Day for Dying

by Dorothy Simpson

‘Not at all. ’Bye.’ And he was gone.

  ‘So,’ said Lineham, ‘it’s as we thought. He must have been unconscious when he went into the water.’

  ‘And someone just left him to drown,’ said Thanet grimly.

  In the office there was a note from DC Martin on his desk. ‘Good, we’ve got an appointment with Dr Damon at 2.30 this afternoon, Mike.’

  ‘Great.’ But Lineham had only half heard him. He had gone straight to the bookshelves and was looking something up. ‘I can’t remember precisely what a diatom test is, either. Ah, here we are. “Diatoms . . . microscopic algae found in water . . . In drowning, they’re sucked into the lungs and during the moments of struggling they enter the bloodstream . . . Presence in body tissues proves that victim was alive when entering the water.” So, conversely, their absence presumably proves he wasn’t.’

  ‘Quite.’ This murder may not have been premeditated but it had certainly been intentional. He said so, to Lineham.

  ‘I agree, sir. So which of them d’you think could be sufficiently callous to stand by and watch him drown?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t feel we’re getting anywhere at the moment, Mike. We seem to be just casting around in the hope of finding a lead, and allowing ourselves to be sidetracked by Rosinha, when we should have been concentrating on the case.’

  ‘We couldn’t just ignore her situation, could we, sir?’

  ‘I know, I know. But what have we done today, you tell me that. What exactly have we achieved?’

  ‘Not a lot, I admit.’

  ‘And where do we go next? Oh come on, Mike. Let’s go to the canteen and have a bite to eat.’

  ‘Perhaps we’ll strike lucky with Carey’s psychiatrist this afternoon,’ said Lineham as they picked up their lunchtrays.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Thanet.

  But in the mood he was in, he doubted it.

  EIGHTEEN

  At the hospital Lineham set off along the seemingly endless corridors with confidence. His wife Louise was now once again a Ward Sister here, as she had been before their marriage. She loved her work and had found it very hard to give up during the years when Richard and Mandy were too young to go to school. She had stuck it out, however. She was a strong character, a woman of principle, and she believed that if you chose to have children you should be prepared to look after them during those early, formative years.

  ‘I’d hate to put them with a childminder,’ she’d once said to Thanet. ‘I want them to learn to behave as Mike and I want them to, not how some stranger thinks they ought to. And I couldn’t bear to think that someone else was instilling her values into them instead of mine. Especially these days, when moral standards generally are so low.’

  Thanet agreed with her and said so, but wished she didn’t always make him feel he was being preached at. ‘Why are people like Louise, who invariably believe they’re in the right, so wearing?’ he’d said to Joan.

  Joan had laughed. ‘Because they usually are right?’

  In any case, Thanet had always been thankful that it was Lineham who was married to Louise, not him.

  ‘Mike! What are you doing here? You didn’t tell me you had to come to the hospital.’ Louise had emerged from a door as they were passing. She looked trim and efficient in her uniform, her dark hair neatly tucked away beneath her cap.

  ‘Didn’t know myself until this morning.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘The new psychiatric wing.’

  Louise rolled her eyes. ‘Very swish.’

  They chatted for a moment or two before continuing on their way. Thanet was beginning to wonder if they would ever get there when Lineham pushed his way through swing doors and they entered a new and glossier world. Sturrenden General had been built in Victorian times and although it had been modernised over the years it was still rambling, inconvenient, and badly adapted to contemporary requirements. For years there had been talk of abandoning it and building a new hospital on the outskirts of the town but the prohibitive cost of doing so, allied to a vigorous Save Our Hospital campaign, had resulted in the status quo being maintained, with various concessions to changing policy. The building of the psychiatric wing had been one of them; the closure of the older mental hospitals and the release of former mental patients into care in the community had made some new provision for those who needed hospital care essential.

  They had stepped into a circular foyer with a hexagonal dome of obscured glass and short corridors leading off it like the spokes of a wheel. Over the entrance to each of these was a name – Stour, Rother, Medway, Beult, Len; Kentish rivers, Thanet realised. Was there some deep psychological significance to the fact? In the centre was a round reception desk with a green and white striped canopy suspended above it. The effect was cheerful without being over-stimulating – a carefully achieved balance, Thanet guessed.

  The receptionist was young and pretty with glossy shoulder-length hair the colour of a ripe horse-chestnut. ‘Ah, yes. He’s expecting you. It’s the third door on the left along Medway.’

  Thanet’s knock was answered at once.

  ‘Come in.’ The voice sounded weary.

  And its owner looked it, thought Thanet as they entered.

  Dr Damon and his room were in complete contrast. He was small, tired, and balding, whereas his surroundings were aggressively new and resplendent. Seated behind a huge mahogany desk in an executive-type black leather swivel chair with high back, he looked somehow diminished, as if the years of functioning in shabby outworn surroundings had left an indelible imprint upon him.

  Introductions made, Thanet said, ‘As you’ll have gathered, this is about Carey Sylvester.’

  ‘Yes.’ Damon picked up a black ballpoint pen which lay on the file before him – Carey’s file, Thanet presumed – and began to slide it through his fingers, turning it over again and again. ‘I’ve been half-expecting you. But before we begin I must make several points clear. First, I want it understood that this discussion is entirely off the record.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘And I also want your assurance that nothing I tell you today would be used in any future Court proceedings.’ Damon laid the pen down on the desk blotter, carefully aligning it with the edge of the file.

  ‘Understood.’ Thanet could appreciate the psychiatrist’s caution. He had seen enough expert witnesses put through the mill by able Counsel to appreciate why Damon was being careful to spell out the ground rules for this interview. He himself was always very careful how any material which might subsequently be used in Court was obtained.

  The telephone rang and Damon picked it up. ‘Excuse me. Damon here. Sorry, no, not at the moment. Yes, as soon as I can.’

  He replaced the receiver and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Also, and I must make this clear although I’m sure you are already well aware of the fact, my main concern must be to safeguard my patient’s privacy.’

  ‘Yes. We appreciate that.’

  ‘Good.’ The psychiatrist unfolded his arms and sat back in his chair. ‘In that case, I’ll naturally do what I can to help. I assume I’m right in thinking this is about the murder on Saturday night at the Sylvesters’ house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you suspect that Carey is involved?’

  ‘Not necessarily, no. He is only one of a number of suspects.’

  ‘But I don’t see how the question could arise. As I understand it, the Sylvesters employ a qualified nurse, full time, to look after Carey. I cannot, in fact, think of another single patient of mine who is so well cared for, out of hospital.’

  Thanet explained how Carey had come to be wandering about. ‘And unfortunately, it was just at the time of the murder.’

  Damon tutted. ‘What rotten luck.’

  ‘Naturally, what we would really like is your professional opinion as to whether Carey would be capable of killing someone.’ Thanet knew that there wasn’t the slightest hope of getting it, but he had to ask.

  ‘I’m s
orry. You must see that I can’t possibly give you an answer.’

  ‘Would you, then, be prepared to tell us whether or not he has ever shown violent tendencies?’ Another vain hope, Thanet knew.

  ‘I’m sorry. Again, I can’t help you there. What I can tell you is this: it is very difficult to make categorical statements about schizophrenics. The very nature of their illness renders them so unpredictable that it is virtually impossible to generalise.’

  ‘Is there anything you can tell us, which might be of help?’

  The telephone rang again and again Damon spoke into it briefly. Then he passed a hand over his bald head and looked thoughtfully at Thanet. ‘Well, I can say this. If this murder you’re investigating was premeditated you can rule Carey out. If schizophrenics commit murder it is almost invariably on impulse. That is one generalisation I can make. Usually it’s because something, something which to us may seem completely irrational, triggers them off.’

  ‘Have you any idea what that something might be, in Carey’s case?’ Once more there was little point in putting the question, but Thanet felt he had to.

  Damon was shaking his head almost before Thanet had finished speaking. ‘I can’t answer that, I’m sorry.’

  The telephone rang yet again. ‘Damon here. Yes, I see. I’ll come at once.’ He was already rising, ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. A minor crisis. I really must go.’

  Outside Lineham said, ‘Well, a fat lot of use that was.’

  ‘I agree. All we learned really is that we can’t rule Carey out and we knew that already. Still, at least the Super will be satisfied.’

  But Thanet was wrong. Back at Headquarters they ran into Draco in the entrance hall.

  ‘Ah, Thanet. Martin tells me you’ve been to see Carey Sylvester’s psychiatrist. How did you get on?’

  Thanet told him.

  ‘And that’s it? You couldn’t get any more out of him than that?’

  ‘He was being very careful, sir, covering himself in case it ever came to Court.’

  ‘But doesn’t the man realise that meanwhile we have a murderer running around loose, and it could be his precious patient?’

  Thanet contented himself with a shrug. When Draco got on to his high horse there was little point in trying to present any other point of view.

  ‘It’s an absolute disgrace that in cases like this the police shouldn’t have free access to information they consider relevant!’ Draco stumped off along the corridor, irritation in every line of his body.

  Back in his office Thanet found that somehow his hand had found its way into his pocket and emerged clutching his pipe. He looked at it wistfully. Gradually, over the years, forced by the strength of medical opinion, public disapproval of anyone who emitted clouds of smoke and, closer to home, Lineham’s intense dislike of the habit, Thanet had managed to cut down on his smoking and now allowed himself the luxury of only one pipe a day, usually in the evening, after supper. But just occasionally, in times of stress or frustration, he still found himself lapsing.

  He suspected that this was going to be one of those times.

  Besides, he always thought best with a pipe in his mouth, especially if it was lit.

  Lineham had noticed and was grinning. ‘Going to give way to temptation, sir?’

  ‘Why do I sometimes wish you didn’t know me so well?’

  ‘Oh go on, sir. Light up. Indulge yourself for once. I’ll survive.’ Lineham was already going through the routine they followed at such times, opening the window and propping the door ajar so as to create a through draught.

  ‘Thanks, Mike.’ Thanet fed tobacco into his pipe. ‘Well, as I was saying earlier, we don’t seem to be getting very far, do we?’

  ‘Perhaps we ought to interview Carey again.’

  Thanet shook his head. ‘What’s the point? You saw what he was like. He lives so much in a world of his own you can’t be sure of the truth of anything he says. Even if he confessed I’d have serious doubts about it. No, as I see it, the only possible way in which we could be certain he was guilty would be if we found some material evidence to prove it.’

  ‘Not much chance of that, is there!’

  ‘Precisely. No, we’ll just have to put Carey on the back burner for the moment, whether Draco likes it or not, and get on with examining all the other possibilities. Which at the moment means only one thing.’ He struck a match and lit up, feeling a blissful sense of relaxation steal through his veins. All right, he told himself defiantly. So I’m addicted. As long as I keep the habit under control, as I usually do, what’s the harm?

  ‘Reports?’

  Thanet nodded. ‘Reports.’ When there was much to do and many leads to follow it was only too easy to overlook some detail which at the time may have appeared unimportant but which in the light of subsequent knowledge proved otherwise. Although neither of them enjoyed the process, experience had taught them the value of constant reassessment so they now settled down to read their way steadily through the material which had come in so far. From time to time they would comment, discuss, but for the most part they just read, absorbed, immersing themselves in the case.

  It was when Thanet was scanning his own report on the interview with the Sylvesters on Sunday morning that he remembered something which had puzzled him at the time. ‘Mike?’

  ‘Mmm?’ Lineham was deep in a report.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to mention it. When Mrs Sylvester was filling us in on the background of Max and Tess and the others, did you notice anything odd when she was talking about the time when Max came back for the publication of his book?’

  Lineham was frowning. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. Oh, hang on a minute. It’s coming back to me now. Yes, now you mention it, I did. She sort of dried up, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. I wondered why, at the time. I think it must have been something she remembered, something she didn’t like remembering. I wonder what. Of course, it might not be relevant to the case.’

  ‘But there again, it might,’ said Lineham.

  They stared at each other, thinking.

  ‘Which year was that?’ said Lineham. ‘When Jeopard’s book was published?’

  ‘Nineteen ninety-two. In May, I think Mrs Sylvester said.’

  ‘And Mrs Mallis started work there in ’91. When did they get Roper in to look after Carey? We know it was some time later because she was talking about what it was like before Roper arrived.’ Lineham began shuffling through the reports. ‘Ah, here we are.’

  ‘What are you getting at, Mike?’

  ‘Just that I wondered if what Mrs Sylvester was remembering might be connected with the blackmail.’

  ‘You mean, if Mrs Sylvester was having an affair with Roper, it might have been around the time of Max’s book being published that Mrs Mallis saw whatever it is that’s given her a hold over her?’

  ‘Could be . . .’ Lineham was still perusing a report. ‘No. That’s no good. According to Martin, Roper didn’t start work at the Sylvesters’ until the autumn of ’92.’

  ‘Unless . . .’ said Thanet slowly. A new and bizarre idea had suddenly struck him.

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘It’s just occurred to me. Say we’re right about the blackmail, wrong about the reason.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Just think, Mike. Look at the facts.’ Thanet began to tick them off on his fingers. ‘Everyone’s been telling us that Jeopard is not only attracted by women, but also attractive to women. As his agent said, “Put Max in a room with a woman and he couldn’t help making a pass at her.” What if-?’

  ‘Mrs Sylvester!’ said Lineham, suddenly seeing what Thanet was getting at. ‘Yes! Could be! I mean, she’s a good-looking woman if you like that type, and she’s in pretty good shape for her age. And Tess was away at the time, so when Max came looking for her as Mrs Sylvester said he always did . . . You could be right, sir! And if Mrs Mallis saw them together, now that really would give her a hold over Mrs Sylvester! I mean, just think how Sylvest
er would feel, if he knew! He can’t stand the man and not only his daughter but his wife succumbs to him!’

  ‘Exactly, Mike. And if he found that out . . .’

  ‘Some motive!’

  But now Thanet was shaking his head. ‘No. It’s a bit far-fetched, don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh come on, sir, think of some of the things we’ve seen in the past. In comparison with them this is positively run-of-the mill!’

  ‘I suppose so. The trouble is, how do we prove it?’ It would be difficult if not impossible to worm such information out of any of the people involved, but Thanet knew he had to try and he was already on his feet.

  ‘Back to the Sylvesters’?’ said Lineham.

  Thanet nodded. ‘Back to the Sylvesters’.’

  NINETEEN

  This time it was Barbara Mallis who opened the door. ‘Oh no, not you again!’ she said.

  ‘Relax,’ said Thanet. ‘It’s Mrs Sylvester we’ve come to see this time. Is she in?’

  ‘Just got back.’

  ‘And Mr Sylvester?’ It was only 4.45 and Thanet was hoping Sylvester would still be at work. It would be impossible to interview Mrs Sylvester on such a delicate topic with her husband present.

  ‘He’s not home yet.’

  Barbara Mallis led them to the sitting-room door, tapped and stuck her head in. ‘Police,’ she said.

  Thanet and Lineham exchanged glances. The housekeeper’s lack of respect for her employer verged on insolence. If she really was blackmailing Mrs Sylvester, thought Thanet, nothing would give him greater pleasure than to see she got her just deserts.

  In the sitting room the glow of a coal-effect gas fire imparted an atmosphere of cosiness to the scene. Marion Sylvester and Tess were sitting companionably together over afternoon tea – the sort of tea one rarely came across these days, Thanet noted. A splendid fruit cake with one slice cut out of it took pride of place and there were plates of sandwiches, too, and scones, jam, cream. If Tess and her mother indulged themselves in this way every day he was surprised they weren’t both grossly overweight. Perhaps, in the present circumstances, it was a classic case of eating for comfort. He averted his eyes from all the goodies as his mouth began to water.