Puppet for a Corpse

by Dorothy Simpson

  “Are you suggesting that it was an accident, then?”

  Lowrie stared at Thanet and then, slowly, returned to his desk and sat down. “My God,” he said. “I see what you mean.”

  “Exactly. You really do think that it is out of the question, that it could have been an accident?”

  “Oh absolutely. No doctor in his right mind would go to bed with a supply of pills and a bottle of alcohol on his bedside table.”

  “Even if he had a cold? Mrs Pettifer said he thought he had one coming on.”

  “Not for any reason. We’re too aware of the dangers of taking an extra pill—or pills—while in a drowsy or semiconscious state. And of course, alcohol compounds the situation. Look, I know the point at issue is that Pettifer wasn’t in his right mind, but I absolutely refuse to accept that. Though there’s the note of course …” Lowrie ran a hand distractedly over his bald pate. “I’m beginning to feel somewhat confused.”

  No more confused than I am, thought Thanet. “Anyway, you see my difficulty. I do ask, of course, that you treat this conversation as confidential. For the moment we are officially treating this as a case of suicide.”

  “Yes, yes, I see that you must. But … Look, Inspector—and of course it goes without saying that this is in confidence—let’s not beat about the bush. We’re now talking about murder, aren’t we?”

  “Possibly.”

  “I really find it difficult to believe that we are having this conversation. To associate Arnold with the idea of suicide is difficult enough, but murder …” He gave a little half-laugh. “Before I know where I am you’ll be asking for my alibi.”

  Thanet said nothing, merely raised his eyebrows a fraction.

  “Good God, man, you surely can’t be thinking …” Lowrie’s face was a study in outraged disbelief. Then, with a visible effort he pulled himself together. “Well, I suppose that’s reasonable enough. After all, I’m the one who’s been insisting it couldn’t have been suicide. As it happens, I’m lucky. Mrs Barnet and I both attended a meeting in Sturrenden last night. It didn’t end until ten—and in case you’re thinking I could have slipped out, I’ll add that I was in the chair.”

  “And afterwards?”

  “Someone who lives near her offered Mrs Barnet a lift and I went home with a colleague. My wife is away at present, visiting her mother, and I didn’t feel like going home early to an empty house.”

  “And the colleague was …?”

  “Dr Phillips. Do you know him?”

  Thanet’s own GP. “Yes … ‘with’, you said …?”

  “Well, not in the same car, obviously. But I followed his, all the way from the meeting—and stayed there until one in the morning. You can check with him, if you like.”

  So it looked as though Lowrie really was in the clear. “If it becomes necessary, I will. Though as I said, this is still officially a case of suicide. Meanwhile, perhaps I could enlist your help.”

  Lowrie sat back, steepled his fingers. “By all means. Anything I can do … My two o’clock appointment has been cancelled, so I’m at your disposal.”

  “Facts first then,” said Thanet. “Mrs Barnet has given me a brief outline of the set-up here, so I won’t need to bother you with that, but there was one point I wondered about. I gather that your quota of patients in this practice is rather high and that, especially with Dr Fir away at the moment and his locum unable to come at the last minute, the pressure of work has been considerable. Could overwork have been a contributory factor to Dr Pettifer’s death, assuming that it was suicide?”

  “I don’t think so for a moment. Let me explain. Our quotas are high, yes, but different doctors have different methods and those methods determine the amount of time spent with patients. Pettifer was brisk, brief, thorough. He got through his surgeries far more quickly than any of the rest of us. So I really don’t think he would have found the high quota a problem.”

  “You make him sound a bit inhuman.”

  “Do I? I didn’t intend to. I suppose he could appear that way to someone who didn’t know him. Certainly he wasn’t easy to know. He was pretty reserved, didn’t show his feelings much.”

  “In any case, you wouldn’t say that there were any problems with the practice that could have bothered him sufficiently to prey on his mind.”

  “I’m pretty certain that if there had been I’d have been aware of them.”

  But there was a shadow at the back of Lowrie’s eyes and Thanet recognised the neat evasion, stored it away for future investigation. He didn’t want to antagonise Lowrie by pressing him at this point for information he was reluctant to give. There was one matter in which he particularly needed his cooperation.

  “I was wondering, for example, if there could have been a patient, or relative of a patient, perhaps, who might have had a grudge against Dr Pettifer? One often hears of cases in which people feel they have been neglected or received the wrong treatment …”

  “There certainly wasn’t anything like that to my knowlege. And if there had been, I should think I’d have known. Such people are anything but quiet and unobtrusive. And surely it would have been impossible for anyone on the fringe of Pettifer’s life to stage the circumstances in which he died?”

  “Difficult, certainly. Impossible … well, I’m not so sure. Given sufficient intelligence and determination … I do think it’s a possibility we can’t afford to ignore. So I was wondering if you might be willing to glance through Dr Pettifer’s records and check—I’m sorry, I know that this is a lot to ask, especially as you will now inevitably be under even greater pressure of work … I hesitate to offer you anyone to help. I know how important the question of confidentiality is to doctors and in any case the presence of one of my men here might give rise to undesirable speculation.”

  “Quite. Perhaps I’ll ask Mrs Barnet to give me a hand. I can rely absolutely on her discretion … Very well, Inspector. But I’m afraid it might take a little time.”

  “I appreciate that. And thank you. Now, leaving that possibility aside, I must ask you to think again if there could have been any other problem—medical, financial or marital—which might have been preying on his mind.”

  “I have thought. And no, there wasn’t, not to my knowledge. Financially, he was very comfortably off. He didn’t depend on the practice for a living. His first wife was a wealthy woman and he inherited most of her estate. Some of it was of course left in trust for their son—adopted son, perhaps I should say.”

  “Adopted?”

  “Yes. He’s about fifteen now. Away at school. Nice boy, very. He’ll be really cut up about this.”

  “So the baby which the present Mrs Pettifer is expecting would have been Pettifer’s first child.”

  “Yes. Which makes the idea of suicide even more incomprehensible.”

  “He was pleased about it?”

  “Like a dog with two tails.” Lowrie smiled. “Interesting, really, when you think they’d both said in no uncertain terms that they had no intention of having any children.”

  “Really?”

  “Most emphatically. And, frankly, I was a bit surprised how delighted he was about it. He never found it easy to relate to children, didn’t even particularly like them, I should say. It was difficult for him to unbend sufficiently to get down to their level … But then, I suppose one’s own child is different.”

  “He didn’t get on with his adopted son, then? Andrew, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Andrew. Oh, don’t misunderstand me, he became very fond of the boy. I think he found it difficult when Andy was a baby, but then many men do. But over the years he grew very attached to him, in his own way. Perhaps he realised that the same thing would happen with the new baby. And, as I say, when it’s one’s own child … In any case, I suppose nothing should surprise me in that area any more. I’ve seen it all. Childless couples who change their mind and have them, couples who don’t want them and keep on having them and, worst of all, those who simply can’t conceive. Pettifer�
�s first wife, Diana, was one of those. Finally, they decided to adopt. Poor Diana, she had a pretty bad time of it one way and the other. She was only forty when she died.”

  “Cancer, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. Of the stomach.” Lowrie grimaced.

  “I wonder how the boy feels about the new baby.”

  “Andy?” Lowrie frowned. “I’m not sure.”

  “Was he put out when his father married again?”

  “He wasn’t very happy about it.” Lowrie sighed. “It would be less than honest of me if I didn’t admit that he and his stepmother didn’t get on. He’s at a very vulnerable age, of course, and she has had no experience of children, let alone adolescents—who, as you no doubt know, can be the very devil even with the most loving and understanding of parents.”

  “So I believe.” Thanet grinned. “The problems of parenthood never disappear, I’m told. They just change their nature. Er … What about Dr Pettifer’s relationship with his wife?” He was aware that they were getting on to delicate ground here, wasn’t sure how Lowrie would respond. But he needn’t have worried.

  “He idolised her,” Lowrie said promptly. “Absolutely adored her. Let me put it this way. Pettifer may have appeared a cold fish to those who didn’t know him, but those who did knew that he had two overriding passions—his wife and his work. And I’d be hard put to it to say which mattered more to him. Certainly he has always been devoted to his work and his second marriage made no difference to his commitment to it, but there’s no doubt that ever since he first set eyes on Gemma he’s been head over heels in love with her. Extraordinary how a level-headed fellow like him can lose all sense of prudence or commonsense when he goes overboard. He proposed the first week he saw her on stage, you know. It was flowers, gifts, the old stage-door routine every night.”

  “You think it was an unwise choice, then?”

  “Oh no. Not at all.” Lowrie was emphatic. “They’ve been very happy together. I think Gemma found with him exactly what she needed—the security of marriage combined with the freedom to pursue her career.”

  “He didn’t object to her doing so?”

  “Not in the least. He was very proud of her reputation as an actress. She is a very fine one, you know.”

  “Yes. I’ve seen her. In Away Day, a few months ago. But the baby … It doesn’t sound as though children would fit into her scheme of things.”

  “Well as I said, he was over the moon about it. She … well, I think it took her longer to adjust to the idea. But once she had … No, they were both looking forward very much to the child’s arrival. As I say, that’s one of the reasons why I find the idea of suicide so impossible.”

  “What about Dr Pettifer’s health? Was it good?”

  “Disgustingly so. Mind, he took good care of it. He was something of an exercise fanatic. Did his daily dozen every morning, playing squash with Dr Fir twice a week … In all the years I’ve known him, he’s never had anything more serious than a common cold. He didn’t smoke, drank only occasionally, ate moderately and had perfect sight and hearing—no, there was a brief worry about his eyesight last year, but that came to nothing.”

  The telephone rang.

  “Excuse me,” said Lowrie. Then, “It’s for you, Inspector.”

  It was Lineham. “Sorry to disturb you, sir. We’ve just had a phone call from Andrew Pettifer’s school. He’s absconded.”

  Thanet groaned. “I expect he’s heading for home.”

  “That’s what the headmaster thought.”

  “How long does it take to get here?”

  “Depends how he travels. It’s only thirty miles by road, so if he hitched a lift he could be here quite soon.”

  “Is that what they thought he’d do?”

  “Yes. Public transport is tricky, apparently. The school’s right out in the country.”

  “I’ll get back. I’d more or less finished here anyway. See you shortly.”

  Thanet told Lowrie what had happened.

  “Would you like me to come with you?” offered Lowrie, standing up.

  Thanet considered. The boy would no doubt be distressed and it might be a good idea to have medical help at hand. And it would probably help for him to see a familiar face, especially in view of the fact that he didn’t get on with his stepmother. There was the housekeeper of course, but perhaps a sympathetic but detached outsider … “Thank you,” he said. “That’s very kind.”

  “I must get in touch with Dr Braintree,” Lowrie said, “to let him know what’s happened. But I can easily do that from Pettifer’s house. I do think it would be a good idea to be there when Andy arrives.”

  “Let’s hope we’ll be in time.”

  With a shared sense of urgency they hurried to the door.

  6

  Back at Pine Lodge, Thanet and Dr Lowrie were relieved to find that there was as yet no sign of Andrew. Lowrie at once commandeered the telephone and Lineham beckoned Thanet into the drawing room.

  “I hope you don’t mind, sir, but I haven’t had the body removed yet.”

  “Why not?”

  Lineham looked embarrassed. “The boy, Andrew … I didn’t know what would be the right thing to do … Whether he’d be more upset to see his father dead or to find the body already gone.”

  “Adoptive father, as a matter of fact. Yes, I see your point.” Thanet was surprised. Lineham did not usually demonstrate such sensitivity.

  “Oh, Andrew’s adopted? I didn’t realise.”

  “Does it make any difference?”

  “I don’t know. I … When my own father was killed, well, for ages I didn’t really believe he was dead. Years, even. I never saw him dead, you see.” Lineham gave a little, awkward laugh. “Stupid, really. I mean, I was only six, much too young to be shown dead bodies anyway but, well, it didn’t seem possible that he could be dead, somehow. He’d just said goodbye like any other morning, only that day he never came back. So today I thought … idiotic, I suppose. Andrew’s practically grown up, isn’t he? And if Dr Pettifer was only his adoptive father …”

  “Only? Don’t underestimate the power of a relationship like that, Mike. The very fact that the boy’s absconded shows how upset he is. And although fifteen sounds pretty grown up, it’s a very vulnerable age. I think you did the right thing.” Although he was more than twice that age now, Thanet could still remember the intensity of it, the swings from black despair to dizzy euphoria, the crippling uncertainties which the adolescent has to endure in the search for his final identity. “Anyway, did you manage to find out where Mrs Pettifer stayed last night?”

  “The Lombard Hotel, in Lombard Square. I checked.”

  “Any idea what time she arrived?”

  “The receptionist couldn’t be sure. The one I spoke to wasn’t on duty last night and even if she had been, it’s a pretty big hotel and busy, so I don’t suppose she’d have remembered. But she did say that judging by the position of Mrs Pettifer’s name in the register it would have been early to mid-evening.”

  “I expect she checked in before meeting her agent for dinner.”

  “Probably. Anyway, I didn’t press it. She did say she could try to find out more if I wished, but I said not to worry at the moment. I didn’t want to arouse too much interest at this stage.”

  “Fine. What about the cocoa mug?”

  “Mrs Price found it in the sink, this morning. She automatically washed it up and put it away.”

  “Pity. Though I don’t suppose it matters all that much. But it does corroborate Mrs Pettifer’s story. What about the paracetamol container?”

  “In the bathroom cabinet, as Mrs Pettifer said. Half full.”

  Thanet strolled restlessly across to the window. A little wind had sprung up and the branches of the tall shrubs in the garden were swaying and dipping with the sinuous grace of eastern dancers. Fallen leaves stippled the lawn with random patterns of scarlet and gold. “We must remember to ring dough’s garage later on this afternoon, Mike, find out exa
ctly what was wrong with Dr Pettifer’s car.” Thanet stiffened. “There’s a boy turning into the drive. Quickly, tell Dr Lowrie.” He stood back and, feeling like an old lady who spies on her neighbours, watched Andrew Pettifer from behind a curtain.

  The boy was tall and thin with the lankiness of adolescence. Hands in pockets, shoulders hunched, head down, feet kicking moodily at the gravel, he looked … defeated, Thanet thought. The boy paused to glance up at the house and scowled as he noticed for the first time the policeman on duty at the front door. He took his hands out of his pockets and straightened his shoulders before moving forward again.

  There was a murmur of voices in the hall and Dr Lowrie put his head around the door. “I’m just going upstairs with Andrew.”

  Ten minutes later he led the boy into the drawing room, made the introductions.

  “Dr Lowrie says my father left a note,” Andrew said to Thanet through stiff lips. He was very pale.

  Thanet, somewhat belatedly, had slipped the letter into a transparent polythene envelope. “I’m sorry,” he said, as Andrew made to take it out, “could you leave it in the cover?”

  The boy frowned, shot Thanet a resentful glance before scanning the brief message. Then he read it again. And again. And stilled.

  Thanet found that he was holding his breath.

  For a long moment the boy remained motionless and then, slowly, raised his head to stare at Thanet.

  “My father didn’t write this,” he said flatly.

  Tiny, almost imperceptible movements from Lineham and Dr Lowrie betrayed their tension as Thanet said carefully, “Oh? What makes you say that?”

  “This,” Andrew’s finger stabbed at the plastic. “Whoever wrote this has spelt my name wrong.” He put the letter down and feverishly began to empty out his pockets.

  The three men waited in silence, too conscious of the significance of the moment to want to smile at the extraordinary collection of objects which mounted up on the low table: grubby handkerchief, notebook, diary, bits of string, a couple of screws, a magnifying glass, pens, pencils, a rubber, half a broken ruler, coins, wallet, golf ball, penknife and a number of tattered envelopes, each scrutinised and discarded. They all knew what he was looking for, of course: a letter from his father.