Learning Curve

by Catherine Aird

  There was that other death involving Derek Tridgell, which had also been deemed to have been accidental – with more cause perhaps than the one at the chemical works. That was the roof fall in the Chislet Crags and the subsequent death of Edmund Leaton. For the life of him, Sloan couldn’t think of that as a deliberate killing – more bad luck or fate, whichever of the two you believed in. But Derek Tridgell had been there then, too, and he mustn’t forget that.

  Mentally he had already categorised caving as on the list of those dangerous sports likely to cause the constabulary unnecessary work. Racing fast cars faster and faster was another of them. Dicing with death was not his own idea of fun and he was already mentally rehearsing good reasons for not allowing his infant son to have a motorcycle in the years to come.

  With no positive action still ahead, he sat back for a moment, nevertheless dissatisfied with his lack of any conclusions from his thinking, although somewhere at the back of his mind he was aware of a small inconsistency – something that didn’t quite tie up. It was niggling away but he couldn’t bring it to mind. He sat quite still, willing it to come to him but, try as he might, he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  As he set his empty mug down, it did come to him exactly what was so conspicuously lacking in this case: there was no scene of crime to be inspected and thus start the police on a trail to a killer.

  And no remains to be seen either.

  Which was even less helpful.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The next visitor to arrive at Legate Lodge in Friar’s Flensant that morning clearly felt no need to stand on ceremony. True, she did ring the doorbell first but she opened the front door without waiting for it to be answered, calling out as she did so, ‘Cooee, anyone at home? Can I come in?’

  The new arrival was tall and had auburn hair that was set off to perfection by a cream scarf and light brown coat. She was startlingly good-looking in a timeless way, with the almost translucent complexion that often goes with auburn hair. She was one of those fortunate women who could easily stay at a declared age of thirty-nine for another decade.

  Marion Tridgell welcomed her with open arms. ‘Come along in, Amelia, and I’ll put some coffee on. It’s lovely to see you.’

  ‘I thought it was high time I came to see you all,’ said Amelia Thornycroft, pulling off the scarf and settling herself down comfortably at the kitchen table. ‘And see how you are all getting along.’

  Marion Tridgell, having switched on the coffee percolator, pulled up a chair opposite her and unburdened herself to her friend. ‘Have you heard about our latest excitement? If that’s the right way to describe it.’ She winced. ‘I’m not sure that it is.’

  Amelia Thornycroft shook her head and said, ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Someone tried to run Paul and Jane down last night on their way home from the pub.’

  ‘No! Not on purpose, surely?’

  ‘Paul says so.’

  ‘Never!’ She put out a hand to Marion. ‘You poor dear – I would have thought you’d have had quite enough to contend with this year already.’

  ‘I have,’ responded Marion wearily. ‘But this was a bit different. And unexpected.’ She recounted the events of the night before to her friend to the accompaniment of increasingly loud thumps from the coffee percolator.

  Amelia Thornycroft opened her blue eyes wide. ‘I can’t really believe it.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I can either, but the police think it wasn’t an accident.’ Nobody was going to underestimate Marion Tridgell’s age today. On the contrary. Last night’s events had visibly aged her.

  ‘A hit-and-run, you mean?’

  ‘No,’ said Marion Tridgell. ‘I do mean on purpose.’

  ‘My dear, how awful. Who could do a thing like that? And why on earth would they want to anyway?’

  ‘I can’t begin to imagine. Oh, Amelia, I can’t even think straight about it all.’

  ‘Oh, dear. The poor lambs. And how are they? The children, I mean.’

  ‘Jane’s quite upset and very quiet and Paul …’ she paused. ‘I’m not sure about Paul. He seems more cross than anything. And he’s not saying much either.’

  Amelia smiled, emphasising the laughter lines on her face. ‘Keeping quiet? That doesn’t sound like the Paul whom we all know and love.’

  This elicited something like a smile at last from Marion. ‘It’s not the only thing that’s worrying me, Amelia. Now he’s quite determined to go caving like his father.’ Mentioning her late husband by name was a stage in her bereavement journey that had yet to be reached.

  ‘Paul?’ Amelia raised her delicately arched eyebrows. ‘I thought he didn’t like the sport, if a sport is what it is. I’m never sure about that.’

  ‘I call it a madness,’ said Marion trenchantly. ‘I always did.’

  ‘Don’t you remember Derek trying to interest him in it ages ago? And him saying “not likely” or improper words to that effect.’

  ‘I do,’ Paul’s mother said. ‘That’s what’s so strange about him wanting to take it up now.’

  A shadow crossed Amelia Thornycroft’s face. ‘He knows what happened to my poor Edmund down that awful cave, doesn’t he?’

  Marion nodded sympathetically. ‘He does. His father explained it to him at the time, although he was much younger then.’

  ‘Seven years is a long time at that age.’ She sighed. ‘Not when you’re older, though. It still seems like yesterday that Edmund died. Lucy was only three and I don’t think she really remembers him. Or if she does, it’s all a bit of a blur now.’ Deftly, she changed the subject. ‘Actually, Marion, strictly between ourselves, Lucy’s getting a bit difficult these days.’

  ‘She’s beginning to grow up, that’s all, Amelia. Children do.’

  ‘I know, but she will call Simon her faux pas. Oh, I know it’s quite clever but I’m not sure he really likes it. It was all my fault, too.’ She brushed her hair back from her forehead. ‘Do you remember when I had that lovely hat? The imitation fur one?’

  ‘Of course, I do.’ She smiled. ‘You looked great in it. It really suited you.’

  ‘Well, Lucy asked me what sort of animal the fur had come from – you know how they all go through that saving animals phase – so I explained that it wasn’t real fur but false and that was what “faux” meant.’

  ‘Which it does, of course.’

  ‘Exactly. Then she heard the expression “faux pas” somewhere else and put two and two together.’

  ‘And made five,’ said Marion sympathetically.

  ‘And Simon just thinks she’s calling him a mistake.’

  ‘The other sort of faux pas,’ agreed Marion. ‘The sort of mistake you hope you never make in public.’

  Amelia Thornycroft frowned. ‘I must remember to tell Simon about the hat and how the name came about.’

  ‘It must always be difficult, being a step-parent,’ said Marion, switching off the percolator and bringing two mugs over to the table. She soon got back to what was really worrying her. ‘Kate Booth has been teaching Paul the ropes. About caving, I mean. Abseiling, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Dear Kate,’ Amelia said absently. ‘Simon says she’s a great caver. What is it he calls her? A real rock chick, that’s it.’

  ‘And there’s all his father’s caving tackle still here in the garage,’ persisted Marion. ‘He wouldn’t let me give it away when he got ill.’ It was Marion’s turn to let a shadow cross her face. ‘Oh, Amelia, we are a great pair of lookers-back, aren’t we?’

  Amelia Thornycroft brushed a tear away from the corner of her eye and said quietly, ‘I think we should both be grateful that we’ve got good things to look back on, that’s all.’

  Marion Tridgell nodded, tacitly agreeing with her. ‘The past is safe. Nobody can change that. It’s the future I’m so concerned about. Last night was no accident. Paul is quite sure about that and I know him well enough to believe him, but he’s not saying anything like enough about it to anyone – least
of all the police – for my liking.’

  Amelia stared at her friend. ‘You mean you think he knows who was driving?’

  ‘I’m very much afraid so – I know what he’s like, you see. Oh, Amelia,’ she said with taut lips, ‘I’m so worried about him.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’ Amelia picked up her mug, draining the last of her coffee. As she set it back on the kitchen table she said, ‘Can I see Jane and Paul before I go? I don’t like the sound of what’s happened one little bit.’

  Given three assignments, one of which included seeing a Rolls-Royce, there was no contest in Detective Constable Crosby’s mind as to where he should go first, whatever his orders. He made his way to Luston Chemicals and drew up at the entrance to the car park. An attendant appeared at his side as if by magic and asked him his business.

  Crosby flashed his warrant card in front of the man. ‘I’d like to examine the boss’s car, please,’ he said.

  ‘Not without the boss’s say-so,’ responded the man. He was chewing gum. ‘You’ll have to ask him first.’

  ‘As much as your job’s worth, I suppose,’ parroted Crosby.

  ‘Too right, mate. What’s he gone and done now, then?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s not for me to say,’ said Crosby austerely.

  ‘You’ll be lucky to catch him at it, whatever it is,’ said the man complacently. ‘Clever chap is our Ralph Iddon. Very.’

  ‘It’s his car I want to see, not him.’

  ‘Which one? He’s got two.’

  ‘Both of them, then. What are they?’

  ‘A Roller for high days and holidays and a runabout for everyday.’

  ‘And which one did he go home in last night?’

  The man waved his hand round the large open parking lot. ‘Which do you think, mate? Would you leave that much money all on its lonesome here overnight?’

  ‘No,’ said Crosby, who chained his own bicycle up to the nearest stanchion, day or night. He looked round. ‘So where is it now, then?’

  He sniffed. ‘Standing outside the front door of the works to impress the natives as usual, I expect.’

  ‘And the runabout?’

  The man indicated a small car, tucked neatly into a nearby parking bay. Crosby photographed it, then examined it carefully without finding any evidence of its having had an impact with anything untoward.

  ‘And what time did Mr Iddon leave here yesterday?’ he asked.

  The man scratched his head. ‘He knocked off early, being the boss. About four, I would say.’

  ‘Some people have all the luck.’ Police hours were a sore subject with Crosby, who was only just getting used to the fact that they were seldom only from nine to five on weekdays.

  ‘Mind you,’ conceded the man, ‘he’s an early bird. I will say that for him.’

  ‘Catches the worm, does he?’ said Crosby, his attention caught by a motorist nosing around the crowded car park for somewhere to leave his vehicle. There was one vacant space quite near the entrance but the driver didn’t attempt to enter it. Instead he went on driving around looking for another one. Crosby pointed to the space. ‘That’s reserved for the Roller, is it?’

  The man shook his head. ‘No, that’s the place that was reserved for the car of the late Michael Linane, our old head of sales. Nobody wants to be the first to use it since he died. And so they don’t.’

  Crosby leafed through his memory. ‘The poor guy who ended up in a vat of the nasty stuff?’

  ‘That was him.’

  ‘Funny business, that,’ offered Crosby.

  ‘I’ll say, especially as two blokes from another firm were here at the time – and they had it in for him, big time. If you ask me …’ He stopped.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘They didn’t get to the bottom of it. They tried, all right. Place was swarming with health and safety people at the time and now they’ve all come back again all this time after.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Crosby.

  ‘Didn’t do the job properly the first time, I expect. You know what they’re like.’

  ‘Go on.’

  But the man wouldn’t say anything more even when Crosby asked about another vacancy in the firm.

  ‘Which was that then?’ asked the car park man.

  ‘Your chief chemist, Chris Honley,’ said Crosby, a name coming back to him.

  ‘Oh, him.’ The man aimed some chewing gum at the floor. ‘That rat.’

  ‘Left a sinking ship, has he?’ suggested Crosby provocatively.

  ‘Certainly not. We’re doing all right here, we are.’

  ‘So where’s his old parking space, then?’

  ‘Filled immediately,’ said the man, spitting out the residue of his chewing gum in a meaningful way.

  The time spent by Crosby examining the Rolls-Royce was more of a tribute to the car than police business. So was his photograph.

  ‘Lovely, isn’t she?’ said Ralph Iddon. ‘You can’t beat the best.’ They were standing outside the front of Luston Chemicals.

  ‘Not bad,’ pronounced Detective Constable Crosby. ‘Not bad at all.’

  Taking this as high praise, Iddon opened the driver’s door. ‘Like to sit in it?’

  ‘You bet, sir,’ said Crosby. He had already taken a good look at the left-hand nearside of the vehicle and had seen not a single scratch or dent in it. ‘Just as a matter of form, sir, can you tell me where you were last night?’

  The chairman of Luston Chemicals gave the constable a very straight look and said without hesitation, ‘In the town hall speaking to the Luston Chamber of Trade about the parlous condition of today’s manufacturing industry.’ He pursed his lips and said drily, ‘If it’s an alibi you’re after I daresay enough of the audience were still awake to give me one.’

  ‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary, sir, thank you,’ said Crosby, reluctantly clambering out of the car. ‘Just a routine enquiry.’

  ‘About something that wasn’t routine, though, I daresay,’ deduced the other man without difficulty. ‘And I suppose you are going to say now that you can’t tell me exactly what.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I am. I mean, I can’t.’ He fell back on another well-honed phrase. ‘Not until all our enquiries are complete.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The great disadvantage of Detective Inspector Sloan’s office as a place for deep thought – or even simple contemplation – was soon made manifest by the buzz of the telephone disturbing his concentration.

  ‘That you, Sloan?’ At the other end of the line was Superintendent Leeyes summoning him to his office. Sloan put his notes into a neat pile on his desk and duly presented himself in front of his superior officer, trying to look attentive.

  ‘What’s all this about a road traffic accident at Friar’s Flensant last night?’ asked that luminary, pulling the open folder that lay on his desk towards him and staring at a report.

  ‘We don’t think it was an accident and neither does Paul Tridgell,’ said Sloan.

  ‘Like that, is it?’ scowled the superintendent.

  ‘A hit-and-run,’ amplified Sloan, ‘but not an accident.’

  ‘And, pray, may I ask, does that help or hinder your enquiries?’

  ‘It gives some substance to them,’ said Sloan guardedly.

  ‘What I would really like, Sloan,’ said Leeyes, ‘is a progress report on the whole Tridgell affair. Soon.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ began Sloan.

  ‘And,’ he added testily, ‘I don’t just want a bleat about the present state of play.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Or that you’re planning to do something useful next either. I want to know exactly what you’ve found out so far. Only the facts, please, Sloan.’ He sniffed. ‘Speculation should come after the facts, not before, remember.’

  Detective Inspector Sloan took a deep breath and plunged into speech. ‘Not a lot of them to go on yet, I’m afraid, sir,’ he admitted. ‘The deceased – Derek Tridgell – was present at one death – the one in th
e cave – and might – we don’t know for certain – have been present at another – the drowning of a man in a vat of undisclosed contents.’

  ‘Not malmsey, anyway,’ pronounced Leeyes.

  ‘Beg pardon, sir?’

  ‘It was how they did for the Duke of Clarence,’ said Leeyes simply.

  ‘The pub in Staple St James?’ said Sloan, thoroughly confused. ‘Never any trouble there to speak of, sir. Not that I’ve heard, anyway. The publican had been in the army. Sergeant, I think. Big chap, not to be trifled with.’

  ‘No, no, not him. The brother of King Richard III,’ said Leeyes. ‘He was drowned in a butt of the stuff.’

  Sloan searched his mind and then it came to him. That must have come not from a well-run public house out in the country named after a Duke of Clarence but from a course on the later Plantagenets once attended by the superintendent. It had been a brief encounter, the superintendent taking the view that any half-decent police investigation would have very soon established beyond doubt whom it was who had been responsible for the deaths of the two little princes in the Tower, means, motive and opportunity in his view all being present in abundance. What had been missing, in his view, was justice.

  Sloan hurried on. ‘Derek Tridgell’s connection with the third death is only tangential, sir, since it involved his son, not him, but he is said to have facilitated the son’s going to South America quite soon after being involved in an unresolved fatal road traffic accident.’

  The superintendent perked up immediately and looked quite cheerful for once. ‘Extradition’s a lot easier from there these days than it used to be, Sloan.’

  ‘No warrant was issued after the accident, sir.’ Sloan shook his head. ‘Unfortunately it couldn’t be established who to serve it on.’