The Sherlock Effect

by Raymond Kay Lyon

  ‘Just a few questions,’ promised Mo.

  ‘I presume they haven’t caught the bloke who did it.’

  ‘No,’ I admitted regretfully, ‘we haven’t caught him. Perhaps you can help to speed up the process.’

  Paulette ran a hand through her back-combed brown locks and raised one of her exquisite eyebrows. ‘How?’

  ‘By telling us who Kevin was afraid of. Perhaps he had suspicions as to the identity of the Mad Monk?’

  ‘If you’re after bedroom secrets, forget it. Kevin didn’t open up to me. He was a secretive little sod.’

  Mo said: ‘We’ve been given a list of his potential enemies by Gordon, but we need to be steered in the right direction.’

  She let out an unladylike snort. ‘Gordon gave you a list, eh? He should have put his own name at the top!’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘He was always trying to go behind Kevin’s back – making deals, fiddling the accounts. I never trusted him.’

  ‘So it comes as no surprise to you that Gordon is selling the company to Peter Van Meert?’

  ‘He was planning it for months. Kevin had to bug his office to find out what was going on. His own brother!’

  ‘But is Gordon capable of murder, in your opinion?’ asked Mo.

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past him. Or Van Meert. Have you investigated him yet?’

  ‘No, he’s based in Holland, and he’s not on the list.’

  I changed tack slightly. ‘Tell us about Jacko. I understand he got some of the girls into drugs – is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, it’s correct,’ she replied, in a subdued tone.

  ‘But you weren’t involved with him yourself?’

  ‘I’ve got my head screwed on, unlike most of those bimbos. That’s why I’ve ended up doing well-paid clothes modelling rather than the tacky work. Kevin introduced me to the right people. He didn’t want any girlfriend of his flashing herself about. Talk about double standards!’

  ‘Did you ever warn the other girls about Jacko?’

  ‘Of course I did, all the time – they thought I was being an old hen.’

  I took a bundle of girlie magazines from my coat pocket and spread them out on the coffee table.

  Mo looked rather taken aback: ‘Where did you get those, Sherl?’

  ‘I swiped them off the shelf in Gordon’s office. I didn’t think he’d mind.’

  Paulette gave me an old-fashioned look. ‘So, you’re a collector too, are you?’

  ‘I just wanted to find out if these models are currently working for X.E. Media. Do you know this one, for example?’

  She studied the cover carefully. ‘That’s Anna Smith. She dropped out of the scene some time ago.’

  ‘Was she one of Jacko’s girls?’

  ‘I saw her hanging round him quite often, yes. Why are you asking?’

  ‘Oh, just background research, really.’

  She yawned. ‘Well, if you don’t mind, I’m crashing out now. Let me know if you find out who did it.’

  At around lunchtime the following day Detective Inspector Poole turned up at the Crawford Street office looking particularly grave.

  ‘More news from the Mad Monk,’ he declared, refusing my offer of a beverage. ‘I thought you’d want to hear straight away.’

  ‘You mean there’s been a sighting?’ asked Mo.

  ‘Worse than that. He’s issued another threat – against Ruby Gates, this time.’

  ‘What kind of a threat?’ I enquired.

  ‘She got a phone call from him this morning at her flat. He told her not to talk to the police any more, otherwise she’d end up like Kevin and Jacko – in the morgue.’

  ‘Charming,’ muttered Mo with a frown. ‘This is all getting a bit out of hand, isn’t it?’

  ‘As you can imagine, I’m treating the matter extremely seriously. We’ve got a man posted outside the flat at the moment.’

  ‘When did Ruby leave hospital, then?’ I asked.

  ‘She was released last night. Her son’s staying with her until this business blows over – whenever that is.’

  ‘What about her brother, Edwin?’

  ‘I think she said he’s gone back to his village in Wales. I’ve got the address somewhere.’

  ‘I suppose Ruby is certain it’s the same man who came into Tripp’s house?’ asked Mo thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes, it was the same voice, and he called himself the Mad Monk. That name hasn’t been released to the press yet.’

  ‘Then he knows she’s been talking to the police. How does he know?’ I asked.

  Poole shrugged. ‘Perhaps he was spying on us in the hospital?’

  ‘In which case,’ Mo concluded deliberately, ‘he’ll have been picked up on their security cameras. I should study the video tapes carefully – look out for a tall man hanging around outside Ruby’s ward on the day we talked to her.’

  The detective sat stock-still in his chair, weighing Mo’s advice carefully, before aiming a questioning glance at me. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think my colleague is perfectly right,’ I replied.

  ‘OK,’ said Poole, jumping up with an air of decision. ‘I’ll request to see the tapes. Good idea, Mr. Rennie.’

  Mo could not suppress a bashful grin.

  ‘Before you go, Inspector, could you leave Edwin’s address with me?’ I requested.

  ‘Yes. Why do you need it?’

  ‘I want to go and see his house. It may be safer for Ruby to stay there – in a village setting – rather than in the town. Easier to protect her from the Monk.’

  Poole nodded. ‘Yes, I hadn’t thought of that.’

  After a quick bite to eat I drove over to my flat, packed a small suit-case, and then made for the M4. I had the entire length of that motorway to mull over the case, starting at Junction 1 in Gunnersbury, heading out of London, across Berkshire, Wiltshire, over the Severn Bridge, past Cardiff, and ending up at Junction 49, a few miles north of Llanelli.

  By the time I finally reached Edwin’s village it was just after eight o’clock in the evening. I had considered every likely hypothesis from a dozen different angles – rather like a chess player who calculates the permutations of an end game.

  The house itself – a stone-built cottage – was easy enough to find, since there were only about twenty buildings in the entire hamlet. Edwin answered my knock and looked extremely surprised to see me.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed, I’ve just come to have a chat,’ I explained quickly.

  ‘Has anything happened to Ruby?’ he demanded.

  ‘No, she’s fine.’

  ‘Oh. Well, you’d better come in anyway.’

  Still somewhat bemused by my presence he ushered me through into the cosy low-ceilinged dining room, where his wife was laying the table. ‘This is Mr. Webster, dear, the man who’s investigating the murders. My wife, Meg.’

  ‘Will you join us for a bit of supper?’ she asked hospitably. ‘There’s plenty here. You must have had a long journey.’

  ‘Thank you, that’s very kind.’

  As we settled down to the stew Edwin gave me a searching look. ‘So, what did you want to discuss exactly?’

  I explained about the threat that Ruby had received earlier that day from the Mad Monk.

  The news had a strange effect on Edwin. The edges of his mouth curled up very slightly, almost against his will, and his eyes shone brightly. If I didn’t know better I would have said he was relieved.

  By contrast, Meg tutted and shook her head sadly. ‘What that poor woman has had to put up with! Is there anything we can do to help?’

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact there is something,’ I replied. ‘She needs a safe place to stay for a while, and I wondered whether you could possibly put her up? We’d arrange full police protection, of course, until the Monk is caught.’

  ‘There is a spare bedroom – not very big, though,’ said Edwin doubtfully. ‘What do you say, Meg?’

  ‘Ruby’s welcome to it,
of course. It’s the least we can do. Especially as her old house is being let.’

  ‘What old house?’ I asked.

  ‘The family used to live near Bishopston, on the coast. When she moved away to London she let the house out to holidaymakers.’

  ‘I suppose that was after her daughter, Betty, died?’

  Meg nodded. ‘That’s right. Such a beautiful girl, Betty was.’

  ‘Have you got a photo of her?’ I asked casually.

  ‘No, I’m afraid we haven’t,’ replied Edwin positively.

  Meg was not so sure. ‘Perhaps there’s one in the bedroom. I’ll go up and see.’

  ‘Don’t bother. I’ve just remembered: Ruby gave me one a few days ago,’ I said, untruthfully. ‘Here it is.’

  I produced a shot of a girl’s face, which I’d carefully snipped out of one of the X.E. magazines. ‘That’s her, isn’t it?’

  Meg nodded, and repeated: ‘Such a lovely girl.’

  ‘She died of heart failure, I understand? Was it sudden?’

  ‘Well, to be honest she had been looking rather ill for some time before, hadn’t she Edwin? I always said London didn’t agree with her.’

  ‘She was in London?’

  ‘Yes, worked as a secretary there for two or three years. Then she came back, and a few weeks later we heard she was dead.’

  Edwin mumbled a response. He seemed uneasy about discussing the subject.

  After the meal we had coffee. Meg asked me where I was planning to spend the night, and I mentioned a pub which I’d seen up the road. She wouldn’t hear of such an idea, and insisted that I stay with them.

  The following morning I woke early, packed my suit-case, and left, but not without first having a useful natter with Meg. I winkled out of her the name of Ruby’s family G.P. – a Dr. Branscombe. He still practiced in the Bishopston area, apparently.

  The weather was unpleasant and squally, but the drive down to the Gower coast was spectacular, nonetheless. I stopped the car several times to take in the view, like an out-of-season tourist, and even went so far as to take a short walk along a cliff-top path. Thus invigorated I made my way to Dr. Branscombe’s surgery, which was in the heart of Bishopston. He agreed to see me, briefly, between patients.

  ‘I’ll be as direct as possible, doctor,’ I began. ‘You were Betty Gates’s G.P.?’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct.’

  ‘I’m investigating a double murder in London, in collaboration with Detective Inspector Poole of the Metropolitan Police. Could you tell me what Betty died of?’

  ‘I’m not sure that I can discuss that with you.’

  ‘Well, can’t you at least tell me what’s written on the death certificate? That’s surely a matter of public record.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Branscombe after a pause. ‘She died of a heroin overdose.’

  ‘Suicide?’

  ‘Accidental, as far as we can tell. May I ask how this relates to your murder enquiry?’

  ‘It may not relate to it,’ I replied. ‘But your information has been invaluable. I won’t take up any more of your time.’

  I left the doctor looking rather confused, and headed out of the surgery.

  Just then my mobile rang. It was Poole.

  ‘We’re thinking of charging someone,’ he announced abruptly. ‘I thought you ought to know.’

  ‘Charging someone? Who is it?’

  ‘Shaun Woodruff – one of the names on our list. He and Kevin ran a strip club together in 2003. Kevin conned him out of several grand. We also found out he spent three month’s in a Buddhist monastery when he was in his twenties.’

  ‘Is that it?’ I reacted, somewhat dismissively.

  ‘No. We arranged for Ruby to come to the station and listen to Woodruff’s voice. She positively identifies him as the same man who telephoned her this morning. I think you’d better get back here.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘I’ll start immediately.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Several wearisome hours later I arrived at the police station to be met by an exuberant Poole. His normal, down-in-the-mouth expression was replaced by a smiling, sunny countenance. To be honest, I hardly recognised him.

  ‘There could be a confession any time now,’ he declared, leading me upstairs to his office with a boyish skip in his step. ‘I’ve got a good feeling about this one.’

  ‘You’re still relying on Ruby’s identification of Woodruff’s voice?’

  ‘Yes, and his history. He tried to get Kevin Tripp done over by a gang in a Deptford pub. Luckily Kevin was tipped off just in time and managed to escape; but they were ready to break his legs – or worse.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Nearly seven years ago.’

  ‘And Woodruff has waited all this time before having another go?’

  ‘The circumstances had to be just right.’

  ‘How tall is he?’

  ‘Over six foot.’

  ‘And I presume he doesn’t have an alibi?’

  ‘Paper thin. We’ll be able to break it within twenty four hours,’ predicted the detective confidently. ‘We’ve got our forensic team looking over his house at the moment. And then there’s the link with monks – don’t forget that.’

  ‘Oh yes. How long was he in this monastery?’

  ‘Only a few weeks – but that’s enough time to give him the idea of the name.’

  ‘Quite.’ I paused a moment to weigh up all this accumulated evidence before asking: ‘What about Gordon Tripp’s alibi? Did that check out in the end?’

  ‘Yes, the delivery man from the Indian restaurant remembers seeing him in the girl’s flat. I think we can safely eliminate him.’

  ‘And the other names on that list?’

  ‘There are several interesting leads that we haven’t had time to pursue, in case Woodruff turns out to be innocent. But I think he’s guilty. By the way, what happened in Wales? Is Ruby’s brother willing to put her up?’

  ‘He is, yes.’

  ‘Good. I’m sure it’s a good idea – even if we charge Woodruff. She needs to get as far away as possible, for the sake of her nerves.’

  ‘Well, let me know if your man does confess,’ I said, heading back down the corridor.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I ought to get back to Crawford Street. And then I might call in on Ruby.’

  Mo was fast asleep on the sofa when I arrived at our office. A gentle nudge was enough to wake him, however.

  ‘Oh, you’re back,’ he observed, yawning. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Just after seven. Has everything been quiet here?’

  ‘As a grave. Poole rang. He’s got someone in custody – a prime suspect, apparently.’

  ‘I know. I called in at the station on my way.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘About Woodruff? I’ve got an open mind.’

  ‘That new witness has put a spanner in the works, though.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, looking blank.

  ‘Didn’t Poole tell you? There was a builder doing a conversion job on the house opposite Tripp’s. He had a clear view of everyone coming and going in the street.’

  ‘And?’ I asked impatiently.

  ‘He came forward this morning, to say he didn’t see a monk arriving. In fact he swears that no-one came in or out of Tripp’s door for at least three hours before the murders took place.’

  ‘But he saw the monk appear on the balcony, I presume?’

  ‘Oh yes, he saw that alright.’

  ‘Excellent!’ I cried, punching the air with my fists.

  ‘Why is it excellent?’

  ‘Because it confirms that there’s a deep fault-line running through the case, as I’ve always maintained. No wonder Poole neglected to tell me. He desperately wants everything to be straightforward.’

  Feeling buoyed by the news I made Mo a cup of coffee and waited for him to wake up a little. Then we both drove over to Ruby’s flat in Shepherd’
s Bush. On the way I rehearsed the formidable difficulties attending the case, as much for my own benefit as for my associate’s.

  ‘A murderer who appears and disappears from the scene of the crime as if by magic – by quantum leaps. That’s the grotesque scenario we’re faced with. But we must face it, otherwise we’re simply running away from the evidence.’

  ‘Like Poole is doing?’

  I nodded. ‘It seems a trifle premature to go around trying to elicit confessions from people, when you still haven’t the faintest idea how the murders took place. That’s not to say we don’t have clues. Take Jacko’s inside-out sweater. Could that not be a highly significant item?’

  ‘I don’t follow you,’ confessed Mo.

  ‘Well, we know that Kevin Tripp expected impeccable tidiness from employees. Jacko would never normally have dared to walk around with a label sticking out. Which suggests several interesting hypotheses.’

  Mo shook his head rather sadly. ‘I still don’t see what you’re driving at.’

  I passed swiftly on to the subject of Ruby’s daughter, Betty. ‘Did you know she died of a heroin overdose? And she did some nude modelling for X.E. magazines?’

  Mo looked shocked. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. I confirmed both facts when I was in Wales.’

  ‘Do we have to tell Ruby? It would devastate her if she found out.’

  ‘Perhaps there won’t be any need to tell her . . . ’

  A few minutes later we turned into a quiet residential street near Shepherd’s Bush Green, and secured a rare parking space. A short stroll brought us to Ruby’s address. When we rang the bell the curly-haired head of Wyn appeared fleetingly at a first floor window.

  Eventually he opened the door to us and declared: ‘Mam’s out shopping at the moment.’

  ‘Ah, I see. When will she be back?’ I enquired.

  ‘Not long. Half an hour perhaps.’

  ‘Could we come in and wait?’

  Wyn seemed hesitant. ‘I suppose – if you want.’

  We followed him up the stairs into the flat, which was tidy, though hardly spacious. Gordon’s painting of the Gower coast was already hanging on the wall, proudly positioned above the mantelpiece.

  I noticed that there was a complete absence of photographs, which prompted me to ask: ‘Are there any family snaps lying about the place, Wyn?’