Dead Suited

by Jean G. Goodhind

  She was enjoying the warm water, the smell of the suds, the fact that her hair was soaking wet and squeaked when she ran a strand between finger and thumb.

  ‘Charlie York. The man who first saw the dead body in the window of Tern and Pauling. It’s his birthday. His daughter’s just been in to make the arrangements. I don’t know whether she knows your pedigree, but I don’t think she’s the sort to care that you’re allied to the team investigating the murder.’

  Honey stopped running the soap filled sponge over her body.

  ‘That’s really interesting.’

  ‘I thought you’d think so. And guess what, she’s ordered an Adam Ant impersonator. Should be fun.’

  Honey’s soaping action slowed down. So far the investigation had been confined to the city of Bath. It struck her that there were other questions that might only be answered in Bristol, principally questions that only a group of Adam Ant impersonators could answer.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Doherty phoned first to ask if she was available.

  ‘Depends what you’re asking me to do,’ she replied in a voice she thought sounded like Lauren Bacall.

  ‘A car ride to see a carpenter. The window dresser who designed the window display and dressed it told me the fallows was contracted outside. Apparently he insisted it be built to his own specification, i.e. that it should be extremely well made.’

  ‘A well made gallows! Well that’s a man with a purpose. Do we have a name for the man who builds gallows?’

  ‘Donald Parquet. Lord Donald Parquet actually. He also happens to be a client of the firm. If you’re on I’ll be round in twenty minutes. If not I’ll see if I can rope in somebody whose company I value.’

  ‘I’m in.’

  He arrived five minutes after the agreed time, which on the whole was just as well. It took all of that just to get away from Mary Jane and more information about the beauty who’d crashed to her death from the first floor landing.

  Honey told Lindsey where she was going. She told Smudger to deal with the meat order himself.

  ‘I’ve got a date with a lord.’

  Nobody batted an eyelid because nobody believed her.

  ‘So where does his lordship reside?’ she asked Doherty as she slid into the front passenger seat.

  ‘Parquet Manor, otherwise known as the Parquet Trust Estate. It’s a part of the estate that used to be stables and outhouses, now turned into artisans’ workshops. Lord Vincent Parquet left his wealth and his title to his eldest son. Lord Donald Parquet is a self trained carpenter. He works in wood in one of the converted stables. A number of those same stables are let out to other artisans of similar skill and mindset; metalworkers, wool weavers, jewellery makers, painters and potters and bead makers.’

  ‘I get the picture. A kind of happy hippy ever after.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  As he drove Doherty outlined events on the evening before Nigel Tern had been found murdered.

  ‘The party began around nine, though of course we already know that not all the staff attended. Mr Barrington left the shop at the usual time leaving Mr Papendriou serving drinks to specially invited guests. We know Mr Barrington did not attend the party. I dropped in on Ahmed who was sorting next door’s car at the time. Ahmed confirms he saw him come home and at least whilst he was there, never saw him come back out.

  ‘But Ahmed must have left whilst it was still light. He wouldn’t have been able to see what he was doing otherwise. So we only presume Cecil Barrington did not venture back out and I assume his wife confirms it.’

  ‘True. She does. Cecil Barrington might have come out later. We don’t know for sure. And Mr Papendriou left the shop after doing the washing up. His partner confirms his time of arrival home and that they stayed in. Mr Papendriou failed to say that a friend called by and shared a bottle of wine with them. His alibi is set in stone.’

  ‘I thought it might be a good idea to interview a few other Adam Ant impersonators in Bristol.’

  ‘To what end?’

  She shrugged. ‘A wider profile on the victim?’

  ‘We’ll put that on the back burner for now.’

  ‘OK.’

  Doherty glanced at her profile. A strong profile, handsome rather than pretty.

  She was staring straight ahead. From past experience he guessed she was having deep thoughts.

  ‘Hey. Are you with me?’

  She turned slowly to face him, a far away look in her eyes. Her smile was worth waiting for.

  ‘I was thinking. There was no sign of forced entry. The murderer must have had a key – or been invited in.’

  ‘Unless they shinned up the drainpipe at the back of the shop. There is a lane at the back and a bathroom window was left open. It’s only about six feet from the ground and there was a bin close by. The bin’s proximity to the window plus the outlines of two foot prints on it were only noticed today by a beady eyed young constable. A few years and he’ll be after my job.’

  ‘Any details yet – about the footprints?’

  ‘Size seven in English, forty-one European.’

  Honey frowned. ‘A bit small for a man. Could it have been a woman?’

  ‘If it was, she would have to be tremendously strong to overcome Tern and put his neck in a noose – unless she held a gun on him perhaps, but if she had a gun, why bother to hang him? Why not shoot him?’

  Honey frowned. ‘You’re certain he was knocked out then strung up.’

  ‘It seems that way.’

  ‘And the weapon?’

  ‘Not found yet. Something strong. Not necessarily heavy.’

  ‘So definitely not suicide.’

  ‘He was definitely strung up in which case somebody else was there, though whether he knew they were there or whether he’d invited them, we just don’t know. Papendriou said nobody was left in the shop and he took the key with him. Tern had a key. So did Barrington.’

  ‘Nigel Tern had to have invited the person in.’

  ‘That’s my view.’

  The gates to Parquet Manor were wide open. A security camera blinked at them, a red light flashing in recognition that their arrival had been noted. Somewhere, somebody was watching them.

  A large sign proclaimed Old Stable Workshops – Parquet Trust. A green arrow pointed to the right down a gravel drive.

  Doherty swung the steering wheel to the right. There was no sign of security guards, just strategically placed cameras.

  The tyres made a reassuring crunch as they made their way towards an arch dividing one half of the stable block from the other. Once through the arch the gravel changed to cobblestones. A man came out of what had once been home to a carriage horse or a hunter. The stables had been turned to a new use.

  Donald Parquet was tall, quite well build and subject to early hair loss. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-six though his fresh faced boyish complexion might have had a bearing on that.

  Doherty referred to his phone call.

  ‘Regarding the murder of Nigel Tern your lordship...’

  ‘Call me Donald. Can I see your warrant card please.’

  He said it pleasantly enough, but being titled and sometimes headlining a disparaging tabloid article, Donald Parquet was not a man to take anyone at face value.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He greeted them warmly, shaking Doherty’s hand before turning to Honey.

  Doherty took care of the introductions.

  ‘And my associate, Honey Driver. She’s a civilian liaison officer. I do hope you don’t mind her presence.’

  Honey smiled. ‘Hello. If you do I’m quite happy to wait in the car.’

  Lord Parquet smiled back at her. ‘I don’t think that’s necessary.’ He kept hold of her hand. ‘Honey. A pretty name.’

  ‘I was christened Hannah. The only person who calls me that is my mother. Everyone else calls me Honey.’

  ‘Ah yes. Our parents like to cling on to what they think they made of us includi
ng giving us names we don’t like.’

  Honey suspected his first name wasn’t Donald. It was easy to check. He’d be listed in Debretts Peerage. Everyone who was anyone was listed there.

  He turned back to Doherty. ‘Nigel Tern. Damn good jackets and excellent service for those who like that sort of thing. I must say I have made use of his services in the past. I don’t always amble around in dungarees.’

  ‘You knew him well?’

  His lordship’s expression was open. ‘Quite well. Not a friend by any standards, but decent enough despite his liking for the ladies. Too many ladies probably. And such a shame seeing as he’d just won the window display competition. I’m sure he must have been over the moon.’

  ‘Did you know any of his lady friends?’ asked Doherty.

  Donald’s blue eyes crinkled at the edges. ‘Not really. We didn’t move in the same circles. Would you like to follow me into the workshop?’

  Doherty said that they would.

  The smell of wood shavings permeated the air. There were wooden objects and piles of sawdust everywhere.

  ‘You made the gallows. They seemed very strong seeing as they were destined for a window display. I always thought window dressers never used anything stronger than cardboard.’

  ‘Quite so. Nigel insisted. I did ask whether he was going into business hanging people with it in between supplying sports jackets for the glorious twelfth and blazers for Cowes week.’

  Doherty nodded. ‘Did he give you any reason for building it so strong?’

  Whilst listening to all that was said, Honey found herself enjoying the way Donald’s eyes flitted between her and Doherty, his smile widening the moment his gaze flitted to her.

  A toy boy! What a delicious thought!

  ‘Why did he want me to build it so strong?’ Donald’s smile widened. ‘I can’t think of any specific reason. He did say that the way his father ran the business and dominated his life was enough to make him use it on himself.’ Donald shook his head. ‘I didn’t believe that though. Donald loved life. He wasn’t the sort to commit suicide. Too sound of mind and body, and whilst the latter was still going strong – with the ladies if you know what I mean – then he was up for it. The old man is getting on anyway and shortly after the gallows was finished, he was taken into hospital. Respite as far as Nigel was concerned and his chance to update the shop interior and the shop window.’

  So the gallows were being built before the old man went into hospital?

  There was no change in Doherty’s expression, yet Honey knew what he was thinking. She also had a pretty good idea of what the next question would be.

  ‘Are you saying he had the gallows built some time before the competition?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Did he say then what they were for?’

  A slow smile spread over his lordship’s face.

  ‘Personal gratification.’

  Doherty nodded. ‘I see. So it wasn’t initially for the window display. Is that what you’re saying?’

  Donald smiled and shook his head. ‘I was asked to make a gallows to certain dimensions and for his own private purposes. That’s all I know.’

  Honey though she held back asking obvious questions until they were back with the car.

  The breeze ruffled her hair and sucked the sawdust from her nostrils. Her mind was reeling. The murder of Nigel Tern was beginning to head in one very positive direction.

  ‘Fantasy land,’ she whispered across the roof of the car. ‘He was into the highwayman image big time. I can just imagine...’

  She stopped as the picture solidified in her mind.

  Grim faced, Doherty opened the car door on his side. ‘He didn’t necessarily do this by himself.’

  ‘It is possible though isn’t it? Auto ejaculation is a lonely sport and popular among ex public school boys.

  ‘Had he ejaculated before he died?’

  ‘I don’t know. I never asked and didn’t notice it on the pathology report. I’ll check, but...’

  Once he was sitting comfortably in front of the steering wheel, he phoned for confirmation.

  The answer to his phone call was instantly answered.

  ‘No. There was no evidence of sexual activity at all although his zipper was at half mast. He was not a gasper.’

  ‘His hands were tied behind his back.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He couldn’t have undone his zip himself.’

  ‘Could have drawn it down half way – in preparation for a little action – so to speak.’

  Honey felt a surge of excitement. ‘He couldn’t do that with his hands tied behind his back. Whoever hit him on the back of the head might have undone his zip.’

  Doherty picked up his phone again and ordered that particular attention be paid to the dead man’s flies.

  ‘His zip in particular. Check for fingerprints on the zip tab.’

  Doherty’s hopeful look disappeared in response to whatever was said on the other end of the phone.

  Sighing, Honey sat back and folded her arms. ‘His own fingerprints?’

  ‘Smudged fingerprints. Not conclusive.’

  He put his phone back into his inside pocket with a quick dismissive flick of his wrist.

  Honey frowned into the distance. She’d prepared herself for lewd details. Now it appeared there were none.

  At last she said, ‘I’d like to take another look at the crime scene if that’s possible. There was no overturned stool. No way of Tern putting his head in the noose without one – whether somebody was there or not. And somebody was undoubtedly there. But how did he do the final jump? How did his legs end up dangling in the air? If there was no stool, what in hell’s name was there to jump off?’

  In her mind Honey ran over the details of the murder scene. There were a set of stairs just three, but set forward of where the gallows were positioned, too far away for Tern to have jumped from those and hung himself. Anyway, there were still the tied hands. Somebody had tied his hands.

  ‘Are you certain he couldn’t have tied his own hands?’

  ‘I know where you’re coming from. It is possible to self tie – people into that kind of sex do it all the time. But not these knots. The rope was tied round and round again, one knot after another. I’ve spoken to the experts. It’s impossible.’

  ‘When do you think we could take another look?’

  ‘After I’ve spoken to Grace Pauling again about the will, though it’s hard to pin her down. She keeps making excuses about having to fit me in.’

  Honey beamed at him and patted his hand.

  ‘Trust your little helper.’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘Me. There’s a meeting of the Townswomen’s Guild this afternoon at four. I’ve been invited to give a talk on working in a civilian capacity for the local police. Grace Pauling is a member. I’ve seen the list of those attending. She’s booked her place and paid her ticket price.’

  Doherty visibly brightened. ‘That’s a turn up. I wouldn’t have thought you were quite their type. Do you want me to come too? Will they accept me as an honorary woman for the afternoon?’

  ‘You can if you like. As for me not being quite their type – which I agree that perhaps I am not, my mother is their type. She’s a leading light in fact and serves on the committee.’

  Doherty’s facial expression turned taciturn.

  ‘Then count me out. See you later?’

  ‘Sure. Zodiac Club. Close to midnight. Check the scene, check the gossip, oh, and in return I shall report on my ‘bumping into’ Grace Pauling. Hopefully I can pin her down.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Rachel Doherty had the same shaped face as her father, the same dark hair, the same forward thrust to her chin. Her eyes, however, were hazel that in a certain light looked brown, and sometimes, mainly when she was dead tired, looked a shade of sludge green.

  She also had her mother’s aptitude for dressing well, though she’d toned it down during her university
days. Having dropped out it no longer mattered. Not that she was wearing designer clothes. Carl wouldn’t countenance that. He chose her clothes for her. Sometimes she wasn’t quite sure whether she liked the clothes she wore as much as he did, but she loved him. He knew so much more than her, in fact he was the cleverest man she’d ever met.

  ‘I think we should have lunch first. I see no point in arriving on your father’s doorstep with an empty stomach. We can also discuss tactics over a plate of pasta and a decent white wine. I know just the place.’

  Carl talking about the tactics they would use when confronting her father made Rachel’s stomach flutter. She wanted to say that her father was not an enemy general, but wouldn’t dare. She knew he would declare that as a policeman, her father did have a military mindset and anyway she hated confronting him. That’s why she hadn’t told him he was a policeman. She’d told him he was worked for the local city council. It was the only lie she had ever told the man she loved and she didn’t want him to accuse her of being disloyal and not loving him because that wouldn’t be true.

  ‘OK, Carl. Whatever you say.’

  She sometimes asked herself why she’d ended up with a man like Carl. A successful trader in the city, he’d plucked her from amongst the student crowd she’d been drinking with that night in a London pub. When Carl’s eyes had met hers, she’d melted. He had such a piercing look.

  ‘Who’s the dude,’ one of her male student colleagues had said.

  She’d shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘He’s got a look in his eye and it’s all for you,’ her friend had said.

  Strangely enough she’d accepted his comment as fact. It was how she felt whenever Carl looked at her then and she felt no different now. Everything had changed when he’d told her to be in that same pub the following night. Not asked her, he’d told her. ‘Can you feel it,’ he’d said, his moist breath filtering into her ear. ‘We’re made for each other. We have to meet again. It’s written in the stars.’

  A girlfriend named Faith had laughed when she’d told her what he’d said. ‘As if. Fate in the stars, my ass!’

  From that moment on everything had changed. She’d left university because Carl had said she was studying the wrong course at the wrong time. He’d set her up with a job in the city. It meant her wearing a suit and a crisp white shirt. She’d felt like a fish out of water at first – still did at times – but Carl had insisted it was the right career for her even though it was only part time. The rest of the time she spent in the flat they shared together. She cooked and cleaned for him, made sure everything was just the way he liked it.