Dead on Arrival

by Dorothy Simpson

  ‘Me?’ Hunt stared at them. ‘How should I know?’

  ‘You were his brother.’

  ‘Yes, but … We lived very different lives, Inspector. Our paths did cross occasionally, yes, but we weren’t close, I really have no idea who Steve’s friends were – if “friends” is the right word, in the circumstances.’

  ‘You know his family, though? His … your half-brothers?’

  ‘I certainly never think of them as my half-brothers, I assure you! But yes, I know them, of course.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Not especially, no.’

  ‘But enough to tell me a little about them?’

  ‘Depends what you want to know.’

  Thanet waved his hand in an all-encompassing gesture. ‘Anything. Anything at all. I haven’t met them yet.’

  Hunt frowned and shifted restlessly in his chair. ‘Well … er … There are two of them, as you probably know, Chris and Frank. Chris is the older.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Twenty-three. Frank’s twenty-two.’

  ‘And Steven was …?’

  ‘Twenty-seven.’

  ‘Sorry, go on.’

  ‘Chris is, well, of the three of them, I suppose you could say Chris is the odd man out.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He’s the only one who’s managed to make something of his life.’

  Thanet’s attention sharpened. Had there been a hint of bitterness there? If so, why? Hunt himself had no reason to be envious. He was obviously in a very comfortable position.

  ‘I can see you’re wondering why I sounded rather bitter, Inspector,’ said Hunt, with disconcerting accuracy. ‘It was because I couldn’t help resenting the fact that Steve never had the same chance.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Chris was the favourite. So he was allowed to stay on at school when the other two were made to go out to work the minute it was legal for them to leave. Chris therefore went to university, got a good degree and is now teaching at the Grammar School, whereas Steve ended up as a mechanic and Frank as a delivery man.’

  ‘At least they all have jobs. That’s not bad going, these days.’

  ‘That’s not the point!’ Hunt was getting angry. The navy-blue eyes were almost black and his hands were clenched into fists. ‘The point, Inspector, is that Steve was capable of so much more. And he never had a hope in hell of achieving it.’

  ‘You really cared about him, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I did. And if you’re wondering why I get so hot under the collar about it, believe me, I could tell you some stories about the way Steve was treated that would make your hair stand on end.’

  ‘What stories?’

  Hunt shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. Steve told me in confidence. Besides, of what possible interest could they be to you?’

  ‘You’d have to let me be the judge of that.’

  Hunt shook his head again, vehemently this time, and it was obvious that he wasn’t going to change his mind.

  ‘You were telling me about Chris and Frank.’

  ‘There’s not much more to say about Chris. As I say, he teaches at the Grammar School, he’s married, to another teacher.’

  ‘What about Frank?’

  ‘Frank’s a very different kettle of fish. Not very bright, and he was on the dole for years, after leaving school. Then, just over a year ago, he got a job at last, at Passmore’s, delivering furniture, and on the strength of it he got married. His wife’s expecting their first baby soon.’

  Passmore’s was Sturrenden’s only department store.

  ‘Does either of them fit this description?’ And, once again, Thanet described the man seen coming away from Steven Long’s door the previous evening.

  ‘Why?’ said Hunt, warily.

  So the man had been one of the two half-brothers. ‘Because this man was seen outside Steve’s flat last night.’

  ‘That doesn’t necessarily mean he killed him.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, Mr Hunt. Nevertheless, you must see that we have to trace him.’

  ‘You’ll find out sooner or later, I suppose, whether I tell you or not … It sounds like Frank.’

  ‘I see … How did Steven get on with Chris and Frank?’

  ‘Well enough, I think. He used to see them from time to time, but I wouldn’t say they were exactly close.’

  ‘What about his wife?’

  ‘Sharon?’ Hunt shrugged. ‘You know they were separated?’

  ‘Yes. How did Steve feel about that?’

  ‘About the separation?’ Hunt shrugged again. ‘He was put out at first, but I think he’d got used to the idea.’

  ‘He wasn’t trying to persuade her to come back to him?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  ‘That’s not the impression we had from Sharon herself, or from her mother.’

  ‘Her mother!’ Hunt gave a cynical laugh. ‘Well, that doesn’t surprise me. Sharon’s mother thinks that Sharon is God’s gift to man, and if you ask me she was more responsible for the split between them than anything else. She never could stand Steve, and was against the marriage from the start.’

  Lineham, who had himself suffered much from an over-possessive mother, shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘So you don’t think he was too upset about his marriage breaking down?’

  ‘I told you, no.’

  ‘He used to go and see Sharon, though. Yesterday, for example, he went straight round after work.’

  ‘I don’t think he was too happy about the bloke she’s living with.’

  ‘Ivor Howells, you mean. In what way?’

  ‘Well, Sharon’s very sweet, but she’s not exactly a strong personality – not surprising, when you look at her mother – and I think Steve was a bit concerned that Howells would be too much for her.’

  ‘Too dominating, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you think that the reason why Steve used to go and see her was because he was hoping to persuade her to leave Howells, rather than that he was trying to get Sharon back for himself?’

  ‘Possibly. I don’t really know. I told you, we never actually discussed it. This is just what I picked up, reading between the lines, so to speak.’

  ‘Tell me what he was like.’

  ‘Steve?’ Hunt frowned. ‘It’s always difficult to describe someone you know well. He was a brilliant mechanic, had a real feel for machines. I mean, I’ve got a degree in mechanical engineering, but I’ve never had his flair. You could have a really tricky problem, one that’s really been bugging you, and Steve would come along, have a listen and say, “Ah yes, that’ll be the …” whatever it was. And he’d be right, every time. That’s why he never had problems in finding a job.’

  ‘He seems to have changed jobs rather often.’

  ‘He got bored, easily. The truth is, he was never stretched, never had a chance to reach his full potential.’

  ‘Not like you?’

  ‘I was lucky.’ For the first time Hunt smiled. ‘You know what Steve used to call me? “The one who got away”.’

  ‘Did he resent the difference in your circumstances?’

  ‘A bit, I suppose. Understandable, of course.’ Hunt glanced compacently around. ‘Not that he ever said anything …’

  ‘And it caused trouble between you?’

  ‘Depends what you mean by trouble …’ Hunt leant back in his chair and smiled. ‘If you mean, did we get on so badly that I went round last night and bashed his head in, then the answer’s no.’

  ‘What did you do last night, Mr Hunt?’

  ‘Oh, so it’s alibi time, is it?’ Hunt stood up and strolled across to the french windows. ‘What time did you say Steve was killed, Inspector?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Ah.’ Hunt swung around to face them. ‘And I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me, are you?’

  Thanet said nothing, remained impassive.

  Hunt shrugged. ‘Wel
l, I’ve nothing to hide, so why should I worry?’ He returned to his chair, sat down and folded his arms.

  With a hint of defiance? Thanet wondered. What was coming?

  ‘As a matter of fact I went to see Steve myself, last night.’ His eyes were watchful, assessing the effect of his words on the two policemen.

  Thanet was deliberately non-committal. ‘Really? What time was that?’

  ‘I arrived at about, oh, a quarter to twenty past six. And left at about twenty to seven.’

  And Mrs Bence claimed to have seen Steve leave at a quarter to. Was it possible that it was Geoff she had seen? If so, Steve might already have been dead …

  ‘Why did you go to see your brother last night, Mr Hunt?’

  ‘I was a bit concerned about him.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, I’d last seen him on Sunday evening – it was our birthday, and I called round to wish him many happy returns. I thought he seemed a bit low, rather depressed.’ Hunt lifted his shoulders. ‘So last night I thought I’d just pop round to see how he was.’

  ‘And how was he?’

  ‘All right, I suppose. I wouldn’t say he was exactly full of the joys of spring, but then he hasn’t been for some time.’

  ‘Why was that, do you think?’

  Again the shrug. ‘I never actually asked him, outright. I just used to, you know, try to jolly him along … I suppose it was partly because of his marriage going wrong, partly because he could never really settle to a job for long, partly because … oh, I don’t know, I suppose it was general, really, an overall feeling of disappointment in life, a sense of, well, failure, perhaps …’

  ‘But he never actually discussed these things with you?’

  ‘Not in so many words, no.’ Hunt hesitated. ‘He wasn’t the sort of man to discuss his feelings. He’d be much more likely to try and cover them up.’

  ‘So what did you talk about, last night?’

  ‘Nothing much. Cars – we always talked about cars … A job he’d been doing at work, how I was getting on with the packing … Nothing special, really.’

  ‘And how did he seem?’

  ‘Rather more cheerful than he was on Sunday, I thought.’

  ‘That was why you stayed for only twenty minutes or so?’

  ‘Partly. But also because I had a date.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Geoffrey Hunt’s date had been with a girl called Caroline Gilbert, who worked as a secretary in Sturrenden. After leaving Steve, Geoffrey had returned home for a quick shave and had then picked Caroline up at home, at half past seven. He had taken her out to dinner and later they had returned to Geoff’s home for coffee and a final drink. Just before midnight he had taken her home.

  ‘We shall have to check with Miss Gilbert, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ echoed Hunt. ‘Do, by all means.’

  Thanet rose. ‘Well, I think that’s about it, for the moment, Mr Hunt. If you could come into the station to make a formal statement some time today …?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Good! In that case we’ll leave you to get on with your packing. But …’

  Hunt held up a hand. ‘Don’t tell me! “Don’t leave town without informing us.”’

  Thanet smiled. ‘You’ve been reading all the right detective stories, Mr Hunt. Don’t bother to come to the door. We’ll see ourselves out.’

  Thanet and Lineham walked back to the car, got in and sat in silence for a few minutes, thinking back over the interview. Eventually Thanet stirred.

  ‘Well, what d’you think, Mike?’

  ‘I certainly think he ought to go down on our list. After all, he was there, last night. And I did wonder … D’you think it was him, not Steve, that that witness saw leaving at a quarter to seven?’

  ‘I wondered too. Could well have been. We’ll have to see how things shape up. So far we haven’t come across anyone who’s seen Steve alive after that time. In which case …’

  ‘He might have been dead before Geoff left … If only that gas fire hadn’t been left on full blast, we’d have a much better idea of the time of death. Do you think it might have been left on on purpose, sir?’

  ‘To mislead us? Quite possibly. But it’s equally possible that it was pure coincidence. It was very cold last night, if you remember. It would have been perfectly normal for Steve to have turned it on full when he got in, to warm the place up.’

  ‘Though I can’t for the life of me see why Geoff should have wanted to kill Steve. After all, he’s got everything going for him – plenty of money, a new job he’s really looking forward to … I’ll check with Scimitar, shall I, sir?’

  ‘Put Bentley on to it. We’ve got too much to get through today. Anyway, I can’t think he’d lie about a thing like that, because it’s so easily checked. This move of his has obviously been under way for some time. You might get Bentley to give the estate agents a ring too, though, just to be certain.’

  ‘What about Miss Gilbert, sir?’

  ‘We’ll send Carson. Hell, I suppose it would be simpler to nip back to the office and get all this organised, before our next call.’

  ‘Who are we seeing next, sir?’

  ‘Frank, I think. He’s the only one on whom we have something definite.’

  But when they got back to the office Thanet changed his mind. The house-to-house enquiries in the block of flats where Ivor Howells lived had produced an interesting piece of information: on Sunday evening, two days before the murder, Howells and Steven Long had had a blazing row, and Howells had been heard threatening to ‘chop’ Steve if he ever came near Sharon again.

  EIGHT

  Ivor Howells was employed by Sturrenden Council and a phone call ascertained that he was at present working on road repairs between Sturrenden and Nettleton, a couple of miles away.

  It had stopped raining a little while ago but the landscape looked half-drowned, the branches of trees still drooping with the weight of unshed water, the bare earth of newly ploughed fields glistening like Christmas pudding. Sodden leaves lay in pulpy russet ribbons all along the edges of the road, their autumn glory prematurely extinguished, and the rolling curves of the North Downs were swathed in mist.

  ‘Who’d be a cow, in this weather?’ said Thanet as they passed a mournful-looking animal poking its nose through a five-barred gate.

  ‘Light’s beginning to go already.’ Lineham switched on dipped headlights. ‘Let’s hope they haven’t packed up and gone home. Shouldn’t think they’d have been able to do much in these conditions anyway.’

  ‘There’s the sign now.’ Thanet nodded at the familiar ROAD WORKS AHEAD board propped at the side of the road.

  Lineham was right, the men had obviously decided to give up for the day. Some of them were loading equipment into a lorry and one was walking along the side of an open trench half-full of water, checking that the warning lights were in position and functioning.

  ‘Just in time, by the look of it.’ Lineham pulled up and they both got out.

  ‘Hullo.’ One of the men, a tall, lanky individual with a drooping moustache, noticed their arrival and nudged the man next to him. ‘What have we here, then? Trouble?’

  Four wary faces watched their approach.

  ‘Is one of you Ivor Howells?’ said Thanet.

  Without taking his eyes off Thanet the lanky man turned his head to call over his shoulder. ‘Taff? Visitors.’

  The man who was adjusting the warning lights looked up, gave the last light a final nudge with his foot and started back towards them.

  Thanet moved to meet him.

  ‘What you been doing then, Taff? Robbing the bank?’ shouted one of the men, and they all grinned.

  Howells said nothing. He was of medium height and Thanet guessed that under his bulky waterproof clothes he would be slim, but he loped along with a controlled, muscled power that reminded Thanet of a tiger in the jungle. As he drew closer Thanet could see that beneath the anorak hood his hair was dark, his skin
sallow and that on his right cheek he bore the bluish scar that is unique to the coal-miner.

  ‘Mr Howells?’ Thanet introduced himself. ‘I’m in charge of the investigation into the death of Mr Steven Long.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’d like to have a talk with you. There’s a transport café back there … We could give you a lift back to town, afterwards.’

  Howells shrugged and began to walk towards the lorry.

  The men had finished loading up now and stood watching as he approached.

  ‘No point in you all hanging on waiting for me,’ said Howells, and Thanet heard the strong Welsh lilt in his voice for the first time. ‘You go on back to the depot and I’ll cadge a lift.’

  ‘You’re sure? We can wait, if you like,’ said the tall man, and the others nodded and shuffled a little closer together, unconsciously demonstrating their solidarity.

  ‘No, not to worry, boys. See you tomorrow, then?’

  They nodded, packed themselves into the lorry and departed.

  ‘Have you been working in Kent long?’ said Thanet conversationally, as they drove the half a mile or so back to the café.

  ‘Since ’84.’ Howells could not conceal the bitterness in his voice.

  Ah yes, the miners’ strike. That long, disastrous struggle which had split the mining union right down the middle, turned miner against miner, father against son, and destroyed the unique community spirit of many mining villages, perhaps for ever. It had also left a strong residue of bitterness against the police. Thanet looked at Howells’s profile and wondered: had he been amongst the pickets who had faced the riot shields? If so, Thanet had a tough task ahead of him.

  At this time of day the café was empty. It was warm and spotlessly clean, the formica-topped tables gleaming, and the three men cupped their hands gratefully around the steaming mugs of tea.

  ‘We heard about the row you had with Mr Long, on Sunday night,’ said Thanet, coming straight to the point.

  ‘So that’s it.’ Howells had taken off his orange safety waistcoat and his anorak and was hunched over his tea. He slurped at the hot liquid before continuing. ‘I might have guessed some nosy-parker’d open his big mouth.’

  ‘D’you mind telling us what the row was about?’