A Talent For Destruction (12 page)

Tait bit off his sentence and shot to his feet, his eyes bright, his nose sharp. ‘God, what a potentially explosive situation! The Aingers' marriage was fraying under tension, and then along came Janey Rolph with Athol Garrity somewhere in tow … And the point is that Janey was stunning, absolutely stunning – small and delicate, with pale skin, big brown eyes, and the most fantastic hair I've ever seen: a thick, vivid red, cut quite short all over so that it looked like a fox's pelt. I didn't see her for more than fifteen minutes – and on my last visit before going on leave, otherwise I'd have been after her myself – but I shan't forget her in a hurry. They had another visitor at the time, and he couldn't take his eyes off her either. More significantly, nor could Robin Ainger.'

Quantrill sat up. When Gillian Ainger had told him about the post-graduate student she had befriended, he had imagined someone earnest, shy, myopic. It hadn't occurred to him that a man as good-looking as Ainger would have been interested in the girl.

‘How did Janey Rolph react to him?'

Tait stood taut, thinking hard. ‘My impression was that she behaved very tactfully. She was obviously accustomed to admiration, and knew how to deal with it. I remember thinking that she was giving quite as much attention to Gillian as she did to Ainger. She seemed to be encouraging them to communicate with each other – doing her best to bring them back together.'

‘Mrs Ainger didn't resent her, then?'

‘Not in the least. She obviously liked the girl, and assumed that her husband was bomb-proof, though anyone could see that Janey had knocked him sideways. But the fact that he, as a parson, couldn't do anything about Janey would make the situation infinitely worse for him.'

‘Good God …' Quantrill pushed himself up out of his armchair and began to pace the clubroom, awed by the hypothesis. ‘And Garrity was following Janey about … She didn't like him, according to Mrs Ainger, but that wouldn't stop Ainger feeling jealous. He disliked Garrity anyway, he told me that –'

‘And Ainger is a tall man,' contributed Tait, ‘and he has a temper. I've seen him go white with rage –'

Quantrill took a sobering breath. ‘We haven't a scrap of evidence to indicate how Garrity met his death,' he remembered.

‘No. But between us, we know enough to confront the Aingers. Garrity's death might well have been an accident, but from what you've told me it sounds as though the Aingers know something about it. If we make the right approach we ought to be able to get an admission from one or other of them. We could –'

‘“We”?' interrupted the Chief Inspector in charge of Breckham Market divisional CID.

The HQ Inspector (Ops) was crestfallen. ‘Ah, hell, for a moment I'd forgotten my promotion. Look, sir, technology's all very well, but I miss CID work. Let me in on your interview with the Aingers, please. I know it'd be irregular, but after all it's my information you're working on.'

‘Which is exactly why I've no intention of having you with me,' said Quantrill firmly. ‘Not that I'm ungrateful, but it may turn out that the Aingers have perfectly clear consciences, and I've got to go on living in the town with them. I don't want to be accused of encouraging you to abuse their hospitality by telling me about their private lives.'

Tait shrugged. ‘Let me know how it goes, then,' he said distantly. He looked at his watch. ‘I'm due for my pre-flight briefing in ten minutes, but I'll walk back with you to your car.'

The two men left the club hut and walked towards the parked cars, along an asphalted perimeter track scoured dry as a bone by March winds. ‘How's the family?' asked Tait politely.

‘Perfectly well in health, thanks. You've heard about Peter's misdeeds, though, I suppose?'

‘We do get to hear most things at county HQ.'

‘Bloody fine state of affairs,' grumbled Quantrill, ‘when a Chief Inspector's son appears before a juvenile court accused of malicious damage. He said that the trouble in the church hall started as horseplay, and admitted taking part in it. All the youngsters involved say that the worst of the damage was done by a raiding-party – whether they're telling the truth God knows, I certainly don't. Anyway, Peter was conditionally discharged, with a fine that'll take all his pocket money for the next six months. What he'll get up to while he's broke I dread to –'

‘And how's Alison?' interrupted Tait abruptly.

Quantrill glanced sideways at his colleague, who had last year taken an unexpectedly serious liking to his younger daughter. ‘She rings us from London every week, and sounds very cheerful,' he said.

‘Has she got herself engaged yet?'

‘No, no. She mentions various names, but there doesn't seem to be anyone special. She's only twenty, there's plenty of time before she thinks about settling down.'

‘Tell her I asked after her,' said Tait. ‘And thanks for coming over, sir.'

‘Thanks a lot for your help, Martin.' Quantrill turned his head to watch, fascinated despite himself, as one of the little aircraft rose gracefully – presumably in the hands of a qualified pilot – into the limitless cool blue of the sky.

‘How much is this flying game costing you?' he demanded.

‘It'll be roughly a thousand to qualify, with club and exam fees and everything,' said Tait matter-of-factly.

‘A
thousand pounds?
‘ Quantrill's eyes bulged as he thought what he could do with that kind of spare money, if he had it. ‘You'd better stay a bachelor if you want to indulge in this as a hobby. Rather you than me, anyway. I prefer to keep my feet on the ground and make the most of married bliss.'

Tait, who knew that the course of Quantrill's marriage had been less than blissful, gave his former chief a grin. ‘Envious?' he asked.

‘Not on your life.' Quantrill craned his neck to watch the aircraft, now small as a butterfly, catching sunlight on its wings as it forged confidently upwards. For a moment he tried to imagine himself in Tait's position: young, unencumbered, assured of accelerated promotion, affluent, free as air. Then, ‘Oh, all right, of course I am,' he admitted ruefully. ‘Envious as hell, boy, envious as hell.'

The following morning at ten o'clock the Reverend Robin and Mrs Ainger presented themselves, as urgently requested by the Chief Inspector, at Breckham Market police station. Quantrill was waiting for them in his office. They entered subdued, stiff with apprehension. He greeted them with a straight face and offered them neither coffee nor small talk.

‘I wanted to have a few words with you about the progress of our enquiry into the death of Athol James Garrity,' he began.

They sat silent, stiff as a pair of hypnotized rabbits, watching the words come out of his mouth.

‘As you know, the coroner's inquest is to be resumed on Friday. Dental evidence of the man's identity will be produced and you, Mr Ainger, have been called to attend and give evidence to account for his presence on your land, and to say what you know about him.'

Ainger cleared his throat and nodded solemnly. Typical of the man, Quantrill thought, to come dressed in his clerical grey; difficult to disbelieve a man in a dog-collar.

‘The autopsy has been completed,' went on the Chief Inspector, ‘but it provided no evidence as to the cause of death. It's not for me to anticipate the coroner's conclusion, but in the circumstances it's likely that he will bring in an open verdict. Athol Garrity's remains will be buried – by you next Monday, I believe, Mr Ainger – and the file will be closed.'

He could almost swear that he heard the Aingers give a joint sigh of relief. Certainly they stirred in their chairs, and their tension slackened.

Quantrill leaned forward across his desk. ‘However –' he said sharply, and he saw with satisfaction that Mrs Ainger flinched, ‘– a closed file can be reopened at any time if new evidence comes to light. And frankly I'm not satisfied that, in the course of my enquiries, I've heard the whole truth. I am convinced that someone in Breckham Market knows more than he – or she – has told me so far. And withholding information from the police is a very serious offence.'

He sat back in his chair and waited, watching them. They avoided his eyes, and also each other's. Gillian's cheeks had reddened, and the knuckles of her clasped hands were white. Robin's hands were hidden in the pockets of his jacket, but his face was drained of colour. The silence in the room, Quantrill thought, was thick enough to cut and butter.

‘Look,' he said suddenly, softening his voice and attitude. ‘I have a theory about Garrity's death. I've heard from various sources that he wasn't a particularly prepossessing young man – noisy, foul-mouthed, and quite a heavy drinker. Now, let's suppose that he behaved offensively last summer, and that someone knocked him down. His opponent would probably then leave him and walk off, thinking that Garrity would pick himself up later. But instead, because he'd been drinking heavily, he choked and was asphyxiated by his own vomit. That can happen quite easily, you know – it's why, when we lock up drunks in the cells here, an officer has to look at them every half-hour to make sure they're all right.

‘But when his opponent discovered that Garrity was dead, he must have panicked. My guess is that he hid the body, after dark, in the bushes at the bottom of Parson's Close, thinking – because he knew that the tenant farmer no longer used that field – that it wouldn't be found. He hid the tent, too; hid it, or sold it, or gave it away – anything to get rid of it. And ever since then, he's had to live with a man's death on his conscience. He's been afraid to confess, partly because of the damage it would do to his career and partly because he doesn't want the real reason for his quarrel with Garrity to be made public. I think I can guess what that reason is, but it needn't concern us here.'

Silent tears had begun to slide down Gillian Ainger's face, and now she gave a gasping sob. Her husband reached out for her hand and clasped it tightly, but they neither looked at each other nor spoke.

‘If my theory is anywhere near right,' went on Quantrill quietly, ‘I want anyone who was involved to know that as long as he admits to what he did, there will be no need for the details of his quarrel with Garrity to come out in open court. And whatever may happen to his career if he confesses, I think that he and his family will be able to live more happily in the future than they have done since Athol Garrity's death.'

The Aingers said nothing, but Gillian was crying openly now and Quantrill felt confident that she would talk if she were on her own. He sent Robin Ainger into an adjoining office under escort, lit a small cigar for himself and offered a cigarette to the Rector's wife. She shook her head.

‘Why are you crying, Mrs Ainger?'

‘You know what I have to contend with at home,' she said unsteadily, searching her bag for a handkerchief. ‘I'm at my wits' end, trying to cope with Dad and the housekeeping as well as all the parish work … and now this.' Her face was ugly, her eyelids swollen and her mouth gargoyled with the attempt to hold back her sobs. ‘You've been badgering us unmercifully, Mr Quantrill. Do you wonder I'm crying?'

‘It wasn't my intention to make you cry, but I'm not surprised. You're unhappy and pressured and frightened, and I think you'll crack up if you don't confide in someone. So please tell me what you know about Garrity's death. It's difficult for you, I realize that, but you'd do better to confess and suffer a quick burst of adverse publicity rather than to go on living in this state of permanent tension. Come on, get it off your conscience. The courts can be remarkably lenient, you know.'

She put away her handkerchief. Her voice was clogged with emotion, but she spoke with dignity: ‘I – I have nothing to say.'

Sympathy and gentleness was getting him nowhere. ‘Mrs Ainger,' he said more sharply, stubbing out his cigar, ‘you must understand the seriousness of my enquiry. I have reason to believe that you can give me some information as to the circumstances of Athol Garrity's death. Now tell me: what do you know about it?'

He watched her in the ensuing silence, his eyes as green and hard as little apples. Her own red-rimmed eyes blinked, but when she spoke again her voice had regained all the firmness and authority of a parson's wife with sixteen years'experience of dealing with disaffected parishioners.

‘I'm sorry, Chief Inspector, but I have nothing more to say.'

Baulked, but determined to use every tactic he knew, Quantrill sent her out to wait with a policewoman in another office, and had the Rector brought in.

‘Now, Mr Ainger,' he said, standing formidably behind his desk. ‘I've talked to your wife and she has given me her version of the circumstances surrounding Athol Garrity's death. Now I want to hear, in your own words, exactly what happened.'

For a moment, the Rector's handsome face sagged. He glanced doubtfully, anxiously, towards the door that led into the corridor down which he had glimpsed his wife being escorted. He swallowed nervously, and then his face began to clear.

‘I have nothing to say,' he said.

Quantrill glared at him, his frustration mounting. He had put so much conviction into his hypothetical account of Athol Garrity's death that he had almost persuaded himself that he knew it to be true. Now he remembered, with reluctance, that in fact he knew nothing; not even that a crime had been committed.

Well, he'd gone too far to draw back. Might as well go all the way. If the Aingers were innocent, they had behaved remarkably suspiciously, and he had almost sufficient justification for the question he was about to put. Even if it led to a complaint from Ainger to the Chief Constable, he intended to put it.

‘Mr Ainger,' he said slowly, ‘a young man you knew, a man you have entertained at the Rectory, has died in unexplained circumstances, and the body has been found on your land. You've already told me something about him, and you've been frank enough to tell me that you disliked him, but my information suggests that you know more than you've said. I am going to put a question to you and I expect you, as a man of God, to answer me fully and truthfully. Did you have any part in, or are you in any way an accessary to, Athol James Garrity's death?'