The Unkindest Cut (17 page)

Ian eyed Jane's waistline, which was noticeably expanding. ‘Are X-rays and microwaves the same?'

‘I think they're more or less similar but on different wavelengths.'

Ian's eyebrows went up and up. ‘
Think
?
More or less
?
Similar
? That's not very positive.'

‘
I
'm not very positive,' Jane said. ‘You do rather spring these things on me at about ten seconds' notice; you never give me time to visit Google and I never did physics at school.'

‘Well, don't get emotional about it. Mr Nicholson, please phone around the metal stockists, find out who's been enquiring about lead foil.' The collator nodded with dignity. ‘But first find out about microwaves and lead foil. Ask Forensics again or try the universities. Somebody must know. Now, Jane, what I really brought you here for … You grew up here, went to school with most of your generation and to judge from your wedding wingding you're very popular. I want you to go through the list of probables with me and tell me what you know about them. The clues must be somewhere.'

‘All right. Go ahead.'

Nicholson drew the blinds, producing an almost ecclesiastical dimness. A square of whiteboard had been kept free of writing and of photographs and here Ian focused a projector. ‘Suspect Number One,' he said. ‘Rupert Williamson. These are in no particular order.'

‘Definitely not if he's first in line,' Jane said. The young man whose image flashed on to the screen had the face of a conceited bulldog. ‘You must have put him on the spot, questioning him. He has no need of money—'

‘That is not what our man was told by the boy's father.'

‘Probably not. The father thinks the boy should learn the value of money so he keeps him on a tight rein. The mother has money of her own and what Rupert wants Rupert gets.'

The photograph was evidently stored in the computer. A row of symbols ran down the right-hand margin. One of the symbols vanished.

‘Next,' Ian said. ‘His brother Quentin. We included him because we could see no way that he could afford to run around in a nearly new Morgan. We didn't know that he had a rich and indulgent mum.'

‘And now you know. There will be more the same.' Jane paused for thought. ‘Did you hear the story of the priest in the Highlands who told his flock all about hell and how they would burn forever in the fiery furnaces. “Lord,” said the flock, “we didna ken.” And the Lord in his infinite maircy and wisdom looked doon from above and said, “Weel, ye ken fine noo.”' Telling an ancient story had given Jane time to think and she had decided that it was time to reveal a delicate secret. ‘You may as well know that when we were young Quentin and I had a thing going. And, Ian, I would prefer that Roland never knew about this.'

‘I quite understand,' Ian said. ‘Did you … were you …?'

‘That,' Jane said sternly, ‘is none of your damn business, copper or not. Whatever you need to know, if I know it you will too; but it's thus far and no further, no matter how your salacious curiosity drives you on. Quentin was – probably still is – a rather intense young man. What he wants he wants urgently and desperately, and that would usually get through to fond Mum, who coughed up in the end. Much the same probably applies to Rupert.' Jane paused. ‘Usually.'

‘But?'

‘Yes, there's a but. Fond Mum loves both sons to the point of folly but she is a religious and very moral person. Anything that she thinks might be intended for the pursuit of girls of whom she might not approve, especially as prospective daughters-in-law, that they do not get. I remember an occasion when Quentin wanted to take me to the races at Kelso and Mum was thoroughly in favour.' Jane flushed delicately pink. ‘But when he wanted to book rooms for us nearby rather than drive home overnight, that was quite different. Never mind that he showed her the confirmations of bookings at two different hotels half a mile apart, from that moment I was, to her, an immoral slut only after her son for money and sex. Who's next?'

‘Alex McCall.'

‘That's a terrible photograph; he's much better-looking than that. He has an alibi that he'll produce if you push him hard enough. He's having an affair with a married lady. This,' Jane said sadly, ‘is another category that may turn up more than once. Bored and neglected housewife, bored and randy youth, spare bedroom at one house or the other or, if both houses are seriously overlooked, the Canal Bar has a room upstairs that can be rented by the hour, possibly by the minute for all I'd know. I regret having to mention it because if you forbid the practice where will the young ones go in cold weather?'

Ian looked at her, pop-eyed. It seemed that his view of the denizens of his territory was suffering a change. ‘If nobody makes a complaint we won't interfere. Number Four. June Pherson, the first of the girls.' The screen showed a well-built young lady in jeans and a T-shirt, treating the camera to a come-on smile.

‘A possibility,' Jane said. ‘I was at school with her. She never did have much of a bosom and her voice is gruff. She's been saving up to buy a car, for what purpose I wouldn't care to guess but she was always one for the boys. I don't know how far she's got with the car but she's not very bright and the best job she could get pays about tuppence a year.'

‘Five and six, the brothers Dick and Angus Plum. The way the alibis worked out it could only be one of them if they were in league.'

‘Very unlikely. They don't get on. And Angus could do it but Dick's the original model for the cowardly lion. He can talk tough but if somebody stands up to him he'll cave in.'

‘Is there anyone else who could be Angus Plum's accomplice?'

‘And give him a false alibi? I doubt it. He's an arrogant sod and universally disliked. You should look very hard at anyone bearing witness for him and if it's his mother he's guilty.'

‘Hmm. Seven, Bruce Dalgrain.'

‘I can't see him in the part. He's vain, always dapper. I can't visualize him in a spotty T-shirt or old trainers. That's a personal opinion. I suppose criminals often adopt disguises that are out of character for them – that's what a disguise is for, after all – but Bruce is too concerned with his image. I suppose,' Jane said slowly, ‘there comes a point beyond which he won't stoop. More certainly,' she picked up speed again, ‘most of the descriptions so far, including the one I gave you, were of a young person who would only have to snatch off a baseball cap or change his shoes to melt into the background, but Bruce would never do any melting. His mother can hardly afford any of it, she takes in mending to make ends meet, but Bruce loves his gold watch and having his hair styled every week and … and …'

‘Don't go on,' Ian said. ‘You've made your point. Eight, next girl. Joyce Stiggs.'

Jane had to think for a moment. ‘It's only an impression but I think Joyce is taller than Knifeman. Not by much and, of course, I've always seen Joyce in shoes with heels. Her mother must be earning very good money but I don't know how much of that reaches Joyce. However, Joyce does have her own job with Lance Kemnay, so she is earning. And, if Helen Maple isn't available, Joyce takes over my surgery for me sometimes, just selling dogmeal, toys and non-prescription medicines when I'm out on the farms, and she seems honest. I don't know what she'd especially want money for. She's the type of girl who expects a man to pick up the bill every time. She's one who would certainly know about the steel box, but no, I'm not convinced – she's too moral in that sort of self-congratulatory way to do something like this.'

‘Nine. Alistair Ledbetter.'

‘Ah. Physically, he's a good fit. You asked me once whether he'd have had time and, thinking it over, yes, I think he would. He tried to borrow money from me on my wedding morning, would you believe? He chases girls and I know he gambles sometimes; for either hobby, you can need more money than I could expect him to make as a driver and odd-job man. And we now know, of course, that he and Helen carried out a copycat burglary at the jeweller's. I'm still not convinced that he's innocent of the other burglaries considering his figure fits my profile …'

‘That seems reasonable. Ten, Barry Jenkins.'

‘A bit of a nonentity. He works as a quantity surveyor and he's still struggling to get qualified. I honestly wouldn't expect him to have enough get-up-and-go to embark on a crime without being led into it. He's saddled himself with a St Bernard bitch that must eat him out of house and home – he never seems to grudge her better steaks than he buys for himself. And soft toys that she usually rips to bits. She's always ailing with some feminine trouble or another or else he imagines that she is, and then he has her down to me in about two jumps. He pays his bills promptly, I'll say that for him.'

‘Eleven. Hugh Dodd.'

‘But he was a victim!'

‘Not with his own money. Whenever you get a series with a mystery figure lurking in the background the culprit has usually included himself as a victim, thinking to divert suspicion.'

‘Oh. I hadn't thought of him that way. I don't know a lot about him – he's one of those people who just are. They turn up behind counters and vanish again. He's always been polite, moderately competent, admires good cars and motorbikes without ever having shown signs of wanting to own one. I believe he's quite a good mechanic but too lazy to study the subject. I think his head's the right shape.'

Ian nodded, still writing. ‘Twelve. James Haddon.'

‘I wondered when you'd come to him. You must have got all this from other sources but yes, he's about the right build and yes, he needs money. He was caught with his hand in the till at the supermarket. He got off with a suspended sentence so it made other employers wary. Some of us have been trying to give him another chance. I let him come up, do some gardening and wash the car now and again, but as long as he's generally considered unemployable he just can't get the experience to be useful at anything in particular. Couldn't you get him taken on by the fuzz?'

‘With a criminal record? In theory such things can be arranged; in practice I'd have to recommend him and my head would be on the block if he proved to be a recidivist.'

‘But—'

‘Have you given him a reference for some other job?'

‘Well, no.'

‘There you are, then. Send him for a job interview with your own recommendation and, even if he doesn't get it, I'll consider him. Or wouldn't he be a perfect candidate for Kempfield? You should recommend him in your position as one of the governors. Now, enough about him, on to number thirteen, Gemma Bristow.'

Jane turned her attention away from James Haddon but the subject was not closed permanently. ‘Gemma fits physically, she can put on a gruff voice when she wishes and she's a competent actress with the local drama group; but she's compulsively honest. If she finds a coin or a glove in the street she'll come trotting in here with it.'

‘Character can change suddenly, given temptation or a trauma,' Ian said, ‘but I'll note what you say. Fourteen, Helen Maple.'

Jane frowned. ‘I'm not sure what to say about Helen. Always very fit – she used to go rock-climbing with a group of boys. She's never been half-hearted about anything – if she wants something she'll go for it. She has a rusty old motor scooter but she does sometimes borrow a friend's pushbike when her scooter's broken down. She doesn't fit in with any group but she always seems frank and open.'

‘So do all the best con artists,' said Ian. ‘Last one. Ewan Foster.'

Jane threw up her hands. ‘What idiot put him on the list? He's got a
limp
, for God's sake!'

‘I was waiting for your input,' Ian said weakly. ‘The interviewing officer thought he was putting it on.'

‘Then he's been putting it on ever since he had polio as a child. One question. Have you visited the local bookie, whatever his name is, to find out who's been losing money?'

‘Yes, of course. But we don't have a resident local bookie. Most of the bets are placed by phone or email; nobody's name came up who we've been discussing, except for young Ledbetter.'

‘I'm glad. Have you finished with me for now? I don't think I've been any help.'

‘You've probably been lots of help,' Ian said, ‘but I won't know for sure until we've chewed and digested what you've given us.'

‘And you'll remember …?' Jane prompted anxiously.

‘I shan't go rushing to Roland to ask whether he knew that his bride had had a schooldays romance – as who didn't? I'm not in the business of wrecking marriages. In fact, you'd be amazed at the lengths we sometimes go to in order not to damage a possibly salvageable marriage. I hope you never find out the hard way.'

‘There's little danger of that,' Jane said, but below the level of her knee her fingers were crossed.

F
or the week following Jane's attempt to filter a little light into Ian's list of possible Knifemen she was conscious of a mental itch – an idea, not leading towards an individual's identity but towards a general area in which this might be found. It was too elusive to be offered to Ian or his team, sometimes coming near the daylight to show itself in one form and then fading again into the shadows to approach once more in a different guise.

The Friday of that week came in dark and muggy; the sun peeped down through the clouds several times but never for more than a nervous blink, yet the events of that day acted like the much needed ray of sunlight, shining into Jane's tangled thoughts to put a focus where it was needed. The working part of the day had dragged past with the usual few cases of genuine need and the many cases of careless ownership or unnecessary panic.