Against the Light Page 17

  ‘Tell me exactly what she said.’

  ‘She’d braced herself to tell, but suddenly she got scared, wouldn’t say yes or no, though I’d bet my last tanner she knows, right enough. She could have saved me going out in the rain last night. The only thing I got from her was to tell me to look further than O’Rourke.’

  Gaines cut his pie into eight precise portions and ate one of them with a forkful of mash. ‘I’m not happy about that. Look further, where? And who for?’

  ‘I’m not over the moon about it, myself. It’s O’Rourke we want. He’s committed murder, so who else should we be looking for?’ In his own mind there’d never been room for any doubts whatever on that score. It was clear as crystal to him they’d have to look no further for Nichol’s murderer than O’Rourke – when they eventually caught up with him, which he had to believe they would, sooner or later. The odds were stacked against it being anyone else. He had no problem with believing it and said so at length.

  Gaines allowed him to continue in full flow while he sopped up the green parsley-and-eel liquor that had come with his pie. He put down his knife and fork and rested a long, speculative gaze on Inskip. Then he said steadily, ‘Just you hold on a minute and listen to me. Has it ever occurred to you that you’re letting this get out of hand?’

  He hadn’t raised his voice and had it come from anyone else, Inskip wouldn’t have paid it any attention, but coming from Gaines, who rarely spoke heatedly and never pulled rank, it silenced him, momentarily at least. Yesterday, when he’d judged the time right, he’d made a clean breast of it to Gaines – not to tell him how he felt about O’Rourke, or what his feelings towards Cathleen had been, but to give him the facts of what had happened to make him scarper off to Ireland or wherever he’d been holed up since. Looking at Gaines’ face as he spoke, he realized why he hadn’t told him the whole of it in the first place, and now wished he hadn’t mentioned it at all. The old devil had guessed he still hadn’t been told the whole story – and then no doubt he’d done some digging afterwards and found out a bit more on his own account. ‘It’s time you remembered that you can’t afford to let your feelings get the better of you in this job. You may have a personal score to settle with O’Rourke, but – just forget it, Sergeant. Forget it. Is that clear?’

  ‘I was just saying, sir.’

  Inskip braced himself for more. But Gaines was never one to labour a point. ‘All right, Joseph.’ Having delivered himself of what he had to say, he changed the conversation. ‘Well, never mind Mona Reagan for the moment. Let’s go back to what Mrs Latimer told us yesterday about that cousin of hers, Dudley Nichol, and why the devil he was calling himself Lennie Croxton and living as your aunt’s lodger.’

  ‘Or vice versa, as you pointed out.’

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t think there was any doubt about him being her cousin. What I do question is why he arrived there at Manessa House without warning and then disappeared just before the baby’s kidnapped.’

  ‘Coincidence?’ Inskip said doubtfully.

  ‘If such a thing exists. There’s always a rational explanation, if you can find it.’

  ‘Which we haven’t done yet.’

  Gaines put down his knife and fork again, and began to lay out facts as if he were dealing out Patience cards, slapping his hand on the table with each one. ‘Nichol mysteriously leaves the Latimers, as mysteriously as he’d come into their lives. Next it’s the baby who disappears. An outrageous ransom is demanded. Nothing is forthcoming, but no further demands are made … and then she’s returned, unhurt. With no explanation. Why?’

  ‘The kidnappers got cold feet when they realized there was going to be no cash?’

  ‘How did they know that? As I’ve said, no further communication.’

  Silence for a while. Inskip watched while a tingalary man wheeled his machine up to the window outside and wound it up, hopeful that its jangling tune wouldn’t be lost in the noise outside. No one seemed to be taking much notice of his music. ‘Because the person asking for it no longer needed the money,’ he said. ‘Because Dudley Nichol was dead. But he died before she was taken.’

  ‘Right. Then who did take her? And who has been looking after her? Someone who didn’t expect Nichol to be killed and didn’t rightly know how to deal with the situation when he was?’

  Silence fell between them again as they thought it over, until Gaines said, after polishing off what was left of his pie and pushing his plate away, ‘Wouldn’t you have thought someone in that family, at some point, might have made a connection between this chap who’d been living in the same house with them for weeks disappearing from their lives like a puff of smoke, and the baby’s disappearance the very day after?’

  ‘Mrs Latimer? Nothing much escapes her, I’d say, but maybe it was just a bit too hard to credit, especially if he had as little get-up-and-go as she seemed to think.’

  ‘Possibly, possibly. He was her cousin, after all, but there’s a lot that worries me there, too. Like why she didn’t report him missing earlier.’

  Inskip took a drink. Wiped the froth from his lips. ‘What she said – she only started to make connections when the baby came back, and that’s why she decided she ought to tell us.’

  ‘And what about Edmund Latimer, hmm? Where does he come into this? After all the fuss he created at the beginning, he’s been mysteriously quiet since then.’

  ‘I expect he’s had other things to distract him. All this Irish business and so on. Anyway, we ruled him out from the start for obvious reasons, being so busy and all that.’

  ‘Too busy to be distracted from his supposedly adored niece’s disappearance? I doubt if it works like that with politicians. They’re used to juggling those sort of problems. Keeping the homes fires burning with the other eye on their careers. A bit like policemen. But let’s not forget that Nichol had Irish connections, and Latimer is very much in the thick of Irish politics at the moment.’

  ‘It wasn’t him that received any ransom demands.’

  ‘We don’t know that he didn’t. Do as we say … or else. Political blackmail.’ But he sighed. ‘What the devil’s going on, Inskip? Blessed if I know.’ He sat silently for some time, then pulled the silver bracelet from his pocket, where it had resided ever since it had been tested for fingerprints, none of which had shown up, apart from those of Violet Martens.

  ‘Pretty little thing, isn’t it?’ he said, looking at it lying on his palm.

  ‘Yes, but what has it to do with anything?’

  ‘I wonder why Mrs Martens took such exception to it?’

  ‘Easy. She wouldn’t take to the idea of her daughter wearing something second-hand, would she? And it’s obviously not new.’

  ‘What do you make of her?’

  ‘Violet Martens? Oh, half the size of a walnut and twice as hard, as my old Nana used to say.’

  Gaines laughed. ‘And Ferdie Martens?

  Inskip shrugged and spread his hands eloquently. Gaines signalled for the bill. The café noises went on around them and the tingalary man, who didn’t seem to be getting much custom, finished his latest tune and moved on while they waited.

  As Gaines pushed away his plate, ready to leave, and fumbled in his trouser pocket for a tip, Inskip blurted, ‘Sir. What you said. About O’Rourke – and me. I’ll admit I can’t abide him’ (I hate his guts was what he would have liked to say) ‘– it goes back a long way, but I won’t let it get in the way.’

  He was met with a steady look. ‘Right. Mind you keep to that. You could be in this job a long time yet. Don’t go ruining your chances.’

  He put a sixpence on the table, finished his shandy with every appearance of enjoyment, wiped his moustache and stood up. His glance fell on Inskip’s plate where nothing of the jellied eels remained except a bit of central bone and a few tiny, pathetic ones, swimming in vinegar. ‘Strewth, that looks disgusting.’

  Inskip grinned. All right. Maybe the boss was entitled to a bit of a dig, after the look Inskip had directed a
t his shandy.

  Part Four

  Fourteen

  It was a classic, the victim’s body slumped across the desk in his own study, blood pooling under his head, one arm dangling and the gun dropped from his lifeless hand on to the carpet. A suicide note under the other hand, arm stretched across the desk.

  The only surprise was that this particular suicide was that of the Right Honourable Edmund Latimer, MP.

  After twenty years in the Force Gaines was not easily taken aback, but the last person he would have expected to take this step was Latimer, a successful and respected man at the height of his career, a man tipped for even higher office. He stood by while the police doctor examined the body (it was Fenton, the same man who had been called to the scene of Dudley Nichol’s murder), waiting for what he had to say, though there were going to be no more surprises. Apart from why Latimer should have done it at all.

  Why? Always the first question to be asked. Money troubles? Secret gambling, women? Unorthodox sexual proclivities that left him open to blackmail? Anything was possible, but there was no point in speculating. They would know soon enough, directly the body had been removed and they had that note in their hands.

  Gaines had seen too many suicides for comfort, from every spectrum of society. Members of the church where he was a deacon were inclined to regard what they termed self-murder to be an unpardonable sin against the Almighty. He thought it might cause them to have another think if they ever had to look into the desperate lives, as he did, of those who’d removed themselves from an intolerable existence the like of which more fortunate people had never dreamed. Gaines had never found anything to blame those despairing souls for, and he hoped and prayed the Almighty felt the same. But he could not, as a rule, find it in himself to waste much sympathy on folks like Edmund Latimer, those who took a cowardly decision that left others to deal with the chaos they left behind. For them, Gaines couldn’t help feeling, there must always have been another way out of their difficulties, which were invariably the result of their own actions. Money and influence had the effect of providing escape from almost anything.

  ‘All right, he can be moved. Dead about eight hours, to save you asking. I’ll give you more details after the post mortem but for now, the bullet went in here’ – the doctor indicated a small round hole in the right temple – ‘and exited behind his left ear.’ He stood back, carefully avoiding the desk lamp which had toppled on to the floor, and removed his rubber gloves, looked around and sadly shook his head. ‘Lord, what a shambles these poor devils leave!’

  There would be no difficulty in finding the bullet. It had smashed into a small, heavily framed black-and-white etching, the subject of which was now indistinguishable, and gone straight through into the wall behind, leaving a scattering of glass on the polished floor surrounding the carpet below and a sloppy mess of blood and brains along the way.

  ‘Thank you, Doctor.’ He turned to Inskip, who had just re-entered the room after speaking to the staff. ‘Where’s Mrs Latimer? She found him herself, I understand. I’d like to have a word with her – if she’s in any fit state to talk.’

  Fenton looked up from reassembling his medical bag, eyebrows raised. ‘I’m acquainted with Doctor Latimer, and I think it’s unlikely,’ he said dryly, ‘that she’ll have gone to pieces.’

  ‘No, of course. You’re right, I daresay she won’t.’

  ‘She’s in her sitting room, sir,’ Inskip said. ‘With Mrs Martens and her husband.’

  Not good news, that. Dealing with Violet Martens’ histrionics again wasn’t a prospect Gaines relished, but she had after all been the dead man’s sister. He braced himself for the encounter.

  When the call had come in and been reported to the detective superintendent, the name of Edmund Latimer had immediately set alarm bells ringing in Renshaw’s head. A senior politician committing suicide was enough trouble on its own, but coming on top of the kidnapping Latimer had made such a fuss about, plus the further revelation that the chap in the ongoing taxi-cab murder investigation was actually the cousin of Mrs Latimer, Renshaw’s nose had begun to twitch in alarm. Of course, this sort of thing happened all the time: misfortune was no respecter of persons and some families seemed destined to suffer one tragedy after another, but in this instance, it needed handling with kid gloves.

  He had no difficulty in shying away from responding personally to the call, despite its high profile. A man with greying hair, nearing retirement, he was a respected and experienced senior officer, stolid and unimaginative, and one of the few who didn’t object to the desk work that inevitably came with promotion. Most people thought that was all to the good. He’d been right enough in his day as a hands-on copper, but that day was long gone and it had to be said, he was in fact better as an administrator than he’d ever been as a detective. It didn’t take him long to choose Gaines, along with his able sergeant, two of his best officers, but more importantly who were already only too familiar with Manessa House and its occupants. ‘Tread softly on this one,’ he’d warned. ‘Going to be a hot potato, so don’t put a foot wrong,’ he’d added, never one to despise a mixed metaphor.

  Violet Martens was not with her husband and Mrs Latimer, though someone else was. A well-brushed, well-dressed, correct and polite young man who was introduced as David Moresby, a colleague of Edmund Latimer’s, a fellow MP who had worked closely with him. They were all standing up, like people after a funeral, not knowing what to say. Alice, by the fireplace, was white and shocked, but she was in control of herself. She hadn’t taken it in yet, Gaines thought. Not fully. When she did, that was when it would begin to hurt.

  Martens stood by the window, looking out, his hands clasped behind his back, but he turned round when Gaines and Inskip entered. He looked appalled at what had happened. Then he found his voice in order to make murmured apologies for his wife’s absence. Didn’t feel well … all this, you know … given her a headache. ‘She’s gone to lie down with an aspirin,’ he finished, looking mightily as though he would like to do the same.

  There was likely to be little help for Alice from that quarter. ‘You don’t need to stay, sir. We can see you both later, if necessary.’

  Ferdie threw a wavering glance at Alice. ‘Yes, Ferdie, you go to Violet. She needs you.’

  For a second or two he stood, indecisive. Then, ‘Not as much as you might think, Alice,’ he said, and with a quick kiss on her cheek, he left the room. Gaines threw a sharp look after him. Not for the first time, it struck him that Ferdinand Martens might sometimes have more oil in his lamp than he was given credit for.

  Alice, too, watched him make his escape. Good-hearted, easy-going Ferdie, red-faced at any show of emotion, who nevertheless had managed to cast embarrassment to one side and given her a warm, if brief, embrace – but now, as usual, didn’t know how to react to a difficult situation. Violet hadn’t been any use at all, either. But she was suffering her own misery over the brother who had, because of the disparity in their ages, been more like a father to her.

  ‘This is very distressing for you, Mrs Latimer, for you all, but—’ Gaines spoke briefly of what was to happen next. ‘We don’t have to trouble you at the moment. We’ll need to talk to you later, of course, there will be questions asked at the inquest and you might like to be prepared—’

  But Alice wanted to talk now. She indicated seats to the others and took one herself on the sofa. The horror of what she’d seen and found when she had gone into Edmund’s study that morning would be with her for the rest of her life, she knew, crouched, ready to spring at any time, but for now she had to face whatever needed to be faced. Pushing it into one of those mental compartments labelled ‘later’, locking it away, wasn’t going to help this time. ‘Please, anything you want to know …’ She followed his glance. ‘There’s nothing I want to keep secret from Mr Moresby.’

  Moresby had half-risen to leave when Gaines had spoken, but now, after exchanging a look with Alice, he sat back again, crossing one elegantly trous
ered leg over the other, assuming a detached expression which didn’t lessen the impression Gaines had, that he would not allow much to escape him.

  ‘If you’re sure you want to go on? Then perhaps you should see this letter. I’m afraid it may be rather painful.’

  Alice looked at the single sheet of paper held out to her. Before he told her where it had been found, she knew what it was and instinctively she shrank. But she took a breath and accepted it.

  She hadn’t noticed this, or didn’t recall seeing it, when she had opened the study door and seen Edmund slumped across the desk. Her only memory of that moment was fixed, static: Edmund, indubitably, unquestionably dead. Blood. White shirt. Head resting on the desk as if he were asleep. Hair falling forward and a bald spot on his crown that she’d never noticed before. More blood, and worse. No screaming from her, only an inability to move, a red mist swirling in front of her eyes. After that, she only remembered Hewson, dear, kind old Hewson, her own body trembling as she led Alice away.

  She held on to the letter as Gaines put questions she might have anticipated, had she been in any condition to think that far ahead. Had she heard the gunshot or any other disturbance during the night? How had her husband seemed yesterday? What had been his state of mind lately? Perhaps he had been in financial difficulties? Had he ever given any indications that he might do this sort of thing?

  She shook her head. ‘Of course not, no to all of that.’ But she hesitated, glanced quickly at Moresby and then away again. ‘Though Edmund – well, he hasn’t been quite himself, I suppose, for some little time. I can’t be more specific than that – but I never imagined it was anything as bad as this. Nor did I ever dream he had a gun.’

  A gun. So absolutely unlike Edmund, just another part of this terrible, unanswerable situation. Edmund, shooting himself! Her resolution to carry on almost faltered. She had seen death many, many times, in most of its manifestations, but never like that. She had comforted relatives, helped them to find reserves of strength. But when it happened to yourself, she now found, it was overwhelmingly different. How was it she had never realized this before?