What Would Wimsey Do?

by Guy Fraser-Sampson

  “Would he have seen you with Katherine?”

  “No, he’d gone off around the corner by then. My only real fear was that she’d scream and someone would look out of one of the windows at the back of the flats, but it was OK. She went straight down as soon as she was hit.”

  “I’d like you to think carefully before you answer this next question,” Collison said. “Did you do anything different to the body this time? Something you’d never done before?”

  She thought hard and then smiled. “Do you mean the fish food? Yes, that was naughty, wasn’t it? Remember by this time I’d selected Gary as the perfect suspect, so I thought I’d just leave you one more clue. I took it from his flat.”

  There was a long silence while the detectives tried to think whether there was anything else to ask at this point. Collison looked at Metcalfe, who silently shook his head.

  “Well, Ms McCormick, I suppose I should thank you for being so open with us,” Collison said at last. “We’ll have a statement typed up for you to sign based on the tape recordings.”

  “Very well,” she said, as calmly as though he had suggested popping down the road to buy a newspaper.

  “Just before we end the interview,” he went on. “I’m still struggling to understand your motivation. You killed five women in cold blood, having planned their deaths meticulously in advance. It is actually extremely rare for one woman to kill another woman. Usually they kill men—frequently abusive men. Was this really simply about jealousy?”

  “It was a life for a life,” Susan McCormick said, looking him straight in the eye. “I died deep down inside the day Colin came home and told me he was leaving. You make ‘jealousy’ sound petty somehow. It isn’t. It gives you this constant, all-consuming sort of anger.”

  She thought for a moment.

  “Actually, towards the end I’m not sure I felt anything at all. I just had this calm determination that she had to die. I knew it was the right thing to happen. I had no choice. It was as though it was predestined.”

  “But was he really worth it?” Metcalfe asked, voicing what they were both thinking. “Colin, I mean?”

  “He was my husband,” she said simply. “He was my life.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Simon Collison sat slumped in an armchair clutching a large gin and tonic. Caroline stood in the door, undecided whether to stay or return to the kitchen. He had been sitting in silence for some time. Finally, he looked up. “I’ve never been in the presence of a deranged killer before,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “What was she like?” she asked, intrigued despite her revulsion.

  “Eerily calm and rational, as though everything made perfect sense but all in some parallel universe, some alternative reality. Very detached too. Kept using the passive voice. You know, ‘she went down’ rather than ‘I knocked her down.’ And then at other times she seemed almost proud of what she’d done. Both Bob and I ended up feeling quite disturbed, as though we’d encountered something beyond our understanding, like an alien or a time traveller or something.”

  She perched on the edge of the seat opposite, still watching him solicitously. “I suppose there’s no doubt that it really is her? That she’s not just covering for the husband?”

  “We’ve considered that, of course. In fact, to start with that’s what we both believed—or perhaps hoped. We couldn’t accept that we could have got it so wrong about the husband. But no, it all fits. The chloroform in particular; it’s the only sensible explanation of that.”

  “But couldn’t he have done it instead of her?” she persisted. “Ordered it and then taken it from the practice?”

  “He could theoretically, yes, but why would he? Being a doctor, he would already know that it was a pointless way to try to subdue someone. No, it had to be someone who didn’t know that.”

  “Have you thought that maybe that’s what you’re being encouraged to believe?” Caroline asked dubiously. “I keep feeling that all the way through this case someone’s been playing some strange, perverted game with you.”

  “They have,” he said shortly. “Susan McCormick, alias Barker, alias Dashwood.”

  “Ah well,” she said, surrendering, “at least you’ve solved the bloody thing, anyway.”

  He gave a short laugh. “But I haven’t, don’t you see? I was ready to arrest the wrong man yet again, against the advice of the DPP and the ACC by the way, and only the ex-wife’s confession turning up at the magic moment stopped me from actually doing it.”

  “But she did stop you, didn’t she? So maybe the whole thing will just be forgotten about.”

  “Not a chance.” He shook his head violently. “Dr Barker arrived at the station in the full glare of the TV lights after a paper had printed a story that I was about to arrest him. And anyway, I did caution him and tell him he was a suspect. No, it’s all a mess I’m afraid. I’m sorry, Caroline. I’ve let you down.”

  “You mustn’t say that!” she exclaimed, suddenly angry. “You haven’t let anyone down, least of all me. You’re a decent, honourable man, and all through this investigation you’ve done what you thought was the right thing. You’ve always been like that, Simon, you know you have. Your integrity is one of the many things I love about you.”

  She knelt down and embraced him fiercely. He half responded in a distracted sort of way, and they remained silently for a while in each other’s arms.

  “It isn’t your fault, you know,” she said, more gently. “None of it was your fault.”

  “Thank you, darling, but that really isn’t true,” he said soberly as they slowly drew apart. “There were so many things we should have asked about but didn’t. Why on earth did we never find out that McCormick was Barker’s ex-wife? Why didn’t we follow up the discrepancy between her story and Clarke’s? Why didn’t we make enquiries about the effect of chloroform? No, it’s no good, dear; I screwed up. And ironically old Tom Allen probably would have found those things out because he’s a good, sound copper, just like he found out about Clarke’s alibi.”

  “Clarke’s apparent alibi,” she corrected him. “As to the rest, McCormick not being unmasked was because Dr Barker didn’t attend the trial. The discrepancy was tested in court and the jury decided that Clarke was lying. And so far as the chloroform was concerned, if it was so obvious why didn’t your forensic people comment on it?”

  “All good excuses,” he said with a smile. “I shall try to remember them for the morning. I have an appointment with the ACC. Somehow I doubt he’ll take such an accommodating view.”

  The ACC was not alone. With him was a young man wearing shoes that were just a little too pointed and a suit that was just a little too blue. A quiff rose on the crown of his head, making it look as though he had forgotten to remove his comb that morning.

  “Simon,” the ACC said. “I’d like you to meet Mo Wallace from the Press Office.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Collison said automatically. “That’s an unusual name.”

  “Mo? Yes, short for Maurice.”

  Both the other men looked puzzled but then the ACC shrugged and continued, waving them into seats in front of his desk.

  “Perhaps I could be one of the first to congratulate you, Superintendent,” Wallace said. “A great achievement.”

  Collison looked at him warily. “Thank you but the investigation was flawed, you know. At the end of the day we were saved by the killer walking into the police station and confessing—a development we had no right to expect.”

  “Serial killers are often caught by accident,” the ACC said, gesturing expansively. “Look at the Yorkshire Ripper. Anyway, let’s focus on the matter in hand, shall we? We don’t have much time.”

  “In what sense, sir?”

  “Don’t be dense, Simon. There’s going to have to be a press conference of course. We’re under intense pressure from the media already. You’ve probably come to the Yard straight from home, but the press are still camped outside Hampstead nick. They’re all wai
ting for a statement.”

  “Speaking of statements,” Wallace chipped in. “Can I just check whether we do now have a full confession signed by Susan McCormick?”

  “Let me check with the station,” said Collison.

  “Don’t worry,” the ACC said crisply. “We have. I checked with Metcalfe. She signed it an hour ago.”

  “Excellent,” Wallace said, making a quick note. “Well then, I think we’re in very good shape indeed.”

  “Good shape?” Collison echoed. “Hardly. What do we say when they ask why we thought Dr Barker was the killer? Or when they ask why we didn’t realise Clarke wasn’t acting alone? Or why we never knew that Susan McCormick was Barker’s ex-wife?”

  “If those questions are asked, Simon,” the ACC cut in, “and do not receive satisfactory answers then both you and I will be looking for new jobs. So I suggest you listen carefully to what Mo is about to tell you. You might like to make notes.”

  An hour or so later, Collison put his pen back in his pocket and gazed reflectively at his notepad. “So that’s the way things are going to be?” he said, with a slight inflection.

  The ACC nodded.

  “In that case, sir, may I ask that the two key members of the enquiry team—Metcalfe and Willis—receive some due recognition?”

  “I can’t put Metcalfe up to DCI. Not having only just briefed the Commissioner on the Andrews matter. He was livid, as you might expect. The best I can do is a commendation and a note on his file recommending him for early promotion.”

  “Fair enough.” Collison nodded grudgingly. “Though, as I said, that was my idea not his.”

  “It was an error of judgment,” the ACC said sententiously, “on both your parts. You are both senior offices and should have known better.”

  He allowed these words to sink in.

  “As for Willis,” he went on. “I propose promoting her to DS with immediate effect.”

  “Thank you, sir. It’s well deserved. By the way, may I ask what is to happen about Andrews?”

  “I spoke to DS Andrews yesterday afternoon,” said the ACC expressionlessly. “It seems he will be retiring from the Met on grounds of ill health, also with immediate effect.”

  “So there will be no enquiry? No disciplinary proceedings?”

  “Not for anybody, no,” the ACC replied, pausing meaningfully after the word ‘anybody.’

  Collison became aware that Wallace had quietly slipped out of the room.

  “It was felt best,” the ACC continued, “that no mention of this incident should appear in Andrews’s file. That way, there would be no problem about giving him a clean reference to assist him in his search for civilian employment. We have decided, therefore, that it is better to treat the conversations which I had with both you and him as strictly off the record.”

  “Which means no mention of it will occur on Metcalfe’s file, sir?”

  “Naturally, since officially the conversation never took place. Nor, of course, on yours.”

  Collison felt an absurdly unreal sense of relief. “Thank you very much, sir,” he said simply.

  He stood up and offered his hand. The ACC stood and took it.

  “Now get downstairs,” the senior man said with a smile. “Wallace is waiting for you.”

  “Now then, Superintendent,” Wallace said, without actually rubbing his hands together, but in a tone of voice which suggested that he was. “I take it you’ve done a few press conferences before?”

  “Just a few,” Collison replied with a smile. In his present mood he found it hard to be irritated, even with a PR man.

  “Well, I’ve never managed one of yours before,” Wallace went on, “so perhaps we could agree on a few basic ground rules before we go in.”

  “Managed? I wasn’t aware that press conferences could be managed. One needs to know the right things to say and not to say, of course, but you can’t control which questions get asked.”

  “Oh, dear me, Superintendent,” Wallace said pityingly. “We do seem to have led a rather sheltered life, don’t we?”

  He produced a two-page list of bullet points and handed it across. “These are the questions you will be asked and these are the answers you will give. By all means put things in your own words; it’s important that everyone hears your voice, as it were. But the gist of it is here.”

  “But how can you be so sure that these are the questions that will be asked?”

  Wallace smiled. “Well, let’s just say that I will be exercising due care over which members of the audience to take questions from.”

  “But still,” Collison persisted. “You can’t possibly know in advance what they’re going to say.”

  “Oh, but I do,” Wallace said with another smile. “You see, I discuss it with them in advance. They know if they don’t toe the line they won’t get the inside story on the next case. In fact, if they’re very naughty boys and girls, they may never get access to anyone in the Met ever again.”

  “Good God! Does that really go on? You hear about it, of course, but I never thought that it actually happened.”

  “It’s my job.” Wallace shrugged. “How do you think I justify my salary?”

  “To be honest,” Collison replied with a smile which he hoped robbed the words of any offence, “I had no idea.”

  “Well, in that case you’re about to find out,” he said earnestly. “By the way, please cancel any plans which you might have for this evening. You’re going to be interviewed on the TV news.”

  “Which one? BBC or ITV?”

  “Both, actually,” Wallace said modestly. “Now, do get on and learn your lines. We only have about twenty minutes.”

  “The Metropolitan Police today revealed details of what is surely destined to enter the annals of criminal history as one of the most bizarre series of murders ever committed,” Peter Collins read to Karen Willis. “Not only were the killings committed, most unusually, by a woman, Susan McCormick, but it is believed that the officer in charge of the investigation, Detective Superintendent Collison, deduced that the earlier murders had in fact been committed not by a serial killer, as had previously been believed, but by a calculating individual who wished to create a false trail to lead the police away from anyone who might have a discernible motive for killing Katherine Barker, the last victim.”

  “That’s neat,” Karen said admiringly. “I wonder who planted that ‘belief’?”

  “The enquiry team were able to charge and convict the killer’s male accomplice,” Peter went on, “though it was at that time unclear exactly how many people had been involved. When Gary Clarke’s trial failed to elicit the full truth, it is rumoured that Superintendent Collison hit upon the bold and highly original stratagem of leaking to the press a false report that suspicion was now falling on the killer’s ex-husband, Dr Colin Barker, in the hope that this would draw the killer, who had previously been married to the doctor and was still in love with him, to come forward and confess in order to save the man she loved, as in fact proved to be the case. Superintendent Collison was quick to praise Dr Barker for his assistance with the enquiry and to emphasise that the police fully acknowledged that he was never in any way a serious suspect concerning the death of his wife.”

  “Collison gets a good spread,” Karen said, picking up a different newspaper. “There’s a whole piece on him here, describing him as one of Scotland Yard’s coming men, a high achiever who’s been groomed for a senior position.”

  “And this one”—Peter picked up a third—“carries his TV interviews almost verbatim. It would appear that our Superintendent has woken up a hero this morning. Richly deserved, I’m sure, though it would be nice if there were some recognition for you and Bob Metcalfe, old thing.”

  “Oh, but there is,” she said warmly. “Maybe not in the papers, though the boss did mention us both by name during the press conference, but Bob’s got a commendation from the ACC and guess what I found out today: I’ve been promoted. I’m a Detective Sergeant now.”


  “Now that is richly deserved,” Peter said delightedly. “We shall have to crack a bottle of bubbly—the Krug, I think, for a special occasion like this.” He looked up over his glasses. “Or perhaps you’d rather go out? We could always stroll down to the Wells and see if they have a table free upstairs in the restaurant.”

  “That would be nice,” she agreed.

  “In fact,” he said decisively, “why don’t we do both? A bottle of bubbly here first and then a meal at the Wells.”

  “Wonderful. Yes, let’s do that.”

  He swallowed hard and took the plunge, feeling his heart pounding as he did so. “I wonder if you might like to invite Bob to join us?” he suggested softly.

  “Oh,” she replied, feeling suddenly flustered, “do you think so? Well, alright then.”

  “It’s just that I know you’ve become close working on this case for so long, and I’m sure he’d want to join in the celebration.”

  “That’s a nice idea,” she said uncertainly, “though I don’t know if he’ll be free. I could call him and find out.”

  “It must be a very special sort of relationship, working on an investigation together,” he mused. “Perhaps like a bomber crew in wartime or something like that?”

  “There’s a camaraderie, of course,” she agreed cautiously.

  “I can see that. After all, you work very long hours together and you’re part of a common purpose, sharing the same hopes and disappointments.”

  “Mmm.”

  He gazed uncertainly at her. “Forgive me if I’m being fanciful or unfair, my darling. I know I’ve been ill and it affected me badly. But is it my imagination or has something come between us? You’ve seemed so troubled recently. I thought it must be the investigation, but now that’s over and I still feel there’s something troubling you.”

  “I suppose there is,” she said in a very small voice.