Rex next scoured the Web for any details he could find about the Showers family and was chagrined to find that April had been an only child. How her parents must have mourned her, especially as her body had been unceremoniously discarded in a back alley and the man charged with her murder had gone free. Mr. and Mrs. Showers would have had even more motive to do Pruitt harm than Dan Sutter had, Rex mused.
Presumably, Sutter had not appreciated the fact that Pruitt had put a detective on his tail and he had to keep looking over his shoulder after ten years spent inside a maximum security prison.
Rex sat back in his chair, cradling the back of his head in his hands. Perhaps he should leave the Pruitt/Sutter case to DCI Lauper, after all, and concentrate on the Murgatroyd investigation. The only reason he had contacted Pruitt in the first place was for information on the stamp he had given the judge, a stamp of no apparent value or significance. Certainly, Christopher Penn had not honed in on it when appraising the album. He hoped Phoebe had a more promising lead.
Seventeen
The next morning Rex told Alistair about his visit with Pruitt in hospital and how the detective had been cross with him for getting in to see him first.
Alistair laughed from behind his desk, where he sat in a posture of elegant repose, the bruise on his cheek much improved, or at least skilfully disguised.
“I got the impression DCI Lauper is always cross about something,” he remarked. “Well, I’m glad you got the name you were looking for. I’ve been feeling perfectly awful for letting it go up in smoke, but, after all, you did drop it, and so I consoled myself that you could not justifiably condemn me for my own carelessness.”
“If this is how you make your arguments in court, I’m surprised you’re still practising law,” Rex joked.
“Quite successfully, I should add,” Alistair riposted. “Though I don’t quite have your stellar record of convictions. How’s the stepson case coming along?”
“Closing speeches tomorrow. If the jury can return a quick verdict, it’s off to Canterbury for me at the end of the week.”
“I thought you and Helen were going to join me for a round of golf.”
“Phoebe Wells has more information regarding her father’s murder.”
Alistair arched a groomed eyebrow. “Somehow I feel sceptical.”
“You look sceptical.”
“Look, old chum. You went to see her last weekend, did a bit of digging, and came up short. I know you feel beholden to Judge M because the old ogre mentored you, but I’d say you have adequately fulfilled your self-imposed duty.”
Rex scratched his ear. “Aye, but ‘adequately’ is not enough, and I can’t be certain there’s nothing in what Phoebe said.”
“Phoebe Wells almost got you killed, however innocently. It might be prudent to give Pruitt a wide berth from now on. He has the police to protect him, and DCI Lauper appears to have made it quite clear he doesn’t want your help.”
“Well, he can pursue Sutter, and the best of luck to him. I’ll be in Kent.”
Alistair shrugged. “Don’t get sucked in too deep. Helen might start getting the wrong idea.”
“Helen has more sense. And, fortunately for me, she’s very supportive of my ‘morbid hobby,’ as she calls it. I’ll try to see her in Derby.”
“Weren’t you planning a wedding?” Alistair asked with a kind but pointed look.
“Aye,” Rex said vaguely as he beat a hasty retreat from his friend’s office. He was beginning to feel pressure from all sides. Even his mother had had something to say that morning about Helen’s cancelled stay at the house. The sooner he got to the bottom of the Murgatroyd case, the better for everyone.
In the meantime, he was busy in court with his murder trial until the end of the week, when the jury took less than three hours to return a verdict of guilty on the Friday morning. Alistair rang to congratulate him. It was their custom to celebrate their wins with a drink at Deacon Brodie’s Tavern, but Rex had to catch a train that afternoon to London and then on to Canterbury.
“I’ll take a rain check,” Rex said after apologizing profusely.
“And I’ll take one for golf,” his friend remarked. “What are friends coming to that you can no longer rely on them for golf or ale?”
“Come with me. Phoebe invited you as well.”
“John and I have plans for the theatre tomorrow night. But please send Mrs. Wells my best.”
Rex had packed his bag the night before, banking on the jury, who had been attentive during the trial and visibly receptive to his pleas for justice. He had learned to read jurors’ reactions over the years, however much they strove to look neutral. It was in the blinks and stares, the set of their mouths, and body language. When he had them in his sway, they leaned forward and nodded, and even smiled. In this case, the accused’s counsel had not been a worthy opponent, but, to be fair, she had not had much to work with. The cam-recording evidence had been especially damning.
Just as he was preparing to leave his office for the weekend, he received a phone call from DCI Lauper, who informed him, in a more conciliatory tone than he had used during their last conversation, that the police had searched Dan Sutter’s room at the hostel. They had found no sign of him or the knife used against Mr. Pruitt, nor any of the fugitive’s possessions. Sutter had done a flit.
“Can’t have had much as he’s been on the dole since his release from prison,” Lauper said. “But information we found indicates he might have fled to the Outer Hebrides.” The detective expelled a hiss of breath. “If he can get his hands on a boat, he could hide on any number of the islands up there. We’ve organized a manhunt. With any luck, we’ll flush him oot of his hole.”
The long chain of islands and skerries west of the northern mainland of Scotland was an isolated and remote area, ideal for hiding out if you could withstand the cold around this time of year and get hold of provisions. Rex did not envy the police their chances. A desperate man like Sutter would take no risk of getting caught and thrown back in the slammer, this time for life.
“I thought you’d want to know he’s likely left the immediate vicinity, so you and your colleague can rest easy,” Lauper added.
“I appreciate it, detective. Were you able to speak to Richard Pruitt?”
“I was. He’s making a reasonable recovery, according to his doctor, but he won’t be discharged much before the middle of next week.”
Rex had planned to revisit Pruitt at the hospital, but work had intervened. He would go on Monday or Tuesday with the history books he had promised. He and the detective exchanged wishes for a pleasant weekend, and Rex rushed to the station with only minutes to spare.
Now that his work week was over, he could concentrate on his private investigation. Hopefully, the new clue that Phoebe’s housekeeper had discovered would validate his time and effort on the Murgatroyd case.
Eighteen
For the second time, Rex walked from Canterbury West Station to St. Dunstan’s Terrace. Phoebe met him at the door. He had rung from London to let her know when his train was due in, but had insisted she not trouble herself to collect him unless it was raining. She wore a floral jersey dress and her hair was swept up in a tortoiseshell comb, which had the effect of lifting and rejuvenating her features.
“I hope you’re starving,” she declared. “Annie made more of her scones, since you liked them so much last time.” She took his coat and led him through to the drawing room.
When Annie served the tea, Rex told her, “I’m dying to know what it is you found.”
The housekeeper turned to Phoebe, who nodded for her to go ahead. “Well,” she replied. “It was one of them clasps women wear in their hair.”
“A hair-slide,” Phoebe added. “Let me show you.” She rose from the sofa and retrieved a small, long object from an antique writing desk by the window and handed it to Rex.
&n
bsp; The metal clip was covered with pink and white chequered plastic. “So it is,” he said.
“It doesn’t belong to either of us,” Phoebe told him.
Rex could not see such an item adorning Annie’s grey wisps, nor could he imagine Phoebe putting something so cheap and frivolous in her lustrous dark locks. “Where did you find it?” he asked the housekeeper, who stood by the sofa with her hands folded against her apron.
“In the judge’s mattress. I went to turn it before putting on the new bedding. It was tucked in one of them dimples around the buttons. And being as the mattress has pink roses on it, I never noticed it sooner. I took it straight to Mrs. Wells.”
“How did it get in the mattress?” Rex wondered aloud.
“It must’ve fallen in there when I stripped the bed after Mr. Murgatroyd passed away.”
“We were thinking it might have slipped from someone’s hair,” Phoebe said. “Most likely a girl’s or young woman’s. The mattress is less than two years old. I got it for Dad’s bad back and bought it new. No one except Annie and I have been in his room since it was delivered all wrapped in plastic, so the hair-slide has to belong to someone who had no business being in his room.”
“I see,” Rex said, turning the metal part of the clasp between his fingers. “Pity there’s no hair attached.” He set it down carefully on the glass-top coffee table in the vain hope it might retain prints other than those of the two women known to have handled it. “And it looks like something mass-produced in China. Ten-a-penny, and therefore hard to trace.”
“We don’t see a man wearing that, do we?” Phoebe asked Annie, who shook her head, apparently perplexed by the interest in the hair ornament.
Rex picked up his neglected cup of tea. “You had a German au pair working here for a spell, you told me. A student at the university.”
“Michaela, yes. But that was before I bought the new mattress. And she had short, spiky hair. In any case, I don’t see her wearing something like that. She was very trendy in her dress.”
Evidently, Phoebe had been giving the new clue a great deal of thought.
“And that’s not all,” she declared in triumph.
“Shall I go?” asked the housekeeper, who had been standing by patiently.
“Oh. Yes, Annie. Thank you. I’ll take the tray down later.” Phoebe returned her attention to Rex. “I found a rounded bit of latex that might have come off a glove. It could be from the tip of one of the fingers. It was in Dad’s desk drawer and has a speck of nail polish on it. She might have left her fingerprint on the inside. Is that possible?”
“Aye. Or else some epithelial cells.”
“Perhaps the glove got ripped when she scaled the wall or entered the window.”
“What did you do with the remnant?” Rex asked.
“It’s still in the drawer upstairs. The unlocked drawer. I can’t believe I overlooked it before, but it’s only a small scrap of clear plastic. Dad kept some financial papers in there. They all seem to be in order. I think I should notify the police, don’t you? The young constable I reported the stolen items to seemed sympathetic.”
“It’s still not a lot to go on,” Rex said, adding, “But it’s more than we had before.”
He would have to look more closely at the female felons in his suspect file, especially the younger ones. Like Phoebe, he could not envision a woman much over forty wearing such a clasp in her hair, and the last case the judge had tried was over ten years ago.
Phoebe sighed with satisfaction as she took a scone from the serving plate. “If nothing else, I feel vindicated. I was afraid you might think me hysterical for asking you down here before.”
“Not at all,” Rex assured her with more conviction than he had hitherto felt. It was true that he had doubted her motives. “I can’t stay beyond tomorrow morning, though,” he told her. “My fiancée is expecting me in Derby. She was going to spend the weekend in Edinburgh, but this way we still get to see each other.”
Phoebe’s downturned mouth turned down even more. “That’s a shame. I enjoyed our outing last Sunday so much. I had planned for us to drive to Whitstable for a walk on the beach and lunch at the Old Neptune Pub. Whitstable’s a lovely little fishing village with white-washed houses and an old manor house. Peter Cushing lived in Whitstable; you know, the actor in the horror films. Doug used to love those, for some reason.”
Rex smiled apologetically at her. “Perhaps next time. How aboot I take you to dinner instead?”
Phoebe’s face brightened at once. “All right.” She hesitated. “Annie got us some Dover sole. Oh, I suppose it can keep. And she baked a gooseberry pie.”
“Give her the night off,” Rex suggested. “Perhaps we can have the pie when we get back. I certainly wouldn’t want to miss that. Where would you like to go?”
While Phoebe took off to tell the housekeeper about the change of plan, Rex went to freshen up in the bathroom at the top of the stairs in preparation for dinner.
“Shall we walk or take the car?” she asked upon re-joining him in the drawing room.
“Walking would be my preference. It’ll feel good to stretch my legs after so many hours on the train.”
“It will do me the world of good too. You’ll like Burgate, if you haven’t already seen it. And we can take a look at Mercery Lane while we’re there. It’s one of the most picturesque streets in Canterbury.”
“Please, lead on,” Rex said with a bow.
They donned their coats in the hallway.
“I told Annie to have one of the Dover soles for her supper,” Phoebe said.
“Talking of Dover, any news of the missing girl, Lindsay Poulson? I’ve been busy in court all week and decided to relax with a book on the train, so I’m not well up on the news.”
“No developments on that front, sadly. But I suppose until they find a body there’s still hope.” Phoebe checked her reflection in the hall mirror. “Wouldn’t it be awful if they never found out what happened to her?”
A parent’s worst nightmare, thought Rex. Fortunately, he was not the one responsible for finding the girl. That task required manpower and massive resources. He fervently prayed the police would make headway.
They walked up to the High Street and ten minutes later reached Burgate, the site of one of the fortified Roman gates once forming part of the city wall. Its street boasted shops and eateries of every description embedded among architecturally diverse buildings from eras gone by. The couple reserved a table at the busy fusion cuisine restaurant Phoebe had chosen and then wandered over to Mercery Lane, where the overhung houses in the narrow medieval street stood crammed and crooked in the shadow of the cathedral towers.
“I can almost believe myself back in the Middle Ages,” Rex marvelled, looking about him.
Phoebe nodded in enthusiastic agreement. “Canterbury has a very layered history, just like Edinburgh. That’s probably why I feel at home here … or did. Do you think Annie will be all right alone at the house? Should I install a complete alarm system?”
“It would make you feel safer,” Rex suggested, wondering why she had not done so before.
Nineteen
The next morning at Phoebe’s urging, Rex talked by phone with the constable whom she had contacted about the stolen stamp album and watch. He explained that Mrs. Wells now had reason to believe her father had been murdered.
“Murdered?” Police Constable Bryant asked incredulously.
“She was hesitant to jump to conclusions upon finding the items gone, but now foreign objects have been discovered, further attesting to an intruder’s presence in the house and, most importantly, at her father’s bedside.”
“And what objects might those be, sir?”
“A hair clasp that doesn’t belong to any of the household and what appears to be the tip of a latex glove, which was found in one of the desk drawers in the d
eceased’s room. I bagged up the evidence and wondered if you might come to the house?”
The constable agreed, but Rex could tell he was not persuaded there had been a murder, no matter how eager the young copper might be that one had been committed.
When he arrived, Phoebe brought him into the drawing room, where he sat bolt upright in the armchair she offered, his bobby’s helmet tucked between knobbly knees.
Rex asked him about the mugging on St. Dunstan’s Terrace several weeks ago.
“Nothing new as yet. A random act of violence, we think.” The young policeman accepted with thanks a cup of tea and piece of shortbread from the housekeeper.
“I’ve seen youths loitering on the streets,” Annie told him. “I keep my handbag under my coat so no one can grab it.”
“Very sensible,” the constable said courteously.
Annie finished serving and left the room.
“Can those things be tested for DNA?” Phoebe asked, indicating the two transparent airtight bags Rex had procured from the kitchen and which now lay on the coffee table. As she extended her fingers, Rex could not help but notice that the shade of red on her nails was a match for the varnish on the latex glove, but the sample was so microscopic as to make an exact comparison difficult.
“I’ll have to talk to my superiors,” Constable Bryant replied around a mouthful of shortbread, which he quickly swallowed. “They may say it’s not a strong enough case to warrant a lab test, especially if the death certificate shows nothing amiss.”
Rex had expected such a reaction, but had wanted Phoebe to hear it for herself. Now he might wash his hands of the whole business. He really could not see what else he could do unless his friend Thaddeus in London came up with compelling evidence that an old enemy of the judge had been present in Kent to commit murder.
Judgment of Murder Page 8
