Puppet for a Corpse Page 16

  “What happened?”

  “Well, it was a bit much really. One day Taylor slipped a diuretic into Pettifer’s coffee.”

  “What’s a diuretic?”

  “Makes you want to pass water all the time. Anyway, Taylor stupidly mistimed the thing. Instead of giving Pettifer the stuff at a time when Pettifer would at least have the opportunity to go and pee when he wanted to, he gave it to him when there was to be an important lecture later on that morning. God, I can’t think how the incident could have slipped my mind. It was hideously embarrassing … Fortunately Pettifer was sitting near the back, but he didn’t make it to the door. You can imagine how he felt …”

  “I can imagine how anyone would have felt, in circumstances like that.” But Pettifer especially, Thanet thought. Stern, proud, this would have been precisely the sort of humiliation he was least equipped to bear. “So, what happened?”

  “For a long time, nothing. Everyone knew who was responsible, of course, but nothing overt was said, either to or by Pettifer. We felt sorry for him, felt Taylor’d gone a bit far and the whole thing had turned sour. Pettifer had never been on particularly friendly terms with Taylor and now he more or less ignored him. And he made no move to retaliate until the following June.”

  “What did he do?”

  “It was simple but lethal. Devilishly clever, too. We were taking our finals, you see, and on the first day Pettifer slipped lactulose into Taylor’s breakfast cornflakes. It was easy enough to do, the plates of cereal were all set out and we used to take it in turns to distribute a trayful. And lactulose is near enough tasteless and colourless … It’s an aperient,” he explained to Thanet’s blank look, “produces the same effect as a diuretic, but on the bowels instead of the bladder.”

  “Diarrhoea …”

  “Galloping diarrhoea in this case.”

  “God, what a revenge! What happened to Taylor?”

  “He managed to scrape through his exams, just. But he had been one of the most promising students of the year …”

  So, Thanet thought, watching Barson drive away, here was a side of Pettifer’s character hitherto unsuspected. He wanted to think over the interview with Gemma Pettifer, but he didn’t want to sit here in the car in full view of her windows. He drove out of Brompton Lane and parked around the corner.

  This was a pleasant residential street with wide pavements punctuated by ornamental cherry trees. The leaden skies of yesterday had disappeared overnight, blown away by the frisky wind which was plucking at the dying leaves, tossing them in the air and then cradling them as they floated to the ground. At the far end of the road an old man was moving methodically along the pavement, brushing the leaves first into long crimson ribbons snaking along the gutters, then into piles which he finally shovelled into a metal container on wheels.

  Thanet watched him absentmindedly, his thoughts far away. He still couldn’t make up his mind about Gemma Pettifer. She was convincing, yes, but then she had spent many years perfecting the art of being so. Suppose that she was lying, that the whole thing was a very clever scheme to kill her husband and deflect attention from herself by playing the unfaithful wife who realises too late the depth of her devotion to her husband … Suppose that the stories of the cold, the paracetamol, the promised phone call, Pettifer’s cry for help were an ingenious tissue of lies devised to explain away her presence on the spot at the crucial time …

  Or … Thanet’s pulse beat faster as a completely new idea came into his head. Suppose that Gemma’s story was true, that the deception was not hers but Pettifer’s. Suppose that, contrary to her belief, he had indeed found out about her lover, had stage-managed the performance of illness and phone call, but that, contrary to appearances, Pettifer had intended the suicide to be an attempt only. Suppose that Gemma had been meant to arrive in time, rush him to hospital and, filled with guilt, be for ever afterwards a loving, faithful wife? Such a plan would neatly have served the dual purpose of revealing to Gemma the depth of his despair and bringing her smartly to heel. And it would explain so much—why Pettifer had arranged to have his car repaired, for example, why he had obviously envisaged a future in which he and Gemma would be able to enjoy a luxury cruise together. Or perhaps the cruise had been intended to prick Gemma’s conscience—even to underline the generosity of the love she was rejecting …

  So, what had gone wrong?

  She hadn’t been able to get into the house.

  And there was the rock upon which this ingenious theory foundered. Surely, if Pettifer’s life had depended on it, he wouldn’t have made the mistake of bolting the door against his only hope of rescue?

  For that matter, why had he bolted the door at all, if he was expecting her home?

  Perhaps he had counted on the fact that Gemma, disturbed by his appeal, would be determined to get into the house somehow. But she hadn’t because, when she had gone around to try the back door, she had seen …

  Thanet jerked bolt upright in his seat. That was it! She had seen that the car was missing. And that had made her angry, had made her feel that she had been dragged down from London in the middle of the night on false pretences. She had gone back to London, leaving Pettifer to die, his plan ruined by the simple fact that he had forgotten the significance that missing car would have for her.

  “You all right, Guv?”

  The street sweeper was knocking on the car window, his face creased with concern.

  Thanet wound down the window. “Oh yes, fine, thanks. I was just thinking.”

  The man grinned. “You want to be careful. All them faces you was making … If that’s what thinking does for you …”

  Thanet grinned back. “You’ve got a bit of a job on there, haven’t you?” he said, nodding at the leaf-strewn pavements, the metal container. “I thought they had special lorries to do that these days.”

  “They have. In theory, like. But one of them’s broke down, so they gives me a ring … I’m retired, see. ‘Want your old job back for a coupla days, Ern?’ they says. ‘Why not?’ says I. ‘Earn a bit of extra towards Christmas.’ And it makes a change, working again.”

  It was so easy for plans to go awry, Thanet thought as he drove away. Something unexpected turned up and that was that.

  But, leaving aside the possibility that Pettifer’s plan had misfired, there was to Thanet’s mind one serious objection to this new theory of his: he couldn’t really see Pettifer as a man who would resort to suicide as emotional blackmail. The explanation might be neat, logical, feasible even, but was it psychologically sound?

  Thanet burned to discuss it all with Lineham, but Lineham was in London, unavailable until late afternoon. Thanet decided that meanwhile he would stick to his original plans for the day. He stopped at a phone box, asked Bentley to try and trace Mrs Blaidon, Pettifer’s mother-in-law by his first marriage, and to arrange if possible for Thanet to go, and see her this afternoon. Then he drove to the Medical Centre. Braintree was next on the list.

  The receptionist was apologetic. “I’m afraid you’ve just missed him.”

  “Do you happen to know where he’ll be going first?”

  “I’m sorry. I know the names of all the people doctor’ll be visiting, of course, but I’ve no idea in what order. He arranged that to suit himself.”

  “Have you any bright ideas how I can contact him?”

  “Good morning, Inspector.” It was Lowrie, on his way out. “How’s it going?”

  “I was hoping to have a word with Dr Braintree this morning, but I’ve just missed him, apparently.”

  “Inspector?” Mrs Barnet had come out of her little office, had obviously heard this brief exchange. “Did you say you wanted to see Dr Braintree? Only I was talking to him just before he left, and he said that he had to call in at home before starting his visits. If you hurry, you might catch him there.”

  “Thank you.” Hurriedly, Thanet scrawled down the address.

  As he turned to leave, Lowrie said sharply, “Just one point, Inspector
.” Taking Thanet by the arm he drew him aside, spoke softly. “Braintree … I know you’ve got to do your job, but go easy on him, will you? As I told you, he’s had a rough time lately, one way and the other. He shouldn’t really be back at work yet, but with so much to do … And now, of course, with Fir on holiday and Pettifer gone … I’ve managed to persuade a colleague of mine who’s retired to help out until Fir comes back, but if Braintree were to crack up again we’d really be in the soup.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful,” Thanet said.

  Braintree lived in a peaceful little cul-de-sac of new neo-Georgian houses in one of the better suburbs of Sturrenden. Thanet rang the bell beside a purple front door which looked like an advertisement for high-gloss paint, winced at the musical chimes and waited, studying the house. Being new, it was to be expected that it should be in good condition, but it positively sparkled with the effort and energy that had been lavished on it. The windows shone, the small square panes were row upon row of little mirrors, and the paintwork was gleaming, spotless.

  The woman who opened the door was equally trim in a neat cotton shirtwaister and frilly apron. Her face was scrubbed and shiny, her hair cut in an uncompromising bob.

  “Yes?” she said, with a smile which did not reach her eyes.

  Thanet explained.

  “You’d better come in,” she said, with a quick, darting glance to left and right, up and down the road.

  The hall was close-carpeted and, just inside the front door, on a little rubber mat obviously placed there for the purpose, stood a pair of man’s shoes. Mrs Braintree herself was wearing slippers and to his astonishment Thanet caught a brief, assessing glance at his own inoffensive suede Hush Puppies. He waited incredulously for her to ask him to remove them.

  But she didn’t. She pushed open a door on their right and said, “If you wait in here, I’ll fetch him.”

  The room was expensively furnished and totally devoid of character—magnolia emulsion paint on the walls, mushroom velvet curtains and three-piece suite. There was a sheepskin rug in front of the imitation-log gas fire, an island of luxury on the broad expanse of highly-polished parquet floor, but Thanet couldn’t imagine that Mrs Braintree would ever contemplate using it for anything as untidy as making love. There was a television set, but no stereo system, no radio, no books, nor any magazines or newspapers to lend the room a human face. It was as bleak and impersonal as a room setting in a furnishing store.

  Thanet began to feel sorry for Braintree. How could the spirit flourish in an atmosphere as sterile as this? I bet she was a nurse before she married him, he thought, and if she was I’m glad she never had to look after me. Yes, he thought as she came back into the room with her husband, she would have lacked that inner warmth which somehow survives despite the relentless drudgery and constant proximity to human suffering. Mrs Braintree wouldn’t ever have had to hold back from becoming emotionally involved. Her patients to her would have been flesh, bones, blood, not people.

  “You wanted to see me, Inspector?”

  “Just briefly, if you can spare the time. It’s about Dr Pettifer, of course.” Thanet studied with interest the youngest of the partners in Pettifer’s practice.

  Dr Braintree was in his early thirties. Tall, thin and slightly hunched, with black hair which flopped over his forehead, he looked like a dejected crow.

  “Do sit down.”

  “Thank you.” Thanet glanced meaningfully at Mrs Braintree, hoping that she would take the hint and go, but she either didn’t notice or chose to ignore it, plumping herself squarely down beside her husband on the settee.

  Thanet seated himself opposite them.

  “This won’t take too long I hope, Inspector. I have a number of visits to make before lunch.” Braintree caught Thanet’s involuntary glance at his slippers and looked uncomfortable.

  “I hope not too, doctor. I’m making routine enquiries and naturally I’m asking the same questions of everyone connected with Dr Pettifer. First of all, could you tell me if you thought him to be unusually depressed at the time of his death.”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Or if you know of any possible reason for his suicide?”

  “No, none.”

  “But he must have had one, mustn’t he?” cut in Mrs Braintree. “Or he wouldn’t have done it. Stands to reason.”

  Thanet ignored the interruption, preoccupied with how to put the next question. Remembering Dr Lowrie’s plea he decided on an oblique approach.

  “How did you and he get on together?”

  But his delicacy was wasted.

  “You’ve been listening to gossip!” burst out Mrs Braintree. “You have, haven’t you? And it’s not true, is it Des? You shouldn’t believe all you hear, Inspector. There’s a lot of people about always willing to shoot down other people’s reputations.”

  “I can assure you that I don’t believe all I hear, Mrs Braintree. But I do have to listen, and check. Which is what I am doing now.”

  “But why? How could it matter whether him and Des got on or not? Which they did, anyway, but …”

  “You must see that Dr Pettifer’s state of mind at the time of his death is highly relevant …”

  “So that’s it! You’re looking for a scapegoat. And you’ve decided my husband’s it. That is it, isn’t it!” Her face was pink, her eyes bulged and she seemed unaccountably to have grown bigger as she sat there.

  Braintree, by contrast, seemed to have shrunk.

  “Betty,’ he said, in a feeble attempt at admonition.

  “But that is what he’s trying to do, can’t you see?” she said, turning to him. “And you’re not going to get away with it,” she flung at Thanet.

  “Mrs Braintree!” he said. “I’m not trying to get away with anything. I just want to …”

  “My husband’s done nothing to be ashamed of and …”

  “Please. Would you mind …”

  “I’m not going to sit here and …”

  “Mrs Braintree! WILL YOU BE QUIET!”

  There was a second’s astounded silence and then she shot up, like a jack-in-the box. “I’m not going to sit here and be insulted in my own home. Des, it’s time you were getting on with your rounds.”

  “Doctor Braintree,” Thanet said in a quiet, deadly tone, “is going to stay where he is until he has answered the questions I wish to put to him. Alternatively,” he went on, raising his voice as she opened her mouth to protest, “he can accompany me to the police station where we should be able to talk IN PEACE.”

  She stared at him for a moment longer and then, turning on her heel, flounced out of the room. Thanet could have sworn he heard the ghostly rustle of starched skirts. He expected her to slam the door and was interested to see that she carefully left it a little ajar.

  “I’m sorry, Inspector.” Braintree made a hopeless gesture. “My wife means well. She just tends to get a little worked up, that’s all. Since my … illness, she has tended to be somewhat overprotective.”

  “Perfectly understandable.” Thanet thought briefly and with gratitude of Joan’s loving and equable temperament. “And I expect she’s rather upset about Dr Pettifer’s death. Everyone is, naturally.”

  “Quite. And of course, with Dr Fir still away, the work load is a bit much at present. So if we could be fairly brief …”

  Thanet lowered his voice. “I’ll be honest with you, doctor, and ask you to …” He remembered the door. He rose, shut it and returned to his chair before continuing. Braintree had got the message, he could see. “… to keep what I say in strictest confidence. You’ll have gathered we’re not very happy about this business. There seems to have been no reason whatsoever for Dr Pettifer to commit suicide—which means, of course, that we really have to satisfy ourselves that there was nothing … well … sinister about his death.”

  Braintree had turned the colour of grubby linen. He glanced at the door, edged forward on his seat. “You mean, he might have been murdered?” His voice was no m
ore than a horrified whisper.

  Thanet found that he, too, was sitting on the edge of his chair. We must look like a pair of conspirators, he thought. “It’s no more than the remotest of possibilities,” he said, wishing that this were true. “But you must see that, all the while it’s on the cards, we can’t sit around doing nothing.”

  “Of course. So, how can I help, Inspector?” His tone was fearful.

  Thanet could see that Lowrie was right. He would have to be careful. Briefly, resentment flared in him. He was sick and tired of handling people with kid gloves. This was, potentially at least, a murder enquiry, he reminded himself, and if Braintree couldn’t be asked a simple, straightforward question, then he wasn’t fit to be back at work.

  “If you could just tell me where you were on Monday evening?”

  “Oh, my God!” Braintree buried his face in his hands. “I just can’t think,” he moaned. He raked his hair with his fingers.

  Thanet waited.

  “Monday evening …?” Braintree said, speaking through clenched teeth.

  “Dr Lowrie was at a meeting with Mrs Barnet,” prompted Thanet. “Perhaps you were on call?”

  Braintree’s face was suddenly luminous with relief. “I remember now! Betty and I were at the Tennis Club end-of-season dinner dance, at the Wayfarers.”

  “You weren’t on call, then?”

  “No, Lowrie was. If we’re on duty and we have to go out, we just leave phone numbers so that we can quickly be contacted. Originally, I was supposed to be on duty on Monday, but I swopped with Lowrie, because of the dinner dance—I don’t like drinking alcohol if I’m on call,” he explained. Lowrie was only attending a meeting and Mrs Lowrie is away at the moment, he was quite happy to exchange.”

  “I see.” Quickly, Thanet took the details. Braintree had taken evening surgery. The last patient had not left until six-thirty. Braintree had had a scramble to get home, change and be ready by seven; then the two other couples in their party had arrived for a drink before they all left for the dinner dance, which had ended at 1 am.

  It could all easily be checked, verified by people who could have no possible reason for lying, Thanet thought as he took names and addresses. He was therefore inclined to believe it. He thanked Braintree and managed to get away without a further encounter with Mrs Braintree, whom he glimpsed hovering in the kitchen doorway as he hurried through the hall. No doubt she would pounce upon her husband the moment the front door closed.