Will Power

by Judith Cutler

  ‘Anything out of place?’ Dave asked, as she stared round the hall.

  She shook her head. ‘Strange, I hardly registered this when I came to talk to her. She whisked me into the living room. Have the SOCOs finished in there yet?’

  He put his head round the door, then waved her in, standing arms akimbo while she looked round.

  ‘Where did you stand, where did you sit?’ he prompted her anxiously.

  ‘She’d have done better without help. Biting her lip, she sat down on the sofa she’d sat on before. She blinked, looking around, closing her eyes to his glances at his watch, her ears to the sound he made sucking his teeth.

  ‘Did you find any pottery lying around, Gaffer?’

  ‘Pottery?’

  ‘She had a valuable piece of something called Ruskin: it used to be in the middle of that shelf.’ She pointed to the display shelves. ‘It was lovely: about a foot tall, purple and red. Sang de boeuf she called it.’

  ‘Sang – doesn’t that mean blood? We’ve got enough of that in the kitchen!’

  ‘But no shards?’

  He shook his head: ‘Apparently not. But with all the smears and everything, someone— Hell, Power, are you suggesting he whacked her with a vase?’

  ‘Or did the mysterious “he” whack her with something else: surely a vase wouldn’t on its own make the sort of mess in there?’ She jerked her head towards the kitchen. ‘And then he steals the pot?’ She shook her head doubtfully. ‘I know she said it ought to be in a museum, but would that make it valuable enough to steal?’

  ‘You tell me, Power. Trouble is, if it is, it wouldn’t half widen the list of possible suspects, wouldn’t it?’

  But it wouldn’t be left to supposition. SOCO would get on to it. Bins would be searched, the pathologist consulted. Not just any pathologist, of course. Her old friend Pat the Path, he of the motorcycle collection, which had now started to spread from the huge room in which he’d kept them into a purpose-built centrally-heated garage. She could phone him up and pick his brain. She could even suggest a meal. That would be an evening satisfactorily filled.

  On the way back Dave talked about his daughter’s degree, his forthcoming anniversary, all the cheerful domesticity anyone could crave. Despite the afternoon free from Lizzie’s attacks, despite the sense that she’d done well and was for a change appreciated by a boss, Kate was biting her lip in misery as Dave pulled up alongside her car.

  She felt him looking at her.

  ‘Come on, lass. Come and have a cup of tea with the team. No matter how tough you are, no matter how many times you’ve seen worse before, it always gets to you, doesn’t it? Tell you what, I’ve got this supply of biscuits I keep for just such a day as this. And when you look a bit brighter, Jane’ll fix for you to visit Mr Duncton.’

  The red light was pulsing on her answerphone when she got home. Graham? But even as she reached for the play-button, she hesitated. What if he promised to come and then didn’t turn up again? She couldn’t wait in all evening on the off-chance.

  She could. Worse, she would.

  No, nothing from Graham, not even an apology for letting her down. But one from Rod.

  ‘I hear you’ve so impressed Dave Allen that he’d like to co-opt you on to his team, pro tem at least. Are you quite sure you wouldn’t like me to say yes?’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Should she accept Rod’s offer? It would take her away from Lizzie, sure, but it would also take her away from Graham: the long hours of overtime on a murder inquiry weren’t conducive to snatched early evening meetings. If only she could phone him, talk it through with him. Even as she lay awake worrying, she hated herself. This was her job, the one she wanted to do, the one she was good at. It ought to outweigh the demands of even such a dear lover as Graham. After all, she told herself sadly, his job, not to mention his marriage, always took precedence over their time together.

  At three she pulled herself out of bed. No, not the whisky she desperately wanted, but some of the homeopathic tablets she’d recommended to Lizzie.

  They worked so well that she was still asleep when the phone rang at seven. It was Dave Allen, telling her that he’d officially requested her services, as long as their two cases were linked. She could meet Jane McCallum at the University hospital, the one to which Mr Duncton had finally been admitted, at eight. OK?

  OK indeed. She’d rarely showered more quickly, and ate her breakfast at the wheel. Two main roads separated Kings Heath from the west of the city; fortunately she’d be going against or across the flow of rush-hour traffic. But – spineless as it seemed – it was good to have had the decision taken out of her hands. Even if the first thing she was likely to get was a bollocking for not having found the approximate value of that vase. If anyone would know, of course, it might well be Rod. Which should she phone: his home, his office or his mobile number? Given the sort of man he was, the second seemed possible. She pulled over and tapped.

  He answered second ring. Even at that time he must have someone with him, responding to her cheery, ‘Morning Gaffer,’ with a formal, but still very cordial, ‘Good morning, Sergeant: can I call you back?’

  ‘On my mobile,’ she said.

  His call came through while she was parking at the hospital and smarting at having to pay a fee.

  ‘Sang de boeuf Ruskin? How big?’

  At least he knew what she was talking about, which was more than she did. She gave him the approximate dimensions.

  ‘You’re probably talking about three k.,’ he said. ‘Give or take five hundred.’

  ‘Not worth killing anyone for,’ she said, disappointed.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ he agreed. ‘Though there are fanatics. Do you really like it? There’ll be some at the NEC on Saturday.’ He sounded as excited as a schoolboy.

  She responded in kind. ‘That’s great. But tell you what, Rod, if you want to see some more lovely stuff, make an excuse to drop round at the Dunctons’ house.’

  ‘I may well. What time will you be there?’

  Careful, Kate! ‘Depends when Dave Allen sends me there. He seems a good bloke, Rod.’

  ‘One of the best. A good old-fashioned copper. I’d better go—’

  ‘Before you do,’ she cut in, ‘let me just say this. Thanks for – sorting this out.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he said, as if he meant it.

  There was no pleasure in the brief visit to Mr Duncton, who lay on his back apparently seeing nothing in a side ward. The only sign of life was the tears trickling slowly from his blank eyes. She wasn’t authorised to ask any questions, and it was clear he was in no state to make rational responses.

  Jane McCallum, a chubby but spruce young black woman with a strong accent she cheerfully declared to be from Dudley, nodded sadly as they walked side by side into the already warm sunshine. ‘Poor old bastard. Finding your wife like that. Now, sixty-four thousand dollar question, Kate – gardener or not?’

  ‘Gardener, Jane. And the sad thing is I don’t reckon he had all his marbles when I saw him the other day. It’s about time to access his medical records, if you ask me.’

  ‘You’re not suggesting he did it?’ Jane looked genuinely shocked.

  ‘To be entirely honest with you, I’d rather it were him than either of the other possible suspects. And it’d make Dave’s holiday look a lot safer if it weren’t some batty burglar. I’ll get uniform on to the records.’ She fished out her phone and dialled. ‘There. That’s that sorted. Now, what’s on for the rest of the day?’

  ‘Hasn’t anyone told you? God, they don’t let the grass grow, do they. We’re straight off to talk to your two: the brother and the handyman, right?’

  Kate nodded. ‘In any special order?’

  ‘You’re the gaffer.’

  ‘I know Mrs Duncton had a row with her brother. What about him first? He lives out Tamworth way.’

  ‘Nice day for a run in the country. What about your car? Do you want to drop it back at the nic
k or leave it here?’

  ‘I’m not leaving it here,’ Kate said positively. ‘I’d need a mortgage to retrieve it.’

  ‘My God,’ Kate said, as Jane pulled over on to Dr Barton’s drive. ‘Wouldn’t you just die for a house like that?’ It was, as Barton had said, a perfect Queen Anne in warm red brick.

  ‘Are we talking mortgage or gift here?’

  ‘Oh, if you had to worry about paying the mortgage, you couldn’t afford to live here. Tell you what, Jane, this is the best-heeled family I’ve ever come across. Where do you reckon they got their loot from?’

  ‘God knows. And he’s not telling me, either.’

  ‘Maybe the good doctor will,’ Kate said grimly. ‘Let’s see, shall we?’

  No one would have suspected when Kate introduced Jane that Dr Barton was anything other than delighted to see them both, though he tempered his enthusiasm with a decent sigh. ‘I suppose you’ve come to talk about poor Maeve’s death. Do step inside.’

  Smiling sympathetically, Kate looked about her. If she had a hall as elegant as this she sure as hell wouldn’t leave books or ugly piles of paper on each stair tread.

  ‘My filing system,’ Barton said. ‘I have a project in mind … a book. One always intends to write when one retires, but then finds there’s even less time than when one was working.’

  ‘That’s what everyone says,’ Jane agreed. ‘The main thing is to live long enough to enjoy your retirement.’

  ‘Quite.’

  The hall itself was perfectly tidy except for a suitcase-on-wheels tucked behind a side-table, but the sun-filled sitting room had two or three heaps of paper on the floor.

  ‘I must say, I found the whole process distinctly upsetting. I saw some very unpleasant sights in my medical career, but – dear me … Most distressing. Most.’

  ‘I’m sorry you had to be involved, Dr Barton,’ Jane said, pesonifying sympathy and understanding. ‘But we did need next of kin—’

  ‘And unless you find the missing Edna, I am of course that.’

  There was something in his intonation that intrigued Kate. ‘The missing Edna,’ she prompted.

  ‘It’s a long story. Why don’t you two ladies sit down and I’ll make some coffee?’

  Jane nodded. ‘That would be very kind.’

  But neither woman sat. Jane looked out of the window, while Kate was drawn to the plates and jugs on a battered-looking cupboard.

  ‘You’re admiring my majolica ware,’ Barton said, returning with a laden tray which he placed on a law table.

  ‘Of course! I thought I knew it from somewhere. The Uffizi? No, the Bargello.’

  He nodded with approval. ‘Mine are later than that, of course. But still a little early for the house, as is the court cupboard.’ He came and stroked it lightly. ‘One of the bonuses of a bachelor existence, Sergeant. One can spend any money that comes one’s way exactly as one wants to. Please, do sit down.’

  Jane looked around her. ‘It’s quite a big house for one person,’ she said mildly, as she arranged her skirt.

  So why did that comment irritate him? There was no doubt that there was a compression of the mouth, of the nose. But he said nothing, pouring coffee from a silver pot into delicate china cups. More silverware for the sugar and milk. Kate was tempted to take sugar for the sheer pleasure of using those delicate little tongs.

  ‘Your late sister and her Ruskin collection, you and this lovely majolica ware – what does Edna collect, Dr Barton?’

  He raised an elegant eyebrow. ‘In the days when she still lived in the family home, men. Very much in the plural. With the knowledge I have now, I’d say she was a nymphomaniac. In those days my mother simply described her as man-mad and showed her the door. A little’ he sighed, ‘before she showed me the same door. However, I had qualifications to earn a good living, which I fear poor Edna didn’t – unless you count a pneumatic body as a career asset, which she may well have done.’

  Pneumatic! His sister? She must tread carefully here. ‘Your break with your family was sufficiently final for you to change your surname.’

  He nodded. ‘But I had the incentive of that legacy, remember.’

  ‘Did you at that point seek a reconciliation with Edna? You had something in common, after all. A row with your mother, being thrown out.’

  He shifted uneasily. ‘It wasn’t quite as straightforward as that, Sergeant. A medical – an ethical – problem was involved in my name change, too. If you care to check the records you’ll find an … indiscretion with a patient. It was forty years ago. My record since, may I add, is entirely unblemished. But no, I never liked either of my sisters sufficiently to seek one out or maintain much more than decent contact with the other.’

  ‘You mean Christmas and birthdays, that sort of thing?’ Jane asked.

  He nodded.

  ‘A little more than that, surely,’ Kate put in. ‘After all, you were in contact over the will, were you not? And you had a disagreement. You tried to curb her interference.’

  ‘I believe in fair play, Sergeant. What happened was this: Max let both of us know – he’s a decent punctilious man, Sergeant! – when mother was dying, and then when she died. He told us about the will, in due course. Maeve acted on her own initiative. When she told me I was appalled. Without Max, mother would have been sectioned years ago. Without Max, there would be no family fortune to squabble about. He did everything a highly paid PA would have done, plus one hell of a lot more. Nurse, gardener, estate manager. Max. All, as far as I can tell, without a penny of salary.’

  Both women whistled.

  Kate set her cup aside. ‘Did I hear you correctly? No salary?’

  ‘Payment in kind. Food, shelter, in the early days. They had this strange devotion, Sergeant. I never asked what was at the bottom of it, but they were like this,’ he crossed his fingers, ‘from day one. So, as I said to you the other day, Max is entitled to whatever he gets.’

  ‘Even if it’s in the region of millions?’ Kate asked. ‘Several millions?’

  ‘Were it a king’s ransom,’ he said. He allowed himself a glance at his watch.

  ‘Would your other sister think that?’

  He raised eyes and hands heavenwards. ‘How on earth would she know? I can assure you I haven’t told her, because I couldn’t, and I’m positive that Maeve wouldn’t because if Maeve didn’t want Max to get it she sure as hell wouldn’t have wanted Edna to get her claws on it.’ He looked much less covertly at his watch.

  Jane caught Kate’s eye. ‘Are we taking up too much of your time, sir?’

  ‘It’s just that I do have to get to the airport. A holiday in—’

  ‘Have you had it booked long, sir?’

  His mouth and nose tightened again. ‘An impulse. After the distress.’

  ‘Of course,’ Kate commiserated. ‘The trouble is, sir, in the middle of a murder inquiry it’s best if those involved – the family and so on – remain where we can reach them easily. Sometimes there’s even the formality of handing over a passport.’

  ‘Are you saying I can’t go, Sergeant?’

  She smiled. ‘I think my boss might find it suspicious if you suddenly flit the country on a surprise holiday, don’t you?’

  ‘Not a happy bunny,’ Jane observed, heading for the A453. ‘Mind you, I wouldn’t be if someone stopped me nipping off to the South of France. The sun, the blue skies, the sea.’

  Kate rolled down the window, wafting in what little coolness there was. ‘The only thing we’re missing as far as I can see is the sea. Mind you, you’re right. I don’t think it’ll be any consolation to him that weather’s better here than it is in Nice, according to the papers.’ She fanned herself. ‘Days like this, it’s better to be plain clothes than uniform, isn’t it?’

  ‘Tell me any day when it isn’t. Now, our friend Max, next – right?’

  ‘Right. Tell me,’ Kate added thoughtfully, ‘did you notice anything when he was talking about his family?’

  ‘Should
I have done?’

  ‘Maybe not. But it’s a funny thing; neither he nor his sister ever mentions their father. The one who provided all the dosh. There’s a story there. Maybe we should ask Max.’

  Jane looked at her sideways. ‘I thought we were supposed to be asking Max much more important things.’

  ‘My whereabouts yesterday? Where do you expect me to be in such weather, but in my garden? I’ve made a good start: come and see the progress.’ He ushered them along the gloomy hall straight through the conservatory into the garden.

  Jane stopped short, blinking. ‘Hey, it’s like a bloody park!’

  Max raised an amused eyebrow at her accent. ‘See, I’ve cut down those old sycamores. Needed to before they fell, really. And that patch where it was covered in brambles. All gone.’

  ‘You’ll have the cats in there.’ Kate pointed at the fine tilth. She sniffed.

  ‘Ah, you’ve come to tell me I’ve been breaking the law. At least, a bye-law. I know, Sergeant, I know. No garden bonfires. But what could I do with it all?’ He kicked some of the ash. ‘I started with several bundles of newspapers, then added some wood, then … then Mrs Barr’s bedding. Then more wood, and then the brambles!’

  ‘What time did you start it?’ Kate asked.

  He narrowed his eyes questioningly. ‘About two, maybe.’

  ‘What did you do earlier in the day?’ Jane asked.

  Arms spread, he laughed. ‘I told you; I had my therapy. I cut, I saw, I hack. And then I get rid of everything.’

  Kate froze: that was an ambiguous sentence if she’d ever heard one. ‘I suppose none of the neighbours saw you – could see you? You didn’t go out to the shops at all?’

  ‘Sergeant, something tells me this is about more than whether I needed fresh milk. Oh, it’s that will, that bloody will again. I tell you, I wish she’d never made it, and if she had, I’d put it straight on the bloody fire!’

  Jane reached out a restraining arm, but Kate shook her head.

  ‘I’m sorry, ladies. For nearly fifty years I’ve been as quiet as a lamb. And suddenly for no reason I lose my temper and … please forgive me.’