A Fatal Night

by Faith Martin

  ‘No! I tell you, I didn’t touch the car!’ Geoffrey almost leapt to his feet in his anxiety to be believed, but a sudden threatening movement by the big-boned sergeant made him slump back helplessly into his chair once again. ‘I’m not a mechanic,’ the older man said, trying a different tack. ‘I only sell cars, I don’t know anything about the actual workings of the things! We have a mechanic at the shop to do all that! I wouldn’t have a clue what you’d have to do to a car to make it crash!’

  ‘Then what was so important about the car that you needed to break into a police impound yard and search it, sir?’ Trudy asked reasonably. ‘If it wasn’t to cover your tracks, what was it?’

  ‘I only wanted to find the letter!’ Geoffrey Thorpe yelped in frustration and panic, and then went abruptly white. Slowly, he leaned forward and dropped his despairing head into his cupped hands and let out a long, low moan. ‘Oh Lord,’ he muttered, shaking his head, ‘I wish I’d never written the damned thing!’

  Trudy, caught by surprise at this, couldn’t help but cast the sergeant a quick, searching look. O’Grady, in response, simply nodded his chin towards the broken man in the chair opposite, indicating her to get on with it.

  ‘What letter is this, Mr Thorpe?’ Trudy asked gently.

  Geoffrey sighed heavily and rubbed a tired and visibly shaking hand across his face. ‘It was when I first learned what he’d been up to. I was so angry that I wrote him a formal letter, threatening to take him to court, threatening to see his reputation ruined and the scandal splashed across the papers …’

  Geoffrey sighed again and raised his head, his face lined with worry. ‘Of course, once I’d calmed down, I changed my mind. As you know, I told you all about it when you came to my house. Exposing him would mean ruining the business, which wouldn’t do me any good, would it? Instead, we worked out the repayment scheme that I told you about. But when Terry died, and you came asking questions, and wouldn’t let it go, I realised something might be … well, funny, about the accident. And I felt afraid.’

  He drew in a wavering breath and shook his head. ‘I just became obsessed by that damned letter,’ he admitted heavily. ‘I thought, if you found it, and something, well, funny, had happened to Terry, that you, the police, would find the letter and think it was me who was responsible. But it wasn’t! I didn’t do anything to Terry or his car.’

  He looked at Trudy with wide, utterly tired eyes, and then glanced at O’Grady. ‘But I was the obvious suspect, wasn’t I? Like you said, he was stealing from me. Who else would you suspect? I couldn’t find the letter at the office, and it wasn’t in his house. So the only other place it could be was in the car.’

  Trudy looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Are you admitting to having broken into the deceased’s house as well, Mr Thorpe?’

  ‘What? No, he kept a spare key in the shed … Oh what’s the use?’ the older man said, lying his head tiredly down on his hands which were now resting flat against the tabletop. He reminded Trudy of a little boy who wanted nothing more than to go to sleep and pretend that the bad things weren’t really happening to him.

  Trudy regarded the back of the man’s head for a moment, and then said gently, almost reprovingly, ‘Mr Thorpe, why are you so sure that Mr Parker kept the letter at all? Surely, the most logical thing for him to do, once you’d come around and stopped threatening to sue him, was to simply destroy it?’

  *

  ‘Of course, he was obsessed about it,’ Mike O’Grady said from behind his desk, some twenty minutes later. Mr Thorpe was being officially charged with tampering with a police investigation, and Trudy would now have to type up the notes. ‘I’ve seen it before. Once someone gets an idea in their head …’ He shrugged at Trudy. ‘In his own mind, the letter was out there, and he had to stop us getting it. He’d probably got himself worked up into a right state, thinking he was about to be arrested any minute.’

  Trudy nodded. ‘But the silly man had an alibi for New Year’s Eve!’ she pointed out in exasperation. ‘And now that we’ve got a mechanic working on the car at last, he’ll soon be able to confirm one way or the other if the vehicle was or wasn’t tampered with.’

  ‘Do you think it was?’ O’Grady asked, genuinely curious to see what she thought. She’d come through the interview with flying colours as far as he was concerned, and he was still happy to mine her for any insights she might have.

  Trudy mulled it over for a second or two and then reluctantly shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so. I think the killer was relying on the overdose of sleeping stuff to do the trick.’

  O’Grady nodded and reached for her stack of files. ‘Well, I’d better get on reading this lot …’

  But before he’d finished speaking, PC Swinburne came over and interrupted them. ‘Sorry, Sarge,’ he muttered, then turned to Trudy. ‘You really are popular today,’ he said with a grimace. ‘You’re needed up at Summertown. Does the Raven’s Rest Bed and Breakfast ring a bell with you? Because the landlady there knows you! She’s just been on the telephone demanding that you get over there right away. Apparently, that guest you were inquiring about is causing an almighty ruckus about something, and the landlady isn’t happy.’

  Trudy blinked. ‘What? Phyllis Raynor?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the name.’

  ‘But that doesn’t make sense …’ Trudy said, turning to look at the sergeant. ‘Do you want me to go and see what it’s all about?’

  ‘Who’s this woman and what is she to the case?’ O’Grady asked her sharply.

  ‘She’s the gate-crasher at the party,’ Trudy said, confusing the sergeant, who hadn’t got that far in the notes either. ‘But she denied it. Being at the party that night, I mean. I can’t think why she should be drawing attention to herself now though. I’d have thought, if anything, she’d have been anxious to keep her head down and lie low. Do you want me to go and see what it’s all about, Sarge?’ she asked again eagerly.

  O’Grady sighed heavily. Damn it, he needed to get up to speed on this case! How could he take control when he didn’t know what he needed to take control of!

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’d better. But take Broadstairs with you,’ he added flatly.

  Trudy felt her heart sink. Not Rodney! The last thing she needed was his sneering, superior attitude, and sniggering handsome face getting in everybody’s way. ‘But, Sarge,’ she began.

  ‘Take Broadstairs,’ O’Grady growled. ‘If there is a ruckus going on, you may need a second pair of hands.’

  Whilst the sergeant might not always agree with Inspector Jennings’s opinion of women in the police force, he did agree that they should never be knowingly put in harm’s way. And young WPC Loveday, although she might be an intelligent and diligent officer, simply couldn’t be expected to have the necessary brawn when it came to any rough-housing.

  And the inspector would have convulsions if she got hurt in the line of duty!

  Rodney Broadstairs might have a high opinion of himself, but he was a big and beefy lad who could be relied upon to use his fists if need be.

  ‘Yes, Sarge,’ Trudy said, seeing the set and resolute look on his face.

  Chapter 29

  As Rodney drove the Land Rover gleefully towards Summertown with Trudy Loveday sitting mute and resentful beside him, Patsy Arles was sitting in the back seat of the coroner’s big and impressive car. It was parked outside her house, and she was telling her story to the astonished father and son pair, Vincent and Clement Ryder.

  ‘It all started, you see, when the twins asked me to vamp that dead man,’ she began helpfully.

  Vincent, who was turned to kneel fully on the front seat so that he could look at her sitting in the back, wondered if he had heard her right.

  They had arrived at her house only a few minutes ago. She’d obviously been waiting and watching out for them, for she had come outside before they’d even had the chance to knock on the door. Clearly, she didn’t want whoever was inside the house to be made aware of their presence. />
  Since it was perishing outside, after introducing themselves, Clement had suggested they sit in the car, with the engine and heater running. Patsy had taken one look at the younger man’s good looks and manly form, smiled at him widely, and quickly agreed.

  Even as they walked to the car, she was assuring them that she needed their protection, and had clung on to Vincent’s arm throughout the short walk. She was adamant that she had important information about the dead man, and that he had probably been murdered. And that she should know. She’d been with him that night!

  That alone had been enough to make father and son exchange surprised and slightly wary glances.

  Both of them were thinking that this headstrong and rather voluble young lady was, perhaps, too good to be true. An eyewitness at last – and at this late date?

  And with this latest breath-taking statement, father and son again shared a worried look between them. They’d both heard about witnesses coming forward to confess to crimes they hadn’t committed, or trying to insert themselves into criminal cases out of some sort of compulsion or quest for attention or to get into the limelight.

  Was that what they were dealing with now?

  Clement, unlike his son, still sat facing forward, so he positioned the driving mirror so that he could see the back-seat passenger’s face clearly.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss, er …’

  ‘Arles, Patsy Arles,’ the young girl said cheerfully. ‘How do you do – again.’ She giggled.

  At this, Clement suddenly remembered that they’d introduced themselves to her at her doorstep, and that she’d confirmed that she was indeed Patsy Arles, the same girl who’d telephoned and asked to speak to someone about the Terry Parker case. And he’d forgotten her name.

  He felt a nasty jolt rip through him at this further sign that his mental capacities were being slowly but surely nibbled away by Parkinson’s, and pushed the thought aside violently. It might not, after all, be necessarily true. He was of an age, anyway, when short-term memory started to lessen.

  ‘Yes, Miss Arles, of course,’ he forced himself to say calmly, and to keep his mind firmly on the matter at hand. ‘Did you say that someone had asked you to er … vamp the dead man?’ Clement asked cautiously. ‘That is, Mr Terrence Parker?’

  ‘Not just someone. The twins! I told you,’ Patsy corrected him kindly.

  ‘Er, yes, so you did,’ Clement acknowledged. ‘The twins being Jasper and Juliet Vander?’ he clarified briskly.

  ‘That’s right. I nearly died when they asked me!’ Patsy sighed as she remembered that wonderful night. ‘That Juliet remembered me from school, and actually sought me out and spoke to me! She’s so glamorous and popular. I was so flattered, I can’t tell you!’

  Vincent stared at the young girl, utterly fascinated. Her mop of fair ginger curls, the freckled open face flushed with excitement and big wide eyes all made her appear to be more of a child than a grown woman. Her hands, flapping around in the air as she spoke, had nails painted a bright crimson to match her lipstick. (Which did very little, Vincent thought, for her colouring.) She seemed totally oblivious to the sensation she was creating. Surely, this was all so much pie-in-the-sky though?

  Clement, for his part, was wondering if the young woman was perhaps drunk, or worse. But after observing her closely, he decided that she was probably no more than overexcited, and of a highly strung disposition – and maybe not the most intelligent of youngsters.

  ‘Perhaps you could just tell us, from the beginning, what it is that you know, Miss Arles,’ Clement said, trying by his flat tone and calm demeanour to try and rein her in a bit. ‘You say you were with Mr Parker on the night he died? You were at the party at Mrs Vander’s house?’ This, at least, had been confirmed by her appearance on the guest list.

  ‘Oh yes – it was heavenly. Mrs Vander is such a fashion icon, isn’t she? You can see where Juliet gets it. That house! Yummy – like something from a magazine. And there was so much champagne there – I mean, real champagne – and the food was—’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Clement cut in hastily. ‘I take it the twins invited you?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘So you knew them socially?’

  ‘Oh no. Well, not until they needed my help because of that awful man trying to rob them of their inheritance and all that,’ Patsy said eagerly.

  ‘Er … by that man, you mean Mr Parker?’ Clement said, resigning himself to the fact that this wasn’t going to be easy. Just keeping his witness to the point was going to take most of his – admittedly limited – patience.

  ‘That’s right. He was dead set on marrying Mrs Vander and spending all her money,’ she responded earnestly. ‘Juliet told me so. He was so infra dig it was sickening.’

  Clement could hear Juliet Vander’s voice in that last sentence, and wasn’t surprised. By now it was becoming abundantly clear that Juliet had taken advantage of this girl’s hero-worship to inveigle her into some sort of scheme or other. The question was – what had that scheme been? And did it include collusion in murder?

  ‘I see. Seems he was a gold-digger,’ Clement said. ‘And Juliet and Jasper took you into their confidence?’

  ‘That’s right. I was so flattered that they did. I mean, me!’ Patsy gushed. ‘I felt so sorry for them. It must have been absolutely galling to have some lounge lizard become engaged to your mother, mustn’t it? I mean, my own mother is so annoying and plebeian, you wouldn’t believe it’ – Patsy rolled her eyes theatrically – ‘but at least the dear old so-and-so wouldn’t fall for the charms of some gigolo years younger than herself. Poor Juliet was devastated! I mean, can you blame her?’

  ‘Er, quite,’ Clement said. Beside him, he could see Vincent was trying to hold back a huge grin, and he shot him a quelling look.

  ‘So, what did the twins plan to do about it, exactly?’ Clement asked, careful to keep his voice casual. The last thing he wanted to do now was frighten this rather scatter-brained young lady into uncharacteristic silence.

  ‘Oh, like I said. They asked me to do them a massive favour and vamp him for them,’ Patsy said airily. (She was, in fact, rather pleased with the way she sounded so casual and offhand about it. Like she’d been a femme fatale for years and years! She could tell by the way that the handsome younger man opened his eyes wide that he was impressed.)

  For a moment Clement was thoroughly nonplussed. He considered himself a man of the world, but this strange young woman, who seemed to be such an odd mixture of child and sophisticate, had him stumped.

  Manfully, he took another deep breath. ‘When you say “vamp”, by that do you mean that they wanted you to, er …’ But here, even Clement Ryder found himself floundering. And this time his son, damn the youth, was openly grinning at him.

  But, luckily for the coroner, he didn’t have to grope for the right words after all, because Patsy saved him the trouble.

  ‘Oh yes. They wanted me to seduce him, you see,’ she admitted matter-of-factly. ‘Or let him seduce me. I’m not quite sure.’ Patsy frowned. ‘It was all so clear and easy when Juliet explained it to me.’

  ‘Yes,’ Clement grasped the proffered straw with both hands. ‘Just what did Juliet explain to you? And just what was it that she wanted you to do that night? If you could be specific, Miss Arles, it would be very helpful.’

  ‘Well,’ Patsy took a deep breath and leaned forward in her seat. ‘I was to sweet-talk that horrible Parker man and get him to take me home. Then I was to, you know, string him along a bit and get him interested in me,’ Patsy’s voice speeded up a little over this admission, as if she didn’t really want to dwell on exactly what that entailed. ‘But make sure, you know, that I got him so interested in me, we started dating. And when I had got that far, we were going to set him up in a sting!’ she concluded happily. ‘Wasn’t that just thrilling? Juliet and Jasper were going to rent a room in a nice hotel, and I was going to invite him in, and then, when he was kissing me and stuff, they’d sneak in and take photographs.
Just like in one of those old black-and-white movies with Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall in it!’

  Clement and Vincent exchanged bemused, somewhat helpless glances.

  In the back seat, Patsy sighed happily. ‘It would have been so wonderful. The twins would have shown the photographs to Mrs Vander, who’d finally see what an oily oik he really was, and a philanderer and all that, and she’d chuck him and the twins would be so grateful to me we’d be friends for ever!’ She paused to take a much-needed gulp of air. ‘Only … well …’ Her expression fell and she began to look pensive.

  ‘Yes?’ Clement encouraged her. ‘Well, what?’

  ‘Well, things went wrong, didn’t they? I mean, it started off all right,’ Patsy said, her little chin coming up gamely. ‘I played my part just right, and I made sure I followed him out when he was leaving the party and asked him if he could give me a lift back home. I was staying that night with my aunt in Wolvercote, you see, because Jasper said that the Parker man lived only a stone’s throw from there. And I was all set to be scintillating and fascinating and get him to agree to take me out on a date and stuff but …’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Well, he sort of got all sleepy on me. His voice started to slur and once or twice I had to grab the steering wheel to stop him from hitting some parked cars. And then, finally, when we got close to Wolvercote he turned down this road and went straight into a tree!’

  She sounded very aggrieved by this.

  ‘And what did you do?’ Vincent finally spoke, too caught up in this wild and weird tale to be able to keep silent anymore.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Patsy asked, looking and sounding puzzled.

  ‘I mean, what did you do when the car crashed? Were you hurt yourself?’ Vincent persisted.

  ‘Oh no. We weren’t going that fast because the roads were so bad, and I had time to see what was happening, and I braced my hands on the dashboard. My shoulder felt a bit stiff for a while, but it didn’t last long.’