Death of an Expert Witness (39 page)

"Stella Mawson, Miss Foley's friend, was found hanged in the chapel."

She frowned as if the news were personally offensive, and said with no more than polite interest:

"I see. I don't think I've met her. Oh yes, I remember. She was at the concert in the chapel. Grey-haired, with remarkable eyes. What happened? Did she kill herself?"

"That's one of two possibilities. It's unlikely to have been an accident."

"Who found her?"

"Miss Pridmore."

She said with surprising gentleness: "Poor child."

Dalgliesh opened the file, picked up two transparent exhibit envelopes, and said:

"I'd like you to have a look at these four hairs urgently for me.

There's no time to get them to the Met Lab. I want to know, if possible, if the dark hairs came from the same head."

"It's easier to say whether they don't. I can have a look under the microscope but I doubt whether I can help you. Hair identification is never easy, and I can't hope to do much with only three samples. Apart from microscopic examination, we'd normally use mass spectrometry to try to identify differences in the trace elements, but even that isn't possible with three hairs. If these were submitted to me, I'd have to say that I couldn't give an opinion."

Dalgliesh said: "I'd be grateful, all the same, if you'd take a look.

It's just a hunch, and I want to know whether it's worth following up."

Massingham said: "I'd like to watch, if you don't mind." She gazed at him.

"Would it make any difference if I did?" Then minutes later she lifted her head from the comparison microscope and said:

"If we're talking of hunches, mine, for what it's worth, is that they came from different heads. The cuticle, cortex and medulla are all significantly different. But I think they're both male. Look for yourself."

Massingham bent his head to the eyepiece. He saw what looked like the sections of two logs, patterned and grained. And beside them were two other logs, their barks shredded.

But he could see that they were different logs, and that they came from different trees. He said:

"Thank you. I'll let Mr. Dalgliesh know."

There was nothing he could put between himself and that shining, razor-sharp blade. He thought wryly that a bullet would have been worse; but then he wondered. To use a gun at least required some skill, a preliminary aim. A bullet could go anywhere, and if her first shot was wide he could at least have ensured that she got no second chance. But she had three feet of cold steel in her hand and, in this confined space, she had only to lunge or slash and he would be cut to the bone. He knew now why she had shown him into the study. There was no room here to manoeuvre; no object within his range of sight which he could seize and hurl. And he knew that he mustn't look round, must keep his eyes firmly and without fear on her face. He tried to keep his voice calm, reasonable; one nervous smile, one hint of hostility or provocation and it might be too late to argue. He said:

"Look, don't you think we ought to talk about this? You've got the wrong man, believe me."

She said: "Read that note. The one on the desk behind you. Read it out loud."

He didn't dare turn his head, but reached back and fumbled on the desk.

His hand encountered a single sheet of paper. He read:

"You'd better check on the cannabis exhibits when Detective Inspector Doyle's around. How do you think he managed to afford his house?"

"Well?"

"Where did you get this?"

"From Edwin Lorrimer's desk. Stella found it and gave it to me. You killed her because she knew, because she tried to blackmail you. She arranged to meet you last night in the Wren chapel and you strangled her."

He could have laughed at the irony of it, but he knew that laughter would be fatal. And at least they were talking. The longer she waited, the greater his chances.

"Are you saying that your friend thought that I killed Edwin Lorrimer?"

"She knew you didn't. She was out walking the night he died and I think she saw someone she recognized leaving the Laboratory. She knew that it wasn't you. She wouldn't have risked meeting you alone if she'd thought that you were the murderer. Mr. Dalgliesh explained that to me. She went to the chapel thinking that she was safe, that she could come to some arrangement with you. But you killed her.

That's why I'm going to kill you. Stella hated the thought of shutting people away in prison. I can't bear the thought of her murderer ever being free. Ten years in exchange for Stella's life. Why should you be alive when she's dead?"

He had no doubt that she meant what she said. He had dealt with people pushed over the brink of endurance into madness, had seen before that look of dedicated fanaticism. He stood very still, poised on the soles of his feet, waiting for the first instinctive tightening of the muscles before she struck. He tried to keep his voice low, calm, with no trace of facetiousness.

"That's a reasonable point of view. Don't think that I'm against it.

I've never understood why people are squeamish about killing a convicted murderer instantaneously and resigned to killing him slowly over twenty years. But at least they have been convicted. There's the little matter of a trial. No execution without due process. And believe me, Miss Foley, you've got the wrong man. I didn't kill Lorrimer, and luckily for me I can prove it."

"I don't care about Edwin Lorrimer. I only care about Stella. And you killed her."

"I didn't even know that she was dead. But if she was killed yesterday any time between half past three and half past seven, then I'm in the clear. I've got the best possible alibi. I was at Guy's Marsh police station most of the time being interrogated by the Yard. And when Dalgliesh and Massingham left, I was there for another two hours. Ring them. Ask anyone. Look, you can lock me away in a cupboard --somewhere I can't escape--while you telephone Guy's Marsh. For God's sake, you don't want to make a mistake, do you? You know me. Do you want to kill me, messily, horribly, while the real murderer escapes? An unofficial execution is one thing; murder's another."

He thought that the hand holding the sword lost some of its tension.

But there was no change in the taut, white face. She said:

"And the note."

"I know who sent the note--my wife. She wanted me to leave the Force, and she knew that there'd be nothing like a little official harassment to push me into resigning. I had a spot of trouble with the Force about two years ago. The disciplinary committee exonerated me, but I damn nearly resigned then. Can't you recognize feminine spite when you see it? That note proves nothing except that she wanted me disgraced and out of the Force."

"But you have been stealing cannabis, substituting an inert substance?"

"Ah, that's a different question. But you're not killing me for that.

You won't be able to prove it, you know. The last batch of cannabis exhibits I was concerned with had a destruction authorization from the court. I helped burn them myself.

Just in time, luckily; the incinerator broke down immediately afterwards."

"And the court exhibits you burned, were they cannabis?"

"Some of them were. But you'll never prove I made the substitution, even if you decide to make use of that note, not now. But what does it matter? I'm out of the Force. Look, you know that I've been working on the clunch pit murder. Do you really suppose that I'd have been sitting at home at this time of day, free to drive over here as soon as you rang me merely to satisfy my curiosity, if I were on a murder case, if I hadn't been suspended or resigned? I may not be a shining example of probity to the Force, but I'm not a murderer, and I can prove it.

Ring Dalgliesh and ask him."

There was no doubt about it now, her grip on the sword had relaxed. She stood there, very still, no longer looking at him, but with her gaze fixed out of the window. Her face didn't change, but he saw that she was crying. The tears were streaming out of the tight little eyes to roll unimpeded down her cheeks. He moved quietly forward and took the sword from her unresisting hand. He placed an arm on her shoulders.

She didn't flinch. He said:

"Look, you've had a shock. You shouldn't have been left here on your own. Isn't it time we had a cup of tea? Show me where the kitchen is and I'll make it. Or better still, have you anything stronger?"

She said dully:

"There's whisky, but we keep that for Stella. I don't drink it."

"Well, you're going to drink it now. It'll do you good. And, by God, I need it. And then you'd better sit down quietly and tell me all about it."

She said: "But if it wasn't you, who did kill Stella?"

"My guess is, the same person who killed Lorrimer. A couple of murderers loose in one small community is too much of a coincidence.

But look, you've got to let the police know about that note. It can't hurt me, not now, and it might help them. If your friend found one incriminating piece of information in Lorrimer's desk, then she may have found another. She didn't use that note. She probably knew how little it was worth. But what about the information she did use?"

She said dully: "You tell them, if you want to. It doesn't matter now." But he waited until he had made the tea. The tidiness and the good order of the kitchen pleased him, and he took trouble over the tray, setting it in front of her on a low table which he drew up before the fire. He replaced the sword above the fireplace, standing back to make sure that it hung correctly. Then he made up the fire. She had shaken her head when he had offered her the whisky, but he poured himself a generous measure and sat opposite to her on the other side of the fire. She didn't attract him. Even in their brief encounters at the Laboratory he had given her no more than a passing dismissive glance. It was unusual for him to put himself out for a woman from whom he wanted nothing, and the sensation of disinterested kindness was unfamiliar but agreeable. Sitting opposite to her in silence, the traumas of the day faded, and he felt a curious peace. They had some quite decent stuff in the cottage, he decided, looking around at the cosy, cluttered sitting-room. He wondered whether it was all coming to her.

It was ten minutes before he went out to telephone. When he returned the sight of his face roused her from her benumbed misery. She said:

"What is it? What did he say?"

He moved into the room, frowning. He said: "He wasn't there. He and Massingham weren't at Guy's Marsh or at the Lab. They're at Muddington. They've gone to the clunch pit."

They drove again over the route they had followed the previous night when they had heard the three clangs from the chapel bell, the mile and a half to the junction of Guy's Marsh Road and then right through the main street of the village. Neither spoke. Massingham had taken one look at his chiefs face and had decided that silence would be prudent.

And it was certainly no time for self congratulation. They still lacked proof, the one clinching fact that would break the case open.

And Massingham wondered if they would ever get it. They were dealing with intelligent men and women who must know that they had only to keep their mouths shut and nothing could be proved.

In the village street, the first Saturday morning shoppers were making their appearance. The gossiping groups of women turned their heads to glance briefly at the car as it passed. And now the houses were thinning and Hoggatt's field, with the new building, was on their right.

Massingham had changed down to turn into the drive of the Old Rectory when it happened. The blue and yellow ball bounced out into the road in front of them, and after it, red Wellingtons flashing, ran William.

They were driving too slowly for danger, but Massingham cursed as he swerved and braked. And then came two seconds of horror.

Afterwards it seemed to Dalgliesh that time was suspended so that he saw in memory the whole accident like a film run slowly. The red Jaguar leaping and held suspended in the air; a blaze of blue from the terrified eyes; the mouth gaping in a soundless scream; the white knuckles wrenching at the wheel. Instinctively he cradled his head and braced himself for the impact. The Jaguar crashed the rear bumper of the Rover, ripping it away in a scream of torn metal. The car rocked wildly and spun round. There was a second of absolute silence. Then he and Massingham were out of their seat-belts and rushing across to the opposite verge to that small, motionless body. One boot lay in the road, and the ball trickled slowly towards the grass verge.

William had been tossed into a heap of hay left on the verge after the late summer scything. He lay spreadeagled, so relaxed in his perfect stillness that Massingham's first horrified thought was that his neck was broken. In the couple of seconds in which he was resisting the impulse to sweep the boy into his arms, and turning instead to telephone from the car for an ambulance, William recovered his wind and began struggling against the prickling dampness of the straw.

Bereft both of dignity and his ball he began to cry. Domenica Schofield, hair streaming across her bleached face, stumbled up to them.

"Is he all right?" Massingham ran his hands over William's body, then took the boy in his arms.

"I think so. He sounds all right." They had reached the drive of the Old Rectory when Eleanor Kerrison came running down the path towards them. She had obviously been washing her hair. It lay now in dank, dripping swathes across her shoulders. William, seeing her, redoubled his crying. As Massingham strode towards the house she ran clumsily beside him, clutching his arm. Drops of water sprayed from her hair to lie like pearls on William's face.