Will Power

by Judith Cutler

  ‘Nothing at all. But that’s not the same as poking around for something to chinwag about.’

  Tammy exchanged a glance with Derek, took the milk and, with an ostentatious shrug, left the room.

  ‘That was a bit head girl, wasn’t it?’ he said, after a moment. ‘These rumours about you and that superintendent of yours getting you down, are they? Joke, Kate, Joke! But for your information, it was Lizzie who told Tammy.’

  Kate produced what she hoped was an off-hand nod. ‘I’m sure she knew there was nothing to gossip about: we’re mates, Rod and I. We had a meal the other night and we’re off to a private view next week.’ Jesus, what had Lizzie said about her and Graham? Enough, no doubt. But it was too much of a risk to ask Derek – wasn’t it? Or should she go on the offensive? ‘I dare say she’s told Tammy about me and Stephen from the museum and me and my tennis coach—’

  ‘Hang on: I thought he was awaiting trial.’

  ‘My new, even sexier coach. Pity he’s on his honeymoon at the moment. And who else? Well, I had a meeting with Graham Harvey the other day, and there’s always my neighbour’s gorgeous cousin.’ By now, her dander was well and truly up. ‘And I’ll tell you what, Derek, if you and I are seen leaving the building together this afternoon, that’ll be something else for Tammy to tell Lizzie, won’t it?’

  Derek raised his hands in surrender. ‘Point taken.’ He gave a rueful smile, then his face became serious. ‘Maybe you don’t want to know that, Kate, but you were right about one of those names.’ He dropped his voice. ‘They say that’s why you had to leave Steelhouse Lane. They say you and Graham Harvey were having it off.’

  ‘Graham and Rod! My goodness, I do get around, don’t I?’ All the swear words she’d ever known were battering at her skull, but she mustn’t let any of them out. ‘Better make sure you’re wearing a chastity belt this afternoon, Derek, that’s all I can say.’

  Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Kate stared at her reflection in the mirror in the loo. Did she tackle Lizzie about these rumours or let them die the death? On the whole, since morally she could hardly deny them, whatever she wanted to do professionally, the latter seemed the better option. But that didn’t mean she didn’t want to yell the place down. A good loud scream here would be a good option. Some china to smash. Christ in heaven, what could she do?

  What was that book she’d read at school? The Scarlet Letter? That was it. She looked at the front of her blouse: it might almost be emblazoned with a big red A for Adultery. Oh, she and Rod had indulged in a harmless bit of fornication, but, her relationship with Graham must be adultery. Violating the seventh commandment. No wonder the poor man was feeling so guilty. He wasn’t making love to her so much as breaking one of his religious tenets. And, of course, deceiving his wife, however unpleasant that woman might be.

  What if he couldn’t hack it any longer?

  What if he broke it off?

  Tammy came in, humming brightly. They exchanged a smile through the mirror.

  ‘You all right, Kate? You’re ever so pale.’ Tammy came closer and peered.

  ‘Last night’s girls’ night balti,’ Kate said. ‘Lorraine made us go to a new place.’ She had to shut up. There was nothing like gabbling out redundant information to arouse suspicion.

  ‘You sure?’

  Was it sympathy or curiosity?

  She pulled a face. ‘No. Come to think of it it might have been the Caribbean punch afterwards. It goes down like silk but—’

  ‘Then you stand up and you find your legs knotted together. Yes, I had some at one of Cary Grant’s parties. Doing well on that TV programme, isn’t he?’

  Was there an edge to Tammy’s voice? If there was, she must ignore that too.

  ‘The one my old gaffer used to call Grass on your Neighbour?’ she asked. ‘Well, he’s very bright, very good-looking.’ And she’d be very happy for her name to be linked to Cary’s. Rarely could there have been less electricity between two people supposedly out for a date.

  ‘I thought they wanted you to front it.’

  Just because you’re paranoid, Kate, it doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. ‘Not to my knowledge. No, Cary does it very well. There’s only one person I’d like to see on it more, as a matter of fact: young Fatima back in my old squad.’ She peered closely at the mirror. ‘You’re right, a bit of make-up wouldn’t hurt, would it?’

  Max Cornfield was busy with a spade and wheelbarrow when they pulled up outside his house. He smiled at Kate, but was clearly disconcerted when Derek joined her.

  ‘This is a colleague of mine, Mr Cornfield,’ she said. ‘Detective Constable Baker.’

  Cornfield removed a leather gardening glove and shook his hand. He turned sadly to Kate. ‘Clearly you haven’t come to discuss my gardening plans. You have found something seriously wrong with the will? Shall we discuss it over a cold drink? There’s iced coffee in the fridge.’

  He ushered them through into the kitchen, and then thought better of it: ‘The garden would be much more pleasant, or do you prefer not to discuss serious matters in the open air?’

  Kate shot a sideways glance at Derek. ‘You may prefer our talk to be confidential.’

  ‘The garden is completely private. If you care to go through, Sergeant, I’ll bring the tray.’

  It would do no harm for Derek to see the garden, anyway – not to mention the junk stacked in the conservatory. She watched his eyebrows rise and fall, his lips purse in a silent whistle.

  ‘I’d murder for a garden like this,’ he said.

  ‘The trouble is,’ Kate asked quietly, ‘did he?’

  ‘So what is wrong with the will?’ Cornfield demanded, as well he might.

  ‘Probably just one or two technicalities,’ Derek said easily.

  Kate nodded. ‘What we’d find helpful is if you’d tell us how the will came to be written.’

  Cornfield shrugged. ‘I told you. She was a very sick old woman and I begged her to discuss it with a solicitor. Then, one afternoon – I suppose it was only three or four days before she died, Sergeant … One afternoon, she said, “We have to do it now.” “But we have no witnesses,” I said.’

  ‘So how did you find the witnesses?’

  ‘Friends of mine. I’m sure I told you. We play chess.’

  ‘Via the Internet,’ Kate interjected for Derek’s benefit.

  Derek said, ‘You can’t have virtual witnesses, sir.’

  For the first time he looked irritated. ‘They were in Birmingham for a chess convention, Constable. I suggested them to Mrs Barr, who agreed.’

  ‘You didn’t think of simply asking the neighbours?’

  ‘Mrs Barr was a very … She knew her own mind, Constable. She emphatically did not want the neighbours to know her business.’

  ‘But any witnesses—’

  ‘My colleagues are very distinguished men in their own fields. She thought that they would bring discretion to their task.’

  Kate shook her head. ‘But they wouldn’t have to know what was in the will itself. All they had to do was witness signatures.’

  Cornfield shook his head. ‘Part of Mrs Barr’s eccentricity involved her dictating the will in the presence of the witnesses. So they would know.’ He stood up, spreading his hands. ‘I make her sound like a monster. She wasn’t. I asked her doctor if she was in sound mind. You can check with him.’

  ‘We will,’ Derek said, the two syllables surprisingly menacing.

  ‘So what exactly happened when she made her will?’ Kate asked, glad that Cornfield himself had given her a lead.

  ‘I – we … it was difficult. She didn’t want to receive men in her bedroom. I half-supported, half-carried her down the stairs. Then in her wheelchair to the living room. I wrote down the will at her dictation. She signed it. It was witnessed. My friends returned to their chess. They wanted me to go with them but the whole business had distressed her unimaginably. How I got her back upstairs I’ll never know. I sat with her holding her hand
long into the night. She barely regained consciousness after that.’ His face seemed to become older before their eyes. He brushed away tears. ‘She was my friend, Sergeant. I cared for her. Would I wish her any harm?’

  Kate flicked a glance at Derek. ‘Who mentioned harm, Mr Cornfield?’

  ‘She was so distressed – by the knowledge that she was dying. A will is an intimation of mortality, isn’t it? She’d put it off as long as she could. It was only because she didn’t want her children to benefit by her death that she consented to make a will at all. And I believe making it killed her.’ He stood. Looking wildly round the garden. ‘Officer, I killed her as surely as if I’d put my hands round her throat and squeezed.’

  Derek was on his feet. ‘Sit down, sir. Try not to upset yourself. All we want is the facts, remember.’

  ‘And now you have them!’ He pushed away from Derek. ‘Please – can’t you leave me to grieve?’

  ‘You must have been very close,’ Kate observed.

  ‘Close! The family accuse me of having seduced her. We were friends, Sergeant, with all that the word implies. Now, for the love of God, leave me alone.’

  ‘We’ll leave you to mourn as soon as we can, Max,’ Kate said. ‘But I need to know one more thing. I understand you’re never at home on Thursdays. Can you tell me where you go?’

  ‘As if this is relevant! Sergeant, I went about my employer’s business. Now I go about mine. Mrs Barr had properties in various parts of the country. They were let. I travel round to each in turn to make sure it’s being properly maintained.’

  Derek frowned. ‘I’d have thought that this was the responsibility of the estate agent managing them.’

  ‘Tell me, Constable, have you ever entrusted property to an estate agent in that way? No. I thought not.’

  ‘Where are the properties?’ Kate asked.

  ‘If you bear with me five minutes I will furnish you with a list.’ Sighing resignedly, he pulled himself to his feet and headed into the house, returning before Derek had time to have more than a tiny gloat at the garden.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Weekends were designed for couples. There was no doubt about that. There were couples in Sainsbury’s; couples at the hardware-cum-garden centre in York Road, where Kate found a proliferation of unusual plants and some enthusiastic advice; couples parking cars so tightly in Worksop Road she was afraid she’d never get her car back in after her trip to Cassie’s residential home, where there were couples visiting their oldies.

  And that was the height of her weekend social life. Midge was seeing a new man, Lorraine going back to her mother’s. Joseph and Zenia – still, despite all the pressures, a couple – waved her goodbye as, shoving a weekend case in the car, they manoeuvred it carefully out of a space suddenly too short.

  She took a cup of tea into the garden and stared at the evidence that the slug bait had been working. If she felt like this at eleven-thirty on a Saturday morning, how would she be feeling at eleven-thirty on Sunday evening?

  The answer was, when the time came, not much better. Her house and garden might have won cleanliness and tidiness competitions; she’d got through two novels, one frivolous and one improving, and two Sunday broadsheets, and seen not a soul to talk to, Cassie apart. What a sad life. Pathetic. And nothing she could do to change it until she took her whole life, including Graham’s part in it, in hand. Nonsense. Of course there were things she could do. She could buy a bike and explore the areas where a car was inappropriate. She could learn to swim, study a foreign language – any or all the things agony aunts advised. But she knew that whatever she happened to be doing, she would drop it the moment Graham phoned her to say he could come round.

  The realisation stung. Look at her: even without make-up, even with an embarrassing toothpaste moustache, even with her hair crying out for a trim, she wasn’t a bad-looking woman. She pulled herself up straight. Her figure was a taut classic ten. It ought to be: she hadn’t hit thirty yet. But she would – any week now. Thirty was the time when women felt nesty, when the biological clock was ticking so loudly that it was almost audible.

  Was that what was the matter with her, that she wanted a baby?

  Surely not. She’d seen enough of Robin’s children to know that children involved levels of devotion and patience she was fairly sure she couldn’t aspire to.

  No more, said an insistent voice she wished she could silence once and for all, than you freely give Graham, who has far less reason than a child to be demanding and selfish.

  Kate was in work early, if not bright, hoping against rational hope that Steiner would have replied quickly. Even if he had, however, any letter would have to come via Deutsches Bundespost, the Royal Mail and then the vagaries of the police post room. On mature reflection, a bit of decent pessimism was called for, wasn’t it? Pessimism augmented, moreover, by the knowledge that Lizzie was back, and that she and Derek had defied her orders to bring Cornfield in. Just at the moment, however, it wasn’t Kate but Tammy who was getting a bollocking. What might prevent Kate getting one would be a visit to Mrs Duncton. It was good practice, after all, to keep the public informed about cases in which they were involved. And Kate had a great desire to see where Mrs Duncton lived.

  ‘I was just about, Sergeant,’ Mrs Duncton announced when Kate phoned her, ‘to complain to your superior officers regarding the lack of information on the progress of my case.’

  So Kate drove out to Four Oaks with very little love in her heart. Even amongst other impressive houses, the Duncton residence was impressive: a big detached house, probably nineteen-fifties, set well back from the road. Kate parked carefully, nodding and smiling at an elderly man with a wheelbarrow. A gardener? Or Mrs D’s elderly husband? Whoever it was, he nodded back with every appearance of uninterest, more preoccupied with dealing with minute aberrations from the orderly norms of drive and lawn.

  On her own territory – thickly carpeted, well-upholstered territory – Mrs Duncton was far more gracious than Kate would have expected. When Kate exclaimed at the pottery on a display stand, she became charm itself.

  ‘That’s Ruskin,’ she said. ‘A local potter.’

  Kate was ready to take his address. Some of this she had to have. ‘He’s still alive then?’

  ‘Oh, no. Can’t you tell from the style, Sergeant? Nineteen hundred to about nineteen thirty. The factory tried to emulate Chinese techniques of glazing and firing. This one,’ she pointed to the vase Kate had particularly admired, ‘is what they call high-fired. Taylor—’

  ‘Taylor?’

  ‘J Howson Taylor: the factory owner. He named his pottery after John Ruskin. Taylor was trying to achieve sang de boeuf. See all these wonderful reds and purples?’

  Kate spread her hands. ‘It’s absolutely wonderful!’

  ‘And worth a great deal too. A collector’s item. My husband often says it should be in a museum.’

  ‘That’s your husband out there?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  Possibly? Wouldn’t you know?

  ‘Now, you were punctilious about offering me refreshment, Sergeant, and at this time of morning I always have a cup of tea. May I offer you one?’

  ‘That would be very kind.’

  ‘The sun seems to be coming out: shall we go into the garden?’ Mrs Duncton opened the patio door and pointed to a hardwood table and set of chairs. They didn’t need a price tag for Kate, fresh from garden-bench buying herself, to know that they were very expensive. Kate sat with her back to the house so that she could check out the rest of the garden. For neatness it surpassed hers; for size and landscaping it rivalled Mrs Barr’s.

  The tea came in china cups, but the biscuits were shop bought.

  Delicately trying to avoid giving Mrs Duncton too much information, Kate outlined her progress so far. She mentioned the forensic graphologist’s need to see the original will, and made more of her efforts to get hold of it than they deserved. But she kept quiet about Sam Kennedy’s suspicions.

 
; ‘I gather,’ she said, taking a risk and a custard cream, ‘that you’ve spoken to your brother about the will.’

  ‘Stupid man. Just because he doesn’t need any more money … Well, I’m glad you’ve taken no notice of him. Personal feelings shouldn’t enter into the matter when a crime has been committed.’

  Mrs Duncton’s words bullied their way into Kate’s ears all the way back to base. Lizzie, to whom Derek had obviously already confessed their sin of omission, repeated the same words more or less verbatim. Perhaps she had already vented her anger on Derek. No one could have called her friendly exactly, but at least there was less overt hostility than of late.

  ‘What next?’ Lizzie demanded.

  ‘Sift through the rest of the in-tray while I wait for a response from our two witnesses,’ Kate said. ‘There’s lots of routine stuff I can do for Derek. And Tammy may need a partner; she’s ready to make an arrest.’

  ‘Oh, yes. The Heath case. No, I’ll go out there with her. Tell you what you should do. You should take a look at some of those properties Mrs Barr supposedly left Cornfield. See what they add up to.’

  ‘By his own admission, a very great deal. With respect, though, Gaffer, much as I’d like a trip to the seaside, isn’t it a bit premature to whiz off anywhere till we’ve got some hard evidence against the guy? Harder evidence, at any rate.’

  ‘Who said anything about the seaside?’

  ‘Torquay; Frinton; Scarborough,’ Kate enumerated them on her fingers. ‘Inland, Cheltenham, Harrogate, Hampstead. All nice places, but all a bit far afield. What I planned to do was check them through the Land Registry and with the local councils – find out their council tax rating and so on.’

  Lizzie raised her eyes heavenwards. ‘You mean you haven’t done that already? What planet are you on?’

  ‘There’s no argument about them, though, Gaffer. Cornfield admits they’re worth millions.’

  Lizzie hesitated for a second, her face clouding with doubt. Had it really penetrated that Kate was doing her best? Whatever she might have been about to concede, however, was interrupted by the phone.