Death of an Expert Witness (34 page)

"Mrs. Meakin? We're police officers. May we come in?" She didn't trouble to look at his proffered identity card. She hardly seemed surprised even. Without speaking she pressed herself against the wall of the passage and they passed before her into the sitting-room. It was small and very plainly furnished, drearily tidy and uncluttered.

The air smelt damp and chill. There was an electric reflector fire with one bar burning, and the single pendant bulb gave a harsh but inadequate light. A plain wooden table stood in the middle of the room, with four chairs. She was obviously about to start her supper. On a tray there was a plate of three fish fingers, a mound of mashed potato and peas. Beside it was an unopened carton containing an apple tart.

Dalgliesh said: "I'm sorry that we're interrupting your meal. Would you like to take it into the kitchen to keep it warm?" She shook her head and motioned them to sit down. They settled themselves round the table like three card players, the tray of food between them. The peas were exuding a greenish liquid in which the fish fingers were slowly congealing. It was hard to believe that so small a meal could produce so strong a smell. After a few seconds, as if conscious of it, she pushed the tray to one side. Dalgliesh took out Doyle's photograph and passed it across to her. He said:

"I believe you spent some time on Wednesday evening with this man."

"Mr. McDowell. He's not in any trouble is he? You're not private detectives? He was kind, a real gentleman, I wouldn't like to get him into trouble."

Her voice was low and rather toneless, Dalgliesh thought, a countrywoman's voice. He said:

"No, we're not private detectives. He is in some trouble, but not because of you. We're police officers. You can help him best by telling the truth. What we're really interested in is when you first met him and how long you were together."

She looked across at him. "You mean, a sort of alibi?"

"That's right. A sort of alibi."

"He picked me up where I usually stand, at the crossroads, about half a mile from Manca. That must have been about seven. Then we drove to a pub. They nearly always start off by buying me a drink. That's the part I like, having someone to sit with in the pub, watching the people, hearing the voices and the noise. I usually have a sherry, or a port, maybe. If they ask me, I have a second. I never have got more than two drinks. Sometimes they're in a hurry to get away so I only get offered the one."

Dalgliesh asked quietly: "Where did he take you?"

"I don't know where it was, but it was about thirty minutes' drive. I could see him thinking where to go before he drove off. That's how I know he lives locally. They like to get clear of the district where they're known. I've noticed that, that and the quick look round they give before we go into the pub. The pub was called The Plough. I saw that from the illuminated sign outside. We were in the saloon bar, of course, quite nice really. They had a peat fire and there was a high shelf with a lot of different coloured plates round it and two vases of artificial roses behind the bar, and a black cat in front of the fire. The barman was called Joe. He was ginger-haired."

"How long did you stay there?"

"Not long. I had two ports and he had two doubles of whisky. Then he said we ought to be going."

"Where did he take you next, Mrs. Meakin?"

"I think it was Chevisham. I glimpsed the signpost at the crossroads just before we got there. We turned into the drive of this big house and parked under the trees. I asked who lived there, and he said no one, it was just for Government offices. Then he put out the lights."

Dalgliesh said gently: "And you made love in the car. Did you get into the back seat, Airs Meakin?"

She was neither surprised nor distressed at the question. "No, we stayed in the front."

"Mrs. Meakin, this is very important. Can you remember how long you were there?"

"Oh yes, I could see the clock on the dashboard. It was nearly quarter past nine when we arrived and we stayed there until just before ten. I know because I was a bit worried wondering whether he'd drop me at the end of the lane. That's all I expected. I wouldn't have wanted him to come to the door. But it can be awkward if I'm just left, miles from home. Sometimes it isn't easy to get back."

She spoke, thought Massingham, as if she were complaining about the local bus service.

Dalgliesh said:

"Did anyone leave the house and come down the drive while you were in the car? Would you have noticed if they had?"

"Oh yes, I think so. I should have seen if they'd gone out through the space where the gate used to be. There's a street light opposite and it shines on the drive."

Massingham asked bluntly: "But would you have noticed? Weren't you a bit occupied?"

Suddenly she laughed, a hoarse, discordant sound which startled them both.

"Do you think I was enjoying myself? Do you suppose I like it?" Then her voice again became toneless, almost subservient. She said obdurately:

"I should have noticed."

Dalgliesh added: "What did you talk about, Mrs. Meakin?" The question brightened her. She turned to Dalgliesh almost eagerly.

"Oh, he's got his troubles. Everyone has, haven't they? Sometimes it helps to talk to a stranger, someone you know you won't ever see again.

They never do ask to see me again. He didn't. But he was kind, not in a rush to get away. Sometimes they almost push me out of the car. That isn't gentlemanly; it's hurtful. But he seemed glad to talk. It was about his wife really.

Not wanting to live in the country. She's a London girl and keeps nagging him to get back there. She wants him to leave his job and go and work for her father. She's at home with her parents now and he doesn't know whether she'll come back."

"He didn't tell you he was a police officer?"

"Oh no! He said he was a dealer in antiques. He seemed to know quite a lot about them. But I don't take much notice when they tell me about their jobs. Mostly they pretend."

Dalgliesh said gently: "Mrs. Meakin, what you are doing is terribly risky. You know that, don't you? Someday a man will stop who wants more than an hour or so of your time, someone dangerous."

"I know. Sometimes when the car slows down and I'm standing there waiting at the side of the road, wondering what he'll be like, I can hear my heart thudding. I know then that I'm afraid. But at least I'm feeling something. It's better to be afraid than alone."

Massingham said: "It's better to be alone than dead." She looked at him.

"You think so, sir? But then you don't know anything about it, do you?"

Five minutes later they left, having explained to Mrs. Meakin that a police officer would call for her next day so that she could be taken to make a statement at Guy's Marsh station. She seemed perfectly happy about this, only asking whether anyone at the factory need know.

Dalgliesh reassured her.

When they had crossed the bridge, Massingham turned to look back at the cottage. She was still standing at the door, a thin figure silhouetted against the light. He said angrily:

"God, it's all so hopeless. Why doesn't she get out of here, move to town, Ely or Cambridge, see some life?"

"You sound like one of those professionals whose advice to the lonely is always the same: "Get out and meet people, join a club." Which, come to think of it, is precisely what she's doing."

"It would help if she got away from this place, found herself a different job."

"What job? She probably thinks that she's lucky to be employed. And this is at least a home. It takes youth, energy and money to change your whole life. She hasn't any of those. All she can do is to keep sane in the only way she knows."

"But for what? To end up another corpse dumped in a clunch pit?"

"Perhaps. That's probably what she's subconsciously looking for.

There's more than one way of courting death. She would argue that her way at least gives her the consolation of a warm, brightly lit bar and, always, the hope that, next time, it may be different. She isn't going to stop because a couple of intruding policemen tell her that it's dangerous. She knows about that. For God's sake let's get out of here."

As they buckled their seat-belts, Massingham said: "Who'd have thought that Doyle would have bothered with her. I can imagine him picking her up. As Lord Chesterfield said, all cats are grey in the dark. But to spend the best part of an hour telling her his troubles."

"They each wanted something from the other. Let's hope they got it."

"Doyle got something; an alibi. And we haven't done too badly out of their encounter. We know now who killed Lorrimer."

Dalgliesh said: "We think we know who and how. We may even think we know why. But we haven't a scintilla of proof and without evidence we can't move another step. At present, we haven't even enough facts to justify applying for a search warrant."

"What now, sir?"

"Back to Guy's Marsh. When this Doyle affair is settled I want to hear Underbill's report and speak to the Chief Constable. Then back to Hoggatt's. We'll park where Doyle parked. I'd like to check whether it would be possible for someone to sneak down that drive without being seen."

By seven o'clock the work was at last up to date, the last court report had been checked, the last completed exhibit packed for the police to collect, the figures of cases and exhibits received had been calculated and checked. Brenda thought how tired Inspector Blakelock seemed. He had hardly spoken an unnecessary word during the last hour.

She didn't feel that he was displeased with her, merely that he hardly knew she was there. She had talked little herself, and then in whispers, afraid to break the silence, eerie and almost palpable, of the empty hall. To her right the great staircase curved upwards into darkness. All day it had echoed to the feet of scientists, policemen, scene-of-crime officers arriving for their lecture. Now it had become as portentous and threatening as the staircase of a haunted house. She tried not to look at it, but it drew her eyes irresistibly. With every fleeting upward glance she half imagined that she could see Lorrimer's white face forming out of the amorphous shadows to hang imprinted on the still air, Lorrimer's black eyes gazing down at her in entreaty or despair.

At seven o'clock Inspector Blakelock said: "Well, that's about all then. Your mum won't be best pleased that you've been kept late tonight."

Brenda said with more confidence than she felt: "Oh, Mum won't mind.

She knew I was late starting. I rang her earlier and said not to expect me until half past."

They went their separate ways to collect their coats. Then Brenda waited by the door until Inspector Blakelock had set and checked the internal alarm. All the doors of the separate laboratories had been closed and checked earlier in the evening. Lastly they went out by the front door and he turned the two final keys. Brenda's bicycle was kept in a shed by the side of the old stables, where the cars were garaged.

Still together, they went round to the back. Inspector Blakelock waited to start his car until she had mounted, then followed her very slowly down the drive. At the gate he gave a valedictory hoot and turned to the left. Brenda waved and set off briskly, pedalling in the opposite direction. She thought she knew why the Inspector had waited so carefully until she was safely off the premises, and she felt grateful. Perhaps, she thought, I remind him of his dead daughter and that's why he's so kind to me.

And then, almost immediately, it happened. The sudden bump and the scrape of metal against tarmac were unmistakable. The bicycle lurched, almost throwing her into the ditch. Squeezing on both brakes she dismounted and examined the tyres by the light of the heavy torch which she always kept in her bicycle saddlebag. Both were flat. Her immediate reaction was one of intense irritation. This would happen on a late night! She swept the torchlight over the road behind her, trying to identify the source of the mishap. There must be glass or something sharp on the road somewhere. But she could see nothing, and realized that it wouldn't help if she did. There was no hope of repairing the punctures. The next bus home was the one due to pass the Laboratory just after nine o'clock, and there was no one left at the Lab to give her a lift. She spent very little time in thinking. The best plan was obviously to return the bicycle to its rack and then make her way home through the new Laboratory. It would cut off nearly a couple of miles and, if she walked fast, she could be home just after seven-thirty.

Anger, and ineffective railing against bad luck, is a powerful antidote to fear. So is hunger and the healthy tiredness that longs for its own fireside. Brenda had jerked the bicycle, now reduced to a ridiculously antiquated encumbrance, back into its stand and had walked briskly through the grounds of Hoggatt's and unbolted the wooden gate which led to the new site before she began to feel afraid. But now, alone in the darkness, the half-superstitious dread which it had seemed safe to stimulate in the Laboratory with Inspector Blakelock so reassuringly by her side, began to prick at her nerves. Before her the black bulk of the half-completed Laboratory loomed like some pre-historic monument, its great slabs bloodstained with ancient sacrifices, rearing upwards towards the implacable gods. The night was fitfully dark with a low ceiling of cloud obscuring the faint stars.