A Fatal Affair

by Faith Martin

  ‘You thought that he would soon get tired of Iris and find someone more suitable sooner or later.’ The Inspector followed his line of thought easily. ‘Yes sir, I understand, and who’s to say you wouldn’t have been proved right?’ Harry was careful to keep his voice neutral.

  The Superintendent eyed him with another weary smile. ‘I realise this isn’t exactly an ideal situation for you either, Harry. Especially now. David’s death has hit us all hard, but there’s no denying …’ He paused, took a deep breath and sat up straighter in his chair. ‘You know, of course, that they’re saying that David killed her? And then killed himself out of guilt?’

  Jennings nodded miserably. Three days ago, this man’s son had been found hanging in a barn belonging to a close friend of the family. So far, although it was early days, there were no signs to suggest that it had been anything other than suicide. Naturally, the village was aflame with speculation, and the newspapers were only too happy to stoke the fires.

  ‘I find that impossible to believe,’ Keith Finch said. Then he held up a placatory hand as the Inspector opened his mouth to respond, adding quickly, ‘And yes, I know, how many times have we heard family members of suicide victims or murder suspects say exactly the same thing?’ He ran a hand helplessly over his face.

  The Inspector, aware that he could put it off no longer, said, ‘Sir, I assure you that we’re going to conduct a proper investigation into everything, but, obviously, I can’t keep you apprised of anything …’

  Luckily, he didn’t have to continue. Usually, telling a superintendent things that he didn’t want to hear wasn’t a smart move for a man with ambitions, and Harry Jennings hadn’t been looking forward to doing it. So it was with something of a relief that he stopped speaking as his superior officer again raised a hand.

  ‘Don’t worry, Harry, I’m not here to ask you to keep me updated. The Chief Constable has already made it clear that I can’t be involved in this thing in any way. Especially with David being a murder suspect in the Carmody case.’

  Harry let out a relieved breath. ‘Yes sir.’ But he was very much aware that he was in a uniquely awkward and unenviable position. He wanted to be able to tell his superiors – and the press – that he’d found the killer of the May Queen; and when a murdered girl’s boyfriend hangs himself a few days later, that’s usually taken to be as good as a confession. Which meant that, normally, he could be confident of closing the case once they’d been able to collect some evidence cementing the hypothesis that her lover had killed her in a jealous rage.

  But when the dead suspect was the son of a superintendent of police, and an old acquaintance, it could hardly be business as usual. Especially when dealing with a man who, before now, could claim to have high-ranking friends in both the police force and society in general.

  But Harry was well aware that the Superintendent would not be able to weather this particular storm unscathed. Unfair or not, the chances were that Keith Finch now faced not only a personal loss, but a professional loss too. For surely the powers-that-be were already making plans to pension him off – the usual fate of anyone who caused them such public embarrassment?

  Harry had been careful to make sure that there were no newspapers on his desk that morning, but it was impossible that the Finch family wouldn’t have read the speculation in the local press. He knew David had had a sister, and he could only guess the hell she was going through right now. He suppressed a shudder and sighed gently.

  ‘The thing is, of course, that I don’t believe for one moment my son killed her, Harry. Of course, I know you have to consider the possibility that he did, but I have every confidence that you’ll find no evidence supporting this. And that you will eventually find out who did,’ the Superintendent added hastily, although there was nothing on his face to indicate whether he believed this to be true or not.

  Harry swallowed hard, unable to meet his gaze.

  ‘So, to get down to brass tacks. I’m here about the inquest on David. It’s set for this Monday, yes?’ Superintendent Finch said briskly. Whatever his personal tragedy, he was determined to keep a stiff upper lip, and for that Jennings was grateful. He wasn’t sure, given the circumstances, what comfort he could give to a grieving father in imminent peril of breaking down.

  ‘Yes sir. Starting at 10 a.m.’

  ‘And it’s the old vulture presiding?’

  Inspector Jennings nodded. ‘Yes, sir. He’s the best, as you know.’

  ‘I agree. I’ve always rated Dr Ryder very highly – even when he’s being the proverbial pain in our necks,’ Keith Finch said heavily but with a wry twist of his lips.

  Jennings merely grunted. In the past, he’d had to have more to do with Dr Clement Ryder than he’d ever wanted. Why the man couldn’t act more like a regular coroner, and just do his job and leave the police to do theirs, he didn’t know. But no, he had to stick his nose in – and, even more annoyingly, often come up trumps.

  ‘And that brings me to the purpose of this visit. I’ve had a word with the Chief Constable, and he’s agreed with my proposal.’

  At this, Harry Jennings felt his heart rate began to ratchet up a notch or two, and a slow, sick feeling sidled into his stomach, making him swallow hard. ‘Sir?’ he asked warily.

  ‘We might turn a blind eye to things, Harry, but that doesn’t mean to say that the powers-that-be haven’t noticed that that girl of yours and our coroner have developed a habit of, well, shall we say, “supplementing” our more normal lines of inquiry?’

  At this point, Harry Jennings got a really bad feeling. ‘Sir,’ he began to object, but wasn’t allowed to finish.

  ‘Now, I know we can’t expect WPC Loveday and Dr Ryder to help you on the actual Iris Carmody case—’

  ‘No sir, we definitely can’t! WPC Loveday has barely completed her probationary period and—’

  ‘But Dr Ryder, as city coroner, has before now done some, shall we say, follow-up inquiries on a number of his inquest cases, isn’t that so?’

  ‘Yes sir,’ Harry admitted miserably.

  ‘And with some considerable success?’

  ‘Yes sir,’ he was again forced to agree.

  ‘Very well then. As I said, the Chief Constable is with me on this, Inspector. After the inquest on my son is over – no matter what the verdict may be – you will approach Dr Ryder and ask him to make further discreet inquiries about my son and the circumstances of his death.’

  ‘Superintendent, sir, I don’t think that’s really wise …’

  Keith Finch gave a harsh bark of laughter, and for the first time looked seriously angry. ‘It may not be wise, Inspector,’ he snapped, leaning forward in his chair, ‘but everyone’s going around saying that my boy – my boy! – murdered that girl and then killed himself.’ Suddenly he slammed the flat of his palm down on Jennings’s desk so hard and fast, that Jennings nearly went into orbit. The sharp ricochet of sound had the heads of the police officers in the outer room swivelling in their direction.

  ‘And I’m not having it, Jennings. Is that clear?’ Superintendent Finch said through gritted teeth.

  Harry nodded wretchedly. ‘Yes sir,’ he agreed. Clearly the Super still had some clout with the higher-ups, and he was in no mood to be thwarted.

  ‘Very good. So, continue your investigation into the Carmody case,’ the Superintendent said mildly now, standing up and looking as if nothing dramatic had happened. ‘Let nothing interfere with that. Continue regarding my son as a suspect if you must. But let that clever girl of yours and the old vulture sniff around my son’s case without any impediment. Understood?’

  ‘Yes sir,’ Harry said, standing up politely.

  It was clear, all right, but that didn’t mean to say he had to like it. And, whilst he might have to tread carefully – for now, anyway – that didn’t mean he would always have to toe the line. Especially if they finally got some proper evidence as to who had murdered Iris Carmody, and why.

  He watched his superior officer leave t
he room and then slumped back down behind his desk with a groan. Great! As if he didn’t have enough troubles already. This was infuriating – another case with his station’s annoyingly efficient and pesky lone WPC and the old vulture snooping around in police business.

  Just what he needed!

  Chapter 2

  Dr Clement Ryder, city coroner, was tidying his desk in preparation for leaving for the day. Like his police colleagues he often worked on Saturdays, and although he was not obsessive about neatness, he didn’t like dealing with mess at the start of any working day.

  Outside, the daylight was beginning to diminish, and he was looking forward to going to home to his attractive Victorian terrace overlooking South Park, and indulging himself in a small cognac. A widower for some time, with two adult children off leading lives of their own, he was content enough to live alone. Nevertheless, he was glad that he’d been able to find a good ‘daily’ who not only kept his home tidy, but also left a tasty supper warming for him in the oven every evening.

  A man just a shade over six feet tall and clean-shaven, he had a head of thick silvery-white hair and slightly watery grey eyes. Although not fat, he was certainly getting a little hefty around the middle, but that was not about to stop him from enjoying his housekeeper’s cooking!

  He reached for a stack of files, intending to lock them in the bottom deep drawer by his right leg, but as he lifted them off the oak, leather-lined top, he felt his left hand give a quick, involuntary jerk. He had to quickly drop them back onto the desk and then catch the top one before it slid off onto the floor.

  He was still scowling angrily at his now slightly trembling hand, when his secretary knocked on the door. Quickly, he thrust his hand down out of sight below the top of the desk, and looked up, careful to put a polite, inquiring smile onto his face.

  His secretary, a comfortable-looking, middle-aged woman answered with a polite smile of her own. ‘You have a visitor, Dr Ryder. He doesn’t have an appointment, but I think you’d prefer to see him. Detective Inspector Jennings?’

  Clement Ryder blinked, hoping he didn’t look as astonished as he felt. For all the five or so years he’d now been working as a city coroner, he could never remember DI Jennings calling on him voluntarily. Usually, it was he who bearded the policeman in his own den.

  ‘Of course, please show him in,’ Clement said, but was very much conscious of the hand trembling in his lap. Surreptitiously, he began to massage his weaker palm with the fingers of his other hand.

  Clement had been a surgeon for most of his adult life, but nearly six years ago, he’d noticed a slight tremor in his hand. His worst fears had been confirmed when he’d undertaken a series of tests – abroad and under another name – which had confirmed the onset of Parkinson’s disease.

  Naturally, he had been obliged to retire at once, not only from surgery, but also from medicine in general, as he could not put any of his patients at risk. It was a decision that had baffled and stunned his friends and professional colleagues alike, as he’d given no real reason for it. But he’d known that he would never be able to keep his condition a secret for long from medically trained, observant people, and being unwilling to endure the pity of others, it was important to him that he kept his illness totally under wraps.

  And yet, he’d been unable to retire and do nothing, so he’d retrained instead as a coroner, studying law and passing the requisite examinations for the position with ease. Here, at least, his medical knowledge and general acumen when it came to observing and understanding human nature wouldn’t go to waste. And, he was honest enough to admit to himself, his chosen new career meant that he was still a man of considerable influence and power.

  His social circle included presidents of colleges, city councillors, politicians and captains of industry. Over the years he’d not been above using that power, on occasion, to delve further into the cases that sometimes passed through his courtroom. Although a jury of the good old British public could nearly always be relied upon to get things right, in Clement’s opinion – which was the only one that really mattered to him – that wasn’t always the case.

  Neither, in his opinion, were the city police infallible! This had led to him investigating one or two deaths that had been attributed to either accident or suicide, but which had proved to be murder instead.

  So although he cursed his trembling hand for playing up just when an eagle-eyed member of the constabulary had come to call on him, he was also very much intrigued. Harry Jennings was amongst one of many people who would no doubt be delighted to know of his illness – since it meant it could be used against him to force his retirement – but Clement was confident that the police officer would notice nothing amiss. So far, his illness hadn’t progressed to the state when he was slurring his words.

  Nevertheless, he leaned back in his chair a little as DI Harry Jennings passed through the door at his secretary’s behest, took a deep calming breath, and made sure to keep his hands still.

  ‘DI Jennings, a pleasure and something of a surprise,’ he greeted his visitor amiably. ‘Please, have a seat.’ He nodded at the comfortable leather padded chair on the opposite side of his desk.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ DI Jennings said, glancing around curiously. Clement watched him take in the book-lined walls, thick carpet and tall standing lamps, his eyes wandering with some surprise to the oil paintings that were hanging on the walls. These were Clement’s own personal contribution to the décor, some rather fine English country landscapes. A fire roared away in the fireplace, since, for May, it was still a bit on the chilly side. Wordlessly, the policeman regarded the large oak and leather desk positioned impressively in front of two large sash windows, which overlooked the less-than-salubrious outer cobbled courtyard of Floyd’s Row, where the morgue and coroner’s offices were situated.

  ‘Nice office you have, sir,’ the Inspector commented as he took the proffered seat in front of the desk. Jennings, a man who had not long since celebrated his fortieth birthday, was slender, with thinning fair hair, a rather large nose, and hazel eyes that, at that moment, didn’t look any too happy. They flitted about the room, reluctant to settle on any one spot, and Clement found his lips twitching with amusement.

  ‘Is there something I can do for you, Inspector?’ he asked, deciding to put the man out of his misery as quickly as possible.

  ‘Er, yes, sir, there is. It’s about the case you’re overseeing on Monday,’ Jennings said, clearing his throat.

  Immediately, Clement cast his eyes to the large stack of files still sitting on his desk. ‘Oh? The David … er …’ For a moment he couldn’t remember the last name of the deceased, and once more he silently cursed the illness that was slowly but surely nibbling away at his faculties.

  ‘Finch,’ Harry Jennings said, clearly too annoyed at having to be here at all and ask this man a favour, to realise that the old vulture had suffered a momentary lapse in memory.

  ‘Ah yes – young lad, found hanging in a friend’s barn,’ Clement added crisply. ‘I was reading the preliminary notes earlier this morning.’ He paused, eyeing the Inspector with a gimlet glance that had the officer shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Clement had already noted that the boy’s body had been found in the same village where Iris Carmody had been murdered barely a week before, and suspected a link. ‘Is there something about the proceedings that I need to know about in advance?’ he demanded.

  Harry Jennings flushed slightly. ‘The, er, deceased, is the son of Superintendent Keith Finch,’ he said flatly, running a finger under his tie, which suddenly felt a little tight.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Clement said, after a moment’s thought. ‘The boy’s father is a friend of yours?’

  Harry Jennings visibly hesitated. ‘I’ve known the Superintendent a long time,’ he finally conceded carefully. ‘He’s a good man. A good officer. Naturally, this business of his son has been a severe blow.’

  Clement nodded, but his face was beginning to tighten. ‘Inspector, if
you’re here to ask me to try and influence the verdict of the jury …’

  ‘Perish the thought!’ the Inspector burst in quickly. He knew, from past experience, just how withering the old vulture could be if he thought you were trying to stick your nose into his territory.

  ‘I understand, of course, how upsetting it can be for families when suicide is suspected,’ Clement said, slightly mollified but his voice still a shade cold. ‘And we try and spare their feelings as much as possible, but—’

  ‘You think it is suicide then?’ Harry Jennings interjected craftily.

  ‘Certainly not,’ Clement shot back, sounding and looking shocked. ‘I have yet to even hear the evidence, or listen to the witness testimony. And as you know, I never, ever, pre-judge a case.’

  The Inspector hid a smile and nodded solemnly. Just as he’d known it would, the implied slur on Dr Ryder’s impartiality had diverted him nicely from his intended harangue.

  ‘No, of course not, Dr Ryder. But I am here on the family’s behalf – in a way.’

  Clement slowly sat forward in his chair. His watery grey gaze was now fixed firmly on the man in front of him. ‘Again, if you’re asking me to do anything other than conduct a proper and full inquest …’

  ‘I’m not, Dr Ryder. I wouldn’t ever be so foolish,’ Harry Jennings said, and meant every word of it. Nobody but an idiot would ever try and put one over on the old vulture. Only extremely young and green constables, or the stupidly over-confident, ever tried it. ‘Actually, I’m here with a request from the boy’s father about what happens after the inquest,’ he added hastily and before he got any further into the coroner’s bad books.

  ‘After?’ Clement repeated, presumably slightly confused, but not by so much as a twitch of his bushy eyebrows, showing it.