Death of a Stranger (21 page)

When he got into the car he was shivering, and feeling lonely in a way that only a year ago would have been impossible. As he knew with a rush of relief that it meant he was wanting his wife, he realised the perverseness of his resentment against her that she hadn't lost a brother. For God's sake, she had lost an only son.

He could hardly wait to get home. Anna was in her chair by the sitting-room grate, and there was a low flame on the gas fire defying the sudden chill of the evening. She was gazing at it, and when she heard him in the doorway and looked up he was shocked and ashamed to see an uncertainty in her eyes he had never seen there before. He rushed across the room and cast himself down at her feet, pushing his body gently between her knees in the familiar movement which since their marriage he had not made. To his infinite gratitude they were as compliant as always, and he laid his head on them.

“I'm sorry, darling. I've been a pig.''

“No. You've been bereaved and bewildered. I understand.''

“I know you do. You and Mother both. How is she?''

“All right. I sat with her a while when she was in bed and she seemed ready to sleep. She's happier here than in the hospital. Can you tell me what happened this evening?''

He told her about the change in Bernard Charters' statement. “I believe he took that film. Which has to mean he had something in his house he didn't want photographed. No doubt by now it's in an impregnable place and the film destroyed, but I'll ask for a search warrant tomorrow. When I've seen the man from London.''

“Have you eaten?''

He considered in surprise. “Not since that sandwich. I didn't think. And anyway, there wasn't time.'' He had no need to tell her, now, that there had been time to walk by the sea.

“Bacon and egg, then?''

Tim hesitated before saying yes, because absurdly it seemed disloyal to Simon. But there would be a better chance of sleep if he had something in his belly. Anna sat with him while he ate at the kitchen table, and afterwards they went up to bed and lay affectionately in one another's arms, each with a sense of relief to ease the sense of sorrow.

In the early morning, the night to Tim seemed to have been a long series of painful rememberings tempered by Anna's embrace, but he was no longer tired and the energy of his resolve to discover the truth of Simon's death felt stronger than ever. When he opened his eyes he saw that Anna was looking at him in the soft grey light filtering through the thin curtains, and as he smiled at her he was relieved to see the restored confidence in her face.

“I'm going to work this morning, Tim, if Lorna feels like she did at bedtime. I'm sure she'll be all right for a few hours.''

“She never lived in this house, so it doesn't have uncomfortable memories. Duffy and Whitby will help. Could you give Duffy a run later?''

“Of course. If it suits Lorna I'll take them both somewhere in the car where there's a seat and she can get out and sit while Duffy and I stretch our legs.'' Anna sat up. “D'you feel like taking the dog out now?''

“Yes! Why don't we both— Oh no, Mother …''

“Go on your own. Tea and toast first?''

He kissed her. “When I get back.''

It was barely six o'clock when he went out to the garage, but the sun was dazzling off the windows opposite and already held some warmth. As he drove north he had to force himself not to think of the fun it would have been to show Simon his beloved island. On L'Ancresse Common he let his obedient dog run free and for a few moments emulated his pace on the dry grass, aware as always of the nearness of the sea. The only other living creatures within sight apart from the birds were a couple of tame tethered nanny-goats used to human company, who nuzzled his hand in friendly fashion while keeping a wary eye on a respectfully distant Duffy. When he got home at seven he was ready for his usual small breakfast, and as ready as he felt he could be for whatever the working day might bring.

He was at the office by nine, and it seemed a long wait for Ian Taylor, Simon's contact at the head office of the insurance company who had engaged him. There was nothing more to be done with the murder case pending his arrival, and Tim found it difficult to concentrate on other matters. But with the restoration of high summer flying conditions were perfect, and a taxi delivered the man from London as scheduled, in time for a slightly delayed mid-morning coffee.

In the Chief's office, as Tim poured from a cafetière into the station's best bone china, Ian Taylor expressed his sorrow at the fate of the man he had employed. “He was recommended to us and I liked and trusted him immediately, despite his youth. It's a tragedy. And of course I can't help feeling responsible.''

Tim was reluctantly silent, and after a glance at him the Chief responded. “ If you urged Shaw to break the law and enter the Charters' house you
are
partly responsible, Mr Taylor.'' Tim saw the man from London flinch. “If you left him to carry out the job for which you had engaged him as he thought fit, the responsibility was his.''

Ian Taylor was silent for what to Tim felt like a very long time. Then he bowed his head and spoke softly to his lap. “ I'd intended telling you that I'd left him free to decide what methods he would use, but he's dead because of what I asked him to do, and I find I have to tell you the truth. Simon Shaw entered the Charters' premises because I persuaded him. But he refused to go in if he found that it would involve any breakage or lock-picking. Evidently it didn't.''

There was another silence and then the Chief, without comment, handed Taylor a couple of A4 sheets. “ This is an account of events that night so far as we are sure of them. But I've no doubt you'd like us to go over them with you now.''

“If you will, Chief Inspector.'' Ian Taylor was a big man with a lot of grey hair and a thin face with a generous mouth. A man who in normal circumstances would have disposed Tim to like him, but who now was the most hated being whose company he had ever been forced to endure.

When the Chief and Tim, between them, had told him what they could, leaving out by prior agreement the fact of Tim's friendship with the deceased, the Chief asked him if there was any specific reason why his company had felt the need to investigate the Charters' claim so drastically.

“There were two main reasons.'' Taylor leaned forward in the Chiefs best armchair. “ The size of the sum involved, and the fact that the pictures had been moved to the greenhouse from their approved place in the house without our being informed. So our investigations have been on two fronts: the true value of the pictures, and what caused the fire. The damage to the greenhouse was so severe it's impossible to determine the source of the fire, but we felt we had some scope as regards the pictures, which we underwrote on the strength of the authentication certificates which Mr Charters tells us were destroyed with them. So we contacted all Guernsey picture dealers in case any of them had known the pictures and had professional views on them, and discovered that the Charters had made an appointment to have them revalued by a firm in St Peter Port. All details there.'' Ian Taylor in his turn laid some papers on the Chief's desk.

“When pressed, the firm told us the owners had been disturbed by the unsolicited judgment of a friend of theirs, the local amateur art critic Henry Thomas. Mr Thomas was reluctant to tell tales, as he expressed it, but, again when pressed, he told us reluctantly that he remained convinced the pictures were nineteenth-century fakes.'' Taylor paused to drink coffee.

“Mr Thomas also told us,'' he resumed, “ that he saw nothing adversely significant about the removal of the pictures to the greenhouse: the cupboard there offered the right conditions for storage, and Charters had been concerned for the safety of the pictures following a couple of recent art burglaries. We gathered from Thomas that no member of the Charters family liked the pictures, and their removal from the house satisfied them on aesthetic grounds as well.'' Taylor had looked stricken since the Chief's uncompromising indictment, but the twitch now at the corner of his mouth confirmed Tim's grudging impression that he had a sense of humour. “The St Peter Port art expert agreed with Thomas that the pictures were properly stored. I gathered during my conversations with both men that Guernsey greenhouses are used for a great many purposes since the tomato industry slackened off.''

“That's true,'' Tim forced himself to reply automatically before carrying on with a surge of adrenalin-producing hope. “ Mr Taylor, the insurance angle of the fire wasn't a police matter, so we were unaware of events immediately following it. Did you come to the island yourself and see these art experts? See the Charters?'' His Chief had turned sharply towards him, and Tim knew he must work harder to keep his excitement out of his voice.

“Yes. For the reasons I've just given you.''

“And … Did you … did you have any feeling that the Charters could be hiding something? Were not just straightforwardly distressed by their loss?''

“This is a murder inquiry now, Mr Taylor, and it will be helpful if we can collect feelings as well as facts.'' Tim couldn't have put it better himself, and it was a relief that his Chief was backing him up, not seeing his request as the out-of-line plea of partiality.

“Yes, of course.'' Ian Taylor leaned back in his chair, contemplating. “I don't know,'' he said slowly, after a moment's silence. “ I was aware of a great deal of tension in all three members of the family, but that could have been fear of the future without their financial safety net, I suppose. They certainly told a clear and consistent story, and stuck to it.''

“Their garden centre is very popular,'' Tim said. “And I've heard they were anxious to expand. That could have been their main reason for deciding to sell the pictures.''

“And the incentive, perhaps, for fraud if they were suddenly afraid the pictures weren't going to bring the money they needed.'' Tim was glad it was his Chief who had said it.

“Precisely.'' Ian Taylor leaned forward, for the first time looking hesitant and exclusively addressing the Chief. “I don't suppose … Are you in a position at the moment to tell me anything about the progress of the murder inquiry?''

“I'm afraid not.'' The Chief answered without hesitation. “You know from his last telephone call to you that Mr Shaw had agreed to enter the Charters' house if he found an opening and we are confident that he did, before meeting his death from a car in the lane outside the Golden Rose. We can also tell you that he had a camera on a cord round his neck, and that when he was found the camera was open and had no film in it. Beyond that … I'm afraid you'll have to keep your inquiry on hold, Mr Taylor, if you feel it to be dependent on discovering how your agent died.''

It was as near as they could go to predicating Bernard Charters' guilt, and Ian Taylor knew it. He leaned back with a sigh. “ Thank you, Chief Inspector, I understand. And that you wouldn't advise me to call on the Charters family during this particular visit.''

“I think not,'' the Chief said mildly. Tim saw the gleam of relief in his eyes that the man was making it so easy.

“Very well.'' Taylor got to his feet and the policemen followed suit. “Chief Inspector …'' Taylor held out his hands, uncertainty sitting uneasily on his seasoned face. “Is there … Have I committed an offence?''

“Unfortunately we have no means of discovering that, Mr Taylor. But I hope you will see your directions to Mr Shaw as constituting one. Inspector, will you take Mr Taylor to Reception and get them to order him a taxi?'' Taylor half held out his hand, but the Chief didn't take it.

When he had handed him over, Tim went back to the Chief's office.

The Chief was looking out towards the tree, and as he turned round he and Tim regarded one another in silence.

“How are you, Tim?'' the Chief asked eventually. His face was kind.

“I'm all right, sir.''

“Good. Now, you'd better get on.''

“Yes, sir.''

It was just possible he might be able to tell the Chief as well, when it was all over.

B
enjamin Charters had gone to bed with his mind in a turmoil, but when he was wakened by his mother at his usual time, after a dreamless sleep he had not expected, he knew what he had to do. Although the prospect was terrifying, the sense of a decision reached after so much unhappy heart-searching made him feel calmer than he had felt since the nightmare began.

“You look better, Benjamin,'' his father said at the breakfast table.

His father looked terrible. Even worse than he had looked the night before. Benjamin had been allowed to wait up with his mother for his return from the police station, and as he came up to the kitchen door where they were waiting, alerted by the sound of the car, Benjamin had thought he looked like an old man, his shoulders bent and his face grey.

“The blood,'' his father had said while his mother was gently taking off his coat. “ It's the same group as the dead man, and different from all of ours.''

His mother had moaned, and Benjamin hadn't been able to tell which of them was helping the other into the sitting-room.

“So what could you say?'' his mother asked, when she and his father were side by side and hand in hand on the sofa, and he was squatted on the pouffe in front of them.

“I had to tell them I'd gone out – on foot – and gone up to the body. They accused me of removing the film and I denied it.'' Now a sound had escaped Benjamin, and his father looked at him sharply. “What is it, son?''

“Did they believe you?'' the boy whispered.

“They didn't say.'' His father gave a harsh bark of laughter, free of all amusement. “They did say someone had successfully obliterated any fingerprints from the camera.''