The Trebelzue Gate

by Anna Fitzwilliam

  The broadcast continued for five minutes. At the end Ellery remarked that some poor bastards’ heads were going to roll. As he spoke, Graham Jarvis’s Lancia drew up outside.

  ‘Afternoon sir, the DCI’s waiting for you,’ the squadron leader did not respond to the greeting, his expression was heavy-jowled with resentment. Jones ushered him to Monica’s office.

  ‘She’s just left,’ said Monica brightly, looking up from her desk.

  ‘Who has just left?’

  ‘Maria Gerstmann, we brought her in for a chat, Squadron Leader Jarvis. By the way, just to avoid any further time wasting, we now know that you did not tell us the truth about Tuesday night.’

  He reached into the pocket of his flying suit for cigarettes. He must have been smoking heavily, Monica thought, his fleshy face and the whites of his eyes were dulled and yellowish.

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t smoke in here, Squadron Leader, it’s a small room and WPC Jones doesn’t like the smell, do you, Jones?’

  ‘No M’am,’ said Jones. She spoke with conviction although she had never expressed an opinion about cigarette smoke and always bought a packet of ten Embassy when she went out in the evening for a drink.

  ‘If you recall, Chief Inspector, I told you that after I arrived home, I didn’t go out again, which was true. I did not say categorically that I was alone at home.’

  ‘Well, presently I can ask WPC Jones to go over the interview notes with a fine toothed semantics comb and confirm precisely what you did and did not say, Squadron Leader, but, before we get too Jesuitical about it, you gave me to understand that nobody could confirm that you were at home that night, from that it was reasonable to deduce that you were alone. But you were not alone, were you?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t alone. Mrs Gerstmann arrived at about eleven o’clock, she stayed until the early hours – some time after four.’

  ‘How long has it been going on, your affair?’

  ‘I couldn’t say exactly, eighteen months I suppose, on and off.’

  ‘How do you behave towards Conrad Gerstmann?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think you know what I mean, Squadron Leader – how do you behave towards a man when you are sleeping with his wife? Are you able to be friendly, chummy with the cuckold … or does it make you uncomfortable, do you maintain reserve, a safe distance?’

  Jones, her hands folded across the lap of her blue-black uniform skirt sat very still, only her eyes moving from one to another as she watched.

  ‘Maria and I are consenting adults, our relationship is no threat to her marriage – which works perfectly well, in most ways.’

  ‘And you were carrying on with her while you were seeing your – how shall I put it … your less adult - girlfriends?’

  ‘I didn’t see Maria while I was seeing Chrissie, no.’

  ‘She thinks you did.’

  ‘Well it’s not the case, I don’t know why she should think that.’

  ‘Perhaps because she’s jealous. Possessive.’

  ‘Hardly, she’s sophisticated, a mature woman.’

  ‘Oh, so you consider that the capacity to feel jealousy ends at a certain age then, do you? That’s an interesting notion, Squadron Leader. Let’s test the theory, shall we? – suppose that you discovered that young Chrissie had met a nice boy, you know, someone of her own age, handsome, good prospects, the whole caboodle, and you were told – perhaps by her parents, your friends – Mike and Di, I think they’re called - that Chrissie was blissfully happy and engaged to be married to this boy, are you seriously telling me that you would experience no pangs of jealousy then?’

  ‘Where is this actually leading? I am entitled to have a solicitor present, and a Friend.’

  ‘Of course you are, but seeing as this is just a brief chat, to bring you up to date with events, I thought you might like to get it over with. We can arrange the formal interview tomorrow. What are the Air Force arrangements for a Friend - I suppose it’s similar to a court martial, your CO will have to be informed, won’t he?’

  Graham Jarvis gave a brief nod of acknowledgment.

  ‘Yes, I guessed as much. However, to return to the subject of women, Squadron Leader, I can’t help wondering whether you are quite the expert Lothario that you seem to think you are. Take Mrs Gerstmann – supposing she was a lot more serious about you than you realised. Further, supposing that she saw Amanda as a threat to your ongoing ‘adult’ relationship? I have to say that she was rather catty about Miss Shute just now, wasn’t she, Jones?’

  ‘She was, M’am.’

  ‘Yes, in my experience a woman behaves like that about another woman because she sees her as a threat – even though she would never admit that was the case. Mrs Gerstmann probably knew that it was Amanda who scuppered your chances with Chrissie. I expect that you returned to her – for consolation purposes – after it all blew up in your face, and no doubt you told her what had happened. Now, she might have feared that Amanda would do the same with you two, by telling Mr Gerstmann about your affair. She has plenty of opportunity, after all, and from what I can see Mr Gerstmann is fonder of the Shute girls than he is of his own child… that’s funny, it’s just dawned on me that Rudy probably isn’t actually his own child … but that’s a puzzle for another day.’

  He sat forward and looked at her angrily ‘This is sheer fantasy, Chief Inspector, it’s also quite offensive …’

  Monica ignored him, ‘And talking of Rudy Gerstmann, he knew.’

  ‘Knew what?’

  ‘He knew all about his mother’s little visits to you – he was even offered some rather explicit photographic evidence to prove it. I’m not entirely sure, but I rather think that your pine staircase features in some of the shots.’

  The women sat watching. Graham Jarvis had looked away, he did not attempt to return Monica’s gaze.

  She closed the file on the desk in front of her. ‘Well, there we are, Squadron Leader. As I see it, all we need to do now is firstly to establish whether a woman of a certain age is capable of being jealous to the point where she might commit violence, and secondly, the extent to which you two have colluded over an alibi.’

  He began an effort to protest but before he could form a sentence Monica had stood up and Jones followed

  ‘You’re free to go now, Squadron Leader, although we will expect you to remain at your home address. We will conduct a formal interview under caution at the police station tomorrow, to allow your nominated Friend to be in attendance. Jones, show the squadron leader out, would you.’

  Once Monica was alone she exhaled a sigh of relief and undid the button to ease the tight waistband of her skirt. She walked through to the duty room

  ‘I’d like a watch on the Gertsmanns and on Jarvis tonight, we also need listening authorisation for their telephone lines – bearing in mind that the Old Parsonage probably has more than one line – with immediate effect. I don’t suppose there’s any tea on the go is there?’

  Ellery replied ‘I can make you one, M’am, but we had a call from the surgery in St Columb a minute ago, Dr Murray, the G.P. we’ve been trying to get hold of, she’s just come back from Northern Ireland. The senior partner’s asking if you’ll go in and see them.’

  Monica drove to St Columb Major and found the surgery, a low 1950s building, in a cul de sac beyond Union Square. The waiting room was quiet and empty of patients. It had been tidied, a box of battered soft toys and plastic bricks stowed under the row of chairs, the magazines stacked in piles on the square oak tea trolley which served as a table. Behind a sliding panel of reeded glass a receptionist sat chatting to a nurse in a bright blue uniform. The nurse’s arms were large and muscular. ‘Arms like hams’, Garth would have said. They looked up at Monica’s approach and the receptionist pushed the glass to one side,

  ‘The doctors are waiting for you in there,’ she said and nodded towards a door marked Surgery 1. She slid the glass closed again but Monica sensed that both women were watching with cu
riosity. The surgery was bright with the afternoon light. On the sill of the metal framed windows and on the desk there were items that drug company representatives had brought in to advertise medications – a calendar formed of revolving plastic cubes, a pen stand, a mug and a blotter. A man stood in front of the window, he wore a lightweight suit and rimless glasses, his nose was sharply pointed. The chair to one side of the desk, which would have been the patient’s seat, had been turned to face the door. On it sat a woman in her thirties, her hair was dark wiry curls, her oval spectacle had thick black frames. She wore a blue zippered jacket with the badge of a sporting club on the breast.

  The man by the window introduced himself as Dr Mundy, the senior partner of the practice. The seated woman drew in a breath and then she said

  ‘I am Dr Murray, Heather Murray. I have done a very stupid thing Chief Inspector.’

  Monica noted the way in which the doctor’s deep voice and Northern Irish inflection added weight and emphasis to certain syllables.

  ‘And what would that be, Dr Murray?’

  ‘I have betrayed my patient’s confidence, to another patient.’

  Dr Mundy said, ‘I should just make clear, the other patient was not yours, she’s actually registered with myself.’

  ‘I see,’ said Monica, ‘And what was this confidence that you betrayed, Dr Murray?’

  ‘One of my patients was pregnant. I told somebody - my best friend – about it.’

  ‘Who was the pregnant patient?’

  ‘Amanda Shute.’

  ‘And who is your best friend, Dr Murray?’

  ‘Felicity, Felicity Haig-Mercer.’

  ‘And why did you tell Mrs Haig-Mercer that Miss Shute was pregnant?’

  She paused and drew breath and the badge rose, it read Queen’s University Belfast Netball Club, it sank as she breathed out again.

  ‘Because it was Felicity’s husband who had fathered the baby, he’d been having an affair with Amanda Shute.’

  ‘And Mrs Haig-Mercer knew about this affair, did she?’

  ‘She’s known for a few months.’

  ‘And she had told you about it?’

  ‘Yes, she confided in me, as her friend, you know.’

  ‘And did you discuss the affair, between you?’

  ‘We did, but at first Felicity was more or less resigned to it, you know, I think she thought that it would just run its course.’

  ‘So, her husband didn’t know that she was aware of it?’

  ‘No, chinless wonder that he is, he didn’t have a clue, he thought he was being very clever. I asked her why wouldn’t she confront him but she said no, she’d just turn the other cheek and wait for the thing to burn itself out. She said she didn’t want the old witch – meaning her mother-in-law – to have another stick to beat them with. She made a few discreet enquiries about the girl …’

  ‘With you?’

  ‘No, no, not with me, just through local gossip, there’s been plenty of talk about her, over the years.’

  ‘So, Felicity Haig-Mercer said and did nothing for a few months, then what happened?’

  Once again Heather Murray paused and drew breath and once again the brightly embroidered badge of the netball team rose and fell on her chest.

  ‘Then Amanda Shute came into my surgery one day, she wanted me to confirm that she was pregnant.’

  ‘And how did you know who the father was – you’ve just implied that Miss Shute had, shall we say, quite a reputation locally.’

  ‘Indeed she did, so I thought, when I confirmed the pregnancy, she’d be upset, start demanding all sorts of solutions which I could not be a party to.’

  ‘And was she?’

  ‘Not a bit of it, quite the opposite in fact, she was thrilled. She told me all about it – how she had this wonderful man and that he’d been in a really unhappy marriage but now they were going away together, she said she was going to save up telling him until their plans were all fixed, he was due to be signing a contract, for their employment. “Oh” she said to me, “he’ll be so happy, he’s always wanted to have children…” To me it was especially cruel, the pregnancy, you know, because Felicity isn’t able to have children herself. She’s had every test under the sun over the past few years, when she was finally told that there was no hope she was heartbroken, absolutely heartbroken. That’s why I decided I had to tell her… I know I was wrong…’

  ‘And when did you tell her?’

  ‘About three weeks ago. We always meet up for dinner at the beginning of the month, we go out to Chapel Amble, the Maltster’s Arms. To be honest, I didn’t know how I should broach it … so, we gave our order and I got us a drink and I suggested that we should find a table outside - it was a warm evening. But Felicity noticed there was something wrong straightaway, she asked me had I something on my mind … and I said yes, there was something, and I just came out with it, I just told her, there and then.’

  She looked up to meet Monica’s eye as she finished the sentence.

  ‘And what was her reaction?’

  ‘At first there was no reaction, it was textbook shock response, you know. Then she just finished her drink and she stood up and said she had to go. I tried to persuade her to stay and talk it over, but she wouldn’t. The waiter brought our meal and Felicity just got out some money and put it down to pay and she left. I phoned her the next morning, to see how she was, and she said that she was fine, that I mustn’t trouble myself over it. I wanted to go and see her, make her talk to me about things, but she wouldn’t, she said she was too busy.’

  ‘Did you see Mrs Haig-Mercer after the evening at Chapel Amble?’

  ‘No, I kept trying to phone her but she was never at home, I just got that housekeeper woman.’

  ‘You travelled home to Northern Ireland on Wednesday evening, Dr Murray, was that a planned trip?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t, I went on impulse.’ She was sitting with her head down, staring at her knees. Her tights were the colour of strong tea.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because when I heard what had happened, to Amanda Shute, I just didn’t know what to do. I thought a few days back home might help, I wanted to talk it over with my father.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Yes, I did. He made me come back, he said I had to face the music.’

  In the little cleaner’s room Jones had taken the lid off a new drum of coffee and was stabbing a spoon vigorously to break the taut foil covering.

  ‘Steady on maid,’ said Martin Bee coming in behind her.

  ‘What is Sunningdale, Sarge?’ she asked, peeling back the silver edges.

  He was rinsing his mug under the tap. ‘Sunningdale is that college up country where the brass get sent to train with civil servants. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Just something somebody said, that’s all,’

  He dried the mug carefully. ‘Word to the wise,’ he said, ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t listen to gossip. The boss likes you, that’s worth a lot. You could get on, if that’s what you want,’

  ‘I was only …’ said Jones but Sergeant Bee had already taken his mug and walked away.

  At nine o’clock the next morning Maria Gerstmann and her solicitor sat opposite the desk sergeant in the foyer of Newquay police station. Behind the desk there were three more police officers than was usual. Two were looking over the sergeant’s shoulder at the duty log, the third was holding a telephone receiver as though waiting for his call to be answered. The assumed occupations of the three extra policemen were a ruse and not convincing. On the previous afternoon, when the team led by Sergeant Bee returned with goods seized from the Julian household, news of the boy’s photography had spread quickly through the station and men had flocked to the evidence room to see the images. Now there was an eagerness to see the female participant from the photographs in real life. The gazes of all four men were fixed on Maria Gerstmann’s polka dot pleated skirt as she was led away down the corridor to the interview room.

  The intervi
ew had just been concluded when Sergeant Bee was called away to take a telephone call.

  ‘That call was from Trenant House M’am, Nicholas Haig-Mercer’s asking for you to go out there, apparently he wants to confess.’

  ‘What did he say exactly?’

  ‘He asked to speak to you, I told him you were in an interview and he said well tell her she must come and see me, right away, I want to confess.’

  As they neared the end of the Trenant House drive they saw a grey Rover slewed at a standstill, blocking their way. Nicholas Haig-Mercer was slumped in the driver’s seat.

  ‘For God’s sake, he hasn’t has he …’ Monica slammed on the brakes but Sergeant Bee had already opened his door and was running towards the Rover. As he looked inside at the bent head he noticed how the man’s hair had grown long at the back, the blonde ends were folded under where they touched his shirt collar.

  ‘Sir,’ said the sergeant, his voice was husky. Again, as very gently he opened the door ‘Sir …’

  Approaching them, Monica called ‘Is he …?’

  The sergeant exhaled as though the breath hurt, ‘He’s all right, M’am,’ he said, ‘He’s all right.’ Nicholas Haig-Mercer shifted in the seat and looked up into Martin Bee’s face.

  ‘Let’s we go somewhere and talk, shall we?’ said Monica. The sergeant stepped back.

  She and Nicholas Haig-Mercer walked side by side to the old stable block. He moved as if his joints were bruised and aching. Martin Bee followed close behind them. Once, anticipating that the steps of the man in front of him might falter, he raised his arm to give support. But his assistance was not needed and so he let his arm fall back to his side.

  ‘I did it,’ said Nicholas Haig-Mercer as soon as they were seated in Lydia Lyons’ office. As they arrived she had made to leave the room but he had asked for her to be allowed to stay. Now, standing to one side, she sadly shook her head.