by J M Gregson
I looked at his present. It was an expensive item, with double straps and a lock. He hadn’t left me the keys, but when I looked inside they were there, way down beneath all the paperwork. I laid it all out on the desk to see exactly why Carter Finn had come to see me.
I was looking at a transcript of the trial of Neville Gaines, aged 48, for the murder of Andrew Paterson. There were photostats of the reports, day by day, in The Times. There was also a photostat of the report of his execution. Pentonville. The 12th of March, twelve years ago. It was his anniversary today.
The only interest, as far as I could see, that Finn could have in the case was that he now operated from the house where Neville Gaines had lived—The Beeches.
Just because it was there, I sat down and read it through. It took me through seven pipes of tobacco and two pots of coffee from the Ramona opposite. Finn couldn’t have known—my name never appeared in the papers—but it was only a matter of refreshing my memory. I’d been on the case. Well, not exactly on it, because I was a very young constable then, but I had been there. Det. Chief Inspector Crowshaw’s driver, that was me.
But all the same I read it carefully, because I hadn’t gone to the trial. Twice, as I say, I went across for coffee, mainly to try and get a clear sight of the man sitting behind the wheel of the car just along the street. He was there all afternoon. It was a red Mini Cooper with a black top and those matt black patches on the doors to impress you with the driver’s technique. I didn’t get my clear sight. The very pleasant March sun hit back at me from his windscreen.
As he didn’t seem inclined to come up and see me, I phoned Elsa at about three. I’d thought I would find out how far things had gone with the arrangements, and at the same time I asked if she’d like to go out that evening.
‘Evening dress stuff,’ I said.
‘I’ll be too tired.’ Her voice was tense. She was obviously working on it too hard, but I suppose it’s always the same with weddings.
‘You could do with the break,’ I suggested.
‘David, you simply don’t realize…’
There was perhaps a criticism there. But I’d offered. Really, I had. And she had said get off to your office, David, and let me get on with it. You’ll gather she wasn’t keen on the office.
‘But you could manage it?’
‘Oh—I suppose so.’
So we fixed it up, which meant I’d got to dig out the dinner jacket and press out a few wrinkles.
I locked away Neville Gaines and drove back to my place. The car was a Porsche that Elsa had given me for an engagement present. I felt good, driving it. I let the Mini tag along.
Up to that time I had not moved from my two and a bit rooms in the crescent. Now that there was an impending break between us I was feeling a sentimental liking for the place, even its pokiness. I put the kettle on and laid out two cups and saucers, and I was just pitching tea into the pot when the knock came at the door.
‘Come in,’ I shouted. ‘It’s open.’
He eased his way in cautiously, as though I might be lurking just out of sight with a cosh. His eyes swept the room. But I was alone. He closed the door behind him.
He would have been half-way through his twenties, a dark, shy-looking young man, a little shorter than I am. He had still got his huge sun glasses on. His hair was untidy, I suppose because it would be against his principles to drive with his window shut. His face was interesting. He was quick, sharp, his mouth moving, never still for a moment, expending expressions so fast that you never caught up. And nervous. His eyes flickered, caught me, hesitated, backed off. He was fiddling constantly with a pair of black driving gloves, half stuffing them into the pocket of his padded motoring coat, then pulling them out again.
‘Sit down,’ I said. ‘The kettle’s coming up.’
He sat with his knees together, perching the gloves on them. After a moment he took off the glasses, and I saw that his eyes were grey and wide.
‘It took you long enough,’ I said.
There was very nearly a blush. ‘You saw me?’
I looked at him solemnly. ‘I’m a detective.’
It seemed to give him satisfaction, as though he’d set me a test and I’d passed with honour.
‘I wanted to be sure,’ he said at last.
‘I’ve got an office you could have made sure in.’
He blinked. ‘Your kettle’s boiling.’
I made the tea. It was the Porsche that’d done it. He’d trust a man who ran such a car, not knowing it had been Elsa’s choice. I looked around. His eager eyes were on me almost imploring. I waited.
‘It’s this murder, you see,’ he burst out. ‘I wanted you to dig into it. An old case. Twelve years old and more.’
I poured the water placidly; my nerves jumped. ‘Milk?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You may have heard of it. They hanged him. All you’d have to do is dig out all the facts. It wouldn’t take you long.’
It wouldn’t take me any time at all. ‘What’s your name, son?’
‘It’s Hutchinson. Paul Hutchinson.’
For one moment I’d wondered if he was going to say Gaines. There’d been a daughter, but I hadn’t heard of a son. ‘Nobody can help the poor devil if he was hanged.’ There was still a chance it was another case. ‘What was his name?’
‘A chap called Neville Gaines. Here, I bet you can even remember him. You’re old enough.’
I’m thirty-three. ‘I think I remember it.’ I sipped tea. ‘There’s nothing there. He did it sure enough.’
‘Yes. Yes, I’ve no doubt he did.’
‘Then why rake it up?’
‘I thought… there was a chance I’d got a new slant on it.’ He had to fumble with his spoon. It was his first lie.
‘And you want me to do the background work?’ I waited for his nod. ‘Then what?’
‘There’s a sort of idea I’ve got.’
Throw him out? Certainly. ‘What’s your interest in it?’
‘Well—I’m kind of a writer.’
‘What have you written?’
‘Actually… well… this’ll be the first.’
Give him time to finish his tea? Yes. No hurry.
‘Ah, I see. One of those brilliant re-thinks of old cases. You’ll throw doubts, I suppose, on various integrities, and finish up annoying a lot of people who’ll sue the pants off you.’
I’d let him have it straight, get the air cleared. He blinked a bit and put on his glasses.
‘I’d do my own research, but there’re snags.’
So now we were coming to it. I went to look in the cupboard, and asked him if he’d like a biscuit.
‘Lots of snags, son. To start with, you’re treading on toes. The Gaines widow, for instance, wouldn’t like it.’
‘Oh, Myra’s quite happy about it.’
Damn the lad, why’d he keep surprising me? ‘Myra?’ Myra Gaines would be getting on for twice his age, surely.
‘I went to ask if she minded if I researched it.’ His eyes moved. He took a biscuit. Another lie had crept in. He said warily: ‘She was quite pleased… really.’
‘And what else?’
‘There’s a daughter.’
So there we were. He’d barged in there, all brash and naïve, claiming he wanted to re-think the case. Nothing personal, you understand. Only there’d been a daughter. Then things had abruptly gone wrong. Suddenly it became very personal indeed, and he’d realized it might not be such a good idea after all.
‘Aged?’ As though I didn’t know.
‘Oh—twenty-one.’ He looked away. ‘Her name’s Karen. She’s five-four or so, blonde, you know, kind of willowy, with those sort of far-off eyes that go all smoky when she laughs.’
‘I get the picture.’ I went and looked out of the window. A traffic warden was prowling. ‘You’d expected to sit for hours with the family, digging out the little personal details that mean so much?’
‘I suppose it would’ve been something like that.’
‘But now you want somebody else to pop the questions?’
He lied again, more glibly because there was only my back to do it to. ‘It would be better.’
I turned on him slowly. ‘What did you mean—you’d got a new slant on it?’
He put on his glasses, took them off. ‘Did I say that?’
‘You know damn well you did. Earlier on you said you thought there was a chance you’d got a new slant on it. Have you got something, or is this just a matter of hoping?’
He should have left them on, then maybe the fear wouldn’t have got through the smoked glass. ‘Well naturally, one tries not to bring preconceived notions—’
I cut him off. ‘Nobody dives unprepared into a thing like this. Nobody picks out an old and fusty murder case and plunges into it blindfolded, hoping to bring in a new slant. Not even an experienced author. Not you, son. Certainly not you.’
There was half a biscuit pathetically in his left hand. He moved it towards his mouth, seeing it was open, then stopped. He waved it. ‘One has to start somewhere.’
It wasn’t me scaring him. He wasn’t trembling and confused. Just persistent.
‘It’d be eight quid a day,’ I told him flatly. ‘And expenses. Could run out at quite a figure.’
‘Then you’ll do it?’
‘No,’ I shouted. ‘Not until you tell me the lot.’
‘I’ve told you all there is.’
‘There’s the bit about what’s got you scared. You went into this like an innocent baby, for some reason you’re keeping to yourself. Then you came up against a snag, so you decided to toss somebody else in, in case things got rough.’
He got to his feet. From somewhere he scavenged a little dignity. ‘Then I’m sorry to have wasted your time.’
Stubborn, he was, I hated to see a frightened lad walk out of my door.
‘I can’t work unless the client levels with me.’
‘I’m sorry you think I’m not.’
‘Why pick on me, anyway?’
‘Your name was mentioned.’
Fame, by heaven. I watched him reach the door. I knew I should not let him walk through and out of my life. He reminded me of that solitary magpie, alone in a cold expanse of snow.
‘Who’d mention my name?’
‘She married again, Myra Gaines. Her husband, it was, who told me. His name’s Carter Finn.’
I prised the door handle out of his fist, locked my hand on his shoulder, and got him back to his chair.
‘Have another biscuit. They won’t be on expenses.’
He smiled. The fear went from the hard line of his mouth. Tiny wrinkles flickered at the corner of his eyes.
‘That’s very good of you, Mr Mallin.’ He chose another biscuit. ‘Is there any more tea?’
I looked. And there was.
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