Devil in the Detail

by Leo McNeir

  “That has to be a possibility,” Ralph agreed. “Except …”

  “What?”

  “The police said the group around him were all clearly shocked by what had happened.”

  “I’d be shocked if someone had just been killed beside me,” said Marnie. “Even if I was part of the conspiracy. Being splattered with blood would certainly give me the jitters.”

  Anne’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. “It wasn’t like that for Luther.”

  Marnie put an arm round her shoulders. “Oh Anne, how thoughtless of me to be talking like this.”

  “It’s all right, really. It’s not something we can ignore or forget about. It just brought it back to me.”

  Ralph took her hands. “Forgive me, Anne. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  Marnie kissed Anne on the side of her head. This would be a day of tears, she thought.

  *

  Bartlett had just reached his office and was checking notes on his desk when a uniformed PC looked round the door.

  “Oh, you’re back, sir.”

  “What is it?”

  “Just had a message from Pathology. I told them I thought you were probably on your way to attend the autopsy.”

  “What did they want?”

  “If you’re not going, could you give them a ring.”

  Bartlett took the number and dialled. He asked for the pathologist and briefly explained he had to go to a meeting in Northampton. The doctor came straight to the point.

  “Our initial examination has thrown up something you’ll want to know. Two things to be precise. The deceased had a tiny trace of lipstick on the edge of his lip.”

  “Lipstick?”

  “Yes. I gather there was a woman present when your chaps arrived on the scene.”

  “That’s right. Can you tell me anything about it?”

  “Not much at the moment. There must be thousands of different sorts. It was red.”

  “I could use a little more than that.” Bartlett’s voice was chilly.

  The pathologist noticed. “Not all lipstick is red, chief inspector. There are shades of other colours … pink, mauve, even purple and black.”

  “All right. I take your point. Is it a bright red?”

  “Very, and glossy.”

  “Why the hell didn’t we spot this?”

  “Like I said, chief inspector, it was a tiny trace, virtually invisible.”

  “Did you say there were two things?”

  “The deceased had a handkerchief in his pocket.”

  “So?”

  “It was neatly folded, but it’s been used. There are marks on it, very faint, traces of something.”

  “Can you identify it? What colour is it?”

  The pathologist paused. “One of my team said she thought it could be eye shadow, a very pale blue.”

  “Eye shadow? You mean make-up?”

  “It’s just a guess at this stage.”

  After disconnecting, Bartlett stood immersed in his thoughts. Lipstick and make-up. Luther Curtiss had been in contact with a woman, unless he was a cross-dresser. He winced and rejected the idea – for the time being. His girlfriend was away in Italy, so who else could it be? He assumed this was no casual greeting. These days a lot of people in what he regarded as the chattering classes had adopted the French habit of kissing on the cheeks. Marnie Walker’s crowd would do that sort of thing. But kissing on the lips, that was something else.

  He tried to picture the women in that circle. Anne Price had found the body. She had worn make-up when they took her to the hospital to be identified. Did she wear lipstick? He had no recollection of anything bright, red and glossy. What about Marnie Walker? She was always well-groomed, but somehow understated. There was the horsy woman from Hanford Hall. If she wore lipstick it was probably tweed. And the head teacher from the school? Nothing glossy about her. Then there was Serena McDowell. Yes. Almost everything about her seemed glossy. Bartlett glanced at the clock and grabbed the phone. He rapidly explained to Cathy Lamb about the lipstick trace.

  “Cathy, did Anne Price wear lipstick when we took her to the hospital?”

  No hesitation. “A pale pink, sir. She couldn’t wear red with her colouring.”

  “Could any of the others?”

  Again, an immediate response. “Serena McDowell.”

  “And eye shadow?”

  “Yes, sir. She could and she does, but not all the time. For work I doubt if she wears much make-up.”

  “For a social occasion?”

  “That would depend. She was wearing some yesterday at the pub.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Definite. I had the feeling she was trying to keep her spirits up. Make-up can do that.”

  “For any other occasion?”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “An assignation, if she was meeting a lover, for instance?”

  A pause. “Yes.”

  “Are you sure? You hesitated.”

  “It’s just, she strikes me as being happily married.”

  “Cathy, don’t be naive.”

  “Well …”

  “What?”

  “She was wearing perfume yesterday as well, sir.”

  “You think that was just to keep her spirits up?”

  “Possibly. Or if she was meeting someone, someone special.”

  “Cathy, I want you to check out the make-up of all the women in that group. Just say it’s routine. Get over to Northampton first and pay a call on Serena McDowell.”

  “Sir, she did arrive at the pub after the others had got there.”

  “I know. Get moving, Cathy.”

  *

  Marnie sat at her desk staring at the phone, feeling helpless. At the back of the office she could hear the rushing sound of Anne taking a belated shower. An atmosphere of gloomy apprehension hung over their lives. By now Estelle would be seven miles above the ground, racing homewards at over five hundred miles an hour, ignorant of the fact that she was returning to the greatest tragedy of her life. Worse than that, she was basking in the anticipation of being reunited with her lover. Marnie could imagine her preparing to gush all over Luther in her inimitable style. The reality that awaited her would be like the impact of the plane crashing into a mountain. Total devastation.

  She reached forward and picked up the receiver, hesitating while the buzz of dialling tone hummed expectantly in her ear. What am I waiting for? Marnie knew she had to be the one to break the news. Decisively, she pressed the buttons, rang both numbers in succession and left messages to wait for Estelle on the phone in her London flat and on the mobile answering service.

  “Estelle, it’s Marnie. I hope you had a good journey back. Please ring me straight away. It’s important that I speak to you before you set off. Thanks.”

  *

  Serena unplugged the telephone at the wall socket. Few people knew her mobile number. Now she could control contact with the outside world. There would be no interviews, no comment. Her last call before disconnecting the phone had been to ask BT to arrange a new number. She was ex-directory from now on.

  Even the helpful messages had become nuisance calls. An organisation calling itself BAN – Britain Against Nazism – had been pestering her all morning with offers of a ‘demonstration of solidarity’. A woman who gave her name as Margo promised huge numbers and a ‘strictly-peaceful protest’. If she would just give her agreement, they would do the rest. Tersely Serena told them to stay away, but Margo was very persistent: Someone has got to stand up to these bastards!

  And there had been a steady flow of abusive messages. It was evident that Serena’s number was being circulated among the membership of New Force. The calls ranged from the simply menacing to the now customary death threats and the startlingly obscene. Only the most lurid had provoked a response from Serena: For someone who doesn’t like black people, I’d say that was a highly intimate suggestion. The position you describe could do physical harm to both partic
ipants. She had been quite pleased with that, as an off-the-cuff reaction, but it left a bitter aftertaste.

  The decider that led to the unplugging of the phone was a call that came from neither supporters nor enemies – not in the strict sense of the word – but from her own department. Murfitt had phoned. He had actually rung her at home on a Saturday morning! It was a first. His purpose was to warn her that he had been going over the figures. She had spent the entire allocation – budget line EYS0036, Events and Activities – all of it for the whole year on the summer scheme. She found herself coming dangerously close to telling him where to stick budget line EYS0036 when a double beep informed her that another caller was trying to reach her. She had excused herself. Sorry Lee, gotta go. I’ve got another death threat waiting to get through. The Nazis must be on overtime this weekend. Or it could be the CID with more questions about the two murder investigations I’m involved in. See you! Bye!

  Sitting on the stairs she scrolled through the address list on the mobile. After the family numbers, the next name to appear was Curtiss, Luther. She stared at the name, and her stomach turned over. For a moment she could scarcely breathe. Her head fell forward. Eyes closed.

  Oh God, what have I done? What have I done?

  Time slipped by. Her breathing settled and her nerves returned to calm. The touch on the knee made her jump, her eyes snapping wide open. With a huge effort she forced the smile into place as she found herself looking into the concerned gaze of her four year-old son.

  “What’s the matter, mummy? Are you crying?”

  “No, sweetie, of course not. Mummy’s just having a little rest.”

  “Why are you on the stairs?” A frown still creased the little brown face.

  “Mummy’s got phone calls to make. This is her special phoning seat.”

  “Can we play?”

  “Play?” The question caught her out. “Play what?” A silly answer.

  “You never play any more. It’s always nan who comes to play. I want you to play.”

  That’s all I need, she thought, the guilt thing.

  “We’ll play soon, sweetie. Mummy’s been very busy at work just lately. Nan’s gone to the shops. She’ll be here soon. Then you can play.”

  She heard a car draw up outside the house, and her stomach churned. Serena leapt up and ushered Joey into the rear sitting room, telling him to stay there watching TV with his sister until mummy came back. She slipped into the front room and craned sideways to look through the net curtains. Her shoulders relaxed. It was a woman getting out of the car, alone and somehow familiar. By the time the visitor reached the door, Serena was there to open it.

  A warrant card was held up for inspection. “DC Cathy Lamb, Mrs McDowell. We’ve met before. Can I have a word?”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Perhaps I could come inside?”

  Serena admitted her to the hall.

  “Have you found who killed Luther?”

  “Our inquiries are still proceeding.”

  “So you haven’t.”

  “I need your help, please. Would you mind letting me see your make-up?”

  “My make-up? What for?”

  “Please?”

  Serena sighed loudly. “Wait here.” She turned to mount the stairs, but Lamb held her back.

  “You wait here, Mrs McDowell. Just tell me where it is. And let’s start with your handbag, if you don’t mind.” The tone was calm but the words were firm.

  Serena walked through to the rear of the house and opened the kitchen door. The remains of breakfast were still on the table.

  “Sorry for the mess. The phone’s been going non-stop since before I got up.”

  “Nuisance calls?”

  “You could say that. I’ve unplugged it.”

  “You can get your number changed, go ex-directory.”

  “I’ve done that.”

  “Have you been receiving threats?”

  “Of course.” She passed her handbag to Lamb. “Help yourself. The rest is on the dressing table in the front bedroom, and there are one or two bits in the bathroom. Do you want coffee?”

  “No thanks, better not. I’ve got to be going soon. I’m afraid I’ll have to take a few things.”

  “What things?”

  “I’ll show you when I’ve finished.”

  Lamb rummaged in the handbag and produced lipstick, eye liner and a comb. She dropped them into a plastic bag and went out. Serena could hear her moving around upstairs as she filled the kettle. By the time Lamb returned, she was pouring water over instant coffee in a cup.

  “You look as if you need this. Busy time for you, too, this summer, eh?”

  Lamb accepted the offer of a seat and took a gulp of the hot drink. “I’ll be a millionaire with all the overtime, if I live long enough to collect it.”

  “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “I just need these few things. I’ll give you a receipt for them.”

  “Don’t bother, I’ve got plenty more. What do you want them for? Are you going to tell me you just want to eliminate me from your inquiries, or whatever the expression is?”

  “Something like that.”

  Serena stared at her. “No. It’s more than that, isn’t it?”

  “Is your husband in?”

  “He’s taken my mother shopping. I don’t go out if I can help it. You didn’t answer my question. And why do you want my husband?”

  “We don’t answer people’s questions as a rule, Mrs McDowell. It’s nothing personal. It’s our job to ask the questions. We don’t seem to have seen your husband so far.”

  “He’s got a job to do. He’s not involved in any of the summer scheme business. I almost envy him.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He works for a pharmaceutical company.”

  “Do you know where he was yesterday?”

  A pause. “I think he had a meeting with an NHS Trust in Oxford. He usually stays on for lunch before going on to his next meeting.”

  “Do you know where that was?”

  Another pause. “Banbury, I think … yes.”

  “Do you know what time he left home to go to Oxford?”

  “That I don’t know. He was here doing paperwork when I left. I needed to collect something from the office before setting off for Cosgrove.”

  “Was anybody else here at that time?”

  “No. The children were out with my mother, buying shoes. Why the interest in my husband? Oh, I was forgetting, you don’t answer questions. Well, let me guess. You want to know his movements in case he needs an alibi.”

  “We have to ask all sorts of questions. It’s the routine.”

  “Yeah.” Serena was past anger or even indignation, all her emotions drained. When she spoke again her voice was weary. “Do you think I would harm Luther? What possible reason could I have? Do you think my husband would become insanely jealous over a photograph in a newspaper?”

  Cathy Lamb had answers to those questions, but she simply drank the coffee.

  *

  The coffee at the central police station in Northampton was no better than Serena’s instant brew. Bartlett had accepted Harris’s offer automatically, just as he always refused the coffee from Marnie Walker. It occurred to him that his policy in that regard was faulty.

  “Thanks for coming over, Jack. I appreciate you’ve got a lot on your plate with the Curtiss murder. You are treating it as murder, I presume?”

  “Until I get the autopsy report I’m trying to keep an open mind, sir, but there’s been a development that makes me think it will probably turn out to be murder or manslaughter.”

  “Development?”

  “Forensics have found a trace of lipstick, a tiny speck on the edge of his lip, and a handkerchief with traces of what could be eye make-up.”

  “You think that’s significant? He had a girlfriend, didn’t he? Couldn’t it be hers?”

  Bartlett shook his head. “She’s in Italy, due back
today.”

  “On holiday without him?”

  “No, a business trip. Alibis from Marnie Walker, Anne Price and the couple who run the village shop in Knightly St John. They’ve all been in touch with her at her hotel.”

  “So whose make-up is it? Any ideas?”

  “The hot money’s on Serena McDowell.”

  “Jesus!”

  “And we’re checking out Walker and a few others to see if there’s a match with their make-up or – eventually – their DNA.”

  “Christ!”

  “Quite.”

  “Well, good luck, Jack. You’ve got a hot potato there. And talking of hot potatoes …”

  “Any developments on the Brandon case, sir?”

  Harris pursed his lips. “Between you and me, we’ve got bugger all. We’ve questioned every member of Brandon’s group who was present. They’re all telling the same story. They arrived back at their HQ – the house near the racecourse – all on foot. Just as they reached the door someone yelled, ‘Look out, he’s got a gun! Hit the deck.’ A shot was fired and they all dropped to the ground. Brandon was on his knees apparently when more shots went off. By the time they looked up, Brandon was lying face down with blood pouring from his wounds. Everyone was at first too stunned to react. Then one of them used his mobile to make a three nines call. Whoever did the shooting was in that group, and in the general confusion, he slipped round the corner and got away.”

  “How could someone get so near to Brandon when he was supposed to be surrounded by bodyguards, or at least by his own people?”

  “Not that simple. There were men from several groups, not just Brandon’s crowd. One or two had come from an outfit in Leicester, another bloke from Coventry, two or three down from Birmingham … New Force. They were all dressed in black, all of them white, of course.”

  “What about the boy on the bike, sir?”

  “Not much to go on, just a boy on a bike cycling away from the area.” Harris shook his head. “I can’t imagine a kid carrying out a calculated murder like that.”

  “The boy was white.”

  “Yes. No-one of any other race could’ve got that close, assuming they’d wanted to … too dangerous, too conspicuous.”