Piers leant back in his chair and slowly ran his finger round the rim of his glass. He said, with controlled calmness, “And what the hell has that got to do with it? We look at the evidence. Liking or not liking doesn’t come into it.”
Benton-Smith said, “It does with me. The impression a witness makes is part of the evidence. It is for juries, why not for the police? I can’t see Tallulah Clutton committing this murder, or any murder for that matter.”
Piers said, “I suppose you’d make Muriel Godby your prime suspect rather than either of the Dupaynes because she’s less attractive than Caroline Dupayne and Marcus has to be out because no senior civil servant could be capable of murder.”
Benton-Smith said quietly, “No. I’d make her my prime suspect because this murder—if it is murder—was committed by someone who is clever, but not as clever as he or she thinks they are. That points to Godby rather than to either of the Dupaynes.”
Piers said, “Clever, but not as clever as they think they are? You should be able to recognize that phenomenon.”
Kate glanced at Dalgliesh. He knew the keen edge that rivalry could give to an investigation; he had never wanted a team of comfortable, mutually admiring conformists. But surely Piers had gone too far. Even so, AD wouldn’t reprimand him in front of a junior officer.
Nor did he. Instead, ignoring Piers, Dalgliesh turned to Benton-Smith. “Your reasoning is valid, Sergeant, but it’s dangerous to take it too far. Even an intelligent murderer can have gaps of knowledge and experience. Vulcan may have expected the car to explode and the corpse, garage and car to have been completely destroyed, particularly as he may not have expected Mrs. Clutton to be on the scene so early. A devastating fire could have destroyed most of the clues. But let’s leave the psychological profiling and concentrate on what needs to be done.”
Kate turned to Dalgliesh. “D’you buy Mrs. Clutton’s story, sir? The accident, the fleeing motorist?”
“Yes I do. We’ll put out the usual optimistic call asking him to get in touch but if he doesn’t, tracing him won’t be easy. All we have is her momentary impression, but that was remarkably vivid, wasn’t it? The face bending over her with what she described as a look of mingled horror and compassion. Does that sound like our murderer? A man who has deliberately thrown petrol over his victim and burned him alive? He’d want to get away as quickly as possible. Would he be likely to stop because he’d knocked an elderly woman off her bicycle? If he did, would he show that degree of concern?”
Kate said, “That comment he made about the bonfire, echoing the Rouse case. It obviously impressed Mrs. Clutton and Miss Godby. Neither of them struck me as compulsive or irrational, but I could see that it worried them. Surely we aren’t dealing with a copycat murder. The only fact the two crimes have in common is a dead man in a burning car.”
Piers said, “It’s probably a coincidence, the kind of throwaway remark anyone might make in the circumstances. He was trying to justify ignoring a fire. So was Rouse.”
Dalgliesh said, “What worried the women was the realization that the two deaths might have more in common than a few words. It may have been the first time that they mentally acknowledged that Dupayne could have been murdered. But it’s a complication. If he isn’t found, and we bring a suspect to trial, Mrs. Clutton’s evidence will be a gift to the defence. Any other comments on Kate’s summary?”
Benton-Smith had been sitting very still and in silence. Now he spoke. “I think you could make a case for suicide.”
Irritated, Piers said, “Go on then, make it.”
“I’m not saying it was suicide, I’m saying that the evidence for murder isn’t as strong as we’re claiming. The Dupaynes have told us that the wife of one of his patients has killed herself. Perhaps we should find out why. Neville Dupayne may have been more distressed about the death than his siblings realized.” He turned to Kate. “And taking your points, ma’am. Dupayne was wearing his seat belt. I suggest he wanted to make sure that he was strapped down and immobile. Wasn’t there always the risk that, once alight, he’d change his mind, make a dash for it, try to get into the tall grass and roll over? He wanted to die, and to die in the Jag. Then there’s the position of the can and the screw-top. Why on earth should he place the can close to the car? Wasn’t it more natural to throw the top away first, and then the can? Why should he care where they landed?”
Piers said, “And the missing lightbulb?”
“We have no evidence to show how long it was missing. We haven’t been able to contact Ryan Archer yet. He could have removed it, anyone could have—Dupayne himself for one. You can’t build a murder case on a missing lightbulb.”
Kate said, “But we’ve found no suicide note. People who kill themselves usually want to explain why. And what a way to choose! I mean, this man was a doctor, he had access to drugs. He could have taken them in the car and died in the Jag if that’s what he wanted. Why should he set himself alight and die in agony?”
Benton-Smith said, “It was probably very quick.”
Piers was impatient. “Like hell it was! Not quick enough. I don’t buy your theory, Benton. I suppose you’ll go on to say that Dupayne himself removed the lightbulb and placed the can where we found it so that his suicide could look like murder. A nice goodbye present for the family. It’s the action of a petulant child or a madman.”
Benton-Smith said quietly, “It’s a possibility.”
Piers said angrily, “Oh, anything’s possible! It’s possible that Tallulah Clutton did it because she’d been having an affair with Dupayne and he was dumping her for Muriel Godby! For God’s sake, let’s stay in the real world.”
Dalgliesh said, “There’s one fact which could suggest suicide rather than murder. It would be difficult for Vulcan to douse Dupayne’s head with petrol using the can. It would come out too slowly. If Vulcan needed to incapacitate his victim, even for a few seconds, he would have to decant the petrol into something like a bucket. Either that, or knock him out first. We’ll continue searching the grounds at first light, but even if a bucket had been used, I doubt whether we’ll find it.”
Piers said, “There wasn’t a bucket in the garden shed, but Vulcan would have brought it with him. He would have poured in the petrol in the garage, not in the shed, before removing the lightbulb. Then he’d kick the can into the corner. He’d want to minimize touching it, even wearing gloves, but it would be important to leave the can in the garage if he wanted the death to look like an accident or suicide.”
Kate broke in, controlling her excitement. “Then, after the murder, Vulcan could dump all his protective clothing in the bucket. It would be easy enough later to get rid of the evidence. The bucket was probably the ordinary plastic type. He could stamp it out of shape and throw it into a skip, a handy rubbish bin or a ditch.”
Dalgliesh said, “At present that’s all conjecture. We’re in danger of theorizing in advance of the facts. Let’s move on, shall we? We need to settle the tasks for tomorrow. I’ve made an appointment to see Sarah Dupayne at ten o’clock with Kate. We may get some clue about what her father did at weekends. He could have had another life and, if so, we need to know where it was, whom he saw, the people he met. We’re assuming that the killer got to the museum first, made his preparations and waited in the darkness of the garage, but it’s possible that Dupayne wasn’t alone when he arrived. He could have brought Vulcan with him, or he could have met him there by arrangement. Piers, you and Benton-Smith had better interview the mechanic at Duncan’s Garage, a Stanley Carter. Dupayne may have confided in him. In any case he could have some idea of the mileage covered each weekend. And we need to interview Marcus and Caroline Dupayne again and, of course, Tallulah Clutton and Muriel Godby. After a night’s sleep they may remember something they haven’t told us. Then there are the voluntary workers, Mrs. Faraday who does the garden and Mrs. Strickland the calligrapher. I met Mrs. Strickland in the library when I visited the museum on the twenty-fifth of October. And, of course, the
re’s Ryan Archer. It’s odd that this Major he’s supposed to be staying with hasn’t replied to the phone calls. Ryan should be coming to work by ten on Monday but we need to speak to him before then. And there’s one piece of evidence we can hope to test. Mrs. Clutton said that when she phoned Muriel Godby on the landline it was engaged and she had to ring her mobile. We know Godby’s story, that the receiver hadn’t been properly replaced. It would be interesting to know whether she was at home when she took that call. You’re something of an expert here, aren’t you, Sergeant?”
“Not an expert, sir, but I’ve had some experience. With a mobile, the base station used is recorded at the beginning and end of every call, whether outbound or inbound, including calls to retrieve voicemail. The system also records the base station used by the other person if they are part of the network. The data is held for several months and passed on when obliged by law. I’ve been on cases where we have been able to get it, but it’s not always useful. Typically in cities you are unlikely to get a more accurate fix than a couple of hundred metres, maybe less. There’s a very heavy call on the service. We may have to wait.”
Dalgliesh said, “That’s something we need to put in hand. And we should interview Marcus Dupayne’s wife. She can probably confirm her husband’s story that he intended to call on his brother that evening.”
Piers said, “Being his wife she probably will. They’ve had time enough to agree on their story. But that doesn’t mean that the rest of it’s true. He could easily have walked to his car, driven to the museum, killed his brother and then gone home. We need to look more closely at the timing but I reckon it’s possible.”
It was then that Piers’s mobile phone rang. He answered it and listened, then said, “I think, Sergeant, you had better speak to Commander Dalgliesh,” and handed the instrument over.
Dalgliesh listened in silence, then said, “Thank you, Sergeant. We’ve got a suspicious death at the Dupayne Museum and Archer may be a material witness. We need to find him. I’ll make an appointment for two of my officers to see Major Arkwright as soon as he’s fit enough and back home.” Handing the phone back to Piers, he said, “That was Sergeant Mason from the Paddington station. He’s just returned to Major Arkwright’s flat in Maida Vale after visiting him in St. Mary’s Hospital. When the Major returned home this evening at about seven, Ryan Archer attacked him with a poker. The woman in the flat below heard the crash when he fell and rang for an ambulance and the police. The Major isn’t badly hurt. It’s a glancing head wound but they’re keeping him in for the night. He gave Sergeant Mason his keys so that the police could return to the flat and check that the windows were secure. Ryan Archer isn’t there. He ran off after the attack and so far there’s no news of him. I think it’s unlikely that we shall see him returning for work on Monday morning. A call is being put out for him and we’ll leave the search to those who’ve got the manpower.”
Dalgliesh went on, “Priorities for tomorrow. Kate and I will see Sarah Dupayne in the morning and then go on to Neville Dupayne’s flat. Piers, after you and Benton have been to the garage, make an appointment to see Major Arkwright with Kate. Then later we need to interview both the volunteers, Mrs. Faraday and Mrs. Strickland. I rang James Calder-Hale. He took the news of the murder as calmly as I’d have expected and will condescend to see us at ten o’clock on Sunday morning when he’ll be in the museum doing some private work. We should know by nine tomorrow the time and place of the post-mortem. I’d like you to be there, Kate, with Benton. And you, Benton, had better make arrangements for Mrs. Clutton to have a look at the Rogues’ Gallery. It’s unlikely she’ll recognize anyone but the artist’s impression following her description might prove useful. Some of this may spill over into Sunday or Monday. When the news breaks there’ll be a fair amount of press publicity. Luckily there’s enough happening at present to ensure we don’t make the front page. Will you liaise with Public Relations, Kate. And see Accommodation and arrange for an office here to be set up as an incident room. There’s no point in disturbing them at Hampstead, they’re short enough of space as it is. Any further questions? Keep in touch tomorrow as I may need to vary the programme.”
8
It was eleven-thirty. Tally, corded in her woollen dressing-gown, took the key from its hook and unlocked the bolt on her bedroom window. It was Miss Caroline who had insisted on the cottage being made secure as soon as she had taken over responsibility for the museum from her father, but Tally never liked to sleep with her window closed. Now she opened it wide and the cold air washed over her, bringing with it the peace and silence of the night. This was the moment at the end of the day which she always cherished. She knew that the peace stretching beneath her was illusory. Out there in the dark, predators were closing in on their prey, the unending war of survival was being waged and the air was alive with millions of small scufflings and creepings inaudible to her ears. And tonight there was that other image: white teeth gleaming like a snarl in a blackened head. She knew that she would never be able to banish it entirely from her mind. Its power could only be lessened by accepting it as a terrible reality with which she would have to live, as millions of others in a war-torn world had to live with their horrors. But now at last there was no lingering smell of fire and she gazed over the silent acres to where the lights of London were flung like a casket of jewels over a waste of darkness which seemed neither earth nor sky.
She wondered if Muriel, in that small spare room beside hers, was already asleep. She had returned to the cottage later than Tally expected and had explained that she had taken a shower at home; she preferred a shower to a bath. She had arrived with an additional pint of milk, the cereal she preferred for breakfast and a jar of Horlicks. She had heated the milk and made a drink for them both, and they had sat together watching Newsnight, since to let the moving images pass before their unheeding eyes at least gave an illusion of normality. As soon as the programme was over they had said good-night. Tally had been grateful for Muriel’s company, but was glad that tomorrow she would be gone. She was grateful, too, to Miss Caroline. She and Mr. Marcus had come to the cottage after Commander Dalgliesh and his team had finally left. It was Miss Caroline who had spoken for them both.
“We’re so very sorry, Tally. It’s been terrible for you. We want to thank you for being so brave and acting so promptly. No one could have done better.”
To Tally’s great relief there had been no questions and they hadn’t lingered. It was strange, she thought, that it had taken this tragedy to make her realize that she liked Miss Caroline. She was a woman who people tended either to like greatly or not at all. Recognizing Miss Caroline’s power, Tally accepted that the basis of her liking was slightly reprehensible. It was simply that Miss Caroline could have made life at the Dupayne difficult for her and had chosen not to.
The cottage enclosed her as it always did. It was the place to which, after all the long-dead years of drudgery and self-denial, she had opened her arms to life as she had at the moment when huge but gentle hands had lifted her out of the rubble into the light.
Always she gazed into the darkness without fear. Soon after she had arrived at the Dupayne, an old gardener, now retired, had taken some pleasure in telling her of a Victorian murder which had taken place in the then private house. He had relished the description of the body, a dead servant girl, her throat cut, sprawled at the foot of an oak tree on the edge of the Heath. The girl had been pregnant and there had been talk that one of the family members, her employer or one of his two sons, had been responsible for the girl’s death. There were those who claimed that her ghost, unappeased, still walked on the Heath by night. It had never walked for Tally, whose fears and anxieties took more tangible forms. Only once had she felt a frisson, less of fear than of interest, when she had seen movement under the oak, two dark figures forming themselves out of greater darkness, coming together, speaking, walking separately away. She had recognized one of them as Mr. Calder-Hale. It was not the only time she was to s
ee him walking with a companion by night. She had never spoken of these sightings to him or to anyone. She could understand the attraction of walking in the darkness. It was none of her business.
Partly closing the window, she went at last to bed. But sleep eluded her. Lying there in the darkness, the events of the day crowded in on her mind, each moment more vivid, more sharply etched than in reality. And there was something beyond the reach of memory, something fugitive and untold, but which lay at the back of her mind as a vague, unfocused worry. Perhaps this unease arose only from guilt that she hadn’t done enough, that she was in some way partly responsible, that if she hadn’t gone to her evening class Dr. Neville might still be alive. She knew that the guilt was irrational and resolutely she tried to put it out of her mind. And now, with her eyes fixed on the pale blur of the half-open window, a memory came back from those childhood years of sitting alone in the half-light of a gaunt Victorian church in that Leeds suburb, listening to Evensong. It was a prayer she had not heard for nearly sixty years, but now the words came as freshly to her mind as if she were hearing them for the first time. Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord; and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night; for the love of thy only Son, our Saviour Jesus Christ. She held the image of that charred head in her mind and spoke the prayer aloud and was comforted.
9
Sarah Dupayne lived on the third floor of a period house in an undistinguished road of nineteenth-century terraced houses on the borders of Kilburn, which local estate agents no doubt preferred to advertise as West Hampstead. Opposite number sixteen was a small patch of rough grass and distorted shrubs which could be dignified as a park but was little more than a green oasis. The two half-demolished houses beside it were now a building site and were apparently being converted into a single dwelling. There was a high number of house agents’ boards fixed to the small front gardens, one outside number sixteen. A few houses proclaimed by their gleaming doors and repointed brickwork that the aspiring young professional class had begun to colonize the street but, despite its nearness to Kilburn station and the attractions of Hampstead, it still had the unkempt, slightly desolate look of a street of transients. For a Saturday morning it was unusually calm, and there was no sign of life behind the drawn curtains.