Rachel drained her gin and tonic. ‘I can’t believe he’d have put up with her keeping him at home unless he really didn’t mind too much. It wasn’t as if she was bed-ridden or anything. He could just have told her to get stuffed and suited himself if he wanted a different kind of life.’ She got up and went to the bar to order the next round.
‘What about his father?’ asked Amiss.
‘Mrs Jameson only said that he was hen-pecked until he died. Bill was about eighteen then. It was just before he did his National Service, in fact. She did say that Mr Thomas probably deserved it.’
Milton pulled Pike’s report from his pocket and searched for the relevant paragraph. ‘Yes. Here we are. She said he was a nebulous sort of creature who needed to be kept up to the mark. What she complained of was the way Mrs Thomas behaved towards Bill afterwards.’
‘You mean she hadn’t been so hard on him before?’ asked Ann.
‘No. According to Mrs Jameson, Bill had a more or less normal childhood. She remembers him playing in the street like any other kid, even if he was very much trailing along after the local charismatic personalities. It was when he came home after National Service, apparently, that his mother began to stop him socializing.’
Rachel returned bearing a tray of drinks and Amiss filled her in on the information she had missed. As she sat down she asked: ‘How did Mrs Jameson know all this anyway?’
‘Oh, she was quite thick with Mrs Thomas. She rather admired her forcefulness, though they fell out a few times when Mrs Thomas mentioned that Bill had wanted to do X or Y and she’d told him he couldn’t. And then there were a couple of rows in the garden that she overheard. She says that by the time he was in his thirties he was so set in his ways that there was no aggro any more.’
Milton looked at Pike’s report again and then shoved it back in his pocket. ‘There was one more interesting thing she said. Bill didn’t create that garden. It was his mother who planned it and laid it out. He just learned to tend it as a kind of under-gardener. That’s rather changed Sammy’s view of him. He had taken the line up till then that no man capable of such artistry could be a potential destroyer of life. Sammy’s got a romantic streak.’
‘But damn it,’ said Rachel. ‘If he’d been capable of murder, surely he’d have seen off his mother.’
‘Ah,’ said Milton. ‘That’s the other thing. Nearly two weeks after this investigation started, some imbecile has just informed us that, owing to an oversight, we hadn’t been told that Mrs Thomas died from an accident.’
‘What kind of accident?’
‘She fell down the stairs and broke her neck.’
‘Any chance that Bill was responsible?’ asked Rachel. ‘Though I must say it would seem strange that he shouldn’t get homicidal until she was eighty-five.’
‘We don’t know yet. All we’ve got is the bald inquest report. Those bloody clowns haven’t even managed to send us the record of the evidence yet.’
Ann, who had been listening silently for some time, suddenly intervened in a decisive manner. ‘He’s always been my favourite candidate. Now I’m prepared to put my money on him. I bet you’ll find there’s something peculiar about her death, even if the coroner was prepared to accept that it was a bona fide accident.’
‘You’re hung up on the psychopath theory,’ observed her husband.
‘Maybe I am. And I admit that I am a bit out of touch with how this case has been progressing while I’ve been away. But I’m convinced that whoever sent those chocolates suffered from a severely warped personality. I think someone should be trying to work out a profile of the murderer, so that you’d know what traits to look for.’
‘You’re not in Los Angeles now,’ said Milton wearily. ‘Anyway, as far as I can see we’ve got several suspects who could be accused of being distinctly odd. I don’t think Bill Thomas stands alone as a candidate for the funny farm.’
‘I agree with Jim,’ said Amiss. ‘I think you’re getting carried away by the idea of Bill just because he has no motive. Anyway, you said something just now about being prepared to put money on him. How much and at what odds? And will anyone give me 4-1 against Tony Farson?’
Milton’s face assumed an expression of distaste. ‘I think that’s the most contemptible suggestion I’ve heard in a long time, Robert.’
Amiss looked uneasy. ‘Oh, come on Jim…’ he began.
‘No Robert. I really do. I think it’s downright greedy to expect anyone to give you better than 2-1.’
Chapter Thirty
Monday, 28 February
I’m getting neurotic, thought Milton, as he fingered the little stack of paper. I shouldn’t be going over and over this ground again. Tony Farson, still the favourite, and agreed to be generously priced at 7-4. Graham Illingworth 4-1, largely because Sammy’s belief that there was some domestic trouble had carried so much weight with Rachel. Bill Thomas was running strongly in third place at 8-1 because Ann had put her shirt on him. Henry was 100-8 since Amiss had decided to hedge his bets. Tiny was still a rank outsider, with only the Commander showing the faintest interest in him. He seemed to think that the intelligence brought back by Robert and Rachel that Tiny was totally absorbed in his Kenya plans vindicated the theory that he had had an overwhelming desire for freedom but lacked the guts to abandon Fran. Milton struggled yet again to understand why someone should think mass poisoning an easier option than abandoning his wife. He sighed and awarded Tiny a price of 50-1.
When there was a knock at the door he guiltily thrust the slips into his drawer. He was relieved that his visitor was Pooley rather than Romford. Though he regretted that Romford should so obviously be keeping out of his way, their estrangement had its compensations. Until the contretemps over Henry, Romford had seemed to resent the direct contact between Pooley and Milton. Now, apparently having washed his hands of his superintendent, he was doing his routine work and refusing to get involved in what he termed highfalutin speculation. Except in his morals, reflected Milton, Romford was daily becoming more and more like a denizen of PD2.
Pooley was looking rather downcast. ‘I’ve got some stuff for you here, sir, but it’s pretty negative on the whole.’ He thrust several files in Milton’s direction.
‘No. Sit down and give me the gist. I can look at the papers later.’
Pooley, clearly discouraged, slumped on to his chair. ‘Come on,’ said Milton, ‘Don’t forget that elimination is important too.’
‘Oh, I realize that, sir. It’s just that I had some real hopes of the National Service checks, and now it all looks like a waste of time.’
‘Whatever the result,’ said Milton gently, ‘I think it was a clever idea. Now get on with it.’
‘Well, sir. None of them got into any formal trouble. The only one with whom there was any divergence from the norm was Bill Thomas. Apparently he insisted he was a pacifist but was too unconvincing to be excused conscription. They made a gesture by assigning him to admin work.’
‘I suppose it’s a point in his favour? No, it isn’t really, is it? He might just have wanted to be allowed to stay in Civvy Street.’
‘It’s impossible to judge, isn’t it? I mean the fact that he was unconvincing doesn’t mean he wasn’t a pacifist. From what you and Sammy said about him, I can’t imagine him easily persuading anyone of anything.’
‘No. I’ve never seen him as an alumnus of the “How to win friends and influence people” school that whatshisname used to run.’
Pooley looked blank.
‘Sorry, Ellis. You’re too young to remember. Continue.’
‘There isn’t much more to say about it, really. Bill Thomas and Henry Crump spent most of their National Service with the army in Germany. Tony Farson was in the army in Hong Kong for a year. Graham Illingworth was a sort of unskilled fitter in the air force and never went abroad. And Tiny Short had a spell in Singapore. He got to be a sergeant. No one else was promoted except Farson, who made it to corporal.’
‘I suppose we were unduly optimist
ic in expecting anything from official records,’ said Milton thoughtfully. ‘I’d like to hear something from their colleagues.’
Pooley’s eyes lit up. ‘Just what I was thinking, sir. Couldn’t we get lists of the men in their platoons or whatever, and have them interviewed?’
Milton shifted unhappily. ‘It’s the same old problem, Ellis. We’ve been using manpower with abandon, and the top brass are complaining that we’re showing no results. I’m even under pressure to call off the tails. Apart from DC Richmond’s foray, the most exciting thing anyone’s had to report is that Tiny is spending most of his time in the local gym and the rugby club.’
‘Just one or two interviews each?’ suggested Pooley hopefully.
Milton drummed his fingers on the desk indecisively. ‘All right,’ he said finally. ‘Get the names and addresses as quickly as possible and do the initial chasing up yourself. It’s going to be a matter of simple drudgery—going through telephone directories to locate the few chaps whose families haven’t moved house or died. It’s as good a method of random selection as any. Though I should think your chances of tracking down any of Henry’s comrades from over thirty years ago are slim. I’ll authorize you to request assistance from the local forces to interview a maximum of two per suspect, if it proves necessary. But if you can do it all on the telephone, so much the better.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’ll get on to it straight away.’ Pooley jumped up and headed for the door.
‘Ellis,’ said Milton patiently. ‘You came in here bearing several files for my perusal, all of which you’re now disappearing with.’
Pooley stopped in his tracks and returned to his chair. ‘Sorry, sir. I got carried away. I haven’t told you yet that we drew a virtual blank on the passports. None of them has one except Crump, and only Illingworth’s had one in the last ten years. If anyone except Crump’s been abroad in search of poison supplies, he’s done it on a false passport. But I suppose you haven’t changed your mind about going through the application forms?’
‘Look, you know I couldn’t do it if I wanted to.’
‘It’s just that several of them have some experience of abroad. And I still believe that they might be prepared to take more risks in finding a supplier if they were away from their own patch.’
‘Ellis. I’ll make a bargain with you. You and Sammy between you can check with the wives and neighbours. If you can find evidence that any of our suspects has had the opportunity to be out of the country for a couple of days in the last six months, then I’ll reconsider the matter. I can see the sense in your theory. But keep quiet about it. The only person who seems to have had the necessary freedom and a passport is Robert Amiss. And I don’t really want to draw him to Romford’s attention.’
He stopped abruptly, shocked at his own indiscretion. ‘Forget what I just said. It was highly improper. I have the utmost confidence in Inspector Romford. It’s just that we don’t quite see eye to eye on the question of whether Robert Amiss is a likely murderer.’
Pooley nodded tactfully. ‘Of course, sir. Now, there’s just one other matter. All the papers on Mrs Thomas’s accident have now come in. At least they’re conclusive as well as negative. The circumstances were investigated thoroughly. She fell down the stairs in the middle of the afternoon, and Bill had been at work all day. A couple of neighbours had seen her in the morning and she was in lively form. She was found by her next-door neighbour who had front-door keys and used to keep an eye on her. And the police checked the stairs. There was no tripwire or anything like that. She was dead for an hour before Bill got home.’
‘And they confirmed his alibi.’
‘They did. And what’s more, there was a comment on the file that he was utterly distraught.’
Shit, thought Milton. Then he wondered what he was coming to. Did he really want to discover that Bill had pushed his poor old mother down the stairs? No. It was just that he was sick of dead ends. ‘All right, Ellis. Is that the lot?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Pooley deposited the files on the desk and left the room.
Milton reached out compulsively to the drawer and took out the familiar stack. Then he dialled a number and asked for his wife.
‘Sorry, Mr Milton. She’s in a meeting. Can I give her a message?’
‘Yes, please.’ He made a rapid mental calculation. Pacifist and mother-mourner. ‘Would you tell her I said the odds on her horse have just lengthened to 50-1. And tell her that’s an ungenerous price.’
Chapter Thirty-one
Tuesday, 1 March
‘I’m very sorry if I’ve caused you any distress, ma’am. Goodnight.’
Pooley put down the receiver and crossed another name off his master list. He felt exhausted and dispirited. It had seemed a good omen that the army and air force had responded so quickly to his request. He had been overjoyed when the names and addresses started coming over the telex at the end of yesterday afternoon. And though it had been frustrating that so few of them could be located via the old addresses, at least that promised to keep the numbers to be interviewed at a manageable level. But now, after many hours of solid telephoning, he had nothing to show for his work. His main achievement had been to upset a couple of families whose sons had died prematurely.
He looked at his notes and tried to be positive. Wasn’t he looking at this the wrong way? As the super had said, elimination was important too. It must count for something that two blokes remembered Tiny Short extremely well and with great affection. One of them had said he’d been the life and soul socially in Singapore. The guy must have real leadership qualities, thought Pooley. How awful for him to have landed up in such a foul job. He hoped he’d get to Kenya and have a good life. But wasn’t it possible that he had been driven mad by PD and had turned his talents in a vicious direction? Hell. This information was not necessarily helpful. On one reading, the thing his old corporal had said about him being on for anything daring was a black mark against him.
The only old comrade of Graham Illingworth had hardly been helpful, and he had no other name to try. It had taken ten minutes before he had placed him at all, and then all he could remember was that he was a dull sort of chap. Tony Farson’s old comrade hadn’t been much more use, although after a few leading questions he did admit that old Tony had been a bit tight when it came to standing his round. No joy at all with Henry, and only the two Bill Thomas contacts left. His first pessimistic conclusion had been right. This had proved to be a waste of twenty-four hours.
He looked at his watch and saw that it was now 9:45. He just had time to try the two remaining numbers before the magic hour of 10:00, after which it was regarded as impolite to ring.
He dialled the Darlington number.
‘Hello. I’m trying to get hold of Peter Kelly. Does he still live at this number?’
‘Who are you?’ asked a suspicious female voice.
‘Detective Constable Pooley from Scotland Yard. I am making a series of routine enquiries about someone Mr Kelly used to know many years ago and I thought he might be able to help.’
‘Well, Detective Constable Pooley. You can do something for me. I’ve been trying to find Peter Kelly for about five years, since he disappeared out of my life without a forwarding address. If you catch up with him, you might mention that his wife would appreciate a postcard.’
Pooley mumbled his apologies and rang off. He mopped his brow. He was the wrong man for this kind of job. Sammy would have been able to do it better and without getting so embarrassed when things went wrong. 9:55. Well, he wasn’t leaving until he had rung his last number. Surely the dramatic conventions required this to be the winner. There must somewhere be some reward for effort. He dialled the Oxford number.
‘Yes?’ said a rather impatient voice. ‘Roland Eastty here.’
Pooley’s stomach tightened with mingled excitement and the fear of another anti-climax. At least there couldn’t be any danger that there were two Roland Easttys. This one sounded as upper-class as his address. He must ha
ve inherited the family home.
‘Hello, Mr Eastty.’ Pooley went through the preparatory rigmarole. He tried to make it as crisp as possible. This chap sounded as if he would tolerate fools ungladly.
‘I see. Bill Thomas indeed. What’s he supposed to have done?’
Pooley made a rapid decision. He looked around him and saw no one within earshot. He thought he knew the type he was dealing with. They didn’t like pigs in pokes. Apparent frankness was what was called for.
‘He is not supposed to have done anything, sir. It is merely that we are investigating a murder case and Mr Thomas is unfortunately though almost certainly coincidentally among those in a position to have…’
‘Done the evil deed, eh? Well, well. And you want me to tell you if he showed any homicidal tendencies in the army?’
Pooley couldn’t decide if it was an advantage that Eastty was this smart. On balance it probably was. He offered a silent prayer that Eastty was more pro the police force than anti snooping into the private lives of citizens. ‘Frankly, yes, sir.’
‘What kind of murder?’
Pooley outlined the main facts. ‘You’ve probably read about it, sir,’ he concluded.
‘It does ring a faint distant bell. But The Times is a bit lax in its coverage of such titillating events.’
Pooley thanked the gods. If Eastty had said the Guardian, he’d have been more worried. He had a flash of memory of his own activities as a left-wing undergraduate and wondered if he could really have changed so fundamentally in so short a time. Just pragmatism, he reassured himself. ‘I’d be grateful for anything you can remember about him, sir. It’s a matter of trying to build up a pattern of behaviour.’
‘I don’t remember a lot. In fact I probably wouldn’t remember anything at all if it wasn’t that one thing he did once stuck in my mind. For most of the time he was a boring little bugger.’
Patronizing swine, thought Pooley. He felt a sudden sense of shame. Then his natural ambition reasserted itself.
‘I should be most interested in hearing about it, sir.’
The Saint Valentine’s Day Murders Page 17
