Rules, Regs and Rotten Eggs (A Harriet Martens Thriller Book 7)

by HRF Keating

  ‘A dramatic picture, Superintendent.’

  ‘However, sir, the point is that the tie he lost was a very unusual one. Basically it was the tie of the old boys association of the Zeal School, that rather unconventional establishment on the edge of Dartmoor that I’ve mentioned before. But it had been modified to indicate membership of a group called the Cabal, a club within the club of all the ex-Zeal School pupils.’

  ‘Yes, you have mentioned the Zeal School, Superintendent. And you also took it into your head to inform me that Sir Marcus Fledge, chairman of Pettifer’s, had been a pupil there. Something which in your eyes, it seemed, labelled him as some sort of criminal.’

  As she sat there battling, there came suddenly into her mind one of John’s quotations — almost bound to be Trollope — about everyday rules being packthread to a giant. Yes, Sir Marcus Fledge was very likely a giant such as Trollope had had in mind, ready to snap any packthread that hindered him. Whatever exactly packthread was.

  ‘I don’t think I went as far as calling Sir Marcus a criminal, sir, though I did say that I understood he was a member of the Cabal, and I suspect, strongly suspect, that the Cabal is planning some illegal activity on a very considerable scale.’

  ‘And have you now interviewed Sir Marcus, Superintendent, contrary to my advice?’

  ‘I thought it necessary, sir, though I have to tell you I learnt nothing directly from him that indicated his involvement.’

  ‘You don’t altogether surprise me.’

  ‘However, sir, I ought perhaps to tell you that when I checked his account of his whereabouts at the time Roughouse was murdered, I found he had taken pains, shortly after he had told me he was at home at his house in Surrey for the whole of the night, to instruct his wife to confirm the statement.’

  ‘If nevertheless that statement happened to be true, you don’t surprise me.’

  ‘Very well, sir. But let me go on to tell you what is indicated by that tie that I found in the shrubbery near the doors of the Masterton.’

  ‘Will I have to hear more about this — what did you call it — club within a club?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s necessary, sir. You see, finding this particular tie where we did — Tonelle Danbury witnessed it — is strong evidence that the six o’clock visitor to the clinic was a Cabal member. That makes it more than likely that a Cabal member suffocated Roughouse.’

  ‘A supposition, Superintendent, that I am not at present willing to grant.’

  ‘There is more evidence, sir.’

  ‘Very well, let’s hear it. Time is getting on.’

  ‘Apart from the fact that, although Tonelle — although Miss Danbury cannot be certain of identifying Valentine Drummond as that visitor, she did mention to me two things that indicated who he was. There was his voice, which she described as that of a poncy cunt, which I take to mean possessed of a markedly public-school accent. And there was his build, again clearly described as being like a boxer’s with noticeably broad shoulders. Now, sir, I have interviewed all the members of the Cabal whom I have had named to me, and, except perhaps for Sir Marcus and a surgeon called Jackson Edgeworth who is at least distinctly tall, only Drummond answers to that description.’

  ‘Your mere impressions, Superintendent, will hardly stand up in court. If you can do no better than that, I think —’

  ‘But I can do better, sir. To a certain extent at least. Miss Danbury described the shoes the visitor was wearing. A pair of well-polished brown brogues. And, of course, sir, Scene of Crime photographed at least one rain-dampened footstep inside Roughouse’s room. I have seen the photo, and it looks very like the sole of something like a brogue.’

  ‘But you’ve made no definite match?’

  ‘No, sir, to find that I would have to conduct a search of Drummond’s London flat.’

  ‘For which you will need a warrant. Do you really think you have grounds to ask a magistrate to grant one?’

  Faced with the hardly concealed contempt of the question, Harriet was on the point of flatly contradicting him. But then she realised that, quite possibly, she had no need to search Drummond’s flat. She had, already in place, a searcher she could rely on. Maria.

  ‘You’re perfectly right, sir. I have to admit,’ she said to the ACC. ‘Yes, I would have more than a little difficulty in persuading a magistrate to give me a warrant.’

  *

  As soon as she was out of the Headquarters building, Harriet found a quiet corner, pulled out her mobile and jabbed into it the number for Graham’s toy.

  No immediate response.

  God, has she gone back on our agreement? Come to see Drummond as having more power over her than I have? Surely not. Plainly she’d realised, even before I gave her the mobile, that a police officer could get her detained as an illegal immigrant much more easily than an ordinary citizen, which after all is what Drummond is. So what’s happened? Has Drummond discovered what I’ve done? Somehow spotted that mobile? And then what …? Beaten Maria into submission? Or worse even? Has he —

  ‘Yes-yes’

  The words came, breathily quiet, into the ear she had glued to her own mobile.

  ‘Maria? You’re there? Tell me —’

  ‘No. No. Later. Soon.’

  Drummond nearby? Hopefully not close.

  She stood there, mobile still pressed too tightly to her ear.

  A minute went by. Two.

  ‘Yes, now I am on stairs with basket for shopping.’

  ‘Well done. Clever Maria. Now, listen. I want you to look at all his shoes. His shoes, yes? Yes?’

  ‘Shoes. He has many, many. Too many he is needing.’

  For a flash of time Harriet saw in her mind’s eye the row on row of shoes a wealthy man like Drummond could possess. Yes, Maria might well say Too many.

  ‘Can you get to see them? All of them?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Have to polish, all.’

  ‘Good. Excellent. Now, I want you to get hold of, if they’re there, a pair of brown brogues.’

  Oh, God, how can I explain what brogues are.

  ‘Many little holes for pretty?’

  ‘Yes, yes. You’ve got it. Now do you remember if he wore that pair — But is there only one of that sort?’

  ‘Is. He was wearing, came back Sunday morning in the night. Late, late. I hear door. Then kick off shoes. Monday I clean. Much of mud, grass also. Was rain, I think.’

  So, yes. Yes, surely I’ve got my evidence. Maria in court will — Oh, God. Maria won’t let herself appear in court. Any contact with the law and she’ll disappear altogether, like hundreds of other illegal immigrants before her.

  Well, have to deal with that somehow when the time comes. And in the meanwhile …

  ‘Maria?’

  ‘Yes. What is?’

  ‘Maria, do you think you could take those shoes, those brogues, and give them to me if I come down to London?’

  ‘No. Not possible.’

  ‘But why, Maria? You said Mr Drummond has lots of shoes. Surely he won’t miss one pair.’

  ‘Gone.’

  ‘What do you mean gone?’

  ‘He take. When I am going to cupboard again not at all seeing.’

  ‘You’re sure? It’s not simply that he’s put them on for some reason?’

  But she knew it was a hopeless question. There could be no doubt that Drummond, reading in the paper, seeing on TV, details of Roughhouse’s dramatic murder, has realised the shoes he wore that night might be traced to him. And … and, no doubt, now they’ve been disposed of. Damn it, the Thames is there, only a few hundred yards from where he lives. Its swirling waters will have carried my evidence clean away.

  Foiled again, she thought with wryly humorous bitterness.

  But, no. No, surely the very fact of Drummond’s disposing of his brogues is evidence against him. Inadmissible negative evidence perhaps, but evidence good enough for me.

  ‘Maria, thank you,’ she mouthed into her mobile. ‘Always ring if … if you hav
e anything to tell me.’

  For a few moments, as she stood there still clutching her own mobile, she thought of how Maria might, after all, have to appear in court and testify to the shoes she had cleaned of all their mud and grass being suddenly made to disappear. Will she be a witness, if she doesn’t succeed in making herself scarce, worth having? Think what a Defence counsel, not half as sharp as Kailash Gokhale, would make of an illegal immigrant’s honesty. Well, we’ll have to see. Drummond’s a long way from the dock at this moment.

  But …

  What if I go to him, now, at once, and put some pointed questions about a pair of good brogues that suddenly were no longer there in his shoe cupboard?

  Why not? Why not indeed? I could do it. I could. Jab at him question after question. About the brogues. About Lady Tredannick’s party, and the guest list she eventually sent me which indicated no more than that Mr Valentine Drummond had been among those invited? About the manufacture even of that ingenious device which sent the egg-bomb flying through the dusk of Gralethorpe’s town square to smash into a wall only inches away from Roughouse’s head? About the Cabal?

  Yes, he’s vulnerable. And haven’t I, a dozen times at least, had a vulnerable suspect in front of me across an interview-room table and reduced them to admitting to whatever crime it was they had committed. Even to murder.

  Right, yes, I’ll —

  The mobile in her hand emitted its warble.

  For an instant, still wrapped up in her bout of optimistic thoughts, she just looked at it, hardly able to remember what it was, why she was holding it.

  Then she answered.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Superintendent Martens?’

  The unmistakable voice of the ACC, little knowing what a short distance away he was.

  ‘Yes, sir? Yes. Harriet Martens here.’

  ‘Very good. Now, I’ve been thinking about our recent conversation, and I’ve come to the conclusion that your case against Valentine Drummond may have more substance to it, a little more, than I was inclined to believe.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  What’s this? Did I convert him after all? Is he going to back me in seeking a warrant to search Drummond’s flat? And, how bloody ironic. If I do get a warrant, what am I going to find in that flat? Certainly not a pair of brogues with one of their soles corresponding exactly to the ribbed stitching on the photograph of the wet footprint Montague-James was so proud of having had made.

  But the ACC was ploughing on.

  ‘Yes, some more substance. Enough, I think, to make it worth putting what we’ve got to the Crown Prosecution people. Let the CPS decide if there really is evidence to make a prosecution tenable. In the little you’ve managed to find.’

  The cunning old bugger. If the CPS agree enough evidence is there, he can claim the credit. If they shoot the whole thing down, then guess who’ll be landed with the blame? Detective Superintendent Martens, that’s who.

  And what happens to my decision, just a minute ago, to drive down to London and question Drummond till his very teeth drop out? It’s off. That’s what. If I were to tackle him unsuccessfully — as, admit it, might very well be the case — then he’d be warned, and quite likely jump on the first plane to Rio, or wherever. But, perhaps worse — no, certainly worse — the Cabal would be warned that their scheme, whatever it is, is in danger. Then all they’ll have to do is batten down the hatches. Not one of them in any danger of being hauled into the nearest police station.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The conference to discuss the case against Valentine Drummond was to be held at one of the Crown Prosecution Service’s London offices, since the arrest, if there was to be one, was likely to take place in the capital. It had been convened for the afternoon of the following Friday. Even this much of a delay had given Harriet little enough time, working all hours in the incident room, to select all the necessary documents and other evidence.

  As she arrived at the designated CPS office, after speeding down to the capital alongside the ACC, both of them stiff in uniform, Harriet realised they had sat, like sworn enemies, deep in silence for virtually the whole way.

  She found, swept into the conference suite, that the other participants were not already seated, as she had expected, at the long table in the centre of the functionally arid room. Instead they were standing about, coffee cups (good china) in hand.

  ‘Coffee,’ she was unable to prevent herself murmuring indignantly. ‘And, look, biscuits.’

  There, laid out in a row along the table, were three plates of them, chocolate digestives, shortcakes and round sandwich ones with, jewel-like at their centres sticky red jam. Despite those being her childhood favourites, her indignation soared.

  The done thing. The trivial rigidly adhered to. Biscuits will be offered, in regulation order. Whatever the circumstances.

  A police cadet, borrowed from somewhere, came up to the ACC and asked if he would like coffee.

  ‘Yes, please,’ he said with every sign of eagerness.

  ‘With milk? And sugar, sir?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Both please. Two lumps.’

  ‘There are biscuits on the table, sir.’

  The cadet turned to Harriet.

  ‘And for you, ma’am?’

  ‘Nothing, thank you.’

  So it was with an unexpected extra of reluctance that, when at last she saw the table cleared of the scarcely disturbed plates, she made her way to her place — name on a printed card in a clear plastic holder. Then abruptly she recognised, seated alone at the opposite end of the table, the Deputy Crown Prosecutor who was to conduct the proceedings. He was Mr Peregrine Smith QC, known, for his obdurate opposition to letting any case go to court unless there was total certainty of a guilty verdict, as Stonewall Smith.

  She took a quick glance at the ACC taking his place beside her. Was he, picking up her dismayed reaction, now doing his best to conceal a glint of triumph? Had he been able to fix things — the grapevine always there — so that Stonewall Smith would preside? If so, no telling what branches of that grapevine had been tugged at. And certainly nothing to be done about it.

  Unless, she added to herself, I can make the case for bringing Drummond to court so solid that even Stonewall Smith will have to accept it. But, out of the wisps of straw that are all I have managed to collect, will I be able, somehow, to build a structure nothing can sweep away?

  And now, after a little attention-calling cough, Stonewall Smith, note-taking secretary, pencil poised, at his elbow, was ready to address the meeting.

  ‘Gentleman, ladies. I would like first to lay down the ground rules under which this inquiry should be conducted, despite the slightly unorthodox decision that we are to consider here in London a crime committed in Birchester. In this way we will all know where we stand.’

  Harriet perked up a little.

  If he’s going to conduct this by his own ground rules, she thought, there is perhaps a chance my admittedly flimsy case may in the end meet with his approval. Have I misjudged him? Paid too much heed to the gossip?

  But he was going steadily on.

  ‘I have always found, however, that there is no better way of conducting matters than by following the commonly accepted procedure used in all our inquiries in order to make sure we have every piece of the material necessary, the compelling evidence. So let us begin by considering, as is customary, the most basic requirement of a successful prosecution, the plans of the locations involved.’

  Harriet’s just risen hopes began to crumble. The rigmarole all bureaucrats are so attached to. How, in face of that frothy surge of rules and regulations, can my possibly unorthodox case stay upright?

  ‘We shall have to bear in mind,’ Stonewall Smith went on, ‘the possibility that, if there should be a trial, the Judge and the jury may need to visit the scene itself. So, Mr Richards, will you give us your opinion of the plans as the necessary basis without which it will be impossible to go forward.’

  Oh God, Harriet
thought. What was the point of thinking his ground rules would be at least similar to any I might have set myself? No, ground rules of their nature apply differently in different circumstances. Different societies work often in quite different ways. Even the generation below John’s and mine has a different code of behaviour, let alone that of a generation one step further down.

  So Stonewall is as stony-walled as ever. Will he, even here, find some error in what we’ve done that will bring the whole process of assessment to an abrupt end before it’s properly started? Will I, in half an hour or less, be going back to Birchester, speeding along in a new silence beside the secretly triumphant ACC? And then what? A transfer to some plodding desk job? Traffic Branch perhaps?

  Well, it won’t be that I promise. I’ll quit. No question.

  Near her, at the side of the long table, a podgy man in an ill-fitting blue suit shuffled the thick pile of documents in front of him. Harriet glimpsed plans of the various sites inside the Masterton which, in consultation with infinitely fussy Mr Montague-James, she had decided would be needed. They ranged from the whole lay-out of the house down to Roughouse’s room itself, to which Valentine Drummond — surely it could not have been anyone else — had made his way, brogues squelching from the steady rain that he had walked through, to where his victim lay in deep healing sleep.

  But will they be enough, she asked herself in sudden panic. Will Stonewall Smith declare in just a few minutes that something vital is missing? And terminate the whole conference there and then?

  Laboriously the expert went, item by item, over the heaped pile beside him. But, as he turned each plan face-down, no comment he made appeared to damn any of them, bar perhaps a little tut-tutting over some smudge or other. At last he finished.

  Harriet waited to hear Stonewall Smith’s verdict.

  ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘That much out of what will eventually have to be produced in evidence appears to be satisfactory.’

  Harriet’s hopes rose by half an inch.