The Saint Valentine's Day Murders (12 page)

16

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Friday, 18 February

Inspector Romford glowered resentfully at Milton. ‘We’re doing the best we can, sir,’ he said plaintively.

‘Well, then you must do better,’ responded Milton, wincing as he recognized the absurdity of the injunction. He stopped pacing up and down his room, sat down at his desk and tried to recover his temper.

‘Look, Romford. I know I’m asking a lot of you. I know you’re without a Chief Inspector. I know you’re new to the job. I know – believe me, I know – that sifting reports from three police forces, all trying to outdo themselves in keenness, is an appallingly difficult job. I know you’re short-staffed because Chief Inspector Trueman has borrowed one of your sergeants to work on the London end. But you cannot really think it reasonable to present me with this two-feet-high pile of paper and tell me I should read it all because it is all potentially significant.’

‘Well, sir. If you’ll forgive me saying so, you’re the one who’s been telling me that everything is of potential significance.’

‘Dear God.’ Milton did not notice Romford’s lips purse at this blasphemy. ‘I said that
you
must regard everything as of potential significance, and exercise
your
judgement in deciding what was promising enough to bring to
my
attention.’

He pulled a piece of paper from the top of the pile. ‘What is promising about a report from the Essex force that Charlie Collins incurred a parking fine for leaving his car on a yellow line in Chelmsford last December?’

‘It might be near a well-known area for drug pushers, sir. I think it should be followed up.’

‘Collins was one of the victims, Romford.’

‘Well, sir. For all I know he wanted to commit suicide. Or maybe he didn’t recognize the chocolate box as the one he’d sent. Anything’s possible in this case. I can’t see any reason why anyone should have done this. All these men had safe jobs and nice houses and I can’t see why they should have wanted to poison anyone. As far as I can see, their wives looked after them all right. It’s as likely that one of them should have wanted to kill himself as that he would want to get rid of a good wife.’

Milton leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and thought for a couple of minutes. ‘Romford,’ he asked when he looked at him again, ‘do you understand about hate, loathing, vengefulness, passion – madness?’

‘A bit,’ said Romford. ‘I know that I think that child-killers should be strung up. And I suppose that’s a kind of hate, though the Bible does say an eye for an eye.’

‘I’m talking about what makes an apparently ordinary person commit a crime that to us seems unspeakable and to him seems justified.’

‘You mean wickedness, sir.’

‘I mean putting yourself in the murderer’s shoes and trying to understand his motives. I mean looking for reasons that might make a particular individual plan and execute a crime like this. I mean searching for evidence of betrayal, cuckolding, lust, greed and hatred of a human being.’

They looked at each other helplessly. ‘I’m not a psychologist, sir,’ said Romford finally.

You’re not, thought Milton. You’re a decent, thorough and conscientious policeman who is being asked to demonstrate an imagination he hasn’t got. He picked up the pile of paper and passed it across the desk.

‘Carry on with checking discrepancies and building up composite reports on each suspect. Select from among your staff the person whom you most frequently have to reprimand for showing too much curiosity about things that don’t concern him and the affairs of other people. He should also be bright. Tell him he’s got till tomorrow morning to give me a selection of reports that bear on motives in this case and to come up with any ideas – however mad they seem – that look worth pursuing.’

Romford made a mighty effort at concentration. ‘There’s young Ellis Pooley, sir. He’s always at it. Dreadful gossip. And reads too many detective stories, if you ask me. He was saying only yesterday that this was just like Agatha Christie’s
The A.B.C. Murders
, where some chap wanted to kill some other chap whose surname began with a “C”, so he first murdered people whose names began with “A” and “B” so it’d look as if there was a maniac at large. I had to tick him off for being fanciful. He doesn’t seem to know the difference between these books and real life.’

‘Does our murderer?’ asked Milton. And seeing that Romford was preparing himself to give a well-reasoned response, he added hastily, ‘Pooley seems just the man for the job. Well done, Romford. You can go now.’

Mollified by the compliment, Romford went off in search of Pooley. Maybe there was more to the impudent young whipper-snapper than he had thought. He wondered yet again what Pooley had meant when he said
sotto voce
that Romford reminded him of Inspector Lestrade.

Milton had already opened the file marked ‘Twillerton’. Robert had insisted it might be only a red herring. But one way or the other, it was time to clear it up.

17

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Saturday, 19 February

‘I’ve never much minded one way or the other about being Jewish,’ remarked Rachel, as they trudged up the hill towards the crematorium. ‘But after the last couple of days I’ve decided I’m lucky.’

Amiss turned his attention from the trickle of rain down the back of his neck. ‘What’s brought about the change? The sausage rolls after Edna Crump’s funeral?’

‘No. Bad as they were, I prefer them to gefilte fish. It’s the apparently complete absence of any tradition among this particular set of gentiles to cope with death and grief.’

‘What do you mean? Family support and that kind of thing?’

‘To some extent. I was thinking more of attitude to the mourners. Do you know about
shiva
?’

‘No.’

‘I’ve only sat
shiva
once – for my orthodox grandmother. The whole family was very upset when she died and she got the full works. A seven-day period of formal mourning – that’s
shiva
– when the family sits together at home, friends visit and everyone talks about the dead person. You can get the worst of the sadness out of your system and everyone thinks it quite proper if you want to cry or reminisce.’

‘I see what you mean. I didn’t have much experience of funerals myself until now; and even I’ve noticed the predominance of the stiff upper lip. A general terror on the part of all present that someone might say something to cause the bereaved to behave embarrassingly.’

‘Mind you,’ said Rachel reflectively, ‘from all you’ve said, seven days talking about poor Edna could have been too much of a strain for anyone to endure. But it might have helped the Collinses and the Farsons.’

‘I don’t know about the Farsons, considering those of us outside the family didn’t even get invited to the baked meats.’

‘I have to admit to being grateful for that. The other two occasions were agonizing enough. Do you think we’ll have to stay at Tiny’s for long?’

‘The poor devil seemed very insistent when I spoke to him yesterday.’

‘Well, as long as we get away in time to have our last evening together. Is it very selfish of me to feel I’ve had enough of this? Where the hell is this bloody crematorium, anyway? I thought it was only a few hundred yards.’

Amiss, who had been holding his head bent in the face of the wind, raised it and peered ahead. ‘It must be just around that corner. The chap at the station said left at the top of the hill.’

As they began to cross the side-road that lay between them and their destination, a figure in a heavy grey raincoat leapt out of a car parked dangerously near the corner and called to them vigorously.

‘Who is it?’ asked Rachel. ‘I can’t see a thing.’

‘It’s Sammy Pike. And he’s waving us over to join him in the car.’

‘Get us out of the weather for a couple of minutes. We’re early anyway. Nice to see you, Sammy,’ she said as they got into the back seat. ‘Where’s Jim?’

‘He’s interviewing the BCC security men, miss.’

‘What?’ said Amiss. ‘On a Saturday? They’ll claim double time. What are you doing here?’

‘The super couldn’t get hold of you this morning, sir, and he had an urgent message for you.’

‘Sammy,’ said Rachel. ‘You wouldn’t consider substituting “Rachel” and “Robert” for “miss” and “sir”, would you?’

‘Do you mind if I don’t, miss? I’ve always found it easier to keep a line between my private and official lives. Not that that’s easy with the super. This message is strictly off the record.’

‘And it is…?’

‘I think you’d better read this first. It’s the gist of a report from a Woman Police Constable in the Kent force.’

‘You read it first, Rachel, while I find a fag.’

She read without expression and handed it over without comment. Amiss scanned the three paragraphs and exploded. ‘This is a hell of a thing to read just before we meet Tiny to see off his wife’s corpse. It’s evil-minded tittle-tattle from some nosey old bitch.’

‘I’m inclined to agree with you, sir. But you know we can’t ignore any leads.’

‘Well, what does Jim want us to do about it? Find this Miss Nash among the mourners, always supposing she’s there, and chat her up? I’d be more inclined to lay her out with one of the urns.’

‘It’s more a case of trying to find out if there’s any truth in it, sir. He thought you might get a chance if you stay on long enough at Mr Short’s house to elicit some confidences from him.’

‘In the unlikely event that I stayed on and that he poured out the information that his dead wife had intended to divorce him on grounds of impotence, can you tell me why that should be suitable grounds for suspicion of murder? Couldn’t they have done it quietly?’

‘We’re a bit short of motives, sir. And our Detective Constable Pooley reckons that what with his being a rugby player and what with all Miss Nash says about Mr Short’s violent behaviour at home, maybe it’s a macho thing. Trying to save his reputation with the lads.’

‘Tiny would have throttled her, not poisoned her. He’s far too clumsy to have managed all that stuff with grains of strychnine, needles and razors.’

‘Well, you might be better able to find out the truth than we could in a formal interview.’

Rachel broke the silence that followed. ‘It’s all right, Robert. Forget about our going out this evening. I’ve thought of something useful I can do instead. You go on to Tiny’s house on your own and I’ll meet you back at the flat whenever.’

Amiss emitted a sound half-way between a sigh and a groan. ‘I don’t know who to resent most, Sammy. That smart-ass DC Whatshisname…?’

‘Pooley.’

‘… Pooley. The slanderous old bitch, Miss Nash. Jim for his moral blackmail. You for so efficiently finding us. Or this woman for publicly granting me the freedom to get lumbered with a shitty job.’

‘It’s difficult to choose, sir.’

‘Goodbye, Sammy. You may tell Jim from me that only the debt of gratitude I owe his wife prevents me from telling him to take a running fuck.’

‘I shall make a note of it, sir,’ said Pike, as he got out to open for them the near-side car door.

They walked silently for a couple of minutes, until Rachel stopped and faced him. ‘Robert,’ she said, ‘have I ever told you you’re beautiful when you’re angry?’

He made a valiant attempt to narrow his eyes, tighten his mouth and look severe. His failure was apparent to them both. ‘All right, you cow,’ he muttered affectionately. ‘I only hope you’ve got something spectacularly awful lined up for tonight.’

‘It may come to nothing, so I’ll keep it a surprise.’

They rounded the corner to see the arrival of the funeral cortège. Gathered in the car-park was a small group of wet and miserable people and, for the fourth time since Thursday, Amiss found himself nodding at Shipton, Horace, Graham, Bill and Melissa. As on every previous occasion, he could not repress his astonishment that Melissa had elected to do the simple, decent thing.

Supplemented by family and friends, they stood by unhappily until the coffin had been carried into the crematorium chapel by Tiny and five strong men who looked like stalwarts of the rugby club. As the mourners shuffled into the chapel, Amiss looked around for Rachel and saw she had moved back to join Melissa.

She’s distancing herself, he thought. Making sure that she can make a clean get-away afterwards. If Melissa stayed true to form, she would be the only PD member who didn’t trail back to the house for the food and drink.

At first, during the brief religious service, Amiss could keep neither his eyes off Tiny nor his mind off the accusations of Miss Nash. Could he really be the brute she portrayed? Surely he was merely an oaf with a quick temper. He tried to wrench his mind away to listen to the vicar, who was making it abundantly clear that he wouldn’t have known Fran if he had met her in the street. The unctuous voice flowed over the congregation, making bland utterances about ‘the natural goodness she displayed in the conduct of her daily life’, and that ‘though not outwardly apparently a religious person’ (code for never going to church), ‘she was possessed of an instinctive spirituality’ (code for promising that St Peter would do his bit without any quibbles). Nothing of course about the nastiness of her death. Don’t upset the listeners. Just like the anodyne services for Tommy Farson and Charlie. Hadn’t Edna’s service been preferable? Even though that Baptist minister had rather overdone the Old Testament angle, banging on about her slayer, he had at least known something about her and cared. It had been a bit surprising to find that Henry was a pillar of the congregation. Unlucky for him to have been born a Baptist. He’d have been better off a Roman Catholic. At least he’d have got a kick out of confession.

This service, Amiss was thankful to see, was going to be briefer than any of the others. ‘Abide with Me’, he sang along with his neighbours, as a sub-standard type of organ music played in the background. The coffin began the slide down the rollers, with a squeak that suggested the maintenance staff might lack the sense of duty befitting their position. His teeth ground in sympathy with those who were really mourning Fran. Was there no way to be disposed of that didn’t have these ghastlinesses? He flinched at the memory of the heart-stopping moment on Thursday when one of the ropes had slipped and Edna’s coffin plummeted down into the grave with indecent haste. No. Panic was unnecessary this time. Despite the squeak, the coffin was making a stately progress along the decline. It was only seconds before it vanished, the curtains fell back together and the sing-along tape indicated that a few verses of ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’ would put an end to the proceedings. He sneaked a covert look at his watch. A quarter to five now. Allow about a quarter of an hour to get to Tiny’s house. What then? Was he supposed to hang around the whole evening in the hope of getting Tiny to himself? There were bound to be relatives staying. If he once realized there would be no opportunity for a
tête-à-tête
, surely he could get away within a couple of hours. As he joined the procession from the chapel, he looked around for Rachel to tell her that he’d ring her about seven o’clock and let her know if their evening could be salvaged after all. She was nowhere in the car-park. He looked about in bewilderment and then caught sight of her moving away in the direction of the railway station. She was talking earnestly to Melissa.