Will Power

by Judith Cutler

  The old lady shook her head. ‘Today is Thursday. That is Mr Cornfield’s day for travelling.’

  Of course! What an obvious mistake to make! Kate bit back a sarcastic quip and approached her, letting the dog sniff as much of her hand as it could be bothered to. ‘Where does Mr Cornfield travel to, Mrs – er?’

  ‘Hamilton.’ The eyebrows, bravely pencilled in on an age-spotted face, rose elegantly. Or had once.

  ‘My name’s Power. Kate Power.’ To flash the ID, or not to flash? On the whole, Kate thought not, just at this point.

  ‘And you are what, Miss Power?’

  Kate produced a bright, positive smile. And her ID. Mrs Hamilton would let her get away with nothing. ‘I’m a police officer, Mrs Hamilton.’

  ‘And your interest in Mr Cornfield?’

  ‘A simple need to talk to him.’

  The eyebrows conveyed disapproval of her cheek, but approval of her reticence. ‘I should imagine – and do not for one moment imagine that I would wish to pry, Miss Power – that you may wish to talk about his legacy. Which is, after all, in the public domain, or very soon will be. It will be published, will it not, in The Times? Not that one would read it, these days. But one must stay informed.’

  ‘What do you know of his legacy, Mrs Hamilton?’

  ‘Enough to prefer not to converse in the public street about it. Miss Power, Mrs Barr was my neighbour for forty years or more. If you would like me to reminisce, I will be happy to do so. But in the privacy of my own home. Edward would appreciate a bowl of water.’ The dog’s ears pricked. ‘And I myself usually drink coffee at this hour of the morning. Would you care to join me?’

  Though next door, Mrs Hamilton’s house was authentically Georgian in proportions, making Kate utter little gasps of pleasure as she passed through the square hall into a rear drawing room as faded but still elegant as its owner. The silk of the curtains and upholstery might be sadly worn, but was silk none the less. The chairs looked too fragile to support adult weight, but were surprisingly comfortable. While she waited for Mrs Hamilton, Kate made a stern resolution: she would never be able to afford a place like this – she suspected her entire ground floor would fit into this room and the hall with room to spare – but the furniture she bought to replace that damaged in the fire would be the best she could afford.

  Mrs Hamilton’s china, on an oval mahogany tray with brass handles at each end, looked quite like the stuff Kate had in her kitchen, courtesy Habitat. But it was so fine as to be translucent, its lines even more delicate. No, Mrs Hamilton was not a Habitat customer. The coffee was in a matching jug. Kate feared for its life as Mrs Hamilton struggled to force her arthritic joints to grasp the slender handle.

  Her concern was noted, but did not seem to cause offence. ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to add your own milk and sugar. Now, a biscuit, Miss Power? It is “Miss”, is it? Or are you an awful “Ms”?’

  ‘I’m actually a detective sergeant, Mrs Hamilton. Many people prefer simply to call me Kate.’ If only Aunt Cassie could have been like this, in control of her own home. Even if it meant Kate had had to find her own place to live. ‘You were saying that you had known Mrs Barr for many years.’

  Mrs Hamilton smiled, shaking her head. ‘I said, Sergeant, that we had been neighbours for many years. The two statements are not synonymous.’ She paused long enough to gesture towards the biscuits fanned out elegantly on a plate.

  Kate couldn’t resist. Biting as delicately as she could, she had an idea that she’d be unable to resist if they were offered a second time.

  ‘Mrs Barr always respected her neighbours’ privacy, and expected them to respect hers. Latterly, she went much further than that. She became reclusive. I understand that her health was very poor in recent years. Perhaps the explanation lies in that.’

  Kate nodded. If only all witnesses were like this.

  ‘She came to depend – no, utterly would not be too strong a word – on Mr Cornfield. He had always been a presence in the garden. I fancy he made up in enthusiasm and hard work what he lacked in expertise. Unfortunately Mrs Barr insisted on a hedge of those confounded Leylandii. Quite out of keeping with the original conception of the garden, but at least Mr Cornfield kept them at a reasonable height.’ She gestured. The hedge was perhaps seven feet high. ‘Mr Cornfield did his best to maintain the house, too. Though without access to proper funds, his ability to make more than cosmetic improvements was limited. Another biscuit, Miss Power? Sergeant!’ She produced a smile of surprising sweetness. ‘Kate. I made them myself. Langue de chat.’

  Kate made no effort to resist. ‘Mr Cornfield seems to have been a good friend to Mrs Barr?’

  ‘Friend? Yes, I suppose in a strange way they were friends. Not that they didn’t argue, latterly, at least. It must have been so hard for them both. She was bed-bound these last three years and depended, as I said, utterly on Mr Cornfield.’

  Kate hesitated: how did Mrs Hamilton know? And how to ask?

  ‘My source of information, my dear, is the district nurse, or whatever they call them these days. I was foolish enough to scrape my shin, and it needed dressing. Apparently the same district nurse had tried to treat Mrs Barr, but had been turned away.’

  ‘By Mrs Barr or by Mr Cornfield?’

  The wrinkled lids lowered slightly. ‘I understood that it was Mrs Barr herself, but that would be hearsay, would it not? I suggest you contact the medical practice that sent the nurse. I can provide you with the number. It’s in the hall, on the wall by my phone.’

  ‘You don’t have an extension in here? Or anywhere else?’ Suddenly Kate found herself in carer mode. But it had to be said. ‘What if you were to fall? Or if you were taken ill? My great-aunt had an alarm I made her wear all the time.’ She took another risk. ‘I could get you details, if you liked. But I do beg you, get the phone people to install more extensions.’

  The response was a frosty smile. She’d gone too far. Coughing slightly, she pretended to refer to her notebook. ‘You said that Mr Cornfield travelled on Thursdays, Mrs Hamilton. I suppose you wouldn’t know where?’

  The old lady shook her head. ‘I used to see him set off at the same time every Thursday, returning at the same time. Where he went I have no idea.’

  ‘His day off, perhaps?’

  ‘I’m not sure that Mr Cornfield ever enjoyed the luxury of a day off. Kate, I suspect that when Mrs Barr’s will is finally published, the vultures will descend. But I will testify that I never knew Mr Cornfield leave the house for more than a few days, and I will also testify I never saw anyone except the friends Mr Cornfield introduced me to come near it.’

  ‘Mr Cornfield introduced his friends to you?’

  ‘Of course. If we met in circumstances like those in which I met you. Very distinguished gentlemen, some of them. But as for family, if Mrs Barr had nearest, believe me, Kate, they were certainly not her dearest.’

  Chapter Five

  Nice day it might be for a trip to rural Tamworth, but if Kate was using public transport or subsidising West Midlands Police by using her own car, she’d better make sure that Michael Barton was at home. She certainly wouldn’t class the morning so far as wasted, but Lizzie might. If she drew a blank with Barton, she could write up the interview with Mrs Hamilton and try to find a tame forensic graphologist: just the sort of person that Lizzie might be expected to know. Kate herself wasn’t sure of the set-up here in Birmingham. Back in the Met, there was the Document Section in the Forensic Science Lab. She’d never had to refer material there herself, so she didn’t have a useful contact who might have a mate in Brum. Presumably there was the equivalent up here, with its official channels, but in forensic science as in everything else, someone who’d whiz things through the system because you’d shared a pint or two was always worth cultivating. And, given Lizzie’s penchant for speed, she’d know just the guy. About to tick herself off for the male term, Kate laughed sourly. Lizzie was not a woman for sisters. With Lizzie, it would be a guy.
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  And it was.

  ‘You didn’t hear?’ Lizzie sat back from her desk and ran disbelieving hands through her hair. ‘Oh, you folk in the Met, you’re so bloody parochial. It was a national scandal. Oh, ten years ago now.’

  Kate bit back an observation that ten years ago she was still an undergraduate. It was information she needed, not a few cheap points, each one of which would further fuel Lizzie’s hostility. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Oh, the people there started whinging away about pressure and overwork and bad working conditions. And then one person left for the private sector, then another, and then, hey presto, the whole lot went private.

  Kate opened her eyes wide. ‘So you’re saying there are no official experts?’

  There’s a branch they split off from the Met down in Swindon or somewhere.’

  ‘Nothing here in Brum?’

  ‘Only your independent ones. Who charge a fee. So if you want anything doing, make sure you really want it doing. Mind you, the forensic science people charge a fee too, of course, so I usually argue – for convenience sake – that we use one here. Provided it’s essential.’ Lizzie favoured her with a hard stare.

  ‘I think it’s essential in this case. So who would you recommend I talked to?’

  Lizzie reached in the cabinet behind her and slung a file on to her desk. ‘Come on, Kate, use a bit of initiative.’

  ‘Initiative’s one thing, boss, but I’d rather go for someone tried and trusted. By you, preferably.’

  ‘You mean I won’t be able to query the expenditure if I tell you who to try? OK.’ Lizzie managed a grin. She burrowed through the papers, coming up with a sheet of paper flimsy enough to have been through a typewriter. Another grin. ‘Remember those days – hunt and peck and Tippex by the gallon?’

  ‘My first squad, they delivered it in tankers. Thank God for the delete button!’

  Lizzie was running a finger down the paper, finally stabbing it with her left forefinger and scribbling on a pad. ‘Try this bloke. Or – he was getting on a bit, as I recall – you could try him. Say hello from me in either case.’ She checked her watch. ‘Doing anything for lunch?’

  Another accolade. OK, it would have been nice to stroll in the sun again, nicer still to have risked a phone call to Graham. But she had to work with this woman, and though she expected a complaint about quality or flavour or texture with each mouthful, she’d better smile and say, ‘Nothing. Canteen or pub?’

  As predicted, the chicken was both tough and flavourless, the salad was probably dirty, and how Kate could eat that granary bread, Lizzie had no idea. If Kate had hoped – belatedly, but she had indeed hoped – to probe for possible causes of Lizzie’s angst, there wasn’t much opportunity. They talked about the lack of transport, the lack of clerical support, the hiving off to hicks from the sticks of cases needing Fraud expertise: Kate had the feeling that she would have expected a similar conversation with a middle-aged man. It was as if Lizzie lacked the small change of gossip. Kate herself touched on Derek’s preference for his given name, but she wasn’t sanguine that Lizzie would take the hint. She also dragged in references to her own health which she hoped might free Lizzie to speak of any scares she might be having, but she felt a distinct waning of respect, so she switched briskly back to her car, and the possibility of changing it. Cue for horror stories of Lizzie’s garage.

  ‘Why don’t you change? Go somewhere else?’ Kate asked.

  ‘Oh, you get used to a place, don’t you? And I suppose it’s convenient.’

  ‘Having to take it back each time you have it serviced can’t be very convenient.’

  ‘That’s what you get, these days. Just bits of kids, not even proper apprentices.’

  Kate had found herself a garage in a side street in Selly Oak. The mechanics there were so good she’d be embarrassed to take custom from them if she bought a new car under guarantee. But even as she opened her mouth to tell Lizzie, she closed it again. She didn’t want Lizzie in full throat descending on lads she’d come to regard as mates.

  ‘So what are you planning for this afternoon?’ Lizzie asked, grimacing over coffee, which was, however, fully deserving of a grimace.

  ‘Talk to one of your experts, I hope. And talk to the deceased’s son. There’s something funny there. I thought, if it was OK by you, Gaffer, tomorrow I’d go straight to talk to our friend Cornfield. Before he goes on any more travels.’

  Kate got through to the second of Lizzie’s forensic scientists, Dr Walcott, and arranged to meet him at his office, which turned out to be a lab in a technology park sandwiched between the A38(M) and a canal. Nicely within walking distance. The site was unexpectedly pleasant, a modern purpose-built development of interesting brick low-rise buildings, not out of place with the blue-brick of the canal-side itself.

  Dr Walcott couldn’t have been far from retirement, which he told her Lizzie’s other choice had embraced five years before. He sported enormous, Dickensian side-whiskers, perhaps to compensate for having no more than Bobby Charlton wisps across his cranium. He also sucked on a pipe, a Sherlock Holmes affair, which Kate never saw alight. Apart from these minor eccentricities, he was charming and affable, producing Perrier from the lab fridge and seating her in his computer chair. Their conversation covered the weather, traffic and the current state of public spending before settling down on the matter in hand, or, more precisely, in the folder Kate handed him. At this point he shook his head sadly.

  ‘Lizzie King told you to bring this to me?’ This?’ He tapped the photocopy. ‘What for?’

  Kate flushed. ‘I need preliminary advice on whether this could be forged. I mean, even I can see that the writing in the body of the will isn’t the same as the signature …’

  ‘My dear, anyone can see that.’ He gave the sort of patient smile that curled Kate up inside more effectively than any Lizzie bollocking. ‘My area of expertise – such as it is – is in the chemical make-up of paper and ink. I can tell you just when a piece of paper was made, and almost certainly where. I can give you similar information about the ink. Mine is a scientific background, in other words. If you wanted to prove that someone could not have written something because that type of paper wasn’t available at the time he is supposed to have written it, then I’m your man. But for that – why …’

  ‘You’d need the document itself, not a photocopy. I’m sorry. I’ve wasted your time.’ She hung her head. Then she perked up again. ‘But I bet if I asked you to suggest a reputable graphologist, you could.’

  ‘Do I notice,’ Walcott asked, ‘a stress on the word reputable?’

  ‘One whose word would stand up in court. I’m not interested,’ she said, ‘in that stuff they have in women’s magazines. You know the sort of thing: you are good at ballroom dancing because the loops on your g’s look like a foot.’

  He snorted. ‘There are plenty of people like that around.’

  She took a risk. ‘Someone alleged that whoever wrote this was secretive, mean, vicious-tongued – and male.’

  ‘There are people who will say they can differentiate male and female writing,’ he conceded. ‘I’d have thought they had a sixty to sixty-five per cent chance of being right. Not that that’s good enough for a court. Men, they say, have messier, more angular writing, because boys are encouraged to be individual. Whereas girls are supposed to present themselves nicely, so their writing, as part of their presentation, is more likely to be tidy and rounded.’

  Kate covered her notebook ostentatiously, pulling a face.

  ‘As for the secretive, mean and vicious-tongued part, well, can you see anything that would suggest such characteristics? No, not suggest: prove!’

  Kate peered, wrinkling her nose. ‘How would you suppose mean people write? No gaps between the words so they don’t waste paper? Tiny margins?’

  ‘You may be into post hoc propter hoc arguments here.’

  If Kate had had more than GCSE Latin she might have been able to give an opinion. She went for
surer ground. ‘So these tight o’s – the writer really has tied a knot at the top – don’t mean someone’s tight-fisted? Or secretive?’

  Walcott shrugged. ‘Who am I to question those who say so? All I can say is that there is no reliable scientific or academic evidence to show that someone with those very pointed t-strokes – see how they’re thick to the left, fine to the right – is sharp-tongued. Or a good swordsman. Or anything else. Oh, call me an old cynic, Sergeant Power, but I’d rather talk about what I can prove. And I have colleagues in the ranks of independent handwriting analysts who can provide evidence of their assertions.’

  ‘You couldn’t give me a couple of names, could you?’

  ‘They too will almost certainly want the original. Which is not in your keeping?’

  ‘The will is up for probate at the moment. It’s retrievable.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. It’s the old, old story. Some bloodsucker’s persuaded an old biddy to change her will in his favour! And oh no, there’s no need to call in a solicitor because he can do it perfectly well.’ He shook his head, drawing stertorously on the empty pipe. ‘One of these people should be able to help: she’s particularly good.’ He flipped a couple of business cards her way. ‘Off you go, Sergeant, and nail the bastard!’

  Clearly the first thing to do was to get hold of the original will, so Kate faxed an application through to the probate court. The independent handwriting analyst whom Walcott had recommended was very busy, but promised to try to see Kate as soon as the document came through. What next? A trip to Tamworth? No, no reply from Dr Barton’s number. She left a message asking him to call her. Not especially keen on confessing to Lizzie about her mistake, she tried to frame the notes as if they had been a premeditated attempt to discuss Mrs Duncton’s expert’s allegations. She wasn’t sure how convincing she’d made the account, but it would have to do. Meanwhile, there was that in-tray to tackle: surely she could do something to lighten Derek’s load.