The Saint Valentine's Day Murders (17 page)

‘Who?’

‘Superintendent Milton.’

‘What’s he got to do with it?’

‘I rang him this morning to check that I would be causing him no inconvenience if I made the changes you propose. I had already concluded that integrating the staff under Horace would be in everyone’s interest – including yours. The unions would wear it as a temporary measure.’

‘And…?’

‘He said… let me recollect his precise words… he said, “I’m sorry Mr Shipton, but I’m afraid it is imperative that they all be left there to sweat it out.”’

23

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‘Come in,’ called Milton.

The lanky form of DC Pooley inserted itself through the doorway. His reddish-fair hair was in disarray and his bright blue eyes shone with excitement. He sped over to his superior’s desk and slapped a piece of paper down in front of him. ‘I think we’ve got something here, sir.’

‘From Hertfordshire?’

‘No. From Essex. A WPC’s report on a conversation with Tony Farson’s mother-in-law.’

Milton waved him to a seat and began to read. He stopped and reread a sentence in the middle and then skimmed the rest.

‘We’ve been idiots, Pooley.’

The young man grunted non-committally.

‘I’ve been allowing myself to get diverted into too many problems of public relations. I haven’t been thinking hard enough about the circumstances of the people involved.’

‘You can’t be expected to think of everything, sir. I should have thought of this possibility.’ Milton felt unhappy at this new evidence of devotion. Am I beginning to encourage sycophancy? he wondered uneasily.

‘Well, let’s leave the question about my culpability out of it. I want you to do something for me.’

‘Anything, sir.’

‘I’m going to take Pike to see Bill Thomas tonight instead of you.’ And, as Pooley’s face fell into utter dejection, he added hastily: ‘Because I want you to do something much more important.’

Pooley’s whole frame tightened with anticipation. He looked rather like a red setter whose master was flourishing a stick preparatory to throwing it.

‘I’m going to stick to my schedule and wait to see Farson until tomorrow evening. In the light of this new piece of evidence, I’d like you to spend the evening looking at everything we know about Farson, chasing up any outstanding reports from his area and preparing a few lines of questioning for me. Keep it brief.’

Pooley jumped to his feet. He was fairly quivering. ‘Right, sir. I’ll just finish up what’s on my desk and get down to it straight away.’

As he darted for the door, Milton said idly: ‘If by any chance you’ve got any time over, you might come up with a few wild ideas about the others.’

‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

Pooley was half-way through the doorway when he turned around. ‘Please, sir. Do you think you could take me with you to the Farsons’ tomorrow night?’

‘Have you no ambition to lead a normal social life? I fear you’re cut out to be a serious policeman. Yes, you can come.’

Pooley rushed out, apparently too overcome with emotion to speak. Milton hoped he wasn’t actually panting.

It was with relief that Milton followed Bill into the garden. The previous hour had been so tedious that he had doubted if he would come through it without screaming. Only a dogged determination to get to know something about the man had kept him sitting making polite conversation long after they had run out of questions relating to Bill’s alibi. The garden might keep them going for another few minutes. Then, short of asking his host if by any chance he happened to be a psychopath, he would have to leave.

As Bill led them through the french windows, Milton and Pike exchanged glances. Milton was no gardener, but Pike was an enthusiast, and it was clear that they shared the same awe at the beauty Bill had created in this unpromising rectangular suburban plot. The lawn was lush and even, and the daffodils and crocuses covered large areas of it with a naturalness and profusion that made the senses dance.

‘I’m afraid it’s not at its best,’ said Bill apologetically. ‘It’s nicer in June when the azaleas and rhododendrons are out.’

‘It’s magnificent,’ said Milton, meaning it. Even to his untutored eye it was clear that early summer would see the high circular wall of shrubs bursting into almost indecent glory. How peculiar that so apparently dull a man could create something like this. He had an artist’s eye for the importance of contrasts and irregularities.

As Pike clucked knowingly over the precise and flourishing little vegetable patch that lurked discreetly behind a honeysuckle-clad fence, Milton tried desperately to draw some conclusions from this unexpected facet of Bill’s personality. Did he want to murder ugly women for some distorted reason? No, hardly. Melissa, Gloria and Val were definitely nice to look at, and Fran Short and Jill Collins well up to the average. Anyway, why not ugly men? Then he remembered a point that arose from one of Amiss’s letters. He led into it gently as they went back indoors.

‘I believe your mother died quite recently. Was she a gardener too?’

‘Well, not much in recent years. She was eighty-five, you know. But she took an interest. She loved flowers, Mother did.’

‘You must miss her.’

‘Oh, I do. We were very close, Mother and I.’

‘She didn’t get difficult the way old people can? I know from my own the way they can get rather demanding.’ Milton repressed a spasm of guilt at the thought of his lively, independent mother.

‘No. I’m thankful to say that Mother stayed sprightly to the end.’

No joy here, thought Milton. Though I suppose it’s worth trying to find out if she was a fearful old devil who turned her son off women for life. But I won’t find out from Bill.

‘We’d better be off now, Mr Thomas. Unless you’ve anything left to tell us.’

‘I can’t think of anything. Though of course I’m happy to oblige any time you want to ask me questions.’

‘I wish more of the public were like you, Mr Thomas.’ Milton was glad he had brought Pike. He couldn’t have borne to have Pooley hear him talking like this.

‘If it hadn’t been for that garden, Sammy, I’d say I’d finally met someone who didn’t exist.’

Pike swung the car left to get into the correct lane for the on-coming roundabout. ‘I know just what you mean, sir.’

‘Every view he expressed was qualified. Did you notice?’

‘You mean the way he kept saying he didn’t much like this or quite liked that.’

‘Precisely. He quite liked his colleagues. He thought their wives seemed quite nice. No. I must enter an exception here. He did say he thought the murders were dreadful. But he didn’t mind his job. He even said that all in all he thought British Rail was doing quite a good job. Tell me, have you ever in your life met a commuter who didn’t complain vigorously about public transport?’

‘I can’t say I have, sir.’

‘And he didn’t go out much because he was quite happy at home. Quite liked housework, didn’t he? And the neighbours were nice enough. Still. He seemed genuinely to miss his mother. That’s some kind of emotion. And the garden shows he’s got one passion in life.’

‘Do we keep him on the list?’

‘Can we afford to cross him off? I don’t want to eliminate everyone bar Robert. Anyway, my wife said when she rang last night that if it was a psychopath we were looking for, he would be an introvert. Mind you, I knew that already. Still, we mustn’t lose sight of that line of investigation. I could do with a psychologist in the Yard to talk it over with.’

‘Would you call Mr Crump an extrovert, sir?’

‘Yes. It’s a point in his favour. And Illingworth and Farson seem to be introverts. Oh, bloody hell. I can’t imagine any of them doing it.’

Pike spoke uncertainly. ‘Sir. I can’t swallow the psychopath theory myself.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because say if Mr Thomas is a psychopath, he could have been almost certain of not being found out if he had simply sent chocolates to women at random. Whereas if it was one of the husbands aiming just to get rid of his own wife, he’d have been a suspect anyway.’

‘I’ve thought of that, Sammy. I’ve got a counter-argument. If it was Bill Thomas, he might have wanted to kill women he’d met. Mind you, it’s unfair to describe him as the only possible psychopath because he had no apparent motive. In my book, someone prepared to kill others like this to cover himself must come into the same category. One way or the other, we’re not looking for anyone you could call normal.’ The car began to slow down. When it stopped Milton opened the door. ‘Care for a quick one, Sammy?’

‘Thanks, sir. But I’ve got to get home. My wife’s getting a bit fed up with the hours I’m working.’

As Milton walked up to his dark house, he felt a great longing for Ann. Then he heard the telephone, and broke into a run.

‘If I’d had any strychnine with me, you’d have been next.’

‘I’m sorry you’ve been so upset. But even if you’d told me you were hoping to leave, I have to admit I’d have tried to stop you.’

‘I’ve got nothing to tell you.’

‘But you might pick up something. Anyway, that’s not the real point. The important thing is to keep the suspects together in the hope that the strain may ultimately make the guilty one more likely to crack.’

Amiss said nothing. Milton began to feel seriously worried. Was he about to lose yet another friend through the demands of his job? ‘Robert,’ he said. There was an uncharacteristically pleading note in his voice. ‘Don’t let this screw things up between us.’

‘You were just doing your job. Is that it? And friendship comes second.’

‘It has to.’ Milton felt miserable.

‘I know it bloody has to. And I’m not as cross as I sound. I’d already worked out that you didn’t really have any choice but to ask Shipton to keep the
status quo
. I just wanted you to sweat it out for a bit too.’

Milton grinned with relief. ‘All right, you bugger. I did. Honours are even. Now do you want to hear about Bill?’

‘Hang on a moment.’ Amiss put down the receiver and fetched his cigarettes and lighter. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Fire away.’

24

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Wednesday, 23 February

The expert seemed confident. ‘There’s little doubt about it. The typewriter is Amiss’s and Illingworth typed this note. Of all the suspects, only he typed with all his fingers. Hence the lighter type of the letters depressed by the weak little finger. Do you want to compare the note with the samples?’

‘No thanks,’ said Milton. ‘I believe you.’

The expert received his thanks and left.

Milton looked at Romford. ‘Fill me in,’ he said. ‘How did you get hold of these samples of typing?’

‘From Mr Amiss, sir.’ Milton looked blank. Romford consulted his notes. ‘On Saturday you asked the BCC security men to let us have the anonymous letter about Mr Short and his practical jokes. At the time, you said you bet it had been done on a BCC office typewriter. So over the weekend I got someone to take samples from all the PD machines and when the note arrived on Monday our man said it had been written on Mr Amiss’s. Yesterday I rang Mr Amiss and asked him if he’d be able to give us samples of the typing of any of the suspects without them knowing. These arrived this morning.’

‘When did you ask him to do this, Romford?’

Romford tried to guess the possible relevance of the question. He concluded that he would never understand the inscrutable way the super’s mind worked. ‘Just before lunch, sir.’

A couple of hours after he heard from Shipton that I’d scuppered his break for freedom, thought Milton. He favoured Romford with a beatific smile. ‘You didn’t fear he would give you forgeries?’

‘No,’ said Romford seriously. ‘He could be found out too easily, couldn’t he? And that would be incriminating. Although if you want me to check…?’

‘No, no. Of course not. You’ve behaved very sensibly. It’s much better that none of them knows about this.’

‘Does this mean Mr Illingworth is behind all that nonsense at Twillerton?’

‘I think so. Yes. I definitely think so.’

‘And does that mean he’s the prime suspect over the poisoning?’

‘I don’t know, Romford. Don’t forget that the murderer was clever enough to make his typing untraceable. Still, this certainly adds to my interest in Illingworth. See that someone goes round all the likely joke shops with his photograph. As soon as possible.’

Romford withdrew. He’s coming on, reflected Milton. Maybe he’s not so bad. Perhaps not Traffic Division.

‘Do you think there’s anything in my ideas, sir?’ Pooley took his eyes off the road for a moment and looked hopefully at Milton.

‘I’m sorry, Ellis. I’m only getting down to reading your stuff now. I haven’t had a minute today, between meetings, phone-calls and preparing a progress report for tomorrow’s session with the Assistant Commissioner.’

‘I’ve dealt with Farson on one page, sir. But I’ve written down some general thoughts as well.’

Milton saw to his alarm that the memorandum headed ‘Some possible lines of enquiry’ covered six sheets of foolscap in crabbed handwriting.

‘I’m sorry it isn’t typed, sir. I did it in the middle of the night and I haven’t got a typewriter at home. I thought you’d want to see it first thing this morning.’ He sounded rather hurt.

‘I appreciate the hard work you’ve put into this. Why don’t you come in for a drink when you drop me home, and I’ll read it and we can have a chat about it. If you’ve got time, that is. I’d like to concentrate on what you’ve said about Farson now.’

‘Oh, sir! I’d love to,’ said Pooley fervently.

A couple of minutes later, Milton closed the file and returned it to his briefcase. ‘You’re wasted in this job, Ellis,’ he observed.

Pooley looked at him warily. With the experience of a young man too often rebuffed, he asked, ‘Do you mean all my possible motives are too far-fetched?’

‘Not all. Though I must admit the one about a concealed pools win he didn’t want to share with his wife is stretching my credulity rather far. I meant it as a compliment. You obviously have a remarkable imagination that can’t get much expression in your normal work. However, enough of that now. I think one of your ideas is a beauty. The life insurance one.’