Recalled to Death

by Priscilla Masters

  It was at this point that Verity decided to invite them in.

  She did so with reluctance and led them into a chintzy room, waving them towards a sofa and asking a young foreign girl to serve tea. She did not ask them whether they would prefer coffee. She would obviously go so far and no farther.

  She sat opposite them, elegant in white trousers and a black top, crossed her legs and spoke. ‘Am I to understand you’re re-investigating my husband’s death?’

  It was the perfect opening.

  ‘Indeed we are,’ Randall said with a bland smile.

  Verity licked her lips – the only sign, so far, of any nervousness.

  The tea arrived and she bought herself time by pouring it, enquiring whether they wanted milk and sugar, passing the cups around.

  The distraction had given Randall time to think too. He fixed his eyes on her and went for the jugular. ‘We have reason to believe,’ he said, ‘that the person you buried and claimed the life insurance for following the sailing accident was not, in fact, your husband, but his friend, Mr Poulson.’

  He was leaving out any accusations of infidelity – for the moment.

  Verity’s eyes flickered, disturbance in their ocean-blue depths. Her mouth opened and quickly closed as though to supress anything that might have slipped out. It wasn’t much of a sign but to the two watching officers it looked very much like panic.

  ‘What on earth makes you think that?’ Her voice was only slightly less controlled, a little more harsh. She blinked.

  ‘A man was murdered recently in Shrewsbury, Shropshire,’ Randall said. ‘We have reason to believe that he is or was your husband.’

  Verity frowned. It wasn’t marked by much movement in her forehead – Botox, Randall guessed.

  ‘This man was a vagrant.’

  Verity laughed. ‘You’re trying to tell me that Simeon was a vagrant? Why?’ She threw her arms out in an all-encompassing, expansive movement. ‘Why on earth would he do that when if he really was alive he would own this place and a huge flourishing factory?’

  ‘From the information he gave in his notebook it would appear following the sailing tragedy he became disillusioned with life.’ Randall was choosing his words and phrases very carefully, delicately avoiding implicating Verity van Helsing in her husband’s attempted murder and in the actual crime of a few weeks ago.

  Verity leaned back in her chair, her face, under the make-up, pale.

  ‘We believe the Van Helsing Shoe Company,’ Randall continued smoothly, ‘was not proving quite the success that previous generations of the family had achieved.’

  Verity seized on this aspect. Her one familiar point of reference. ‘That’s true,’ she said sharply. ‘If Simeon had lived …’ She blinked a few times in rapid succession, as though blinking away threatened tears. But Randall was not deceived. ‘We found a child’s shoe stitched into his coat.’

  Verity looked startled. But she hadn’t finished fighting yet. ‘If Simeon had lived the business would have stagnated – not moved forward into the area which has proved so successful.’

  ‘Shoes for the Stars,’ Randall said, quoting one of the selling points on her website.

  In spite of the seriousness of her position and the pending accusation, Verity looked pleased with herself – almost smug, as though she had forgotten why they were there. ‘Yes,’ she agreed.

  Randall leaned forward for the kill. ‘It must have been quite a shock to you to discover that you husband was living the life of a hobo in Shropshire.’

  She blinked.

  Randall fixed his eyes on her. ‘Who was it who recognized him?’

  She licked her lips, took a sip of tea, undecided how to proceed.

  ‘We have a description of this man,’ Randall said. He’d dropped all pretence of conciliation now. ‘Who was it?’

  She couldn’t speak.

  Randall took the opportunity to press his point home. Dagger, sword, rapier thrust. Lunge. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘It’s possible, in the absence of proof, that there will be no charge made against you.’ He watched as her eyes narrowed and she started to work it all out.

  ‘But your husband was murdered and we think you know who did it. Someone recognized him on the streets of Shrewsbury and, just in case he surfaced again, possibly testified against you and your dead lover who was, incidentally, also your co-conspirator, he killed him.’

  Finally she burst. ‘Simeon was letting the business go down the chute.’ To her, this was justification.

  Randall ignored the remark or the rising animosity he felt against this woman. ‘Your co-conspirator,’ he continued, hardly pausing, ‘Rafael Poulson, who is, incidentally, buried under your husband’s name after you wrongly identified him.’

  ‘Cremated, actually.’ It gave her pleasure to score even this one small point over him.

  Randall shrugged, glanced at Talith whose face, initially impassive, was now looking at Verity van Helsing not with admiration but more with something like revulsion. As you would look at a beautiful but deadly snake.

  ‘You deliberately misidentified Rafael Poulson as your husband so you could claim life insurance.’

  ‘I was upset,’ she said. ‘Traumatized by the accident.’ She’d clearly already practised that line. It came out so pat.

  ‘And a few weeks ago someone did murder your husband,’ Randall said. ‘They cut his throat and left him. Who was it?’

  And the room suddenly fell quiet and still as though the three people in it were part of a tableaux. Randall had said what he’d come to say. Talith had kept silent, merely observing events with increasing distaste. And Verity? She didn’t yet know to play it.

  Randall waited.

  THIRTY-TWO

  They gave her five minutes, during which they watched various emotions swim across her face. Anxiety, worry, uncertainty, and finally a decision. She stood up.

  ‘Would you like to have a look around my factory?’

  It was a cue. Both officers stood up too.

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ she said, confidence now absent from her tone, ‘I’d rather travel in my own car …’ There was a hint of a smile. ‘Less conspicuous.’

  As they left the house they heard her say, very softly, to herself, ‘I always wondered who took the shoe.’

  Randall nodded.

  As expected, the factory was smart, ostentatious, sitting like a queen in beautifully landscaped grounds and a directors’ car park full of Lexuses, Mercs and Jaguars.

  Verity drew in a deep breath as the doors opened and a tall brunette rose from behind the desk and greeted her. ‘Morning, Mrs Van Helsing. We wondered what time you’d be in.’

  Then her eyes moved to the two detectives and they watched as she took this in. Without comment she sat back down in her seat, her eyes moving between the detectives and her CEO.

  Wisely, she said nothing. They glanced around the hallway lined with photographs of the Van Helsing dynasty. And there was their man. Intelligent but not too sure of himself, trying to exude confidence and competence but not quite managing either. Randall stepped forward to look closer at his face, taking in the carefully crossed hands, the benign expression, benevolent, father-like, the lack of arrogance. He would have been a good employer but not necessarily a good businessman.

  In the centre of the reception area stood a glass case with the story of the little girl who had eventually become Simeon van Helsing’s grandmother typed out alongside just one shoe. There was a darker area on the silk where the second shoe had once stood and was now in a police evidence bag in Shrewsbury.

  Verity van Helsing rapped out a question to the startled girl. ‘Is Hiram in?’

  The girl nodded. ‘He’s in … his office.’ Her voice had slowed as she patently wondered what the hell was going on.

  Verity walked slowly along a corridor, passing doors. Each door had a name on it. She passed her own door with Verity van Helsing, CEO on it and her footsteps slowed as she reached a door beyond with the na
me Hiram Schumacher, Deputy CEO. She knocked just once, opened the door and stood back.

  Schumacher fitted the bill: tall, stocky, blonde, in his forties. Initially glad to see Verity, he was not so pleased when Randall and Talith stepped forward.

  He was, at first, arrogantly blustering. ‘What on earth’s going on?’ He appealed to his boss. ‘Verity?’

  She simply regarded him without expression, without emotion, as though she was a blank canvas. There was no accusation, no recrimination. Nothing. Nothing between these two people except a sort of sorrow.

  ‘Mr Schumacher,’ Randall said. He did not want to arrest him at this point. They had absolutely no hard evidence – yet. ‘Would you mind coming to Shrewsbury Police Station?’ He gave a bland smile. ‘To help us with our enquiries.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  It was two days later that Randall again visited Martha to give her an update on the case. She knew instantly that events had gone well.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘luckily for us, Schumacher, which incidentally sounds very much like a German shoemaker, is a careless man, or should I say cocky? Or should I just say he really didn’t expect to be found out. He was completely shocked when we knocked on his door at Van Helsing’s Shoes. Who on earth would connect the apparently random murder of a tramp with him? Wealthy, successful and without a criminal record. But luckily for us he hadn’t cleaned his car properly; neither, rather stupidly, had he destroyed the clothes he was wearing that night and, believe it or not, we even have the knife – the murder weapon, back in its block in his kitchen. Twice through the dishwasher doesn’t quite remove all traces of blood. Any one of those pieces of forensic evidence would have been enough to proverbially hang him.’

  ‘So you have a case.’

  He nodded.

  ‘What was he doing up here in Shrewsbury?’

  Randall looked smug. ‘Believe it or not, he was looking into shooting some advertising here. He was looking at various locations including …’

  ‘Moreton Corbet,’ Martha supplied. ‘So what did he do? Discover our man at the ruin?’

  Randall shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘He followed him out of Shrewsbury. He’d already seen where he hung out, even the work he did for Miss Dreyfuss. He watched him in the fields and when the time came simply followed him out of Shrewsbury, waiting for his opportunity. When Van Helsing was picked up by the lorry Schumacher simply followed the vehicle until it dropped him off at Moreton Corbet. Then Schumacher went after him. Once Simeon had gone down into the cellar he – well. You know the rest.’

  ‘I don’t know why,’ she said. ‘Why would he risk it?’

  ‘He believed the factory would fold if events came to light.’

  ‘How so?’

  Randall drew in a deep breath. ‘Look at it this way, Martha. Under Van Helsing the factory had a shaky ride. It almost came close to going under. Part recession, but really our tramp wasn’t a visionary like his wife; neither was he a great businessman. He’d existed with machinery that was outdated. And he certainly wouldn’t have had the genius to organize the Shoes for the Stars campaign. Besides …’ Randall was staring out of the window at the town, ‘… there was the question of money and the attempted murder. Verity would very likely have ended up in jail whatever her story about memory loss and confusion. And all the negative publicty that would be generated around the firm …’ He paused. ‘As Schumacher put it, he was sacrificing a sprat to preserve a mackerel.’

  Martha blinked. ‘To cut his throat.’

  ‘Yes,’ Randall said. ‘An extraordinary thing. He seemed to think it would endear me to him when he said that he really hadn’t enjoyed doing that but he’d wanted to be sure that Van Helsing really was dead this time around. He’d read about another tramp being murdered and thought the police – us, of course – would be sure to think it was just gangland violence.’ Randall paused. ‘He didn’t say this and I don’t have proof, but I’m pretty sure part of his plan was to blackmail Verity.’

  ‘For money?’

  ‘Maybe for money, but possibly he’d force her to marry him – blackmail.’

  ‘Oh.’ She eyed him. ‘It wouldn’t exactly make for a very happy marriage, would it?’

  Randall shook his head.

  ‘There is one thing puzzling me,’ Martha said. ‘How did Schumacher recognize him? The two hadn’t worked together, had they? Simeon van Helsing clearly says in his account that he didn’t know him.’

  Of course, Randall thought. Martha hadn’t been there, had she; she hadn’t been to the factory.

  ‘Portraits,’ Randall explained. ‘They hang all the way around the reception area. Schumacher must have looked at them every day he walked in; the family is practically a legend.’

  ‘You have a strong case?’

  Randall nodded. ‘He’s confessed.’

  ‘So he goes to jail, whereas Verity gets off scot-free?’

  ‘We’re going to get nowhere if we go after her. There simply isn’t any evidence and she’ll just say that she was in a distraught state when she misidentified her husband. A jury would buy that and she would invite sympathy. After all, she wasn’t the killer, though I suspect that Schumacher told her he’d seen her husband and I’m pretty sure he would have told her that he’d got rid of him. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she even went to Moreton Corbet to see the scene of the crime. It’s even possible …’ Randall knew he was being fanciful here, ‘that she laid some of the flowers that we saw on his grave.’

  Martha was thoughtful, then said, ‘So now I can re-open the inquest and we have an exhumation and a reburial?’

  Again Randall nodded but he looked on his guard. ‘What are you up to, Martha?’ he asked warily.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  After the initial slow process, events now moved fast.

  The stone was discreetly removed from Rafael Poulson’s burial site and a cross with his name on it erected instead. There was nothing to exhume as he’d been cremated. The man had drowned accidentally when the boat had capsized. Hunter had become the hunted, the killer the victim. It hadn’t been exactly what he and Verity had planned, but that was how he had died and she had cleverly worked around the change in circumstances. Events had been deliberately made hazy by the survivors of the sordid little affair. Simeon van Helsing’s remains were exhumed from his anonymous grave and reburied with full honours, but Martha still felt there was unfinished business.

  Verity van Helsing had got off scot-free, which seemed wrong to her. If anything the woman had profited richly from her scheme. Whatever her ultimate goal – and Verity was a woman whose mind was as devious as Hampton Court Maze – she had played her part in her lover’s death as well as her husband’s departure from his life. And Martha was convinced that she had had something to do with her husband’s murder. Indirectly, obscurely, she was responsible. The trouble would be proving it. Hiram Schumacher was remaining silent over Verity’s part in the death at Moreton Corbet. But Martha knew instinctively that this woman was at the not only centre of the tragedies but the cause of them. A modern Lady Macbeth.

  But she had to be very careful, tread a fine line. There were rigid rules and regulations about inquests and the role of the coroner, and finger pointing at an accused was definitely not part of the procedure.

  She rang the coroner whose jurisdiction covered West Sussex, the area where the sailing tragedy had taken place, and spent a while explaining what had happened subsequently and her involvement in the case. He agreed to allow her to conduct the inquest on Rafael Poulson at the same time as that of Simeon van Helsing. Now this gave her a little more scope for her own scheme.

  She told Alex a little of her intention and he raised his eyebrows and looked vaguely concerned. ‘You sure this is a good idea?’

  She thought carefully before answering. ‘No,’ she said steadily, ‘it isn’t a good idea. But that isn’t the point. I want justice for our wandering tramp.’ She met his eyes boldly. ‘That’s what it’s abou
t, Alex – justice.’

  He nodded and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He was frowning, his long legs restless. Finally he got up and left.

  And so her court was reconvened late in November and she met Verity van Helsing for the first time face-to-face, summoned as a witness. Martha wasn’t surprised to feel instant revulsion for the woman.

  The press were there, taking notes, curious about the breaking story, scenting blood. As she took her seat, Martha reflected on recent events. Simeon had been quietly reburied with dignity in Shrewsbury and Genevieve Dreyfuss, Martha knew, visited the grave often and laid flowers on it. Martha knew she did this out of a sense of misguided guilt, but at least he had someone to mourn him.

  She also knew that the insurance company who had paid up the hefty sum on Simeon’s life (and whose idea had that been? Martha wondered) were ‘having talks’ with Verity. Whether it would lead to a criminal conviction for fraud Martha didn’t know, but she understood that there would be a fine for false information and possibly the life insurance money would have to be repaid. Perhaps that should suffice. But it wouldn’t be enough for her. She wanted more.

  Not surprisingly, when Jericho had contacted Mrs Van Helsing to summon her to court she had demurred. The publicity would, she had said, damage her business and was it really necessary as she had nothing to contribute with regards to her husband’s murder. Jericho, under instruction from Martha, had insisted, hinting that she could be subpoenaed to appear if necessary. And that, he had said, adding this little bit off his own bat, might provoke even more interest and adverse publicity.

  ‘Surely,’ he’d said cleverly, ‘you’d want to be at the inquest of your husband and his … close friend?’

  She’d had no answer to that.

  Well then, Martha thought, if that’s the best we can do, so be it. Let’s damage your business, widow Van Helsing.

  27 November was a Thursday and dawned bright and cold. Martha donned a navy suit – sometimes one had to get out of black. Underneath the jacket she wore a white silk blouse and finished it all with high-heeled navy shoes, the sort you could walk in. She felt she should dress up for Simeon van Helsing’s day in court.