Suspicious Death

by Dorothy Simpson

  ‘Her husband seemed pretty upset.’

  ‘Well, yes. But if she treated him the way she treated everyone else, he couldn’t have had much of a life. Didn’t you notice Mrs Pantry said they had separate bedrooms?’

  ‘Lots of married couples have separate bedrooms for all sorts of reasons – he snores, she’s an insomniac …’

  Lineham’s face showed that he couldn’t accept this proposition. In his book, separate bedrooms meant only one thing: marital disharmony.

  ‘So that show of grief … You think he was putting it on, then?’

  ‘Not necessarily, sir. I don’t know. I’m just saying he could have been.’

  ‘True. But even if you’re right, and they didn’t get on too well, it doesn’t necessarily mean he killed her. He could still genuinely have been in shock. After all, if you’ve lived with a woman for – what? – twenty years, you’re bound to feel something when she dies suddenly, even if the first fine careless rapture has worn off. And there doesn’t seem to have been any talk about trouble between them, in the village.’

  ‘No, that’s true. Miss Phipps wasn’t too comfortable, though, when you asked her about them. In any case, you must admit he seems the most likely suspect so far, if only because he seems to have been in the right place at the right time.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘I mean, if he had a reason for wanting to get rid of her that nobody knows about and the opportunity to do so just shoved itself under his nose when they happened to pass each other on the bridge …’

  ‘It’s certainly possible, Mike, I grant you. Obviously we’ll have to see him again tomorrow, when I hope he’ll be in a fit state to talk …’

  They had arrived back at Headquarters and Lineham parked the car and switched off the engine. Engrossed in their discussion, neither of them made any move to get out.

  ‘The other likely suspect at the moment, of course, is Greenleaf,’ said Thanet. ‘You weren’t there, were you, when Miss Phipps was telling me about him? Apparently he’s badly disfigured after an accident, which I imagine is one of the reasons why he leads the life of a recluse.’

  ‘No, I didn’t know that. Poor chap. I wonder if Mr Salden will let him stay on, now.’

  ‘Yes, it’ll be interesting to find out. I imagine it wouldn’t have been easy for him to find somewhere else to go, if the eviction had gone ahead. If the disfigurement is as bad as Miss Phipps says, it’s understandable that he doesn’t want too much contact with other people. He’d probably have been forced into a life on the road. All of which adds up to a powerful motive for wanting to get rid of Mrs Salden.’

  ‘Honestly, sir, I know you were trying to excuse the way Mrs Salden behaved towards the people of the village, but with respect …’

  ‘Not excuse, Mike. I was merely trying to understand her reasons. And every time you say, “With respect,” I know you’re about to disagree with me. So go on, disagree.’

  ‘No, not disagree, exactly. I was only going to say that in my opinion she sounds a nasty bit of work. This Greenleaf business was typical. Why couldn’t she have left the poor man alone? He wasn’t doing anyone any harm, was he? And he wasn’t exactly under her nose all the time, he was tucked well away out of sight. It just seems a bit of gratuitous unpleasantness to take him to court and threaten to tip him out like that.’

  ‘Maybe. Nevertheless, Mike, if you can try to be a little more dispassionate about this, you’ll concede that he has very good reason to be thankful that she is permanently out of the way.’

  ‘That’s not the same as saying he might have shoved her off the bridge.’

  ‘Mike! I’m not suggesting it is, and you know it! Merely that the possibility exists.’

  Lineham was silent for a moment or two, then said awkwardly, ‘It does, of course. Sorry, sir, don’t know what got into me.’

  ‘Forget it. So we’ll have to interview Greenleaf tomorrow, as well. Meanwhile, there were one or two other interesting points, I thought.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘That dinner party …’

  ‘Yes. A bit of a mixed bag, wasn’t it? A county councillor and a hairdresser?’

  ‘Quite. It did just occur to me … Isn’t Lomax chairman of the Planning Committee?’

  ‘Yes, you’re right, he is, I’d forgotten that …’ Lineham’s lips pursed in a silent whistle. ‘You mean …’

  ‘That Mrs Salden might have been using Josie Trimble as bait in order to swing that planning permission. Yes. What d’you think, Mike?’

  ‘Sounds quite likely to me, after what we’ve heard about Mrs Salden. I wouldn’t put anything past her, if she wanted something badly enough.’

  ‘It would explain why she didn’t want to cancel the dinner party, wouldn’t it? A quarter of a million is a high stake.’

  ‘And also why she didn’t mind leaving them alone while she went down to the village to visit her mother. And,’ said Lineham, warming to his theme, ‘why the housekeeper was so sniffy when she was talking about the girl. I wondered what all that was about. I thought perhaps it was just because Mrs Pantry was a bit of a snob, but if she was aware of what was going on …’

  ‘I agree. Also, it surprised me a bit that Salden was so ready to disappear for the evening, that he didn’t go back to the house to apologise to his guests and spend some time with them between his first and second visits to his mother-in-law. But if he knew what his wife was up to and disapproved of it he might have been only too glad of an excuse to keep out of the way. Anyway, if we’re right, it does open up certain interesting possibilities, don’t you agree?’

  ‘I do. Blackmail, for instance. If Lomax had got himself entangled with Josie Trimble and Mrs Salden had started putting pressure on about the planning permission … Lomax could have found himself in a very nasty position.’

  ‘If it had got out it wouldn’t have done him much good, that’s for sure.’

  ‘It’d certainly have made the headlines in the local paper. It’s got all the ingredients of a first-class scandal – sex, bribery, corruption in local government … I can just see the headlines. BOROUGH COUNCILLOR …’

  ‘All right, Mike, no need to get carried away. The point is, we’ll need to pay a little visit to those two tomorrow, too.’

  ‘Don’t you think we ought to see Miss Phipps again as well?’

  ‘Ah, I wondered if you’d spotted that. Yes, she was holding something back, wasn’t she, when I asked her about her movements that evening. I wonder what she’d been up to.’

  No doubt they’d find out, sooner or later.

  TEN

  After spending several hours on the ‘detailed, literate and accurate’ reports Draco would expect next morning, all Thanet wanted to do when he got home was fall into bed and sink into oblivion. As he pulled into the drive he was surprised to see a light still on in the tiny shoebox of a bedroom which he and Joan used as a study. He went straight upstairs, pleased to note that tonight the light was off in Bridget’s room.

  Joan was sitting at the desk, which was strewn with papers. She turned as he came in and lifted her face for his kiss. ‘How’s the case going?’

  He shrugged. ‘So so. You’re working late, love.’

  ‘I know.’ She laid down her pen, took off her recently acquired spectacles and rubbed her eyes. ‘I’ve got to finish this report by tomorrow, and I didn’t have a chance to tackle it earlier on.’

  ‘Why was that?’ Thanet perched on the edge of the desk. Joan, too, looked very tired. There were lines of strain around her eyes, her mouth drooped and her short fair curly hair was dishevelled, as though she had been running her hands through it. From where he sat looking down at her Thanet could see a glint of grey here and there. We’re neither of us getting any younger, he thought.

  She pulled a face. ‘Vicky was here for a good couple of hours, in floods of tears most of the time.’

  Vicky Younghusband lived next door. Her husband, Peter, was a travelling salesman and Vicky had given
birth to their first child six weeks ago. She had worked in the offices of a local estate agent until a month before the baby was born, and had always been a cheerful, outgoing girl. She and Peter had been delighted when she found she was pregnant at last. They had been married for eight years and for the last five had been hoping that Vicky would conceive. On the day the pregnancy was confirmed they had brought round a bottle of champagne, and they had all drunk a toast to the next generation of Younghusbands.

  ‘At least three of them!’ Vicky had declared, radiant with happiness.

  ‘Wait until you’ve had one,’ Joan had teased. ‘You might change your mind.’

  Often, during the last few weeks, she had had reason to remember that light-hearted remark, for since the baby’s arrival Vicky was a changed woman. Gone were the smiles, the cheerfulness, the unfailing optimism, replaced by endless tears and a dragging, debilitating depression. More than once Peter had come round to see the Thanets in despair.

  ‘Post-natal depression, the doctor says. But how long is it going to last? I sometimes feel I can’t take much more.’

  Joan and Thanet had made consoling noises but had felt powerless to help. What could they do, except provide a sympathetic ear and a shoulder to cry on?

  Instead of the fortnight he had arranged to take off to help Vicky after the baby was born, Peter had taken a month, using up all his annual leave in one fell swoop, but at the end of this time Vicky was no better. Worried though he was, Peter had had to go back to work, and although he had tried to arrange his schedule so that Vicky was not alone more than two nights in succession it wasn’t always possible; his area was large and his employers understandably becoming a little tetchy. He could not afford to risk losing his job.

  Thanet and Joan had promised to keep an eye on Vicky, but at the end of a working day it wasn’t always easy to call up the reserves of emotional energy which she demanded.

  Joan sighed. ‘Honestly, Luke, I’m sure her doctor doesn’t realise just how ill she is. From what she says he’s one of the old school who tends to think women are a bit hysterical and everything would be all right if she’d just make an effort and pull herself together. I really am worried about her. I even wonder if …’

  ‘What?’

  Joan shook her head. ‘Oh, nothing. I’m being silly, I suppose.’

  ‘You’re not suggesting she might try to commit suicide?’

  ‘Well, it has crossed my mind, I must admit. And I feel so helpless, Luke. D’you know, I went in there the other day after I got home from work, about six o’clock it must have been, and there she was, sitting in front of the television set in a sort of trance, still in her dressing gown. No make-up, her hair uncombed … I had the impression she’d been there all day. The baby was screaming his head off, he was hungry, his nappy was soaking wet. She really is deeply and clinically depressed.’

  ‘What about the health visitor? Surely she must be aware of the situation?’

  ‘So far as I can gather, Peter has always made an enormous effort to get the house straight and make sure things look as normal as possible when she’s coming. He hasn’t actually said so, but I think he’s afraid they might take the baby away if things look too bad. Which is understandable, but very misleading.’

  ‘When’s he due back?’

  ‘The day after tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll try and have a tactful word with him, point out that although it may have been done with the best of intentions, it’s not really in Vicky’s best interest to give a false impression of how she’s coping. Meanwhile … Wait a minute, aren’t they with the Thompson and Merridew practice?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘I heard the other day that they’d just taken on a new partner. A woman in her thirties. One of the lads was complaining that he’d never get used to a woman doctor. Perhaps we could manoeuvre an appointment with her, for Vicky. She might be a lot more understanding and constructive. We’ll suggest it to Peter, when he gets back. So cheer up, love. It’s not all doom and despair.’

  Joan grimaced. ‘That’s not the only thing that’s worrying me, I’m afraid.’ She laid a hand on his. ‘Oh darling, I am sorry to throw all this at you the second you walk through the door. You look so tired. And I suppose your back is playing up again?’

  Thanet admitted that it was. It always did, when he was tired. An old injury had left him with a permanent weakness in the lumbar region. It was little consolation to know that there were 2.2 million other sufferers in the British Isles. ‘But never mind that. What else is bothering you? You might as well tell me the worst.’

  Joan glanced uneasily towards the door and lowered her voice. ‘Did you notice if Bridget’s light was off?’

  Automatically Thanet leaned closer. We must look like a couple of conspirators, he thought. ‘Yes, it was. Why?’

  ‘Mr Foreman rang me at work this afternoon. He wants me to go and see him.’

  Thanet frowned. Mr Foreman was Bridget and Ben’s headmaster. ‘Why?’

  ‘He wouldn’t say – except that it’s about Bridget.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s as concerned as we are that she’s pushing herself too hard.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he discuss it over the phone, then?’

  ‘No time?’

  Joan shook her head. ‘I felt it was more … how shall I put it? More as if he wanted to discuss some definite misdemeanour on her part.’

  ‘What, for instance?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘There you are, then. You’re imagining things. Bridget isn’t the type to cause trouble, you know that. In fact, she’s too conscientious by half. Did you ask her if she could guess why Mr Foreman wanted to see you?’

  ‘Yes. She said she’d no idea. But …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, I had the impression she wasn’t being frank with me.’

  This was bad news. Thanet had great faith in Joan’s powers of intuition. ‘Did you fix up an appointment?’

  ‘Yes. Two thirty tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘No, there’s no need. Really. It might look as though we’re taking the whole thing far too seriously if we both turn up. And it might be about something quite trivial.’

  But the same thought was in both their minds: in that case, why hadn’t Mr Foreman been prepared to discuss it over the phone?

  Thanet stood up. ‘Come on, time for bed. We’re both tired.’

  She shook her head, picked up her spectacles and put them on. ‘I really have to finish this report tonight.’

  ‘How much longer will you be?’

  ‘Half an hour or so.’

  For the second night running Thanet lay awake worrying about his daughter.

  Next morning he set off for work early. He wanted to skim through as many as possible of the reports that would have come in on the Salden case before the morning meeting with Draco. He cast a wistful glance into his own office as he passed. Dust sheets covered the carpet and someone had been having fun spattering Polyfilla over the walls. The map of Australia on the ceiling had disappeared. Thanet found that like Lineham he mourned its passing.

  It was difficult to concentrate in the main CID room, partly because the DCs were trying to be so considerate. They came and went as though walking on eggshells, held telephone conversations sotto voce and consulted each other in voices barely louder than whispers. It was all highly unnatural and therefore very distracting. All the reports were brief, however, and Thanet had just finished when Lineham arrived.

  ‘Anything, sir?’ said the Sergeant.

  ‘Just a few odds and ends. There doesn’t seem to be much doubt that Mrs Salden fell from the bridge, though of course we’ll have to wait to hear from Forensic before we’re absolutely certain. The divers found her torch in the river below the gap in the parapet, and Mrs Pantry identified the shoe. It was one of a pair kept for outdoor use in a small cloakroom near the back door. She also found Mrs Salden’s evening shoes, which she’
d obviously discarded when she discovered her car wouldn’t start and she’d have to walk to the village.’

  The telephone rang and Lineham answered it. He mouthed, ‘Tessa Barclay, TVS’ at Thanet, and proceeded to apologise for the fact that Thanet had been unavailable the previous afternoon and to promise regular daily bulletins.

  ‘Got yourself a new job then, Mike,’ said Thanet with a grin as the Sergeant put the phone down. ‘Press correspondent.’

  Lineham shrugged. He didn’t always take kindly to being teased. ‘Someone’s got to do it,’ he muttered.

  ‘And who better?’ Thanet glanced at his watch. 8.43. ‘Look, get on the phone and check that Mr Salden will be at home around nine thirty, will you? As soon as the morning meeting’s over we’ll go out to the Manor again.’

  But Draco had other ideas. At the end of the meeting he once again called Thanet back and waved him into a chair.

  Thanet betrayed none of his sudden unease. He had an uncomfortable feeling that he knew what was coming.

  Draco sat back in his chair, picked up an elastic band and started fiddling with it, winding it around his finger, rolling it on and off his wrist. He seemed incapable of sitting still and once again Thanet wondered how a desk job was going to accommodate all that nervous energy.

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ said the Superintendent in a casual manner which did not deceive Thanet for one moment, ‘but am I right in thinking that at the moment you haven’t got one single speck of evidence that Mrs Salden’s death was anything but an accident?’

  Thanet’s guess had been correct. Draco wasn’t the kind of man to back non-starters. He wanted Thanet to pull out. Thanet prepared to do battle, if necessary. But first he would have to cut Draco down to size in his own mind. He stared at the Superintendent. Draco’s promotion was recent and his Welsh accent had been especially noticeable just now. This would be the first clash of wills with his Detective Inspector. Perhaps he, too, was a little nervous and wasn’t such a formidable opponent after all.