“I’ve been busy cleaning. One feels so violated when one’s home is broken into. Two of my rings went missing from my bedroom, a carnelian and an onyx, each in a beautiful silver setting.”
“Did you report it to the police?”
“Naturally, and to my insurance company. I have more valuable stuff he could have pinched, but I suppose he took a fancy to them.”
“He was wearing two rings when I saw him. One had a reddish stone, the other was black, I think.”
“The gall of the man! And I’ll have to re-carpet the guest cupboard to get rid of the blood stains. Sorry aboot the smell of bleach. It’s not as noticeable in the sitting room.”
With a flutter in his stomach, Rex surveyed the window seat, where he had succumbed to his torment. The shades were lifted, revealing the landscaped gardens reserved for residents. He could also see the squad car, a reassuring sight, as he imagined it must be for Pruitt.
“Alistair was held up in court, but he’ll be along shortly to see you,” Rex told him as he accepted his gin and tonic. His colleague would have dissuaded him from coming alone were it not for the police presence Pruitt had been able to confirm.
“Excellent. I prepared some hors-d’oeuvres. It was such a luxury to be able to run to Marks and Spencer and stock up on food after the dreadful slop I was served in hospital.”
“I’m sure. While we’re waiting for Alistair, perhaps I can review any records on Dan Sutter you can show me.”
“Certainly. Make yourself comfortable while I fetch them. I keep them in a shoebox in the attic. But don’t tell anyone.” Pruitt put a finger to his lips and set down his drink on an end table.
Shortly after his host left the room, Rex heard a creaking sound, and then the clang of metal, presumably a ladder being pulled down to access the attic. It sounded as though the noises were coming from the guest bedroom where Alistair had found Pruitt’s almost lifeless body. Rex had been too woozy at the time to notice an attic. And then he heard a muted scream.
He rushed to the floral-papered room just as Pruitt scrambled down the ladder descending from a trap door. He missed a rung in his haste and slipped, landing with a jolt on the carpet.
“It’s gone,” he squeaked, his face a white mask.
“The shoebox? Are you sure?”
Pruitt did not answer. He simply stared at Rex through his black-framed glasses.
“What’s the matter, Richard?” Surely Sutter could not be hiding in the attic, or else Pruitt would not still be standing there.
“You’d better take a look and see for yourself.” Pruitt spoke as though his throat had gone dry.
Rex felt disinclined to look, if Pruitt’s shocked expression was anything to go by, and gazed up with trepidation into the sloped roof cavity.
“You’ll see from the top of the ladder. It’s not an attic you can get all the way into. I just use it for storage.”
And for stuff you don’t want other people to find, Rex thought. And yet it seemed someone had found Pruitt’s shoebox.
He braced himself for the ascent. The flimsy ladder groaned under his weight. “Is this thing securely attached?” he asked.
“Aye, just watch your head on the rafter. There’s no headroom, except for a decapitated one.”
Rex proceeded with slow, deliberate steps. As soon as his head cleared the opening he froze. He thought he must be hallucinating. Pruitt had not been joking about a decapitated head.
“Do you see it?” he called from below.
“Hard to miss.” Rex realized he was gripping the ladder so tight the metal was digging into his palms.
“What’s it doing there?” Pruitt wailed. “Why would he put a woman’s skull in my attic? It’s still got hair, with blood, on it,” he faltered, and made a gagging sound.
“You think Sutter put it here?” Rex asked, peering at the object. “Is there a light?”
“Pull on the string to your left.”
A single naked bulb cast illumination into the small attic.
“Who else could it be?” Pruitt demanded. “He took my research on him.”
“It’s only a papier-mâché skull,” Rex said, viewing it clearly in the light. “And I’m not sure the blood is real. It’s a judge’s bench wig.”
“A judge’s wig? Not human hair?”
“Definitely not. It’s horsehair.” Stiff and frizzy and yellowed from age, with two dangling ties at the back.
“Well, that’s some relief, I suppose.”
Rex glanced down and saw Pruitt lift his glasses and mop his face with a handkerchief. “If Sutter did this, when did he, I wonder?”
“When I was in hospital?”
Or earlier today, Rex considered, while Pruitt was shopping for groceries. The police might have decided to take a break in their charge’s absence. “How would he have got in?” he asked Pruitt.
“The man’s a burglar.”
Just then the buzzer sounded, causing Rex to almost lose his balance on the ladder. “See if the police car is still outside,” he instructed.
While Pruitt scuttled off, Rex took his phone from his pocket and took photographs of the bewigged head from all angles as best he could without touching it.
“The police are still there,” he heard Pruitt call out to him. “Should I answer the buzzer?” he asked just as it sounded again.
“Aye.” Rex descended the ladder and entered the hall in time to hear Alistair’s voice.
“Get the police up here, will you?” Rex said into the intercom.
When Alistair returned with the two policemen, Rex explained that someone had left Richard a grotesque object in the attic and said he couldn’t be sure the intruder wasn’t hiding in the flat. Alistair stood at the foot of the ladder while the first constable, a burly fellow, clambered up to the attic.
“There’s nowhere really to hide,” Pruitt objected as the other officer began flinging open doors and checking under the beds.
“When did you last see the shoebox?” Rex asked Pruitt.
“A day or so before I was taken to hospital.”
Rex returned to the guest bedroom, where Alistair stood with the burly constable at the foot of the ladder discussing whether the red smears on the wig could be tested for blood. The constable said he would call in a detective.
“Pete Lauper?” Rex asked.
He was told it would be his subordinate. Chief Inspector Lauper was in Stornoway on the island of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides, where there had been a sighting of Dan Sutter.
“Then Sutter can’t have been here very recently,” Rex said. And he could not take the policemen to task for being remiss in their guard duty. “Did he have a shoebox with him after he attacked you last Monday?” Rex asked Alistair.
“No, he left empty-handed. Well, apart from the knife.”
“He might have returned while I was in hospital,” Pruitt repeated.
“Can you get CCTV footage since Mr. Pruitt was attacked?” Rex asked the policemen.
While they questioned Pruitt, Alistair pulled Rex into the hall. “What’s the meaning of all this, d’you think?”
Rex shook his head and shrugged. “Richard went to the attic to get information on Sutter. When I went up, I was confronted by what could be Murgatroyd’s old wig daubed with red something or other. That’s all I know.”
“Might be paint or tomato paste,” Alistair said. “It’s a bit orange to be real blood, but we’ll see.”
“It looked convincing enough in the dark, I can tell you.”
“A bit theatrical, don’t you agree? What makes you think it might be Judge M’s wig?”
“It could be one just like it,” Rex allowed. “From a costume or second-hand shop. But it looks like Murgatroyd’s, and his went missing from his daughter’s house.”
Alistair paced the hall, pivoting
suddenly to face Rex. “Is Sutter playing some sort of sick joke? What significance could the wig have for Richard?”
“He remained in contact with Judge Murgatroyd after his trial.” Rex folded his arms tightly and frowned. “He’s been having Sutter followed by a private investigator. The bloodied wig could be a warning. The question is, how did Sutter get hold of Murgatroyd’s wig? If it is, in fact, his?”
Alistair dragged Rex further away from the guest bedroom where Pruitt was giving his statement. “You don’t suppose Richard put it in the attic himself?”
“What for?”
“To get attention,” Alistair said in hushed tones. “Like Phoebe Wells.”
“Phoebe was not stabbed to within an inch of her life. Richard’s shock at finding the wig struck me as genuine.”
Alistair gave a casual shrug. “I’m just throwing the possibility out there.”
“At this point I’m not sure what to think,” Rex admitted. “The appearance of a judge’s wig opens up a whole Pandora’s box of questions.”
Alistair clasped Rex on the shoulder. “Cheer up, old fruit. Only the other day you were deploring the fact you had nothing much to go on.”
DCI Lauper’s partner arrived just then and had Rex and Richard go over their bizarre discovery again. He asked to be filled in on everything pertaining to their interactions with Dan Sutter, and Alistair gave his own account of his run-in with the fugitive.
Detective Inspector Rice made copious notes in a small spiral pad. “I know you’ve already given DCI Lauper much of this information, but he’ll want to be brought up to speed when he gets back.”
When he had finished with his questions, he informed Pruitt that the ladder and attic would be dusted for fingerprints. The convalescing man, just one day out of hospital, was distraught to hear the news. “Can you do a better job of cleaning up this time?” he asked querulously.
Rice enquired if there was somewhere else he could stay.
“I feel defeated,” Pruitt said, wandering into the kitchen and collapsing onto a chair.
The hors-d’oeuvres he had set out on the table had gone untouched. Alistair kindly offered to take him home with him, and Pruitt readily agreed. With that settled, Rex went home himself, eager to process the new developments in peace and quiet.
His mother and Miss Bird had a Charitable Ladies’ meeting to attend that evening, and his dinner was waiting in the oven. Rex lit a fire in the parlour, opened a bottle of claret, and installed himself with a tray on the sofa. Glass of wine in hand, he began to relax, giving his jumbled thoughts free rein as he gazed into the wavering flames.
The ringing of his phone soon put paid to his reflections. It was Thaddeus calling from London with a promising lead on a felon in the Murgatroyd case.
Twenty-Six
The next day, Rex met Alistair for a pub lunch in belated celebration of his having won a guilty verdict in his last trial. They had both had a busy morning and this was their first opportunity to discuss the events of the previous evening.
“How is your new house guest?” Rex asked as they grabbed a newly vacated table.
“Richard is fine. He stayed in my basement last night.” Alistair occupied a Georgian house in Albany Street in the heart of New Town. “But he’s anxious to return to his flat as soon as he gets the all-clear from the police.”
“Poor man. He was so happy to be home yesterday. But your basement, Alistair?”
“What’s wrong with it? It’s luxury accommodation. And since I’m not letting it right now … What?” he asked when Rex did not answer. “You think he should have stayed upstairs with me? Don’t worry, I made him my special pasta with portobello mushrooms and scallops and opened a nice bottle of Chablis. I even regaled him with the operas of Verdi’s middle period. He’s a man of refined taste is our Richard, though a bit cuckoo. I asked him if he’d like to stay in my renovated basement, and he was delighted when I showed it to him. You haven’t seen it since it was kitted out with quartz countertops and the latest in chrome fixtures. It would be rated five stars if it was a hotel.”
“I just meant he might be frightened on his own.”
“He feels he’s safe for now, but Detective Inspector Rice told me this morning the sighting on Lewis was false. Dan Sutter could be anywhere. I haven’t told Richard yet. I thought I’d give him a reprieve before I deliver this latest bit of bad news. DCI Lauper is headed back to Edinburgh.”
A server arrived to clear the empty glasses from the previous customers and wipe down their table. They placed their orders.
“Richard will have to be told before he goes home,” Rex said, resuming their conversation after the young man had left. “Pete Lauper won’t be pleased to have missed oot on the action yesterday while pursuing a futile search of the Western Isles. What happened up there?”
“The man they tracked down was misidentified by the person who saw the police flyer of Sutter at a post office. The look-alike had the misfortune to be wearing a blue pullover similar to the one Sutter had on the day he attacked us at Ramsay Garden. He was a freelance photographer visiting Lewis and Harris on assignment.”
Rex sighed dispiritedly. “Aye, well, someone could easily be mistaken for Dan Sutter. I wonder if he’s taken pains to disguise himself. Dyed his hair, grown a beard, be wearing glasses, maybe?”
“Or heels,” Alistair said half-seriously.
Rex looked around for their drinks and spotted the young man approaching with them across the heavily populated floor. “So Dan Sutter is still at large. Not very reassuring. And there’s another unsavoury character in the picture.”
He told Alistair about the phone call from his associate Thaddeus concerning a name on the shortlist of suspects in Murgatroyd’s possible murder. “He discovered a Canterbury connection, and I immediately recognized the name Burke, first name Bruce. Phoebe Wells has a handyman by the name of Alan Burke. Prison records show Alan visiting Bruce at Shotts, thirty miles from here. He’s his brother and, apparently, a close one at that to have come all this way. Dan Sutter was an inmate at Shotts. The coincidences just keep mounting.”
“You don’t believe in coincidences, remember.” Alistair thanked the server and picked up his glass of ale. “Seems I misjudged Phoebe. I thought she was making it all up about her father being murdered and things mysteriously disappearing from her house.”
Rex took a swig of Guinness. “You accused her of screaming blue murder,” he jokingly reminded his friend.
“I eat my words.” Alistair reached into the pocket of his dark grey jacket and fished out a rectangle of paper. He then produced a pen from his waistcoat and, brushing aside a few crumbs on the paper, began to write. “There,” he said and proceeded to feed the paper into his mouth.
“Alistair, you don’t have to be so literal!”
His colleague continued to chew and made a big show of swallowing.
“For goodness sake, man, you’ll choke.”
“It’s only rice paper,” Alistair assured him at last with a grin. “Quite yummy, in fact. It contained a date bar.”
Rex shook his head and smiled indulgently at his friend. Alistair was partial to nutritional snacks along with adolescent pranks. “Well, it certainly is strange that a judge’s wig goes missing from one place and turns up in another. I shall tell Phoebe, but I’d like to speak to Richard first. I feel like I’m missing something.”
Their food arrived and they concentrated on eating since they had to get back to Chambers Street for a one o’clock meeting with the Solicitor General, deputy to the Lord Advocate who headed the Crown Office and Procurator Fiscal Service. Piers Smiley was an affable man, well suited to his name, and Rex liked and respected him immensely.
In the middle of the afternoon he found time to ring Helen from his office and give her an update on his private case. “Looks like Phoebe’s intuition, or whatever it was r
egarding her father, was true,” he told her. “And I’m looking at Dan Sutter as being somehow involved.”
“In that case, I feel contrite. It was uncharitable of me to dismiss her suspicions so lightly.”
“I had my doubts too. As did Alistair. He went and ate his words. Wrote them down and chugged down the lot with some ale. It was only rice paper, but the silly sod had me going for a while.”
Helen laughed. “That is so like him. So, is it back to Canterbury this weekend?” she asked, sounding disappointed.
“That would be the logical step. But I want to see Richard Pruitt again and perhaps one or two other people. Thaddeus, my friendly investigator in London, has been doing background checks on some ex-cons Judge Murgatroyd put away, and he said there was one in particular I should look at.”
“A female?”
“Male. Originally from Kent. If I do go to Canterbury, how would you like to stay in a nice little hotel for the weekend and keep me company? That way I won’t have to impose on Phoebe.”
“I hardly think it would be imposing; I’m sure she’d just love to have you. No, I’d like to spend a weekend away with you, Rex, but only if I could have you all to myself. You’d only be distracted, and I don’t see how I could be much use to you on this case. But perhaps you could stop by again?”
He said he would certainly try. He missed her; and her semi-
detached home on Barley Close was a haven of peace and normality. Peaceful and normal could not in any way describe the day he was having as he attempted to pack in everything that needed to be done before he could make further plans for the weekend. This included tracking down the ex-felon Bruce Burke.
Through contacting his parole officer, Rex finally got hold of his suspect at the local auto shop where he worked. Thaddeus had sent a mugshot, which looked ominous to say the least, and Rex arranged to meet him in a very public place the next day.
Twenty-Seven
A thuggish-looking man with a shaved head, Bruce Burke did his arrest photo justice. A tattoo in poisonous green ink of a rattlesnake, poised to strike, coiled around his thick neck above the collar of his black sweatshirt.
Judgment of Murder Page 11
