The Key to the Case Read online

  ‘Your son,’ I said. ‘Locked in a big house alone every evening! Twenty, you said. He was twenty. How long d’you think he could’ve stood that? He’d go crazy with boredom and frustration...’

  ‘If you’re saying—’

  ‘No! I’m not saying it drove him to suicide. Some it would, some it wouldn’t. I don’t know, because I never met him. I’m saying he could have let somebody in. A young woman, perhaps. Half a dozen people. They would have had the place to themselves, knowing you’d not be home until morning. How d’you know that isn’t so?’

  ‘I know my son,’ he growled.

  How many men could be certain of that, especially this one, whose central interest was in his own financial escapades? I didn’t say so. I was groping for background, for some niche into which I could insert a wedge of common sense.

  ‘His mother?’ I suggested. ‘Hadn’t he got a mother?’

  ‘We’re separated...and if you’re saying she might’ve visited when I wasn’t there...how did she leave it all locked and bolted?’

  There was a hint there as to whom he had cast as first murderer in his personal scenario. Was that what he had in mind, for me to try to prove this?

  I said quietly, ‘It would be locked and bolted if he took his own life after she left.’

  ‘It wasn’t suicide.’ His voice took on an edge. ‘You just keep on saying it! I’m sorry I wasted my time talking to you.’

  So was I, but I was determined to be more polite. ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you more, Milo. It’s quite clear he committed suicide, and that’s that. If you insist that nobody could’ve got in—’

  He shrugged free of me, straightened his shoulders to settle them into the comforting embrace of the dinner jacket, which was now the badge of his authority, and turned away. ‘I can’t spare any more time for you...’

  Of course not. He would have to get back to his club. I watched as he climbed into the Jaguar. It was a pity that the doors of the Jag close with a solid clump; he couldn’t make a display by slamming it loudly enough.

  I stood there as the car backed up to turn. I’d pressed the point as to who might have been able to get into the house, but if there had been murder done there that night, it wasn’t a question of how anybody could have got in, but how they had got out. Milo had clearly realized this.

  Slowly, I entered the hall. Hilary was waiting quietly at the far end. He didn’t speak until I was close to him.

  ‘You had your little chat, then?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘And everybody’s happy?’

  I smiled. His voice had been dry and cynical. ‘You must have heard,’ I suggested.

  ‘At odd moments. When voices were raised, which was most of the time. Can you help him?’

  ‘I don’t think so. To tell you the truth, I don’t want to. Milo’s not a man I’d wish to acquire as a friend.’

  ‘Perhaps not.’

  I hesitated. There was a cool interest like a mist surrounding him. We could have dismissed Milo from our minds with two brisk sentences, but he was still on Hilary’s mind.

  ‘Are you his legal representative?’ I asked.

  For a moment a smile almost flitted across his lips. ‘How shall I put it? You could say I represent him in legal matters that are legal.’

  ‘You suspect there could be something that’s not?’

  He looked me in the eyes. ‘Shall we go in and join the others?’

  Reaching past me, he swung open the door. Noise and smoke and heat engulfed us. I stuck my cold pipe in my teeth in self-defence, braced myself, and marched in on the party. It all builds up in an automatic progression. Somebody raises a voice in order to be heard, two others have to do the same, and on it goes, until the wax is crackling in your ears, and faces flow towards you and drift past like debris in the middle of one continuous explosion. I stared round desperately for Amelia, and there she was, cheeks flushed, head back and with her eyes bright, listening to a stocky and freckled young man who was punctuating whatever he was saying with abrupt jerks of his head and obvious guffaws—though they didn’t penetrate to me—at his own possibly admirable wit. I drifted round to a point where her eyes would rest on me, collecting a willowy blonde to my right and a giggling redhead to my left, and trying to look intellectual about their cross-chat relating to an exponential something, which seemed to involve witchcraft. Perhaps I was being embroiled in some hideous and debilitating spell. I murmured nonsense right and left, and left their laughter behind me. At least, they looked as though they were laughing. It could have been incantations.

  I managed to edge into a corner where I could not be outflanked, though possibly might be trapped. Catching Amelia’s eye, I signalled desperation. She smiled distantly, touched her companion’s arm, and weaved her way over to me.

  ‘You want to leave, Richard.’ It was a statement, her head being tilted in speculation.

  ‘Please.’

  So we said our thanks and goodnights to Poppy and Hilary and edged our way out into the refreshing cool and silence of the night. It was nearly midnight. We got into the car.

  ‘I hope I didn’t interrupt something important,’ I said, starting the car and giving the wipers a flick.

  ‘A welcome interruption,’ she assured me.

  I drove for some minutes in silence, and imagined Amelia had gone to sleep. But suddenly she said, ‘You met your friend, then?’

  ‘Not a friend. Never believe that.’

  ‘But you managed to settle his difficulty, whatever that was?’

  So I told her what it was, and waited for a comment. As always, she surprised me.

  ‘Poor man. He’ll be torturing himself, feeling that in some way he’s failed his son. Even murder would be more acceptable than suicide. Then he could blame somebody else.’

  This would probably apply to anybody with normal sensibilities, which seemed to eliminate Milo. ‘Murder,’ I said, ‘would be more acceptable if there was an insurance policy with a suicide clause. But it would be unusual for a man to insure his son’s life.’

  ‘That’s very cynical and unfeeling of you, Richard,’ she said reprovingly. ‘I think you’re making too much of this. Now you’ve decided it’s murder, and you’re casting Mr Dettinger as your major suspect.’

  ‘Not so. Not so.’ I was surprised she had seen it in that way. Certainly, the blasted mystery was squirming inside my brain and irritating me. But...murder? How could it have been anything but suicide?

  Amelia was trying to brighten the mood. ‘We must do this more often.’ And, ‘Isn’t it strange how you meet old friends...Richard, you’re not listening.’

  ‘Sorry. You were saying?’

  ‘Who should I meet there but Donna Pride! You wouldn’t know—she was my hairdresser when I lived...when we lived...you know, before we actually met. Her place was in Albany Row, I’m sure you must remember it. This was your own patch, as you policemen call it.’

  She was trying to distract me. I smiled. ‘Of course I remember. Place Of Pride she called it. I used to think it was a good name for a hairdresser, but I didn’t know it was her own name.’ It was all words...words as a fence against the memory of Milo’s vehemence and his frustration.

  ‘She remembered me, and she knows Cath. Your friend Ken’s wife,’ she said, as though I didn’t realize. ‘We spoke about her.’

  We were half a mile from home. I sensed that this was not idle conversation, and that she would have to finalize the progression of her thoughts while she had a grasp on the subject, and on my attention. I slowed the car and waited.

  ‘I haven’t seen her for ages,’ she went on. ‘Cath, I mean. I’ll give her a call in the morning.’

  I glanced sideways at her. ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘I don’t know. Possibly. Donna says Cath was in for a hair-do last week, and she hardly said a word. That’s strange for Cath. Perhaps I can fix up a meeting. A cup of tea and a chat.’

  ‘And I,’ I decided, perhaps a
s Amelia had intended I should, ‘will drop in at the station and have a word with Ken. Then later we can compare notes. If anything’s awry it doesn’t have to be serious.’

  ‘How clever of you, Richard.’

  Clever to have allowed her to edge me into it? But she had known, the suicide of Bryan Dettinger having been in Ken’s district, that I would be aching to talk to him about it. The scenario, as described by Milo, certainly needed tightening up. This arrangement would give me the excuse to sail in on Ken. With his prior knowledge that Cath and Amelia were meeting, he wouldn’t suspect my intentions and interest. Though perhaps he would. Ken had always been quick to see beyond the obvious.

  So, the following morning, Amelia rang Cath. The response was apparently not as she’d expected.

  ‘She seemed reluctant,’ Amelia told me. ‘I’ve never known her so quiet. Kind of depressed. But I’ve fixed something up.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow. We’ll meet at the café in the square.’ She snapped her fingers, trying to remember.

  ‘Martha’s?’

  ‘Yes. Martha’s Tearoom. Memories, Richard, memories! At eleven. For a cup of tea and a chat.’

  ‘Right. Fine. And I’ll drop in at the nice new police station they’ve built, and try to catch Ken with a few minutes to spare. If I’m lucky.’

  Which seemed to settle that, and left me, irritatingly, with nothing moving at all, and the rest of the day lying fallow. Damn Milo—why had he presented me with this? I’d indicated to him that I wasn’t interested, but the problem tugged at me.

  ‘Reckon I’ll drive into Bridgnorth,’ I said casually. ‘Is there anything you want?’

  ‘No, no. You go ahead, Richard. Tell me later.’

  Guessing. She was only guessing, but my wife’s a very good guesser.

  I drove to Bridgnorth and took the curving hill to High Town, found room to park, and walked back. The phone book had provided the address of Newcombe, Tremlett and Newcombe, Solicitors. It was just at the top of the hill, at that end of the High Street and perched on a corner, an old building with a pebble-paned bay window.

  As I’d made no prior appointment, I was prepared for disappointment, but Hilary had no one with him and was prepared to push his paperwork to one side.

  ‘Richard,’ he said, standing and thrusting out his hand. ‘Somehow, I expected you.’ He gestured to a chair. ‘Your mind refuses to let it rest?’

  ‘That’s how it is.’

  He sat down slowly, and peered at me past a pile of thick legal books, then put his elbows on the desk, resting his chin on his knuckles. His eyes, grey I saw beneath arched eyebrows, held mine steadily. He challenged me to state my business, while saying nothing at all.

  ‘As a policeman,’ I said, ‘I would be aware that you’d be reluctant to reveal any of Milo Dettinger’s affairs to me.’

  ‘Not reluctant. I would flatly refuse.’

  ‘But as a civilian...’ I raised my eyebrows.

  ‘I would refuse, and ask you to leave.’

  ‘Which you haven’t done.’

  ‘You haven’t asked.’

  ‘Very well. As a civilian, then, who has been asked by Milo himself to take an interest in his affairs...would that put a different slant on it?’

  ‘A slant, certainly. If I was certain he’d asked you that. If, for instance, you could produce a signed authorization.’

  His eyes glinted. The corners of his mouth twitched. He was playing with me.

  ‘But surely,’ I suggested, willing to play his game, ‘you wouldn’t need that authority if you’d stood quietly at the back of your hall and heard his wishes, as expressed directly to me.’

  He spread his palms. ‘I find myself persuaded, against my better judgement. If challenged, I shall claim undue coercion. What do you want to know? I retain the right to use my discretion, as I’m sure you’ll realize.’

  ‘It’s entirely for Milo’s benefit.’

  ‘I shall claim that, too. Go ahead.’

  So I did.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘Why,’ I asked, ‘is he so set on having it proved to be murder?’

  ‘That I don’t know.’

  ‘There was an inquest. I understand they brought in a verdict of suicide. Why isn’t that enough for him?’

  Hilary inclined his head. ‘If you can find the answer to that, I’d be interested to hear it.’

  It was going to be hard work, and I was already finding myself affected by his formal manner. ‘If it’d been a wife instead of a son, I could make sense of it. I’d have suspected an insurance policy with a suicide clause. But—I assume—he hadn’t insured his son’s life?’ I hesitated. ‘In his own favour?’

  There was a long pause. He wasn’t going to put a foot wrong if he could help it. In the end he ventured, ‘I don’t believe there was such a policy. In fact, I’m pretty certain. He came to me, as recently as...what would it be? Early in October, to ask me about exactly that possibility. His own life was insured, but not his son’s.’

  ‘His own life? Who was the beneficiary? Who is, I suppose, if it wasn’t his son.’

  ‘His wife, I believe. It’s usual.’

  ‘Ah yes.’ It was my turn to pause and give it some thought. ‘He mentioned a wife, but didn’t he say they’re separated?’

  ‘That is so. Two years ago she left him. I’m not certain of the background to that, but I’d guess it had some connection with the son, Bryan. Yes, I believe it must have been that.’

  ‘Do you also represent his wife?’ I asked warily.

  ‘No, I do not. In any event, I wouldn’t tell you anything about her affairs. You can’t ask me that, Richard. Really.’

  ‘Wouldn’t think of it,’ I said, sincerely enough, but regretting it. ‘But why leave her husband over something related to the son?’

  He tutted to himself, spread his hands on the desk and counted his fingers a few times, then made up his mind. ‘It’s public knowledge, after all, that at the time she left him their son had just been sentenced to six years’ imprisonment, and that he was in Winson Green Prison. Of course, Dettinger doesn’t live in this town—it’s on business matters only that I’m his adviser—but all the same we got the echoes. His wife was shamed, disgusted, whatever word you’d like. I think she blamed her husband for her son’s behaviour, though I don’t understand the reasoning behind that. But she walked out on my client two weeks after Bryan was sentenced.’

  ‘And on what charge,’ I asked, picking my way tenderly through a field of emotional brambles, ‘was he committed to prison?’

  Again the cocked eyebrows, at my ignorance perhaps. ‘Rape. Three rapes, young women aged fifteen, seventeen and eighteen. He was given six years, as I recall, and was released on parole after serving two of them. If I remember correctly it was early in September that he came home. It’s strange...’ He paused, staring at the ceiling to consider how strange it was. ‘Strange he returned to his home town, when he’d have been safer leaving the district and going to live with his mother.’

  ‘Perhaps she didn’t want him with her,’ I suggested. ‘She wasn’t slow in removing herself from the district where it happened, was she? When her son came out of prison, she wouldn’t want him bringing the stain of his sentence...’

  But he was again tutting to himself, shaking his head. ‘It’s not a reasoning I would approve. He had served his term, so legally—’

  ‘I was talking about emotions, Hilary.’

  ‘All the same...you shouldn’t assume the law is unemotional.’

  But I wasn’t going to be drawn into a discussion on this subject, especially as he was smiling in a way I could only describe as pitying.

  ‘But the connection is there,’ I insisted. ‘The lad went to prison, she left her husband, the lad came out and went straight back to his own home, to his father.’

  ‘I’m not arguing with you, Richard, merely commenting. I ought to mention that it was shortly after that—early in October—that Mil
o Dettinger came to consult me about insuring his son’s life. He clearly appreciated the danger.’

  ‘You sent him packing?’ Then I reacted to his words. ‘Danger? Was Bryan in danger?’

  ‘He would naturally not be welcomed by the residents back to his old district.’

  ‘Perhaps not. But...danger?’

  ‘There had been threats. Filthy letters.’

  I thought about that. ‘I can see why you would send Milo packing, if you thought there was a specific danger to his son.’ But the worst, so far, had been filthy letters. There had to be more than that. I allowed Hilary to get round to it in his own time.

  ‘I didn’t send him packing, as you put it, Richard. I act on a client’s instructions, and I made enquiries. The insurance firms I approached wouldn’t touch it. I couldn’t hide the fact of the local animosity. It would not have been professionally wise.’

  ‘Of course not. They would use it to justify refusing payment. Look. I’ve just thought.’ I leaned forward persuasively. ‘Would you say there’s a possibility that Milo managed to arrange cover himself, with some other, less responsible, insurers?’

  Hilary stared at me. He didn’t answer me directly, and I knew it had sounded unlikely. In the end he sighed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Richard. I get into the habit of talking cold and unemotional legal facts to people. But now...do you realize what you and I are saying? Do you really?’

  ‘I don’t follow you.’

  ‘Well, we’re not painting a very pleasant picture of my client, are we! Here we are, discussing the possibility of his being able to insure his son’s life when he must have realized the danger surrounding Bryan. It would take a callous man to view it in terms of money—actually to envisage his son’s death—and in a violent context.’

  He was quietly teasing me, gradually building up to something he was holding in reserve. I played along with it.