Six Feet Under

by Dorothy Simpson

  “Poor woman,” said Lineham, as the door closed behind them.

  “You think so?”

  Lineham looked at him sharply. “Yes. Why, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Thanet said doubtfully. “Well, yes, of course I do. No one could help feeling sorry for her, in this situation.”

  “But?”

  “But I’ve just got this niggling feeling … perhaps I’m being unfair. Perhaps being an actress means that in a situation like this people will constantly be questioning whether the emotions you display are genuine.”

  Experience had tempered Lineham’s former naivety, the susceptibility to feminine charm which had on at least one occasion seriously impaired his judgement and impeded the progress of a case. And by now he had worked with Thanet long enough to have a healthy respect for his opinion. Whereas once he would have leaped to Gemma Pettifer’s defence, now he simply said, “Don’t you think she was genuine, then?”

  “I’m just not one-hundred-per-cent convinced, that’s all.”

  “Did she say anything specific that makes you doubtful?”

  “No, nothing. Though she was evasive at one point, you’ll have noticed.”

  “When she switched what she was going to say? Yes, I did notice that. I wondered why you didn’t press the point.”

  “Things were going smoothly. I didn’t want to rock the boat. I was concerned that if I put any pressure on her she might crack.”

  “Just as well you didn’t, in view of the way it suddenly hit her.”

  “Mm, just as the doctor arrived.” Thanet tried to sound neutral and failed. Lineham picked up the implication at once.

  “You mean, that sudden breaking-up was deliberate? A performance, put on for our benefit?”

  Thanet shook his head. “Let’s leave it for the moment, Mike. It’s all speculation really, so there’s no point in wasting time discussing it.” He grinned. “I think Dr Barson thought I’d been giving her the third degree. Anyway, let’s see what we have to do now. We’ll have to chase up that cocoa mug, check on the paracetamol container in the bathroom …”

  “We’re not just leaving it, then?”

  “I don’t see how we can, not until we get at least a glimmer of a reason why he did it. I agree, all the circumstantial evidence points to a clear-cut case of suicide—the method he chose, the suicide note, the way he carefully timed it to coincide with the absence of both wife and housekeeper … But I’m just not happy about it. If he did kill himself, he must have had a reason, and it’s possible that it simply hasn’t come to light yet. He might just have found out that he had cancer, for example. If so, anything of that nature will show up in the post mortem. Or he might have been about to go bankrupt, and felt he couldn’t face the disgrace … I think we’ll have to do a bit of discreet checking, treat it as a suspicious death for the moment, just in case. Better to be too careful than kick ourselves later for being slipshod.”

  “You want me to get the boys in, then?”

  “Yes. I’ll have a word with Mrs Pettifer. We’ll have to take her finger-prints and Mrs Price’s, for elimination purposes. Then you’d better get on to his bank. No need to press for details, just find out if his financial situation was healthy or not. And I’ll go down to the Health Centre, have a word with his partners, in case something was awry there. One of them might possibly still be there, taking surgery. Let’s hope they’re not all off on their rounds by now.”

  “Do you want a search of the house?”

  “I’ll ask permission. But make it discreet. We really don’t want to overplay things at the moment … You know, Mike, there is one thing that strikes me as odd. It’s only just occurred to me.”

  “What?”

  “Well, Doc Mallard said that he would estimate that Pettifer took the overdose some time between ten and twelve last night, and you know as well as I do that he’s hardly ever wrong about something like that. Now, if that is so, why did Pettifer wait four or five hours after his wife left? Why not do it once he was sure she was out of the way?”

  “Screwing up sufficient courage?”

  “Possibly, I suppose. Perhaps that’s why the port was there.”

  “You mean, he got drunk, first? Or perhaps something happened, between the time she left and the time he did it, to make him decide to.”

  “If so, it must have been something pretty drastic. From what we’ve heard of him so far, he doesn’t sound the sort of man to commit suicide on impulse without good reason.”

  The door opened and Dr Barson came into the room. “I’m afraid Mrs Pettifer refuses to settle down until she’s seen you again, Inspector,” he said tersely.

  “Right. I wanted a brief word with her anyway.” As they mounted the stairs together Thanet glanced speculatively at the doctor’s stony expression. He needed this man’s cooperation. “Perhaps I ought to explain, Doctor, that contrary to what you might think, I was consciously careful in what I said to Mrs Pettifer. She was perfectly calm until just a few moments before you arrived. Then it suddenly hit her. You can check with her, if you like.”

  They had reached the top of the stairs now and Barson stopped. He looked a little shamefaced as he said, “I’m sorry, Inspector. Evidently I’ve misjudged you. Naturally, when I saw how upset Gemma was … I’m very fond of her, of both of them. I’ve known Arnold—Dr Pettifer—for years. Ever since we were medical students together, as a matter of fact.”

  Thanet privately breathed a prayer of gratitude that he had attempted to propitiate the man. His knowledge of Pettifer might be invaluable.

  “What was he like?”

  Barson pursed his lips. “D’you know, I always find that a difficult question to answer, and the better one knows someone, the more difficult it seems to be. One automatically begins to select all the good qualities, as if one were writing a reference. Let me see, now … Well, he was an excellent GP—thorough, hardworking, conscientious and a very good diagnostician. He had a rather unfortunate manner though, off-putting. He was very reserved, it was hard to get close to him. Although I’ve known him so long, I never really felt I understood what made him tick.”

  “Would you say this business was in character?”

  “Good God, no. Arnold was, above all, a sticker. He’d never give up or opt out, however hard the going, certainly not for any reason I could imagine. I’m quite astounded by what’s happened.”

  “You don’t happen to know who his doctor was, do you?”

  “I was, for what it’s worth. I say ‘for what it’s worth’ because, although he was theoretically on my list, in fact he never consulted me in all the years he’s been on it, not once. He had excellent health, always, and I imagine he’d dose himself for any minor ailments. So if you’re thinking he might have had a terminal illness … well, if he did, I certainly knew nothing about it. And if he did, of course the post mortem will show it.”

  “What if he just suspected he had it? People have been known to kill themselves because they were convinced they had cancer, for instance, when they really had nothing seriously wrong with them at all.”

  Barson shook his head emphatically. “Arnold would never have killed himself on a mere suspicion. No, if ill-health was the reason, it’ll emerge soon enough, but frankly I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “Have you been into his room this morning, to have a look at him?”

  “Just briefly, yes. I didn’t touch anything, of course.” Barson frowned. “Vintage port and drugs. I must admit it’s the way out most doctors would choose. By far the most comfortable. I understand there was a note, too.”

  Thanet showed it to him. Barson groaned. “Oh God—Andrew! I suppose his headmaster will have the unenviable task of breaking the news, poor devil. I’ll ask Gemma if she’d like me to ring the school.”

  Mention of her name reminded them why they were standing here on the landing conversing in whispers and they began to move towards the door of Mrs Pettifer’s room.

  It was a com
plete contrast to her husband’s monastic little cell. There was a fitted, butter-coloured carpet and the tall windows were hung with floor-length curtains patterned with sprays of wild flowers on a creamy background. The same fabric had been used in the curtains and drapes of the four-poster bed which dominated the room. Tiny, lacy cushions in many shapes and sizes were heaped at one end of the green velvet chaise-longue in the bay window and there was a clutter of silver, cut-glass and expensive-looking jars and bottles on the dressing table. A white satin peignoir trimmed with swans-down had been tossed carelessly across the foot of the lace bedspread. The effect was delicate, light, airy and overwhelmingly feminine. Thanet tried and failed to visualise Pettifer at home in this setting.

  Gemma Pettifer was propped up against the lace-trimmed pillows, looking as fragile as a wax doll.

  “You wanted to see me?” said Thanet.

  “Yes. I’ve got something to show you. Perhaps it’ll convince you.” She reached for a large brown envelope on the bedside table. “Yesterday afternoon, my husband brought me a present. He’d picked it up on the way home, he said. I’m sure you’ll be able to check that.” And she spilled the contents of the envelope out on to the bedspread.

  Thanet had no time for more than a glimpse of brightly coloured brochures before Mrs Pettifer selected a piece of paper and handed it to him.

  “It was a surprise for me. He knew I’d always wanted to go.”

  Thanet stared down at the paper. It was a receipt from a travel agency. Yesterday afternoon, only a few hours before he had killed himself, Arnold Pettifer had paid £2,000 for a cruise to the Canaries, with a departure date in three weeks’ time.

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  About the Author

  Dorothy Simpson (b. 1933) was born and raised in South Wales, and went to Bristol University, where she studied modern languages before moving to Kent, the setting for her Inspector Thanet Mysteries. After spending several years at home with her three children, she trained as a marriage guidance counselor and subsequently worked as one for thirteen years, before writing her first novel. Says Simpson, “You may think that marriage guidance counselor to crime writer is rather a peculiar career move, but although I didn’t realise it at the time, of course, the training I received was the best possible preparation for writing detective novels. Murder mysteries are all about relationships which go disastrously wrong and the insights I gained into what makes people tick, into their interaction and motivations, have been absolutely invaluable to DI Thanet, my series character, as have the interviewing skills I acquired during my years of counseling.”

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1986 by Dorothy Simpson

  Cover design by Michel Vrana

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-4433-2

  This edition published in 2017 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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