Death Comes to Durham

by Jeanne M. Dams

  Alan spoke in the over-confident tone of one who is trying to convince himself. Both of us carefully avoided mentioning the words ‘possible murderer’.

  Neither did we try to talk about our confusing, unhappy problem. We were tired, we were frustrated with our lack of progress, and no matter what we said, we were worried about David.

  Neither of us is a big television fan. I used to watch it years ago in America, when there were some variety shows and sitcoms my first husband and I both enjoyed. Now, I’m told, there’s almost nothing back in the States except the ‘reality’ shows that are anything but. Occasionally, here in England, there’s something worth watching. We turned on the small TV in the room and channel-surfed aimlessly, trying to find something to occupy our minds.

  I honestly can’t remember what we ended up watching. It might have been something about antiques, or perhaps a cooking competition. I couldn’t concentrate. I picked up a newspaper, but couldn’t remember five minutes later what I’d read.

  Where was David? What had he found out about George Elliot? Did Nathan’s death have anything to do with Armstrong’s, or was I all wrong about that? Where was David? Why didn’t he call? What was happening? Where was he?

  The squirrel went round and round on its wheel, banging against my brain until I developed a nasty headache. I got up to find some Ibuprofen, and Alan’s phone rang.

  I looked at the alarm clock by the bed. Twelve-fifteen. Very little good news can be expected when the phone rings at that hour.

  ‘Yes, David. Ah.’ Alan put it on speaker.

  David sounded exhausted, worn to the last shred of endurance. ‘Sorry I couldn’t call earlier. It’s been the hell of a night. I’d like to see you, unless you’ve already gone to bed.’

  ‘No,’ said Alan briefly. ‘Come ahead. I’ll go down to let you in.’

  He went down to wait, and I got out the fresh bottle of Glenfiddich Alan had picked up. I had a strong feeling we might have need of it.

  David arrived faster than I’d thought possible. ‘I parked on the Palace Green. Strictly illegal.’

  I wondered if his car would be there when he went back to it, but sufficient unto the day. ‘Always easier to apologize than ask permission,’ I propounded. It was one of my favourite adages. He collapsed into a chair and took the glass I offered. He looked even worse than he had sounded.

  Alan poured himself a small libation and offered me an even smaller one. I took it, for medicinal purposes, and we waited until David was ready to talk.

  ‘Do you want the saga, or the condensed version?’ he finally asked.

  ‘Whatever you want to tell us,’ I said, and Alan nodded.

  ‘In short, then, the evening was a disaster start to finish.’

  ‘What’s-his-name, George, was combative?’

  ‘Worse. He wasn’t there.’ David took a pull at his glass. ‘I had no trouble finding his house. Posh house, good neighbourhood. I went to ring the bell, but the front door was ajar. Of course that set alarm bells ringing.’

  Alan nodded. ‘Never a good sign. One might find almost anything inside.’

  ‘What I found was a shambles. Books pulled from shelves and torn apart. Furniture scattered and slashed. Broken glass and china everywhere. One look and I reached for my phone. No way was I going in there to look for the body I expected to find.’

  ‘So you called the police.’

  ‘No. I had my phone out when half a dozen uniforms burst into the room, brandishing guns and shouting. They had me in a hammerlock before I could so much as utter a sound.’

  ‘David! This sounds like a bad movie! The English police acting that way?’

  Alan heaved a long sigh. ‘Dorothy, Agatha Christie died a long time ago, along with the rest of her crowd. There was a time when the police here were gentlemen, courteous to a fault. Some still are, but times have changed. Crime has grown more violent and more prevalent. You have to banish your image of the bobby bicycling round to escort the village sot safely home. Cops have guns now, and tear gas, and the rest of the box of horrors. They meet perceived danger with force.’

  ‘That’s all true, Alan, and more’s the pity, but wait for it.’ David rubbed his eyes and slumped down a little farther in his chair.

  ‘But what happened?’ I demanded.

  ‘I was manhandled and questioned, rapid-fire questions that gave me no chance to reply. It was a nightmare. Meanwhile the boys in blue roared through the house, both storeys, doubtless destroying evidence left and right. They seemed to be looking for a body in order to arrest me on suspicion of murder. They didn’t find one.’

  ‘They finally let you go?’ I looked at my empty glass. Alan poured me a minimal refill.

  David waved a weary hand. ‘It isn’t quite that simple. After what seemed like hours, but was probably only a few minutes, someone came on the scene who seemed to know what he was doing, a DI, I think. You should have heard him! Or perhaps not; some of his language … anyway, he sent the others away with very sharp words and let me tell my story. When I produced identification, he called the Durham police to check my story.’ David managed to produce a tiny smile. ‘I gather they were not amused. The DI had a very red face when he ended the call. At that point I showed him the call from Elliot on my phone, with the time. It was too late to call the restaurant to verify the time I’d left, but he was beginning to understand that there’d been a terrible mistake, and that he’d best take seriously the question of Elliot’s whereabouts. He called in a forensic team then, but so much damage had been done by the first crowd that they were virtually helpless.’

  ‘So you – they – have no idea where Elliot is now. Or in what condition.’ Alan sounded stern.

  ‘No. They’re conducting a search, of course.’ He finished his drink and waved away Alan’s offer of a second. ‘I’ve got to drive home, and at this point I’m not sure I can do that safely.’

  ‘You’re not driving home,’ I said firmly. ‘Alan will drive you to Hotel Indigo.’

  ‘My car—’

  ‘We’ll worry about that in the morning. Which is not far away. But before Alan whisks you off, I have one question. Are you absolutely sure that the first gang, the ones who treated you badly and compromised the scene hopelessly, were policemen? Because while we were waiting for you this evening and fretting, I looked at a newspaper. I couldn’t give it much attention, but I remember now seeing an ad for a local theatre company, the Auckland Players. They’re doing a production of The Pirates of Penzance. As I recall, that show involves a chorus of policemen. In uniform.’

  ‘You’ve caught on. Of course they weren’t policemen. I knew that the moment they started going wild, but there was nothing I could do. I don’t know the whole story. Maybe they were the Penzance chorus. I’m not sure I care. By the time the real police finished with me, I was ready to crawl into a hole.’

  ‘And you thought about us, and knew we’d be frantic, and used up a little more energy to reassure us. Sort of.’

  He laughed a little at that. ‘Sort of, yes.’

  He was drooping with weariness. Alan supported him, tactfully, and they were off, down all those stairs, then the long walk to the reserved parking area in front of the cathedral. I hoped his car hadn’t been towed away.

  I wished we had some snacks in the room, but there was nothing. I got into my nightgown and fell into bed. The whisky, on top of a long and stressful day, had made me very sleepy, but I wanted to stay awake till Alan got back. What a mess! David manhandled by a group of thugs masquerading as policemen! I hoped they’d get the book thrown at them. Probably they would. Assaulting a retired chief constable, trashing a crime scene … or did they perhaps cause the destruction in the first place? And where was George Elliot? One suspect lost, maybe dead … or maybe he wasn’t a suspect at all. He didn’t know Armstrong, after all. Or wait … was that the crime we were investigating? Wasn’t it …?

  I never heard Alan return.

  SIXTEEN

  Mon
day has a bad reputation. For those with full-time jobs, it’s the day to re-apply one’s nose to the grindstone, with the weekend but a distant memory. My first husband and I both enjoyed our teaching jobs, he in a university, I in a public school, but Mondays always found us a little grouchy.

  One might think retirement would give Mondays a different complexion, bright, sunny, full of opportunity for adventure.

  One might be wrong.

  This particular Monday was certainly bright and sunny, at least outside. My inner climate was dark, with thunder imminent.

  ‘Mmph.’ My first pronouncement let Alan know that he’d best speak softly and carry no stick at all. He waited until my eyes were open and then approached with a cup of coffee. I don’t think I took it graciously, but at least I sat up and drank it. It tasted a lot better than I expected. I must have looked surprised, because he said, ‘I went out for some of the good stuff.’

  My eyes focussed; I took in the Starbucks logo on the cup. ‘How come you’re all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed? You got to bed even later than I did.’

  ‘Not much later. I’m fine. Are you ready for some breakfast, or just another coffee?’

  I thought about that. ‘Breakfast, I guess. What time is it?’

  ‘After ten, I’m afraid, and the breakfast room has closed. But I picked up some pastries, if you’d like those.’

  That man, with only a few hours of sleep, had already been out in the town foraging. I would have resented his superior stamina if the coffee hadn’t been wonderful. And I love Starbucks pastries. I grimaced and gave up my snit. Alan sat down and ate with me, and poured more coffee out of the thermos he’d found somewhere. I do believe my husband would find a way to provide the basics if we were stranded on a desert island.

  It was very late morning indeed by the time I’d showered and dressed. ‘Feeling better?’ Alan asked, with the smile that told me he knew the answer.

  ‘Much, thanks to you. I’m sorry I was grouchy earlier.’

  ‘Sleep deprivation.’

  ‘And what about you?’

  ‘My dear, I spent many years as a policeman. I learned to snatch rest when I could, and function capably no matter how tired I was. The lessons stuck. Now, are you ready to face the day?’

  ‘Depends on what I have to face. I’m afraid I’m not up for another one like yesterday.’

  ‘Like the curate’s egg, surely parts of it were excellent, my dear. We’re meeting David downstairs at one o’clock, and we can decide then on an agenda.’

  ‘Do you suppose he’s learned any more about – about anything? Oh, and what happened about his car?’

  ‘I left it at the hotel.’

  ‘You didn’t walk back! At that hour …’

  ‘I could easily have done. Durham is a remarkably safe city. But as it happened, one of the employees was coming off duty and kindly gave me a ride.’

  ‘A female employee, I’ll bet.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘I knew it. You’re too good-looking by half, you know. All right, it’s very nearly noon. A shameful hour for a respectable lady to be starting her day. You can take me down to the market and I’ll see if I can find something wildly extravagant to buy as a souvenir of our happy days in Durham.’

  ‘Sarcasm, my dear …’

  ‘Right. Lead on, MacDuff.’

  A sugar high brings out my silly side.

  I did not, in fact, find anything wildly extravagant, but I bought a pretty straw hat to fend off the unexpected sun, and picked up all sorts of tourist brochures from the friendly ‘We Can Help’ people. Alan called David to tell him we’d meet him at the end of the congestion zone, so he didn’t have to park and walk, and by the time we got in his car, I was feeling nearly as sunny as the day.

  David took us to lunch at the Court Inn, Tim’s pub. Tim wasn’t there; this wasn’t a day for castle tours. I hoped he was studying, rather than working yet another job. I wasn’t really hungry after all the sweet stuff I’d had not long before, but I did full justice to an excellent goat cheese salad while the men had more substantial fare. Alan and I asked David no questions. He was still looking weary and discouraged, and we knew he’d talk when he was ready.

  My sunny mood was buried in dense clouds as soon as David began to bring us up to date.

  ‘They haven’t found George,’ he said heavily. ‘His car is there at the house. He didn’t show up for work this morning, nor is he with any of his friends – any that they’ve been able to identify – nor at his mother’s in Birmingham. No one of his description has been seen at the railway station here. It’s a small station; they’d know.’

  ‘Where does he work?’ asked Alan.

  ‘He’s an accountant for a manufacturing firm: washing machines, dehumidifiers, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Big outfit?’

  ‘Middling. Perhaps four hundred employees, but mostly in the actual factory. Not many work in the offices, so yes, he’d be missed. Has been missed, in fact.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘And I don’t suppose they’ve figured out who trashed the house.’

  ‘The invasion of the fake coppers assured that very little useful evidence is left. They’re still going through it as best they can, and they’re trying to trace how that invasion came about, but the men who did it are extremely reluctant to talk about it.’

  ‘Understandably. They thought they were just pulling a prank, and now they’ve found out they have committed a crime,’ Alan contributed.

  ‘Vandalizing a house is a crime?’

  ‘On that scale, definitely, Dorothy.’

  ‘So …’ I hesitated. ‘So they’re not yet assuming that George Elliot is – is dead?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  We were silent amid the small noises of the restaurant. Happy, relaxed people having a pleasant luncheon out. And somewhere out there a man was hiding in fear of his life. Or else he was no longer afraid of anything.

  ‘Nothing makes any kind of sense,’ I said when Alan and I were back in our room. It was very warm. We had opened the windows to their fullest extent. I felt muzzy, as if the languid air had invaded my brain. ‘I can’t make things connect. Why did someone attack George?’

  ‘Let’s take things in order,’ said Alan, tenting his fingers in his lecturing mode. I sometimes resent his orderly, logical policeman’s mind. This time I was glad of it. My own mind seemed to have turned to cream cheese.

  ‘David called George and left a voicemail. He told George that he was calling about the death of his brother Nathan. George returned the call, inviting David to come and talk to him. What does that tell us?’

  ‘Search me. I suppose that he wanted to see David.’

  ‘Why would he want to see him? Why not just brush him off with a brief phone call?’

  I thought about that. ‘You know, Alan, that is odd. People in mourning usually want to talk about their loss, about the person they’ll miss so dearly. But from what his mother said, if our third-hand report is accurate, it sounded as if George wasn’t exactly devastated by his brother’s death.’

  ‘We’ve speculated that perhaps he caused it. Brothers have been known to kill brothers.’

  ‘From time immemorial,’ I agreed. ‘But it’s usually for jealousy. Cain killed Abel because God apparently liked him better. In this case, though, George is the one doing well, holding down a responsible job, living independently. Nathan sounds like a dilettante, going to university but not studying much. He claimed to have a lot of money, but I’ll bet he was lying. Do we know anything about his lifestyle?’

  ‘I don’t, at any rate. Make a note, darling.’

  I pulled out my trusty notebook. Nathan – rich? I scribbled. ‘I think even his mother was fed up with him. Anyway, it sounded that way. Why would George want to kill him?’

  ‘There are other motives besides jealousy, Dorothy. Forget Cain and Abel.’

  ‘It takes a lot for brother to kill brother,’ I said stubbornly. ‘That’s a close tie. I
’ve forgotten which one was older.’

  ‘George. I don’t know by how much.’

  I made another note. ‘There might well have been some hero worship on the part of the kid brother.’

  ‘Or, as you posited earlier, jealousy. George who got on well in life. George who won the approval of his parents. George who was everything Nathan wanted to be.’

  ‘Aha! You’re doing what you always accuse me of doing – inventing fairy tales. We don’t know a thing about the brotherly attitudes towards each other. And anyway, what you’ve just dreamed up would be a motive for Nathan hating George, not the other way round.’

  Alan shook his head. ‘We’re talking in circles. We’ve lost our focus – why did George want to talk to David? And before we go off on another tangent, I can think of only one reason: he knew something about Nathan’s death, or at any rate had a theory about it, and he wanted to try it out on someone only semi-official before he went to the police.’

  I thought about that. ‘And maybe someone didn’t want him to have that talk. Someone like Nathan’s murderer.’

  ‘If in fact Nathan was murdered. And how would that person have known George’s intentions?’

  ‘Oh, dear! Alan, we’re getting nowhere! All we have is speculation. We don’t even know, not positively know, that Nathan’s death and Armstrong’s have anything to do with each other. We need some solid facts, some evidence, a little straw for our bricks. Just a little! And while we’re trying to find it, Great-aunt Amanda is one day closer to eviction.’

  Alan sighed. ‘Perhaps, after all, the police will find something useful in George’s house. It will take some time, though, and as you point out, time is running out. It seems we’re just going to have to carry on speculating.’

  I groaned and picked up my notebook. ‘Okay. We were beginning to organize a chronology of last night. I didn’t write all that down, but we’d only got as far as George returning David’s call and asking him to come over.’

  ‘And David went, incidentally leaving us in the lurch. Which reminds me; I didn’t return his credit card, and we never gave him the dinner he left behind.’