The Murder Room

  There were three bells to the right of the door of number sixteen. Dalgliesh pressed the one with DUPAYNE written on a card above it. The name beneath had been strongly inked out and was no longer decipherable. A woman’s voice answered the ring and Dalgliesh announced himself. The voice said, “It’s no good me pressing the buzzer to let you in. The bloody thing’s broken. I’ll come down.”

  Less than a minute later the front door opened. They saw a woman, solidly built with strong features and heavy dark hair tugged back from a broad forehead and tightly tied with a scarf at the nape of the neck. When worn loose its luxuriance would have given her a gypsy-like raffishness, but now her face, devoid of make-up except for a slash of bright lipstick and drained of animation, looked nakedly vulnerable. Dalgliesh thought that she was probably in her late thirties but the small ravages of time were already laid bare, the lines across the forehead, the small creases of discontent at the corners of the wide mouth. She was wearing black trousers and a low-necked collarless top with a loose overshirt of purple wool. She wore no bra and her heavy breasts swung as she moved.

  Standing aside to let them in, she said, “I’m Sarah Dupayne. I’m afraid there’s no lift. Come up, will you?” When she spoke there was a faint smell of whisky on her breath.

  As she preceded them, firm-footed, up the stairs, Dalgliesh thought that she was younger than she had at first appeared. The strain of the last twelve hours had robbed her of any semblance of youth. He was surprised to find her alone. Surely, at such a time, someone could have come to be with her.

  The flat into which they were shown looked out over the small green opposite and was filled with light. There were two windows and a door to the left which stood open and obviously led to the kitchen. It was an unsettling room. Dalgliesh had the impression that it had been furnished with some care and expense, but that the occupants had now lost interest and had, emotionally if not physically, moved out. There were grubby lines on the painted walls suggesting that pictures had been removed and the mantel-shelf above the Victorian grate held only a small Doulton vase with two sprays of white chrysanthemums. The flowers were dead. The sofa, which dominated the room, was made of leather and modern. The only other large piece of furniture was a long bookcase covering one of the walls. It was half empty, the books tumbling against each other in disorder.

  Sarah Dupayne invited them to sit and settled herself on the square leather pouf beside the fireplace. She said, “Would you like some coffee? You’re not supposed to have alcohol, are you? I think I’ve got enough milk in the fridge. I’ve been drinking myself, as you’ve probably noticed, but not much. I’m quite able to answer questions, if that’s what you’re worried about. D’you mind if I smoke?”

  Without waiting for a reply she dug in her shirt pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. They waited while she lit up and began vigorously inhaling as if the nicotine were a life-saving drug.

  Dalgliesh said, “I’m sorry we have to bother you with questions so soon after the shock of your father’s death. But in the case of a suspicious death, the first days of the investigation are usually the most important. We need to get essential information as quickly as possible.”

  “A suspicious death? Are you sure? That means murder. Aunt Caroline thought it could be suicide.”

  “Did she give any reason for thinking that?”

  “Not really. She said you were satisfied that it couldn’t be an accident. I suppose she thought that suicide was the only probable option. Anything is more likely than murder. I mean, who would want to murder my father? He was a psychiatrist. He wasn’t a drug dealer or anything like that. As far as I know he hadn’t any enemies.”

  Dalgliesh said, “He must have had at least one.”

  “Well, it’s no one I know about.”

  Kate asked, “Did he talk to you about anyone who might wish him ill?”

  “Wish him ill? Is that police talk? Chucking petrol over him and burning him to death is certainly wishing him ill. God, you can say that again! No, I don’t know anyone who wished him ill.” She emphasized each word, her voice heavy with sarcasm.

  Kate said, “His relationship with his siblings was good? They got on well?”

  “You aren’t very subtle, are you? No, I should think they occasionally loathed each other’s guts. Families do, or haven’t you noticed? The Dupaynes aren’t close but that’s not so unusual. I mean, you can be a dysfunctional family without wanting to burn each other to death.”

  Dalgliesh asked, “What was his attitude to the signing of the new lease?”

  “He said he wouldn’t do it. I went to see him on Tuesday, the evening before they were due to have a trustees’ meeting. I told him I thought he should hold out and not sign. I wanted my share of the money, to be honest. He had other considerations.”

  “How much would each trustee expect to get?”

  “You’ll have to ask my uncle. About twenty-five thousand, I think. Not a fortune by today’s standards but enough to give me a year or two off work. Dad wanted the museum to close for more laudable reasons. He thought we cared too much about the past, a kind of national nostalgia, and that it stopped us from coping with the problems of the present.”

  Dalgliesh asked, “Those weekends away, it seems to have been a regular practice, collecting the car every Friday at six. Do you know where he went?”

  “No. He never told me and I never asked. I know he was out of London at weekends but I didn’t realize it happened every Friday. I suppose that’s why he worked so late on the other four weekdays, to leave the Saturday and Sunday free. Perhaps he had another life. I hope he did. I’d like to think he had some happiness before he died.”

  Kate persisted. “But he never mentioned where he went, whether there was someone he was seeing? He didn’t talk to you about it?”

  “We didn’t talk. I don’t mean that we weren’t on good terms. He was my father. I loved him. It’s just that we didn’t communicate much. He was overworked, I was overworked, we lived in different worlds. What was there to talk about? I mean, at the end of the day he was probably like me, collapsed exhausted in front of the box. He worked most evenings anyway. Why should he travel up to Kilburn just to tell me what a bloody day he’d had? He had a woman though, you could try asking her.”

  “Do you know who she is?”

  “No, but I expect you’ll find out. That’s your job, isn’t it, hunting people down.”

  “How do you know he had a woman?”

  “I asked if I could use the flat one weekend while I was moving here from Balham. He’d been pretty careful, but I knew. I snooped round a bit—a woman always does. I won’t tell you how I knew, I’ll spare your blushes. It wasn’t any business of mine anyway. I thought, good luck to him. I called him Dad, by the way. On my fourteenth birthday he suggested that I might like to call him Neville. I suppose he thought that’s what I’d like, making him more a friend, less a father. Trendy. Well he was wrong. What I wanted was to call him Daddy and to climb on his lap. Ridiculous, isn’t it? But I can tell you one thing. Whatever the rest of the family tell you, Dad wouldn’t have killed himself. He’d never do that to me.”

  Kate saw that she was close to tears. She had stopped drawing on the cigarette and threw it, half smoked, into the empty grate. Her hands were trembling.

  Dalgliesh said, “This isn’t a good time to be alone. Have you a friend who could be with you?”

  “No one I can think of. And I don’t want Uncle Marcus spouting platitudinous condolences, or Aunt Caroline looking at me sardonically and daring me to show any emotion, wanting me to be a hypocrite.”

  Dalgliesh said, “We could come back later if you’d rather stop now.”

  “I’m all right. You go on. I don’t suppose you’ll be here much longer anyway. I mean, there’s not much more I can tell you.”

  “Who is your father’s heir? Did he ever discuss his will?”

  “No, but I suppose I am. Who else is there? I haven’
t got siblings and my mother died last year. She wouldn’t have got anything anyway. They divorced when I was ten. She lived in Spain and I never saw her. She didn’t remarry because she wanted the alimony, but that didn’t exactly impoverish him. And I don’t suppose he’s left anything to Marcus or Caroline. I’ll go to the Kensington flat later today and find out the name of Dad’s solicitor. The flat’ll be worth something, of course. He bought sensibly. I suppose you’ll want to go there too.”

  Dalgliesh said, “Yes, we’ll need to look at his papers. Perhaps we can be there at the same time. Have you a key?”

  “No, he didn’t want me walking in and out of his life. I usually brought trouble with me and I suppose he liked to be warned. Didn’t you find his keys on the—in his pocket?”

  “Yes, we have a set. I’d prefer to have borrowed yours.”

  “I suppose Dad’s have been collected as part of the evidence. The porter can let us in. You go when you like, I’d rather be there alone. I’m planning to spend a year abroad as soon as things are settled. Will I have to wait until the case is solved? I mean, can I leave after the inquest and the funeral?”

  Dalgliesh asked gently, “Will you want to?”

  “I suppose not. Dad would warn me that you can’t escape. You carry yourself with you. Trite but true. I’ll be carrying a hell of a lot more baggage now, won’t I?”

  Dalgliesh and Kate got to their feet. Dalgliesh held out his hand. He said, “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  They didn’t speak until they were outside and walking to the car. Kate was thoughtful. “She’s interested in the money, isn’t she? It’s important to her.”

  “Important enough to commit patricide? She expected the museum to close. She could be certain eventually of getting her twenty-five thousand.”

  “Perhaps she wanted it sooner rather than later. She’s feeling guilty about something.”

  Dalgliesh said, “Because she didn’t love him, or didn’t love him enough. Guilt is inseparable from grieving. But there’s more on her mind than her father’s murder, horrible though that was. We need to know what he did at weekends. Piers and Benton-Smith might get something from the garage mechanic but I think our best bet could be Dupayne’s PA. There’s very little a secretary doesn’t know about her boss. Find out who she is, will you, Kate, and make an appointment—for today if possible. Dupayne was a consultant psychiatrist at St. Oswald’s. I should try there first.”

  Kate busied herself with directory inquiries, then phoned the hospital. There was a delay of some minutes in getting through to the extension she needed. The conversation lasted only a minute with Kate doing most of the listening.

  Holding her hand over the mouthpiece, she said to Dalgliesh, “Dr. Dupayne’s PA is a Mrs. Angela Faraday. She works on Saturday mornings but the clinic will be over by quarter past one. She’ll be working alone in her office between then and two o’clock. She can see you any time then. Apparently she doesn’t take a lunch-break except for sandwiches in her office.”

  “Thank her, Kate, and say I’ll be there at half-past one.”

  The appointment made and the call ended, Kate said, “It’s an interesting coincidence her having the same name as the volunteer gardener at the museum. That is, if it is a coincidence. Faraday’s not a common name.”

  Dalgliesh said, “If it isn’t a coincidence and they are related, it opens up a number of interesting possibilities. In the meantime, let’s see what the Kensington flat has to tell us.”

  Within half an hour they were parked and at the door. All the bell pushes were numbered but not named, except for flat number thirteen, which bore the label PORTER. He arrived within half a minute of Kate’s pressing the bell, still putting on his uniform jacket. They saw a stockily built, sad-eyed man with a heavy moustache who reminded Kate of a walrus. He gave a surname which was long, intricate and which sounded Polish. Although taciturn, he was not disobliging and answered their questions slowly but readily enough. He must, surely, have heard of Neville Dupayne’s death but he made no mention of it and nor did Dalgliesh. Kate thought that this careful joint reticence gave the conversation a somewhat surreal quality. He said, in answer to their questions, that Dr. Dupayne was a very quiet gentleman. He rarely saw him and couldn’t remember when they had last spoken. If Dr. Dupayne had any visitors he had never seen them. He kept two keys to each of the flats in his office. On request, he handed over the keys to number eleven without demur, merely requesting a receipt.

  But their examination was unrewarding. The flat, which faced Kensington High Street, had the impersonal over-tidiness of an apartment made ready for prospective tenants to view. The air smelt a little stale; even at this height Dupayne had taken the precaution of closing or locking all the windows before leaving for the weekend. Making a preliminary tour of the sitting-room and two bedrooms, Dalgliesh thought he had never seen a victim’s house so outwardly unrevealing of a private life. The windows were fitted with wooden slatted blinds as if the owner feared that even to choose curtains would be to risk betraying a personal choice. There were no pictures on the painted white walls. The bookcase held about a dozen medical tomes, but otherwise Dupayne’s reading was chiefly confined to biographies, autobiographies and history. His main leisure interest was, apparently, listening to music. The equipment was modern and the cabinet of CDs showed a preference for the classics and New Orleans jazz.

  Leaving Kate to examine the bedrooms, Dalgliesh settled himself at the desk. Here, as he had expected, all the papers were in meticulous order. He saw that regularly recurring bills were paid by standing order, the easiest and most trouble-free method. His garage bill was sent to him quarterly and paid within days. His portfolio showed a capital of just over £200,000 prudently invested. The bank statements, filed in a leather folder, showed no large payments in or significant withdrawals. He gave regularly and generously to charities, mainly ones concerned with mental health. The only entries of interest were those on his credit-card statements where, every week, a bill was paid to a country inn or hotel. The locations were widely different and the amounts not large. It would, of course, be perfectly possible to find out whether the expenditure had been for Dupayne alone or for two people, but Dalgliesh was inclined to wait. It was still possible that the truth could be discovered in other ways.

  Kate came back from the bedroom. She said, “The spare room bed is made up, but there’s no evidence anyone has recently stayed here. I think Sarah Dupayne was right, sir. He has had a woman in the flat. In the bottom drawer there’s a folded linen bathrobe and three pairs of pants. They’re washed but not ironed. In the bathroom cabinet there’s a deodorant of a kind used mostly by women, and a glass with a spare toothbrush.”

  Dalgliesh said, “They could have belonged to his daughter.”

  Kate had worked too long with him to be easily embarrassed, but now she coloured and there was a trace of it in her voice. She said, “I don’t think the pants belonged to his daughter. Why pants but no night-dress or bedroom slippers? I think if a lover was coming here and she liked being undressed by him, she’d probably bring clean pants with her. The bathrobe in the bottom drawer is too small for a man and his own is hanging on the bathroom door.”

  Dalgliesh said, “If a lover was his fellow traveller every Friday, I wonder where they met, whether he called for her or she came to the Dupayne and waited for him there? It seems unlikely. There would be the risk of someone working late and seeing her. At present it’s all conjecture. Let’s see what his PA can tell us. I’ll drop you at the Dupayne, Kate. I’d like to see Angela Faraday on my own.”

  10

  Piers knew why Dalgliesh had chosen him and Benton-Smith to interview Stan Carter at the garage. Dalgliesh’s attitude to a car was that it was a vehicle designed to transport him from one place to another. He required it to be reliable, fast, comfortable and agreeable to the eye. His present Jaguar fulfilled these criteria. Beyond that he saw no reason for discussion of its merits or cogitation about what new models
might be worth a test drive. Car talk bored him. Piers, who seldom drove in town and liked to walk from his City flat to New Scotland Yard, shared his boss’s attitude but combined it with a lively interest in models and performance. If car chat would encourage Stan Carter to be forthcoming, then Piers could supply it.

  Duncan’s Garage occupied the corner of a side road where Highgate merges into Islington. A high wall of grey London brick, smudged where largely ineffectual efforts had been made to remove graffiti, was broken by a double gate fitted with a padlock. Both gates were open. Inside to the right was a small office. A young woman with improbably yellow hair caught up with a large plastic clasp like a cockscomb was seated at the computer, a thickset man in a black leather jacket bending over her to study the screen. He straightened up at Piers’s knock and opened the door.

  Flipping open his wallet, Piers said, “Police. Are you the manager?”

  “So the boss tells me.”

  “We’d like to speak to Mr. Stanley Carter. Is he here?”

  Without bothering to look at the identification, the man jerked his head towards the rear of the garage. “Back there. He’s working.”

  Piers said, “So are we. We won’t keep him long.”

  The manager went back to the computer screen, shutting the door. Piers and Benton-Smith skirted a BMW and a VW Golf, presumably belonging to the staff since both were recent models. Beyond them the space opened up into a large workshop with walls of white-painted brick and a high pitched roof. At the back a wooden platform had been erected to provide an upper storey, with a ladder to the right giving access. The front of the platform was decorated with a row of gleaming radiators like the captured trophies of battle. The left-hand wall was fitted with steel racks and everywhere—sometimes hung on hooks and labelled but more often in a jumble that suggested organized chaos—were the tools of the trade. The room gave the impression familiar to Piers from visits to similar workplaces, of every item being hoarded in case it should later be found to be of use, a place where Carter could no doubt lay his hands on anything wanted. Ranged on the floor were oxy-acetylene gas cylinders, tins of paint and paint thinner, crumpled petrol cans and a heavy press, while above the racks hung spanners, jump leads, fan belts, welding masks and rows of paint guns. The garage was lit by two long fluorescent tubes. The air, which was cold, smelt of paint and faintly of oil. It was empty and silent, except for a low tapping from under a 1940s grey Alvis on the ramp. Piers crouched down and called, “Mr. Carter?”