“I’m going to ask DI Metcalfe to assign responsibilities in a minute so that we can crack on with all of this straight away,” Collison said. “But before we do that, there is one further element to this which we need to explore. Karen, please.”
“Another point we need to consider,” Willis explained, “is whether the evidence was dumped in the loft space almost at random, simply because the killer had access to it and it was a convenient place to stash stuff, or whether it was chosen deliberately. If it was, then it may have been chosen to incriminate Gary Clarke, in which case we need to investigate if anyone out there bore him a grudge.”
Desai put her hand up. “Isn’t that a dangerous assumption?” she asked.
Two or three of the new team members looked at her strangely.
“I can see a few of you looking puzzled that a DC should challenge the view of a senior officer—me, that is,” Collison said with a smile. “There’s a reason for that. I believe that the only way we can make real progress is to test all our arguments and assumptions as we come up with them, so please feel free to do exactly that. Having been on the team before, she already knows this. Go on, Priya.”
“Well, sir. If anybody in the house had access to the space, then would it necessarily have been Clarke whom someone was looking to implicate? I agree he’s the most likely candidate since his door opens directly under the loft, but it could actually have been any one of the four tenants.”
“Good point,” Collison conceded. “Put it on the board. Anything else, anyone? No? Then carry on please, Bob.”
As Metcalfe began to assign responsibilities someone slipped into the room. He waited for him to finish and then approached Collison. “Superintendent Collison, sir? I’m DI Andrew Leach. The AC Crime asked me to join the enquiry.”
“That’s very kind of the ACC,” Collison said, puzzled, “but I already have a DI—Bob Metcalfe over there.”
“The ACC is well aware of that, sir, and has every confidence in DI Metcalfe. Indeed, I understand that he has already written something very favourable on his file on your recommendation.”
“Well, then?”
Leach looked uncomfortable. “The ACC thought it might be helpful to have a fresh pair of eyes on the case, sir. Someone who wasn’t, ah, involved in the initial enquiry. I’m just here as an observer, but please feel free to make use of me in any way you wish if you think I can be of help.”
“I see,” Collison replied. “Bob, are you free for a moment?”
Metcalfe came over.
“Bob, this is DI Andrew Leach. The ACC has asked him to sit in as an observer.”
“Very good, sir,” Metcalfe responded woodenly.
“I’m just wondering if there’s any aspect of this enquiry that he could take charge of?”
“Well, there’s the freeholder angle, sir. I was wondering how we were going to take care of that, to be honest. I need four bodies for the four flats, eight really if we’re to do it justice, and then there’s the possible grudge angle to look into…”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Collison concurred. “But presumably you’ll need time to read yourself into the case, Andrew?”
“Not necessary, thank you, sir,” Leach replied. “I’ve already read the files. I did have a question before we start, though.”
“Go ahead.”
“I’m not entirely clear about how the profiler came to be involved, nor about exactly how his profile was used. Did it lead you to Clarke?”
“Technically, it did,” Collison said, sitting down on one of the desks. “But only in the sense that it narrowed down our field of search. It suggested, for example, that our killer lived in the area, and might have received treatment at some time for a sexually transmitted disease. That he would probably be socially inept, inadequate and a fantasist. Clarke fitted the profile like a glove.”
“Yet he was innocent,” Leach pointed out.
Silence greeted his words.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Leach said. “I didn’t mean to imply any criticism. Having read the files, I agree that the case against Clarke seemed obvious and overwhelming. I was just wondering exactly what part the profiler played and how he reached his conclusions. Might it be possible for me to meet with him?”
“No!” Willis broke in before she could stop herself.
“What DC Willis means,” Collison said smoothly, “is that sadly Dr Collins is most unwell at the moment. He can’t see anyone.”
“Oh dear,” Leach replied. “When will he be able to speak to me, do you think?”
“Not for quite a while,” Collison said. “DC Willis and I saw him last night and he really is quite sick.”
“But I thought you said, sir,” Leach persisted, “that he wasn’t able to see anyone? If he’s well enough to see two members of the team then surely another one wouldn’t make that much difference?”
Collison sighed heavily. Karen and Bob looked at each other.
“DC Willis saw him because she does every day; she lives with him,” he said flatly. “I saw him at her request because she thought it might help with his recovery. As to that, it’s too early to say.”
Leach looked at him expectantly, as though assuming that this was only the beginning of an explanation.
“If you must know,” Willis burst out, “Peter has had some sort of breakdown. He blames himself for Clarke’s conviction and so also for his death. It’s nonsense, of course. He was convicted by the jury on the evidence presented in court and nobody ever mentioned the profile, but that’s the way it is. He won’t be able to have a sensible conversation with anyone for quite some time.”
“Oh dear,” Leach said again, and then, “I’m sorry; that must sound very insensitive and inadequate—I didn’t mean it to. I am genuinely very sorry to hear that. It’s awkward, though. The ACC specifically wanted me to look into the whole issue of the profile.”
“Well,” Metcalfe interjected decisively, “the ACC will just have to wait, I’m afraid.”
“So it would seem,” Leach murmured.
Chapter Fifteen
“I hope you’ve done your homework, Bob?” Collison asked as they stood outside the door.
“I think so, sir,” he replied. “There hasn’t been time to go back and read the books, but I’ve been all over the internet looking at Peter Wimsey sites, so I think I’ve got most of the background.”
“Good man,” Collison said approvingly as he rang the bell. “Don’t worry, Karen and I will help you through anything that crops up. The main thing to remember is that you’re his valet and that at the time Sayers was writing all this class stuff was really important. So make sure you call Peter and Karen ‘my lord’ and ‘my lady’ respectively.”
“And you, guv?”
“Difficult to be sure, since I don’t quite know what stage my career is supposed to have reached yet. I think I start out as a sergeant and end up as a Commander, no less. I’m also Wimsey’s brother-in-law, by the way. I’m married to his sister, Lady Mary. You’d better play safe and just call me ‘Mr Parker.’ Oh, hello, Karen.”
Metcalfe gasped involuntarily as she opened the door. She was dressed in a figure-hugging woollen suit, stockings and black high heels. She was fully made up, with a lipstick that was so brilliantly red that on anyone else it would have looked faintly ridiculous. On her it seemed perfect. Hell, it was perfect. The suit clung to her hips as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. A low moan started from somewhere deep inside him. Fortunately, while it was still at the back of his throat she spoke.
“Good evening, Charles,” Harriet said loudly. “Oh, and I see Bunter has come back with you. Good, Peter will be pleased.”
“Good evening, my lady,” Bunter said self-consciously. “How is his lordship?”
“Tolerably well, Bunter, I thank you,” Wimsey cut in, putting his head round the door of the living room. Evenin’, Charles. Do come in, all.”
Peter, Harriet and Charles sat down. Bunter hover
ed uncertainly.
“How about a cocktail, Charles?” Wimsey suggested. “It is that time of day, after all. The hour when a swift shot of somethin’ stimulatin’ can lift the human spirit.”
Noticing Bunter stare in some alarm at the array of bottles nestling around the cocktail shaker on the sideboard, Parker demurred. “If it’s all the same to you, old man, I’d just as soon have a sherry. Your sister has been somewhat displeased of late about the amount of hard liquor I drink.”
“Good God,” Wimsey ejaculated, clearly shocked. “Mary? Lecturing about the perils of the demon drink? Some mistake, surely?”
“Your sister is a reformed character, Peter, as well you know,” Harriet said firmly. “And since dear Charles here is largely responsible for the transformation I think we should defer to his wishes. Sherry for everyone, please, Bunter. Oh, I may have moved the bottle while you were away. It’s to the right of the cocktail shaker now.”
“Very good, my lady,” Bunter acknowledged.
“Pour one for yourself, Bunter, and then sit down and talk with us. Chief Inspector Parker has some detecting to discuss.”
“If it’s all the same to you, my lord, I’d rather stand,” Bunter said at once, drawing an admiring glance from Harriet.
“There he goes again,” Wimsey said with a sigh, “reminding me not to forget my place. Very well, Bunter, perhaps you could perch on the bally sideboard or something.”
“I think I may have moved the silver tray as well, Bunter,” Harriet informed him as he began to walk across the room holding a glass of sherry in each hand. “You should find it on that table over there.”
“Thank you, my lady,” he said, veering towards it, “I was wondering where it had got to.”
“Well, Parker, old bird,” Wimsey cajoled him once they all had drinks. “Tell all. How goes the investigation?”
“We’ve been following up on your ideas,” Parker responded. “We’re looking at the whole range of people who might have had access to the common parts, but it’s turning out to be more complicated than we anticipated. All the flats are tenanted so there are multiple sets of keys in circulation for each—never less than four, since most of the tenants have a cleaner who comes in while they’re at work, and in one case as many as seven.”
He took a sip of sherry, and went on. “Then there’s a managing agent employed by the freeholder, and of course they have two sets of keys to the front door only, but that’s enough to get access to the loft space. And just to make things even more complicated, two contractors recently did work in the building—one doing some fire and safety work, and one decorator painting the common parts. They were given keys, which they duly returned, but of course there’s nothing to stop them from having had copies cut.”
“Come to think of it,” Wimsey cut in after an approving sip of his sherry, “there’s nothin’ to stop any of the bally keyholders from having had copies cut. There could be an infinite number of possibilities.”
“Not infinite, no,” Parker reassured him with a smile. “Less than thirty sets of keys in all, we believe, and we’re putting the whole team onto identifying and interviewing the holders of each. Sooner or later if you’re right—and I’m sure you must be—we’ll come to someone with no alibi for any of the murder dates.”
“But that won’t be easy, will it?” Wimsey mused. “Contractors employ casual staff, somebody may have worked short-term at the managing agent, and one or more of the flats may have been sold or had new tenants during the period in question.”
“All true, I’m afraid,” Parker acknowledged with a wry smile, “but don’t worry, it’s just a matter of good, old-fashioned police work. Sooner or later we’ll exhaust all the possibilities. I just wish we had a few more bodies to throw at the problem.”
“Oh, then why don’t you borrow Bunter and me?” Harriet said at once. “Peter wouldn’t mind, would you, Peter? Charles can give us things to do and we can come back in the evening and tell you how things are going.”
“I suppose so,” Wimsey said vaguely, “and I could stay here and do some research.” He gestured at the bulky case folder and then at the books which lined the room. Parker got up and casually strolled over to the section of bookshelves which he had indicated. “But these are just detective books, old man,” he said, puzzled.
Harriet shot him a hard stare.
“Ah, I think I can see where you’re coming from,” he said hastily. “You’re working on the assumption that there’s nothing new in crime and thus at one time or other, someone must have written about exactly such a situation.”
“Spot on, Charles.” Wimsey beamed. “Yes, and worked out how to solve it as well.”
“Capital, Peter,” Parker said warmly. “You do that while we get on with the boring stuff and Harriet and Bunter can keep you abreast of what’s going on. Now, I really must be going. I promised Mary I wouldn’t be late.”
“Why don’t you take Bunter with you?” Harriet suggested. “He can give you a lift home in Mrs Merdle.”
“Good idea,” Parker agreed and then, as Bunter hesitated, “grab the keys to Mrs Merdle, then, Bunter, and we’ll get her out of the garage in the mews.”
“Thank you, Bob,” Karen said the next morning as she handed him a coffee, “you were great.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that”—he flushed—“but thanks anyway. Obviously I didn’t do my homework well enough. Mrs Merdle threw me. The name’s familiar, but I’ve never heard a car called that before.”
“Wimsey called all his cars Mrs Merdle, for some reason,” she replied. “Not quite sure why. She’s a fairly minor character in Little Dorrit who’s married to a swindler.”
“Curious choice.”
“Exactly. Can’t think what Sayers was thinking of. I would have thought someone like Guinevere would have been more in Wimsey’s line, but there we are.”
Metcalfe sipped his coffee then wished he hadn’t, as it was scalding hot. “Do you really think this is working—this whole Peter Wimsey business, I mean?”
Karen shook her head. “I really don’t know. The therapist is still dubious, and mutters about it being unethical to encourage someone in a delusion, but I still feel it’s the right thing to do.”
“You don’t think there could be something in the idea of trying to talk him out of it, make him face up to what is real?”
“Yes I do,” she agreed. “Of course I do, but I just think that the time is not yet. The only person who really knows Peter is me, because we’ve been together for so long, and he’s a very fragile character at the best of times. I’m frightened that if I or anyone else tries to shake him out of it now it could do something terrible to him. By going along with my plan I think we’re almost putting him into a protective coma. It may not do any good by itself, but at least it gives him a private place in which to recover.”
“And how will that happen? The recovery, I mean?”
“I don’t know, Bob. I’m flying blind here. The therapist has made it clear that she’s washed her hands of the whole exercise. God, if only I didn’t feel so totally alone.” She started to cry and then stopped, brushing angrily at her tears.
“You’re not alone,” Bob said quietly but urgently, looking around the incident room. He wished he could take her in his arms. “I’m here for you and I always will be—whatever happens.”
“I’m sorry, Bob,” she said, composing herself. “That was thoughtless. Of course I’m grateful for your support, but I hope you can understand we can’t be together, not yet anyway. If Peter were to have any inkling right now that there was anything wrong between us then that really could be the final straw.”
“Here’s the guvnor,” Priya said suddenly from behind them. Metcalfe wondered how much she had heard.
“Morning, everyone,” Collison said briskly. “OK, Bob, what have we got?”
“Making progress on eliminating the keyholders, guv,” Metcalfe began. “We’ve identified twenty-seven possibilities, and have
so far managed to interview fourteen, all of whom claim an alibi for at least one of the dates, mostly for Katherine Barker, since we start there and work backwards. We’re checking out those alibis right now.”
“Very good,” Collison said. “But I hate to break it to you, people, that we may need to cast our net a little wider. As a result of some discussions yesterday, it’s been suggested that we also need to check out former employees of the managing agents, as well as former tenants, and possibly owners, of the flats.”
“Over what period, guv?” Priya asked.
“Since they last had the locks changed,” Collison said grimly. “Bob, we need to find out when that was.”
Metcalfe dolefully wrote on the board.
“Anything else to report?” Collison asked.
“I’ve been looking at the possible grudge angle, sir,” Leach volunteered.
“Good—any progress?”
“Afraid not,” Leach replied ruefully. “I’ve been to Clarke’s former employer and managed to interview a few people he worked with, but it seems he was pretty nondescript and nobody really took much notice of him—except to register that he told a lot of tall stories. They find the idea of someone wanting to frame him for murder quite amusing, actually.”
“Amusing or not,” Collison said noncommittally, “it’s a valid line of enquiry, and we need to pursue it until we’re sure we’ve exhausted all its possibilities. What about his personal life?”
“Next thing on my list, sir. I thought I’d start with Susan McCormick.”
What Would Wimsey Do? Page 17
