Dead Against the Lawyers Page 7

  ‘ ’Evening,’ answered Brock automatically, and when he looked at his watch he was surprised to discover the time was almost six o’clock.

  ‘I’ve made inquiries at Corry’s office, sir,’ said Yawley, in his toneless voice. ‘The people there don’t seem to have liked him very much.’

  ‘He was pushing hard for the title of the world’s least liked resident. Have you discovered any sort of connection outside work between him and anyone in chambers?’

  ‘No, sir. I gather he never mixed with anyone but the woman.’

  ‘What woman?’

  ‘There is a woman who frequently visits his house at night.’

  ‘You’re saying she’s no lady?’ Brock smiled. Yawley belonged to some obscure religious sect which held that almost everything in the world was sinful. ‘See her and have a talk.’

  ‘Very well, sir,’ replied Yawley, stiffly.

  ‘D’you know where she lives?’

  ‘No, sir. I did not pursue the matter.’

  ‘Then start pursuing. See if she can tell you anything about Corry’s other love lives.’

  Yawley left. Brock lit a cigarette and thought that Yawley must find the present world a very depressing place.

  The telephone rang. Kinnet, the Home Office pathologist who had conducted the PM, wanted to talk about the case. Would the DI be able to drop in to see him at his home and enjoy a glass?

  After replacing the receiver. Brock stared at his full ‘In’ tray. He pushed it to one side of the desk, before getting up and leaving the room.

  In the centre of the courtyard at the back of the station were two black police cars, clean and polished, and his own eight-year-old Hillman which was rusting and had not had a polish in months. He climbed into his car and made a note of the mileage in the log book from which his mileage allowance was calculated. He drove out of the courtyard.

  Kinnet, one of the six pathologists in the south-east, lived on the northern outskirts of Hertonhurst. He owned a large, comfortable house, set in an attractive garden, the kind of house Brock would have liked but would never be able to afford.

  Kinnet opened the front door. He was a tall, thin, stooping Scotsman, with a brusque manner which frequently upset people inclined to pompousness. ‘‘Evening, Brock,’ he said, as he shook hands. ‘Good of you to come out here. Let’s go in my study where we shan’t be disturbed.’ He pushed the door open and Brock went into a room which was furnished for comfort rather than style. ‘What will you drink?’

  ‘Whisky, please.’

  ‘You’ll have to take it with water, mind, not soda. I have it sent down from the Moal distillery in Angus and I’ll no’ have anyone ruining it with bubbles. If you find the taste is unusual that’s because there’s a decent amount of honest to God malt whisky in it.’

  After he had poured out the drinks, Kinnet stood with his back to the empty fireplace. ‘Did you know Corry?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Not my idea of company, but people used to say he was a clever lawyer.’

  ‘He was sharp.’

  ‘And no honest policeman likes a sharp lawyer, of course?’ Kinnet drank slowly, savouring the flavour of the whisky. He put the glass on the mantelpiece. ‘You can rule out suicide. Brock. The chances of suicide are about one in a million and those are the figures I’ll give in the witness-box. You can have the reasons very succinctly. There’s no note nor any history of attempted or threatened suicide: people do commit suicide first time without leaving notes, but one can say it’s unusual. No powder markings on Corry’s hands. Not a very satisfactory negative, since the murder gun can be fired without leaving appreciable deposits on the hand and the test to uncover such deposits isn’t very much more reliable with the new jelly stuff than it was with the old paraffin test. Still, it’s a straw in the wind.

  ‘In order to find how far from the body the gun was when it was fired, I borrowed the corpse of an old tramp. I shot eight bullets into the corpse, using ammunition identical with that used to kill Corry. As you know, there’s a difference between the tattooing of power-blackening on live, warm flesh and on dead, cold flesh, but the margin of error in distance isn’t much above five per cent. I can say beyond any shadow of doubt that the gun was fired at a minimum distance of fifteen inches from the man’s head. Practically no suicide holds a gun as much as an inch away from his flesh for very obvious reasons.

  ‘The gun has a most unusual safety catch which really is difficult to find and being in a hurry I had to ring up the man in ballistics before I could sort out how it worked. You’ll see what I mean when you get his report. They say the gun at one time must have been used for target practice by someone who did his own modifications. Like all four five five Webleys, it’s got a double action and because of the safety catch which had replaced one of the side screws and has altered the action, the pull on the trigger, if the gun isn’t cocked, has to be several times greater than usual: so much so that it’s very difficult to fire. If the gun’s cocked it becomes a hair trigger action, but the safety catch automatically engages.’

  Brock twisted the glass in his hands. ‘Corry, then, could hardly have pulled the trigger by mistake unless he cocked the gun and if he did cock it he probably wouldn’t have been able to fire it for quite a time because he’d be looking for the safety catch?’

  ‘The ballistics report puts the thing accurately, but I’d say that’s a correct summing up.’

  ‘Then the gun, on its own, rules out accident?’

  ‘That’s not my department, Inspector, but as a man who prides himself on ordinary intelligence I could not be convinced of accident in the light of those facts.’

  Brock drank. He thought about the face powder — he was certain that was what it was — that had been on the carpet of Holter’s room in chambers. ‘Had Corry been in any sort of a scuffle?’

  ‘The only bruise on his whole body came from falling to the floor.’

  ‘What about the trail on the carpet — was it blood?’

  ‘Blood, human, Corry’s.’ Kinnet’s voice quickened. ‘There’s a nice bit of research here, Inspector, that’s wasted at the moment. The lab boys have grouped the blood down to show an LV a plus b factor which is probably possessed by only one person in every million.’

  ‘Did he crawl or was he pulled?’

  ‘A nice question! I once had a man who walked and talked after a bullet had passed through both the frontal and temporal lobes of his brain. Still, in this case the bullet had begun to break up so that the damage was very great. I’m prepared to say that he died instantly, so that he was pulled across the floor.

  ‘I did a nice bit of reconstruction of the shooting with bits of string and tape. When the gun was fired, Corry was looking away from it and the muzzle was one hundred and twenty degrees round from the horizontally projected line from between his eyes.’ Kinnet took a pencil and held it at arm’s length so that it was behind his ear, pointing at his head. ‘This is the position, Inspector. There’s no possibility of taking aim from here, which is just one more reason for the odds of a million to one against suicide.’

  ‘Then you’re confirming murder?’

  ‘Aye. But did you really need confirmation?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  Kinnet finished his drink. He stepped away from the fireplace. ‘You’ll have the other half. Inspector? Two whiskies under the belt are better than one when it comes to making light of difficulties.’ He took Brock’s glass. ‘How have you got on with the people in the case?’

  ‘So-so,’ replied Brock carefully.

  ‘I’ve met Holter once or twice. He’s not the kind of man I’d want to be stranded with on a desert island, but they say he’s good in court. His wife’s only half his age, isn’t she?’

  ‘Less than half, I think.’

  That always seems a damned silly situation, but I’m not certain there isn’t a touch of wistful jealousy in my complaint! Who else is there with Holter?’

  ‘
Resse, Spender, and a young chap, Aiden, two clerks, and an occasional typist.’

  ‘I know Resse. Quite a nice bloke when he allows himself to be: his wife’s a real charmer.’

  ‘I haven’t met her yet.’ Brock finished his whisky and stood up. ‘I must push. My super said he was coming down from HQ so I’d better be around to greet him. Can you give me a time of death before I move, sir?’

  ‘Somewhere between six and seven last night. You can take those times as accurate because he’d had sardines for lunch and it’s been discovered that they have a very consistent rate of deterioration.’

  ‘It’s a nice job you’ve got, sir!’

  ‘It’s never been known to spoil my appetite,’ replied Kinnet.

  Brock left the house and drove towards the central police station. The traffic lights in the High Street were at red and as he waited, he thought about that trail of blood. If Corry was killed instantly, why had his body been dragged several feet along the carpet? To try to suggest suicide? How could it? And why had no further attempt been made to confuse the evidence?

  *

  Detective Sergeant Peach waited in the lobby of The Three Bells and morosely stared at the loud-voiced, horse-faced woman who was talking to her ugly Pekinese as if it were a child. He hated dogs and he hated that kind of woman.

  A man, dressed in a suit with a widely spaced and heavily coloured check, came into the lobby. He was small and pugnaciously hail-fellow-well-met.

  ‘Are you the copper wanting to know something?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Peach of the county constabulary.’

  ‘What’s up? But you’ll have to hurry. I’ve twenty-four special dinners, God knows how many coming to the dining-room, and one of the waitresses has just given notice.’

  Peach silently applauded the good taste of the waitress. ‘Can we go somewhere more private?’

  ‘Charging me with something obscene? All right, let’s use my office. But no more than five minutes. Bloody lobsters never came up from Folkestone this morning and I’ve had to change the entire menu for the specials.’

  They went into a small room which was filled to capacity with a desk, chairs, three filing cabinets, a safe, and a mass of ledgers and papers.

  ‘What’s all the trouble?’ asked the manager.

  ‘You had the CA Harper Society dinner last night?’

  ‘We did. A first-class mind-improving society and that’s a fact. The mind’s a sponge that starts life squeezed dry and even a lifetime of learning can’t fill it right out. Most people don’t begin even to dampen it.’

  ‘Was Mr Holter the speaker?’

  ‘Ah, ha! The murder! As I was saying to madam, my wife, not so many minutes ago, we may live in the country, but we do see life. Three weeks ago a rape in Ramsgate, two weeks ago a stabbing in Ashford, this week a murder in Hertonhurst. That’s life for you.’

  ‘No one’s yet said it was murder.’

  ‘No?’ The manager was plainly disappointed.

  ‘Have you any idea when Mr Holter arrived?’

  ‘It was cocktails at six-thirty, dinner at seven. We like to dine early — I’m a member of the society — in order to leave plenty of time to enjoy the speaker’s lecture afterwards. No man’s mind can be too broadened.’

  ‘When did he get here?’

  ‘I was just telling you, old man. Cocktails at six thirty and dinner at seven. But our speaker never turned up at six-thirty and that’s bad for trade because people get worried and don’t drink up when the speaker’s missing. Seven o’clock, no speaker, and dinner’s waiting. Seven-five and already the food is suffering: seven-ten and the staff is asking me what on earth they’re to do?’

  ‘Put it back in the deep freeze for a bit?’

  ‘That is not funny,’ snapped the manager.

  ‘When did he arrive?’ asked Peach.

  ‘At ten minutes past seven.’

  ‘What state was he in? Calm?’

  ‘Calm? No, sir, not calm, not by a jugful. He was in a state and no mistake. He demanded two drinks, even though the delicious food was spoiling.’

  ‘What kind of a state?’ asked Peach, and resentfully waited for a full description of the ruined meal before he obtained the information he wanted.

  *

  Holter, contrary to his normal habit and for no reason at all, drove home the back route, via the village of Wrasham. He had passed the general store when he noticed the Mercedes parked outside the call-box. Identifying it as his wife’s car, he braked harshly and reversed the short distance, swerving violently. He climbed out and walked over to the call-box. As he reached the door, Charlotte saw his reflection in the mirror and was shocked.

  He pulled open the door and held it open with his foot. ‘Something wrong with the telephone at home, darling?’

  She turned slowly. ‘Wrong?’ she muttered, and then hastily covered the mouthpiece of the receiver with her gloved hand.

  ‘I suppose the damned thing’s out of action for the second time this month? Here, let me tell them what I think of their service.’ he held out his hand.

  She pulled the receiver away from him. ‘No.’

  ‘The only way to get proper service these days is to speak up.’

  She struggled to regain her self-control. ‘I’ve ... I’ve told them, darling, so it’s all right.’ She replaced the receiver on its cradle and picked up her handbag from the top of the coin-box.

  ‘D’you know, Betty, you really looked surprised to see me,’ he said boisterously, as he held the door more fully open for her. ‘As if I were the last person you expected to see. You thought your husband was miles away!’

  She tucked her arm round his and interlaced three fingers. ‘Of course I did, my darling, and I was talking to my favourite boy-friend and I didn’t want anyone to hear.’

  ‘You watch out, Madam, or I’ll have him hauled up in court on every charge in the books.’

  ‘It’s such fun finding you’re jealous.’

  As they walked across the pavement, their bodies momentarily met at the hips and he thought he felt the ripple of her flesh as she moved her right leg forward. Not even a misogynist could deny she was beautiful, he thought. Men who saw her immediately envied her husband. It filled him with both a sense of pride and anger that at parties the men crowded round her and visually explored her body.

  She squeezed his fingers and then withdrew her hand. ‘I’ll follow you back, but please don’t drive too fast, darling. It terrifies me to think of something dreadful happening to you.’

  He opened the driving door of the Mercedes for her and as she sat down her short skirt rode up her knees. ‘Don’t you ever get tired of looking?’ she asked, smiling.

  ‘Not until they nail me up in my coffin.’

  He returned to the Bentley and started the engine. Thank God, even though he was fifty-eight, it still excited him to look at his wife’s legs. And thank God he’d had the sense to wait for marriage to Charlotte — a woman who’d excite a man of fifty-eight or one hundred and eight.

  Even though he drove as quickly as ever to Treybrake Hall, the Mercedes pulled up behind the Bentley in front of the house as he switched off the engine.

  ‘Are you going out this evening?’ he asked, as she stepped out of her car.

  ‘Darling, I told you at breakfast. I’m having a fitting with Rachael. The woman who actually makes the clothes says she can’t go any further until I have the fitting.’

  ‘Aren’t you ... seeing rather a lot of her?’ he asked, trying to speak casually.

  She smiled. ‘Spoilsport! You’re going out, so why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Mine’s business.’

  ‘And mine’s business. If I went to one of the London fashion houses instead of to Rachael’s for my clothes, even you wouldn’t be able to pay the bills. You know, underneath Rachael is really a very nice woman.’

  ‘Underneath all those shapeless clothes, she probably looks as raddled as her face suggests.’r />
  ‘You’re very naughty about her and I’m sure you’re only jealous of her?’

  ‘Jealous?’

  ‘You’d rather I sat at home and waited for you because you just don’t like sharing me with anyone. I do so love you being like that, Radwick. It makes me feel all warm and important. You won’t be back late tonight, will you?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t be so silly,’ she whispered, ‘I’m sure you’ve quite enough imagination to answer that one.’ She spoke in her normal voice. ‘I must go in and see that Mrs Utley’s got the meal ready properly and not put the joint on the ring and the peas in the oven. She’s stayed on to help as we’re both going out.’

  After she had gone inside, he turned and stared across the countryside at the distant horizon which was just visible through the shimmering heat haze that had lasted into the evening. He lit a cigarette. It was exciting to think about tonight. Tonight, he would be able to wash away memories that hurt: memories of the night before, when she had almost fought to keep him away from her bed. Women were irrational creatures, he tritely decided. As he looked across Romney Marsh, one or two of the broader dykes glinting in the sun, he suffered a sudden desire of possessiveness. He would have liked to own all the land before him so that he could deny anyone’s entry into it, for the same reason that it was wonderful to know Charlotte was his, to the exclusion of every other man in the world.

  He turned and went into the house. Charlotte was in the sitting-room and when he suggested a drink she said she would like a whisky and would he give Mrs Utley a small gin to help try to keep her in a good humour. Charlotte left to go into the kitchen and he poured out the three drinks and put the glasses on to a silver tray. He went into the hall and was about to walk to the kitchen when he looked at the telephone and was reminded that Charlotte had said it was out of order. He put the tray down and picked up the receiver. The dialling tone sounded immediately. He dialled nought and when the operator answered he explained he was checking the circuit.

  In the kitchen, Charlotte was preparing the salad and Mrs Utley, looking uglier than ever, was whipping some cream. He put the tray down on the central table. ‘I’ve just checked the telephone and it’s all right now,’ he said. ‘For once, they corrected the fault quickly.’