No Laughing Matter Read online

  ‘What d’you think happened?’ he asked Mallard, in no real expectation of an answer. Mallard invariably refused to be drawn on matters non-medical.

  The little doctor peered up at Thanet over his half-moon spectacles, their gold rims glinting in the harsh bright light, and put out his hand. ‘Give me a heave, will you? I couldn’t kneel because of the glass and I think I’ve seized up.’

  Thanet obliged.

  ‘Thanks.’ Mallard peered down at the body. ‘You’ll have to work that out for yourself. Not my province. But I can most certainly pronounce him dead and as you can see for yourself there’s little doubt as to cause. The jugular vein was severed and there’s so much blood about it’s almost certain that the carotid artery was, too. I’ll stick my neck out and say he bled to death. It would have been very quick, a matter of minutes. We won’t be able to confirm until the PM, of course, but I’d say it was most unlikely to be anything else.’

  ‘Look as though someone used him as an Aunt Sally,’ said Lineham, ‘chucked everything he could lay his hands on at him. Randish backs towards the window, probably holding up his arms to protect his face, then he treads on something – a bottle, perhaps – which makes him lose his balance. He falls backwards, twisting sideways, and goes through the window, slicing through that artery in the process. Then he gradually collapses, the weight of his body dragging him down into a sitting position.’

  ‘Quite feasible,’ said Mallard.

  ‘How long ago?’ said Thanet.

  Mallard puffed out his lips, expelled air softly and shook his head. ‘You don’t give up, do you, Luke? You know as well as I do that it’s impossible to be accurate.’

  Thanet grinned. They went through this charade every time. ‘Oh come on, Doc, just give us some idea.’

  Mallard considered, head on one side, and then said reluctantly, ‘Some time in the last three hours? And earlier in that period, rather than later.’

  Thanet glanced at his watch. Ten-thirty. Between 7.30 and 9.30. then, probably. ‘Thanks. You’ve finished here, now?’

  Mallard snapped his bag shut. ‘I have. It’s off to my nice warm bed for me.’

  ‘Don’t rub it in. I’ll walk you to your car.’

  ‘Don’t bother.’

  ‘It’ll be good to get some fresh air.’

  Outside, Thanet gratefully inhaled the clean, moist air, anxious to rid his nostrils of the smell of death, the taint of murder. As they emerged from the passageway he saw that the ambulance had arrived at last and some more cars were pulling in.

  ‘Draco won’t be here, I suppose,’ said Mallard. ‘Didn’t Angharad have another test this week?’

  ‘Yes. On Wednesday. They went up today for the result.’

  In the early years of Superintendent Draco’s reign in Sturrenden he had galvanised the place into becoming the most efficient Division in the South-East. He was ubiquitous and his men never knew when he would suddenly materialise, breathing down their necks. But a couple of years ago his beautiful and much-loved wife Angharad had had leukaemia diagnosed and overnight Draco had become a changed man. Gone were the light of enthusiasm in his eyes, the hectoring tone in his voice, the infuriating bounce from his step. Although his men had all complained bitterly at the way the Super had harried and chivvied them, they had grown to admire, respect and even to like him, and there was not one of them who would not have suffered the worst of harassments to see Draco back on his original form. There were signs that Angharad’s condition was improving, but she was still trailing up to London regularly for bone-marrow tests and Draco’s staff always knew when another test was coming up: for days beforehand he would become increasingly abstracted and morose. He always accompanied his wife both for the test and for the results two days later and for the last six months or so had got into the habit of taking her away to a hotel for a day or two afterwards.

  Mallard sighed. ‘Living through all that is not an experience I’d wish on my worst enemy.’

  Thanet glanced at the little doctor, aware that Mallard was remembering his own bitter years. The Thanets and the Mallards were good friends, Thanet having known the older man since childhood. He and Joan were very fond of Helen, Mallard’s second wife, and grateful to her for rescuing the little doctor from the years of depression which had followed the lingering death of his first wife from cancer. Thanet was saved from a reply – for what could usefully be said? – by the approach of the two ambulancemen, carrying a stretcher. He knew them both by sight.

  ‘Sorry we took so long, Inspector. Been a spate of accidents this evening.’

  Thanet shook his head. ‘There’s no hurry with this one. Anyway, it’s all clear now. Just check that the SOCOs have finished and you can take him away.’

  Hard on their heels came more of his men. He sent them to find Lineham. ‘I’ll be with you in a few moments.’

  At the car Mallard turned. ‘How’s Bridget these days? Helen was saying the other day we hadn’t seen her for ages. I know she misses their cookery sessions.’

  Helen Mallard, a well-known cookery writer, had encouraged Bridget in her choice of career and at one time the two of them regularly used to spend afternoons together concocting new dishes for Helen’s latest project.

  ‘She’s down for a long weekend, as a matter of fact. I picked her up at the station earlier this evening.’

  Something in Thanet’s tone must have alerted Mallard to his concern.

  ‘Nothing wrong, is there?’

  ‘We don’t know for certain, yet. But she seems pretty down in the mouth.’

  ‘Alexander?’

  ‘More than likely, I should think.’

  ‘Who’d be young again?’ said Mallard, unlocking his car. He patted the old Rover affectionately. ‘There’s a lot to be said for growing old together. So much more comfortable.’

  Thanet laughed. ‘So far as I can recall, at the age of twenty it wasn’t comfort I was looking for!’ He watched Mallard drive off and then set purposefully off back to the laboratory. Action was now called for: get the men organised; then interview the chap who had discovered the body, Vintage.

  He was eager to get on with it.

  TWO

  The yew hedge was tall, dense, thick, planted no doubt as an evergreen screen to preserve the Randishes’ privacy in winter and summer alike. Living over the shop, so to speak, must have certain disadvantages, thought Thanet as he followed Lineham through the tall arched wrought-iron gate which fitted snugly into a clipped opening in the hedge.

  Though this house would compensate for most.

  It was Tudor, black and white, the marriage of beams and plasterwork a delight to the eye. The curtains were drawn in the room to the left of the front door but lights still blazed from most of the windows, illuminating the neat front cottage garden. This was past its best now but still sported clumps of flowers here and there, their colours indistinguishable in the dim light. The path of ancient paving stones was bordered by a dwarf lavender hedge which in summer must release its sweet scent as visitors brushed by.

  Thanet waited for the inevitable remark from Lineham. Anything larger than the sergeant’s own modest dwelling invariably provoked a comment.

  Lineham did not disappoint him.

  ‘Not exactly on the breadline, are they?’ said the sergeant as they approached the massive front door with its shallow medieval arch. ‘Where’s the doorbell?’

  ‘Is this it?’ Thanet grasped the curlicue on the end of a piece of stout wire dangling to the right of the door, and tugged. In the distance a bell tinkled.

  ‘Sounds like it,’ said Lineham. ‘This place really is the genuine article, isn’t it? Be interesting to see what it’s like inside.’

  ‘We’re not house-hunting, Mike.’ But Thanet’s tone was mild. He, too, would be interested to see the interior. People’s houses were very revealing, he found.

  Footsteps approached, unseen hands fumbled with a latch, and the door opened. The man was broad-shouldered, with a thatch
of thick, white hair.

  ‘Detective Inspector Thanet and Detective Sergeant Lineham, Sturrenden CID,’ said Thanet.

  ‘Owen Landers.’ The man stood back. ‘Come in.’ He closed the door behind them. ‘Randish is – was – my son-in-law.’

  They were in a narrow hall, the patina on its panelled walls a mute testimony to centuries of polishing. The floor was of flagstones, partly concealed by the rich subdued colours of a red and blue Persian rug.

  Thanet offered his condolences and then said, ‘We understand that it was a Mr Vintage who found the body and we were told he was here.’

  Landers would be in his late fifties, Thanet thought, and a farmer, at a guess. That ruddy, weatherbeaten complexion could only be the result of years of exposure to the caprices of the British climate, and his clothes were what Thanet thought of as top quality country gear – cord trousers, cable-stitch sweater and brogues.

  ‘Yes.’ Landers gestured to a half-open door. ‘Come in.’

  A wave of heat greeted them as they stepped inside. It was the kind of room often seen in the pages of glossy magazines: beamed, low-ceilinged, with casement windows on three sides and a huge inglenook fireplace. There were more Persian rugs on the floor of polished brick, linen curtains and upholstery in glowing colours and several pieces of fine antique furniture, all displayed to advantage by the light of strategically placed table lamps. The three people in it looked up apprehensively – a middle-aged woman, a woman in her thirties and a slightly younger man.

  ‘My wife, my daughter and Vintage,’ said Landers. He introduced Thanet and Lineham and then added, ‘They want a word with you, Oliver.’

  Vintage was standing in front of the fireplace, his back to the wood-burning stove. ‘Yes, of course.’ He was young, twenty-seven or twenty-eight at a guess, and whipcord thin with a shock of straight black hair which flopped across a high, bony forehead. He looked, Thanet thought, like a man on the verge of collapse. His shoulders drooped, his hands hung limply by his sides, his eyes were dull in their deep-hollowed eye-sockets, his skin tallow-white. His clothes were as creased and stained as if he had worked and slept in them for weeks. Indifference, overuse or simple neglect? Thanet wondered. In any case, it was clear that, the murder aside, Vintage was a man who had been under stress for some considerable time.

  And a man under stress can snap.

  ‘You can use the dining room,’ said Landers.

  After the first apprehensive glance Mrs Randish had ignored them. Hunched on the edge of her chair, hands outstretched to the stove, she seemed oblivious of their presence, sunk in private misery. Her tear-stained face and swollen eyes told their own story. The older woman’s attention was focused on her daughter. Perched on the arm of the chair beside her she watched her steadily with a fierce, protective gaze.

  Thanet was glad to get out of the room. Dressed in his outdoor clothes he felt he couldn’t have stood the heat in there much longer. He was relieved to find the dining room cooler, but he and Lineham still took off their raincoats before sitting down at the round oak gate-legged table.

  Vintage remained standing.

  ‘Do sit down, Mr Vintage.’

  ‘If I do I shall never get up again.’ Nevertheless, apparently unable to resist the temptation, he sat, slumping in the chair as if his muscles no longer had the strength to hold him upright. After a moment he straightened his shoulders and sat up a little, presumably to brace himself for the interview.

  ‘It must all have been a terrible shock,’ said Thanet.

  ‘Yes it was, of course. But it’s not just that. I’ve been working flat out for weeks now. It’s the busiest time of the year. It’s OK while you keep going, but when you stop it hits you, you know?’

  Thanet nodded sympathetically. ‘Pretty long hours, I imagine.’

  ‘I don’t usually get to bed till two or three and then I’m up again to get here and start work at 7.30.’

  ‘You actually make the wine?’

  ‘With some supervision from Zak – that’s Mr Randish, yes.’

  Zak, thought Thanet. What an outlandish name. Short for Zachariah, perhaps?

  ‘He’s the winemaker, I’m his assistant,’ Vintage was explaining. ‘He’s been training me for the last four years so in practice most of the time he leaves me to get on with it.’

  ‘Just the two of you make the wine?’

  ‘Yes. But he’s also the winemaker for another vineyard, at Chasing Manor, and he divides his time between the two. So a lot of the time I’m here by myself. It’s pretty hectic because we not only press the grapes from this vineyard but from a lot of smaller vineyards in the area. Most don’t have their own presses, you see.’

  ‘So you were here by yourself today?’

  ‘Zak was here for a couple of hours this morning, as usual, before going to Chasing.’ Vintage’s tone was guarded.

  ‘Anything unusual happen?’

  ‘No.’

  But he was lying, Thanet was sure of it. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Discussed yesterday’s work, today’s arrangements. Made one batch of wine.’

  What could the man be hiding? ‘Together?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was that usual?’

  ‘Not unusual.’

  It all seemed innocuous, but Thanet was still convinced there was more to it than this. It would keep, however. He pressed on.

  ‘And how long does a batch take?’

  ‘Two and a half hours.’

  ‘So Mr Randish left at – what? Ten?’

  ‘Nearer half past, I should think.’

  ‘And what time did he get back?’

  The routine during harvest was that Randish usually got back from Chasing Manor vineyard at about six, had a bite to eat and then came up to the press where Vintage was working. They would sort out any problems that had cropped up during the day and then work through the evening, sometimes together, but more often than not individually. Randish would divide his time between laboratory and office.

  ‘There’s a lot of paperwork, then?’ said Thanet.

  Vintage passed a hand wearily over his forehead. ‘Oh God, yes, you wouldn’t believe it. Everything, but everything, has to be catalogued for the Customs and Excise. If you sneeze, they want to know it.’

  ‘What sort of information do they require?’

  ‘They have to know exactly what happened, what date, what went where, how many ounces of sugar you used with each batch, how much yeast went in. They want to know every movement from tank to tank, every single fluid ounce you’ve got in there, how much you lost after fermentation when you rack a tank off, all your losses through the process.’ Vintage put his head in his hands. ‘How I’m going to manage to do all that as well as the winemaking, I just don’t know.’

  It certainly sounded a mammoth task for one man. ‘Perhaps you’ll be able to get someone in to give you a hand.’

  ‘Where from? Anyone who’d be of any use is working flat out at the moment, like me.’ He shook his head in despair. ‘Sorry, Inspector, not your problem, is it?’

  ‘You say Mr Randish usually divided his time between the office and the laboratory. What would he be doing in the laboratory?’

  ‘Checking sulphur levels, sugar levels, fermentation, Ph, acidity and so on and then noting it all down, putting it on computer.’

  ‘And would you see him during the evening? Would you have to go over to the laboratory or the office for anything?’

  A shrug. ‘Sometimes. Depends.’

  ‘And tonight?’

  ‘No. I had a lot of other things to do.’

  Vintage was holding back again. What had been going on? No doubt they’d find out, sooner or later.

  ‘So exactly what did happen this evening?’

  According to Vintage he and Randish had followed their usual routine. They had worked together from 6.30 to 7, doing the turnaround between batches, which involved a lot of manual work that always went more quickly if there were two of you. R
andish then went across to the office and that was the last Vintage saw of him until 9.30, when the next batch finished. That was when he went to the laboratory and found him dead.

  ‘Did you go in?’

  ‘Just a couple of steps inside the door.’ Vintage grimaced. ‘I didn’t need to go any further.’

  He had gone straight to the phone in the office next door, rung the police and Mr Landers, then hurried down to the house to warn Mrs Randish of their arrival, and the reason for it. She had insisted on coming to see her husband’s body for herself.

  ‘I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen. Short of physically restraining her, there was nothing I could do to stop her.’

  No wonder she was so upset, thought Thanet. The shock of a husband’s sudden death is enough, but to see him in that condition … ‘Did she go into the room, touch anything?’

  ‘Just a couple of steps, like me. Then she came to a dead halt, stood staring for a minute, then went outside and was sick. I’m not surprised.’

  They had then returned to the house, by which time Mrs Randish’s parents had arrived. They lived less than a mile away.

  ‘So that would have been, let me see, at about ten to ten?’

  Vintage thought. ‘Something like that, yes. And the police arrived about five minutes later.’

  ‘Did Mr Landers go up to the laboratory?’

  ‘Yes. He wanted to see for himself, as well. I don’t think any of them could believe it, really.’ This time Vintage anticipated Thanet’s question. ‘But he only went just inside the door, too.’

  ‘So no one actually touched the body?’

  Vintage shook his head.

  Thanet considered. ‘Was there anyone else working here this evening?’

  ‘No.’ Vintage pulled a face. ‘Drops me in it, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Should it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did you have any reason to kill Mr Randish?’