that he identified the something as a body. He didn’t stop. He returned later.’
‘Did he say why he didn’t stop?’
‘He claimed he was so shocked by events that he hadn’t been able to pull himself together right away … The time gap seemed a bit long for that sort of reaction, not that you can ever be certain how people are going to react, and this did briefly have me wondering if he’d had a woman or, this being the age it is, maybe a man, in the car and had been trying desperately to keep that information to himself. But there was never anything to say one way or the other.’
‘Could he have been tight enough to think at first he’d get away with it, but then decided that was too risky?’
‘That was an obvious possibility, but it didn’t seem to fit his character…’ Turpin became silent. He picked up his cup and drained it.
‘It sounds a straightforward traffic incident – one driver under the influence, the other who thinks he’s a Schumacher, a kid who’s in the wrong place at the wrong time – why were you called in instead of leaving the case with the divisional DI?’
‘The interesting bit is to come.’ Turpin lit yet another cigarette. ‘Because Bailey had been so incensed by the stupidity and recklessness of the driver of the Jaguar, he’d made a mental note of the registration number and despite the shock – or even perhaps because of it – he was able to quote this in his statement. When the number was fed into the computer, up came the Bolivian embassy in London as registered owners.’
Perry whistled.
‘Just so! Trouble, in underlined capitals! I’m called in to keep things cool, the bureaucrats wet their knickers more than usual, every detail of the case is viewed from twenty different angles before the embassy is contacted.
‘They denied their Jaguar had been involved in any accident that night, or any other night. Questions were put with as much tact as if we’d been talking to a load of nuns in a rape case. Had the car been on the road that night? No. Who normally drove it? The chauffeur assigned to it. His name? The embassy was not at liberty to disclose the names of any who worked for it. Where was the harm in naming him if he had not been involved in the incident? No comment. Could the car be examined to confirm it had not been in an accident and that the eyewitness evidence was false? Certainly not. Why not? No comment.
‘Since a successful defence obviously depended on Bailey’s version of events being accepted, his lawyers decided to flush out the chauffeur so that he could be questioned. The moment they set the wheels in motion, the embassy claimed the man was part of the ambassadorial suite and therefore enjoyed diplomatic
immunity. Since chauffeurs don’t normally enjoy that degree of status, the defence challenged the assertion. A member of the embassy confirmed the claim and a Foreign Office certificate to that effect was issued; this meant that no court could traverse the certificate to determine whether the chauffeur really was entitled to immunity.
‘The defence team were high-powered and at the trial they pulled out all the stops. Bailey had been over the alcohol limit, but only just; he had been in full control of himself. He had not stopped immediately, because he had been so shocked it had taken him time to recover – the fact that he had returned proved this. The victim had been struck first by the Jaguar and even if cold sober, he would have had absolutely no chance of avoiding hitting her. Prosecution witnesses had agreed that in view of the very serious injuries the victim had suffered, they would have expected to find considerably greater damage to his car – their claim that this did not prove his contention that when the victim struck his car this was a secondary blow, was clearly unsustainable. He had named the other car as a Jaguar when giving the number to the police and had said it was white in colour. That number did belong to a white Jaguar, so it would be a coincidence too far to believe he had pulled it out of the air to add a suggestion of verisimilitude. The fact that the Jaguar belonged to a foreign embassy which refused to allow the car to be examined strongly suggested … The judge jumped very quickly on that and expressed his great surprise that so eminent a silk should try to introduce evidence through the back door which he knew could not be introduced through the front door …
‘All in all, the defence put up a good fight and the verdict might well have gone in Bailey’s favour – as far as the more serious charge was concerned, of course – if he had only presented himself better in the witness box. But he seemed … The best I can say is, he didn’t project the emotional urgency which a man can be expected to do when he’s struggling to make people understand he’s telling the truth; he seemed almost resigned to being disbelieved.’
‘Yet you said earlier that most of the time you reckoned he was telling the truth?’
‘That’s right.’
The Ambiguity of Murder Page 11
