by Tessa Dale
“How? We don’t even have a plausible suspect.”
“Oh, but we have much more than that, Dan. I know exactly how, and why Charles Vancleur was murdered, and by whom. I also have a good idea who killed his son, Peter Kerr.”
“But how could you?” Richard Clever’s sergeant could hardly contain his surprise. He had been there, every step of the investigation, and had nothing more than a few, disjointed clues floating around in his head.
“Vancleur was killed for two of the oldest motives there are… sex and money. Peter Kerr died because he found the key, even if he didn’t realise it. His very presence in Castleburgh sentenced him to death. Have a think about it, whilst you are dismantling Vincent Morant’s business empire. I’m going to sit in my office with a pot of coffee and my feet up. There are a few minor details for me to work out.”
“Just minor ones, Guv?” Dan Jones said, setting off down the corridor. “Thank God for that!
Chapter Twenty Four
Richard Clever had just settled down with a cup of hot, black coffee when the office door opened, and the Assistant Chief Constable strode in, accompanied by Castleburgh’s senior Commissioner of Detectives, as his supporting act.
“Ah, there you are,” the ACC said, as if Clever’s office was the last place he had looked. “I, that is, we need a quiet word with you about this Herbert mess.”
“I thought you might, sir,” Richard Clever replied, sighing, and putting down his cup. “Can I offer you gentlemen a coffee? It’s a blend I have made up for me by a firm in London.”
“It’s rather difficult, you see.” the Commissioner put in, a little awkwardly. “The fact of the matter is…”
“You don’t want to charge him.” the DCI rose to his feet and leaned forward, placing his knuckles on the desk top. “You think it would undermine the moral of every police force in England to find out that one of the foremost men we have is corrupt.”
“Well, yes,” the ACC replied. “Think of the damage it would do to us all, Richard.”
“DCI Clever, if you please, sir. Richard is reserved for friends, as I am just beginning to realise. Let him go then. I don’t give a tinker’s damn if he avoids a prison sentence.”
“Come now,” the Commissioner replied, cajolingly. “that’s hardly the right spirit, Clever.”
“Not what you expected from me?” Clever shot back, then smiled as he understood the reason for the visit. “Ah, I see. You want me to come up with a bright idea to get us all out of the mire.”
“Bloody hell man, even your own men call you Clever Dick behind your back. What do you think we should do?”
“Let him go, of course,” the DCI told them. “Not right away though. Put a junior officer in with him to detail the charge sheet. He’ll demand to be interviewed by a more senior man… which means an officer of equal rank.”
“There isn’t another Chief Constable who would touch this case though.”
“No, sir?” Clever went into his familiar, often irritating, lecture mode. “With him under arrest, you are the acting Chief Constable, aren’t you? That means you can have a quiet chat with him. Suggest the discussion is kept off the record. He’ll sense a deal is on the table, and jump at the idea.”
“What would this deal be?” the Commissioner asked, warily, concerned not to seem too eager. The Chief Constable still had powerful contacts, and could cause problems to anyone he perceived to be an enemy.
“Tell him that I’ve insisted on charging him, and will go public if he doesn’t receive suitable punishment. That makes me the bad copper, and you the good one. He’ll be willing to listen to you, rather than have his career ruined in the press.”
“Very good, but what kind of deal do we cut?” the ACC asked. “A trial means at least two or three years in prison, maybe even longer if he draws down a tough judge.”
“That is the fear that will make him agree to your offer. Oh, he’ll lie at first, swearing he has no idea what you are talking about, then he’ll grudgingly admit the truth, and try to bargain the fine down. Eventually he’ll agree, and you can cut your deal with him.”
“Wonderful, but what do we use as a lever?”
“Money, of course. Once I was sure he was corrupt, I had a word with the lady friend of one of my constables.”
“She had some dirt on the old man?” the ACC said, unbelievingly. “Alan Herbert would never go with another woman, he’s terrified of Edna… his wife. She is rather fearsome, to say the least, Clever.”
“You misunderstand. Miss Hurst has been invaluable to us during our investigations. Quite by chance, a week or so ago, she mentioned that her uncle was the manager of Martin’s Bank. I asked her to approach him, in confidence, and ask if Alan Herbert banked with his branch, as they are the biggest of the two banks in Castleburgh. He confirmed that he was.”
“Really, and what else did the fellow tell you?” the ACC asked. “Banks are not usually very forthcoming about customer accounts.”
“I simply told him the truth,” DCI Clever replied. “We were investigating several murders, and Alan Herbert was, in some way involved.”
“Sophistry,” the Commissioner said. “Alan Herbert has absolutely nothing to do with the actual murders.”
“Oh, but he does. He suppressed evidence and tried to coerce a witness in the Fornell case. The rope around Peter Fornell’s neck was put there by several hands, and one was his. The bank manager was horrified, and allowed me to look at Herbert’s file in great detail.”
“Good Lord!” the ACC muttered. Clever Dick, he was beginning to realise was more than clever, he was devious too. He would have to be watched very closely from now on.
“Chief Constable Herbert’s personal fortune amounts to almost forty five thousand pounds,” the DCI told them. There was an astonished silence as each man tried to imagine such an enormous figure.
“That equates to over thirty two years salary for you, sir, and forty years for the Commissioner,” Clever said, pressing on. “No man can save that much… at least, not honestly. We must assume that the bulk of it is corruptly gained. I suggest we demand a fine from Alan Herbert, payable to the Police Benevolent Fund, local orphanages, and the town’s cottage hospital.”
“What a splendid idea. I’ll insist on forty thousand, and let him drive me down to thirty.”
“That’s the idea, sir,” the DCI told him. “That way, he’ll feel as though he has struck a good bargain. Once he’s agreed the sum, tell him he must refuse his pension. He’ll have just shy of fifteen thousand left to live on. More than most working people ever earn in their entire lifetime. The money saved from the pension can be used to expand police services. It would put another half dozen uniformed on the beat, and help extend our pathology lab. A second forensic scientist, or finger print expert would be nice.”
“Yes, this will work,” the Commissioner said, casting the ACC a sidelong look. After all, it would be he who had to talk Herbert into it. “Totally off the record you say?”
“Yes, but get it in writing from him,” Clever said, then, as an afterthought he said: “We don’t want to make a hero out of Herbert, so the donations must be completely anonymous.”
“I think our Clever Dick has lived up to his name,” the ACC said, smiling. “Having you on my force will keep everyone on the straight and narrow from now on. Thank you, Chief Inspector Clever.”
“Please, sir…. Call me Richard!”
Once his uninvited guests had departed, he went back to his meditations. After a short time he reached for the telephone and asked to be put through to editor of the Daily Mirror. The girl on the internal switchboard leafed through her London directory and put him through. Cecil Thomas almost leaped at the phone when he heard that the Castleburgh police were on the line. His recently despatched reporter had already sniffed out that something huge was about to break.
“Ah, Mr. Thomas. This is DCI Clever here, I was wondering if you could do us another small favour.”
“Ha
ve you anything in return for us?”
“Not immediately, sir, but I would suggest your reporter started hanging around our front desk, from tomorrow morning. He might just be getting ahead of the game if he does.”
“Ask away, Chief Inspector Clever,” Cecil Thomas said, with the affability of the spider waiting for his own particular fly to turn up. “My readers love a juicy murder story. Circulation jumps by a hundred thousand, each day we run the feature.”
“I shall look forward to your unbiased reporting,” the DCI replied, smiling at the man’s keen interest. “Now, about this small favour. I need you to check your files for any photographs taken during the trial of Peter Fornell.”
“That takes me back a few years,” Thomas reminisced, “but I doubt we can help out much. As you must know, we are banned from taking photographs in English courtrooms. The judge would do us for contempt without hesitation.”
“I understand, but you must have exterior shots. I’m looking for any snaps containing the principal players in the drama.”
“I’ll do my best, Chief Inspector,” Thomas told him, but he could not help but sound deflated. “Anything I have will be on the midnight train again. Tell your man that I’ll be sending them in the safe keeping of one of our photographers. If this falls flat, my bosses will crucify me over the cost.”
“Don’t worry so, Mr. Thomas,” Clever said, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. “You’ll have yourself a worthwhile story. My word on it.”
Cecil Thomas hung up the phone and issued concise instructions to his secretary. The promise would be kept, and Richard Clever would have his pictures, no matter what. As an afterthought he also requested any sketches made in court. The paper often printed lifelike drawings of the guilty man, or a key witness or two, just to fill the space left by the lack of a decent photograph.
As he returned to his usual duties , a young reporter came in and dropped some freshly typed copy on his desk.
“What’s this?” he demanded, scanning his eyes over the first few paragraphs.
“You wanted a story on Adolf Hitler, boss,” the man replied uncertainly. “That’s five hundred words on these new concentration camps we keep hearing about.”
“You know our policy towards Herr Hitler,” the editor said indignantly. “National Socialism is working in Germany, and we could do with a dose of it over here, Mr. Cohen. A story about a few wishy washy liberals and, present company excepted, a dozen scrounging Jews is not news.”
“Do you seriously believe that?” Cohen said, his face flushing with resentment.
“No, I don’t, but our bosses do, for the time being, Ezra,” the editor told the young reporter. “Once they realise what a nasty piece of work these Nazi chaps are, this paper will crucify them. Now, change it please. Tell me how Herr Hitler likes dogs and children, or some other such rubbish!”
Nothing, he mused, once the reporter had left, is ever quite as it seems. He wondered if Chief Inspector Clever found the same in his line of work?
It was early evening before Jones and Stanton had completed their allotted tasks. They returned to base, eager to find out their Guv’nor’s next move. He was still sitting with his feet up, the remains of a second pot of coffee cooling on the desk.
“What now, Guv?” Dan Jones asked.
“Time for action,” the DCI said, lumbering to his feet. He gave his spectacles yet another unnecessary polish with his pocket handkerchief, and reached out for the wooden coat stand, where his hat and overcoat were hanging.
“Who is it, Guv,” Stanton asked. “I still haven’t got a clue.”
“Sir Simeon Arthurson,” Richard Clever said. “We’ll pick him up now and let him stew in a cell overnight.”
“What can we possibly charge him with?” Dan Jones was perplexed. He had fancied Arthurson for the murder of Charles Vancleur, Earl of Castleburgh at first, but the man had been at a Masonic function, with two hundred others, most of whom talked to him during the evening. “Being a smug bugger?”
“No, Dan, we charge him with complicity in the murder of Peter Fornell. The justice system hanged an innocent man, based on a flawed investigation, and a lot of perjured evidence.”
“That might just stand up in court, Guv,” Jones replied.
“It won’t have to,” said his DCI. “By the end of tomorrow, we will have charged him with two more murders.”
Jones and Stanton stared at their boss for a moment, surprised at the confidence in his voice. The man worked, they knew, on facts; a commodity in short supply in the present case. To be so confident, Clever Dick must have seen what they had not, and worked out what they could not.
“You best fill us in, Guv,” Dan Jones said. “We all need to be singing from the same hymn sheet.”
“Very well, Dan. I’ll tell you what I know, and what can be deduced from that. Then we’ll arrest Arthurson, and you two can get off on your assignations.”
“Sam will be delighted, Guv,” DC Stanton said. “She’s not one to be ignored.”
“Nor, I suspect, is Ellie Catesby,” Richard Clever said, with a twinkle in his eye. Dan Jones had the decency to look embarrassed, but held his bosses steady gaze.
“She’s a decent girl, Guv,” he said.
“Love is where you find it, Dan,” his DCI replied. “Or so I’m told. I hope ithings work out for you both. I also have a date later. Neil McFarland is deluded enough to think he can defeat me on the chess board!”
Chapter Twenty Five
Neil McFarland won the right to play white. He studied the board for a couple of minutes, then opened with the most basic of moves, King’s pawn to e4. Richard Clever countered by bring his opposing pawn forward to block his opponent.
The forensic scientist brought out his Queen to h5 and the big DCI grinned and reached for the bottle of malt whisky he had brought as a gift. He poured out two generous measures and handed one of the shot glasses to his new found friend.
“Cheers! Now, please Neil, don’t tell me you are trying to set up Scholar’s Mate.”
“Of course not,” McFarland replied, casually, trying to alter his strategy in his head.
“Thank goodness,” the DCI replied. “Because I would only have to threaten your Queen before you could bring out your Bishop, and you would be on the back foot again.”
“Perhaps I need more practice,” Neil said. “So, you’ve made an arrest. Sir Simeon Arthurson, no less. The man has fingers, and thumbs, in every financial pie in Castleburgh. Get it wrong, Richard, and you’ll all be walking the beat in Land‘s End.”
“Oh, I’m right,” Richard told him. “At least about his involvement. I can only surmise about him having an accomplice though, as any likely suspects are dead, or living four thousand miles away.”
“You mean Lady Vancleur?”
“Check in two moves, and mate in three, I think.”
“Damn, how do you do that?”
“It’s all in the mind,” the DCI said. “What a beautiful game chess is.”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
“I suppose it is, although I… yes, of course. That’s it.I say, Neil, I think I understand it all now!”
“Tell me,” McFarland urged.
“Only if you can beat me,” Richard Clever promised.
They set up the board again, and once again, as the unstoppable DCI ground out two more wins against McFarland’s stout defensive game. The glasses were refilled often, but the forensic expert made sure that Clever drank two glasses to every one of his.
At one thirty a.m the DCI was clearly befuddled and made an error. Neil McFarland pounced and stole his friend’s unguarded Queen. Three moves later, Richard Clever was checkmated. He shook his head in horror. Malt whisky had succeeded where everything else had failed, and he had lost his first ever match.
“I’m glad it was to a friend,” he said, swaying slightly. “May I make use of your couch, old chap? I appear to be rather too drunk to get home.”
&n
bsp; “I had an unfair advantage,” Neil said.
“Maybe so, but I forgot to protect my Queen, Neil, and one must never let the Queen down. Never.”
He sat down heavily on the couch, leaned over, and began to snore. The forensic expert smiled. He would have to hear all about the investigation’s solution another day. Little did he know that, in his befuddled way, his friend had already explained it all.
It was, in all truth, all about the Queen.
The following morning, Richard Clever made his way home, immersed himself in a cold bath, and picked out his suit for the day to come. He considered making himself some breakfast, but the thought of eating cooked food made him feel bilious.
He completed his ensemble with his heavy overcoat, and old grey trilby hat. He looked like an untidy door to door insurance salesman and removed the hat. The mirror now reflected a big man, with little dress sense, but immense presence. It would do, he thought, and set off to walk the half mile to the police station.
He arrived to meet one of the force’s police duty doctors coming out. The man nodded an acknowledgement. And the DCI felt constrained to develop his new found friendliness.
“Good morning, Dr. Updike,” he said. “Making a call so early? Nothing too bad, I hope?”
“As it happens, yes,” the doctor snapped. “Sir Simeon Arthurson is an old, and very dear, friend of mine. I was not expecting to attend him after an attempted hanging!”
“My God… attempted, you say?”
“Yes, no harm done in the end,” Dr. Updike replied irritably. “One of your CID chaps happened to look in on him, just as he made the attempt. I think he’ll have a nice bruise under his neck for a few days, but otherwise, he’s fine. Damn it, he was an excellent fourth at bridge!”
DCI Clever hurried on inside, and searched out Stan Stanton, who was drinking a very sweet mug of hot tea in the canteen. He was shaking, visibly.
“What happened?” his DCI asked, sitting next to him.
“I was in a bit early,” Stanton explained. “I thought I’d have a look at our suspect through the spy hole. I don’t know why I chose that moment, but he was just launching himself off the bunk. He’s only gone and torn up his shirt into strips, and made a noose of sorts. It was fastened to the ceiling light flex. I had the duty sergeant with me, so we were inside the cell in seconds. I took his weight, and Sergeant Banks cut him down.”
