The Malcontenta bak-2

by Barry Maitland

  ‘He also had the key of the temple door which belongs on the office key board. I returned it there half an hour ago.’

  She looked at him coldly. ‘You did what?

  ‘I’m sorry, I would have told you. It just didn’t seem important compared … well, to the fact of his death.’

  ‘And why did you remove the keys?’

  He shrugged. ‘I wanted to have a look in his room. I wasn’t sure if my master key would open it. Some of the staff rooms have non-standard locks.’

  ‘So you’ve been up to his room?’ Her eyes were blazing, but he seemed quite unabashed.

  ‘Mmm. Nothing there. No note. That’s what I was concerned about, of course. I felt I had a responsibility.’

  ‘To whom?’ Kathy exploded.

  He leaned forward over the desk and said, his voice punching the words home, ‘To those who have to go on living with what he did to himself, Sergeant.’

  ‘And what else did you do for them, doctor? What else did you tamper with?’

  ‘Tamper!’ He glared at her, affronted, then sat back slowly in his chair, his face becoming expressionless. His hands rested on the desk top, balled into fists.

  ‘I’d like you to take me up to his room now, sir,’ Kathy said. ‘I want you to show me exactly what you touched.’

  Without a word he got to his feet and led the way out of the room.

  They returned to the stairs which Kathy had passed before, and climbed up to the attic floor. The space under the roof had been subdivided and rearranged several times in its history, and the narrow corridor twisted and turned incomprehensibly. Beamish-Newell stopped in front of one of the doors and used the bunch of keys to open it.

  ‘Don’t go in, please,’ Kathy said, and stepped past him into the small room. A tiny window had been cut into the ceiling, which sloped steeply beneath the roof on the far side of the room. Below it, an old cast-iron radiator gurgled fitfully. A miserable grey light illuminated the contents of the room — a bed, bedside cupboard and lamp, small wooden desk and chair, an empty bookshelf, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers. The only personal items visible were a Greek-language newspaper folded on the bed and a bright yellow Walkman on the desk. Kathy stood still by the door. She would come back later to see what was in the wardrobe and drawers when the SOCOs had been through the place.

  ‘Tell me what you did when you opened the door last time.’

  ‘Well … not much. I walked in … stood by the desk.’ He shrugged.

  ‘You came directly up here? With your gloves on?’ Beamish-Newell looked irritated. ‘No, I left them in my office on the way up.’ ‘What then?’

  ‘I saw there was no envelope or paper that seemed obviously like a note, and so I left, locking the door behind me.’

  ‘So we won’t find your fingerprints on the drawers or cupboards.’

  He pursed his lips, exasperated. ‘Oh really! This is absurd. Yes, you may find my fingerprints in one or two places.’ ‘Which places?’

  ‘I really can’t remember.’

  ‘Every drawer?’ Kathy persisted. ‘Every cupboard?’

  ‘I really think you’re going a bit overboard on this, Sergeant. Your attitude seems unnecessarily … aggressive. I’m trying to cooperate with you, you know.’

  He is firm, she is aggressive, Kathy said under her breath. ‘All right, doctor. We’ll leave it at that for the moment. Perhaps we could see about somewhere for us to work now, and you could prepare the list of patients who especially asked for Mr Petrou.’

  As she went to follow him, he stopped suddenly and turned to her within the narrow space of the corridor. ‘It’s possible to be too zealous, Kathy. Be careful, won’t you? People make allowance for inexperience, but only so much.’

  She was close enough that she could smell his breath, yeasty like the cooking. She pulled back abruptly and he turned and walked on before she could frame a reply. Thrown again by his intrusive use of her first name, she guessed she’d probably lie awake that night thinking of all the replies she should have made.

  They began to hear the hubbub as they descended the stairs, at first a faint growl like a distant mob, then, more distinctly, confused voices interspersed with sharper cries.

  ‘What the devil!’ Beamish-Newell hurried down the corridor and was brought to an abrupt halt by the crowd which was backed up through the arch leading into the entrance hall.

  Dowling had been uncharacteristically persuasive and had caught the police station at a time when two shifts had overlapped. The officers’ arrival at the clinic had coincided with the mid-morning break, when all patients returned to the dining room next to the entrance hall for a glass of carrot or apple juice. As more and more patients surfaced from the treatment and exercise rooms in the basements they were met by a confused crush. Big men in dripping black raincoats squeezed together to let them through. Their good-natured banter (‘Watch yer back, missus’, ‘Pull yer gut in, Jerry’), interspersed by the alien squawk of their radios, only underlined the grossness of this invasion from the outside world. Lowering their eyes, most of the patients pushed blindly forward, shrinking from body and eye contact, swallowing the indignity of their slippers and dressing gowns until they could reach the sanctuary of the dining room. Kathy noticed Mrs Cochrane pressed back against a wall nearby, her eyes bulging. The little woman suddenly lunged at the arm of another patient struggling past and squealed in terrified excitement, ‘It’s Alex, Gillian — the nice boy. He’s been murdered!’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Kathy groaned, and at that moment Mrs Cochrane met her eye, blushed with embarrassment like a naughty schoolgirl caught spreading gossip, and then was swept away by the crowd. At her elbow, Kathy heard Beamish-Newell talking to her.

  ‘The games room,’ he was saying, ‘you can have the games room. Over there.’ He was pointing to a door back down the corridor. She nodded.

  Some bolder patients were talking to the strangers, among them a tall, thin man in a towelling robe who was almost shouting at a detective Kathy recognized. She pushed forward and said, ‘Excuse me, sir. Tom, will you move our lot into the games — ’

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ the patient barked at her.

  She flushed. ‘Please go on through to the dining room, sir.’

  ‘I asked who you were.’ The man’s voice was penetrating. People nearby turned their heads to see what was going on.

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Kolla from County — ’

  ‘Are you responsible for this shambles?’

  The bulk of the patients had now reached the safety of the dining room and the noise in the entrance hall had become more manageable. The man’s angry words cut across the hubbub, and all heads turned towards him.

  ‘Sir,’ Kathy said, aware how conspicuous her voice was in the sudden silence, ‘please join the others in the dining room.’

  He glared at her, momentarily startled by the hush he had created. Then he spoke again, his voice low, teeth clenched together, in a vain attempt to be heard only by her.

  ‘I, Sergeant, am Bernard Long, the Deputy Chief Constable of this county, and you will report to me in the Director’s office. Now!’

  Kathy blinked. The whole room had heard it.

  ‘Sir,’ she said at last. ‘Tom, take all our people through to the games room over there, first door on the left, and wait for me.’

  ‘Do you mind, Stephen?’ The tall, angular man in the white towelling robe deferred to the Director.

  ‘Of course not, Bernard, be my guest. Take my chair. Do you want me to leave?’

  ‘I’d rather you stayed, actually.’

  He had regained control of his anger, and his voice had recovered a clipped public-school accent which had not been apparent in the exchange in the entrance hall. He indicated for Kathy to sit on the chair facing the desk, while Beamish-Newell stood back against a bookcase, hands clasped in front of him, regarding her with an air of detachment that implied ‘I told you so’.

  ‘What in heaven’s name wa
s going on out there, Sergeant? It was an absolute disgrace. I’ve never seen a more graphic example of insensitive policing.’

  Now that he had recovered his composure, he had assumed an icy, patrician air. Kathy guessed he was in his early fifties. Though dressed as a patient, he managed to sustain an air of elegance that had escaped the others. She noticed the insignia of an expensive London hotel on his robe; his hair and nails were carefully groomed. She wondered if he went to the same place that trimmed Beamish-Newell’s crew-cut and goatee.

  ‘Uniform branch asked for CID assistance with a sudden death here, discovered this morning, sir. Apparent suicide.’

  ‘Oh?’ He looked with concern towards Beamish-Newell. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Stephen. One of the patients? I didn’t see an ambulance. But even so …’ He turned back to Kathy. ‘A suicide hardly warrants such a gross over-reaction. This is a naturopathic clinic, not some illicit drug factory!’

  The Director cleared his throat. ‘One of the staff, in point of fact, Bernard. You’ve probably come across him in the course of your therapy sessions. Well, it’s quite likely anyway. Young chap…’

  Kathy was puzzled by his slowness in getting to the point. ‘Alex Petrou,’ she broke in abruptly.

  Long looked as if she had slapped his face. For a couple of seconds which seemed to all of three of them to last much, much longer, he gawped at her in astonishment while his brain seemed unable to come to terms with the information. ‘No,’ he gasped, ‘surely not. I saw him — ’

  ‘Well, as I said, Bernard, you would have done,’ Beamish-Newell interrupted, speaking slowly, deliberately. ‘All the patients would, at some time or another. It’s a terrible shock.’

  Long nodded, using the time to control the expression on his face.

  ‘When?’ Kathy broke in impatiently. ‘When did you see him?’

  He frowned, avoiding her eyes. ‘Oh now, I’d need to think.’

  Kathy was astonished. It seemed to her that she had never seen a more blatant demonstration of lying and confusion written across a witness’s face. Beamish-Newell’s attempts to deflect her attention only made it worse. He moved forward to the desk, opening his mouth to interrupt again, but she got in first. ‘Doctor, I’d like to speak to the Deputy Chief Constable alone, if you don’t mind. Would you leave now, please?’ She was on her feet.

  Beamish-Newell made as if to refuse. He looked down at Long, who glanced briefly at Kathy, then nodded. ‘Yes, Stephen, as she says, thank you, if you wouldn’t mind.’

  As he left, Kathy sat down again, watching Long carefully. He seemed suddenly older. ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant. I really don’t know … I don’t know why it hit me like that. I can only assume it’s the diet. I’ve been here ten days now, on a strict diet, water-only the first three days, then vegetable and fruit juices for the remainder. I believe it’s made me light-headed.’

  He took a deep breath and straightened his back. His voice was recovering some of its resonance.

  ‘Yes, I can imagine, sir.’ Kathy didn’t try to sound convinced. ‘Did you know him well?’

  ‘No,’ head shaking vigorously, ‘no, no, no. I’ve had some massage treatment from him, this time and on earlier occasions.’

  ‘You come here quite often, do you then, sir?’

  ‘Yes, when I can find the time. I’m a member of the Board of Trustees, as a matter of fact. Where … where was he found?’

  ‘In the Temple of Apollo. Hanged.’

  ‘Good God. But look, even so, it surely didn’t need an army of storm-troopers …’ He was recovering rapidly.

  ‘There are some inconsistencies in the physical evidence. We won’t know until the post-mortem is done whether they’re significant or not. In the meantime I wanted to interview as many people as possible while their memories were fresh. I must admit, I didn’t expect quite so much backup so quickly.’ She beamed at him brightly, and he permitted himself a hint of a doubtful smile in response.

  ‘I’m particularly interested in when he was last seen alive, you see. You were about to tell me when you last saw him.’

  He examined his even fingernails, and it seemed to Kathy that he was making a decision. ‘I saw him yesterday afternoon, as a matter of fact. I suppose that added to the shock, having seen him so recently.’

  ‘Sunday afternoon. Did you have treatment or something?’

  ‘Not exactly. There’s a small gym downstairs. I go there sometimes for a workout. He has … had… charge of the place. He opened it up for me at three, and was there when I finished.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Oh … an hour later, probably. Around about four.’ ‘Do you know if he’d arranged to meet anyone after you?’ ‘I really couldn’t say.’

  ‘He said nothing at all about his plans for the rest of the day? Please think carefully, sir.’ Long frowned, shook his head.

  ‘Please let me know if you can be more precise about the time you left him. Were you aware of him being depressed at all, moody, worried?’

  ‘No … I’d never have guessed.’ Something seemed to occur to him, then he shook his head again. ‘Good Lord.’

  ‘You’ve thought of something?’

  ‘No.’ He blinked at her as if he’d momentarily forgotten she was there. ‘No, no.’

  Perhaps, she thought, perhaps things are getting on top of you at work. Perhaps you’re going through a bad time with your wife, or your teenage children. Perhaps you’re not sleeping well, having difficulty concentrating. Who knows? But if you hadn’t been who you are, I’d have said you were hiding something for sure. Something you don’t want me to know about.

  ‘I’ll have someone take a statement from you, sir. I’d be particularly interested in your conversation with Petrou. Anything he might have said. Any indications of his plans for the evening.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  4

  Kathy broke off her account while Brock went to make a fresh pot of coffee. Now that she was well into the story, she was feeling much more confident and relaxed. The visitors got up from their seats round the fire and stretched their legs. When Brock returned, Dowling was casting his eye over the titles of the books piled on the worktop, keeping well clear of the live computer, and Kathy was having another look at the enigmatic little artwork on the wall.

  ‘Mr Schwitters did me a big favour,’ Brock said, setting down the pot. ‘I’d never be able to get anything as good again, and I’ve never had the nerve to put anything second-rate beside it. If it hadn’t been for that, these walls would have been a mass of flying ducks and faded Gauguin prints.’

  Kathy laughed, but he saw the expression on her face and added, ‘Really, it may just look like a mess of old tram tickets, but it is in fact a milestone of twentieth-century art. How I came by it is another story.’

  It seemed to Kathy that it was very like Brock to own a treasure that you wouldn’t recognize inside a house you couldn’t find.

  ‘Well, it’s a great house,’ she said. ‘I love it.’

  ‘I rented a room here many years ago, when my life was going through a change. Then later, when my landlady died, I bought the place from her estate. They were glad to get rid of it. It was a tiny, crooked little terrace house, and buyers couldn’t find it. A few years later the one next door came on the market and I bought that too and knocked them together, and gradually it’s just sort of grown. What about you, Kathy? Have you kept on your flat in North Finchley? I remember you had a very protective next-door neighbour and a splendid view.’

  ‘Yes, I kept it on.’ She smiled at the memory of his visit, when she had almost pushed the bunch of flowers he had brought, his peace offering, down the sink disposal unit. ‘While I’m away, a friend is staying there. He’ll move on when I return to London — if they’re prepared to have me back at the Met.’

  ‘Perhaps your friend will have grown attached to the place, like I did here. Not want to leave.’

  She thought that remark was a little sly, and didn�
��t respond.

  ‘Well, you’re welcome to use this place as a base any time you need to come up to town — both of you, I mean. There’s plenty of room. Are you married, Gordon?’ Brock asked.

  ‘No, no.’ He shook his head.

  ‘Well, why don’t you both stay over tonight? Return to the wild south tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh,’ Gordon said nervously, ‘I think, if you wouldn’t mind, sir, I really ought to get back today.’

  ‘Of course, whatever. I just thought your tale may need plenty of time to do it justice. I must say I’m intrigued by the body in the Temple of Apollo. Whips and carrot juice. And the brass swastika, Kathy, you haven’t explained that yet.’

  Intrigued, and also a little worried. Kathy had become more confident, swifter in her decisions, than when he remembered her last. But he was concerned at her obvious antagonism towards Tanner, Beamish-Newell and Long — all of the main male characters in her account so far, apart from Dowling, whom she seemed to be mothering. He worried whether she was being objective enough in her assessments.

  The building was brand new, the sharp smell of fresh paint and new carpets still strong in the air. They showed her through a door into a narrow viewing area separated from the examination room by a glass screen. She hardly noticed the three or four people present, as the sudden vision of Petrou’s naked body on the stainless-steel tray just a couple of metres away leaped up at her. In the rush to get here, she hadn’t consciously prepared herself for this. It was true that she had seen any number of corpses before, and with much more horrific injuries than this — her three years in Traffic Division had ensured that. But the immaculate objectivity of the setting gave the body a startling presence. Naked, blotched, its head thrust dramatically back by the block beneath its neck, eyes closed in the total self-absorption of the dead, it formed the focus of the brilliant lights overhead, of the silent attention of the watchers; the focus, too, of threat and danger, underscored by the plastic visors covering the faces of those who shared its space on the other side of the protective glass screen.