Puppet for a Corpse Page 4

  Once upon a time (from 1948 to 1973, to be precise,) there lived in Paddock Wood, in Kent, a doctor with a dream. The doctor was DJA Macdonald, the dream to gather together in his village and under one roof all the medical services which the people of his rural area could require. Women would no longer have to spend half a day trailing their children into Tonbridge or Maidstone for dental appointments, old age pensioners would no longer have to expend an alarming proportion of their pensions on bus fares and pregnant women would no longer have to find baby-sitters for their other children or endure the nausea-inducing bus journey into town for their ante-natal care. Doctor Macdonald was determined that his people were going to be the best-cared-for patients in the whole of Kent, and the Woodlands Health Centre in Paddock Wood still thrives—a monument to his vision, patience and determination.

  Since then a handful more of these excellent Centres have been established in Kent, but they are, of course, expensive to build and Doctor Macdonalds are few and far between. Sturrenden was fortunate in that its Centre was more or less complete before the economic recession came along to give the kiss of death to many a similar project. Thanet had never visited it before and he looked about with interest as he parked his car and approached the main entrance.

  The building was single-storied, flat-roofed and built in the shape of a W, with specialist clinics such as dentistry, chiropody, speech therapy and ante-natal care in one of the long arms and a series of consulting and treatment rooms in the other. In the base of the W were the administrative offices, the reception area and the waiting room, which was cheerful, spacious and furnished with comfortable chairs upholstered in cream, chocolate, orange and black. Everywhere was spotlessly clean.

  Thanet approached the Enquiries counter, where two women were engrossed in some of the prodigious quantity of paperwork demanded by the National Health Service. Within a few minutes he was seated in a small, bright office with Mrs Barnet the Administrative Secretary, a slim, trim woman in her mid-forties with neatly-waved greying blonde hair and a general air of reassuring capability. Her hazel eyes rounded as Thanet gently broke the news.

  “Dead? Dr Pettifer?” she said, a strangely formal echo of Mrs Pettifer’s cry.

  Thanet nodded. “And I’m afraid it looks as though he has committed suicide.”

  She sucked in her breath sharply, as if someone had just hit her hard in the solar plexus. She swallowed. “No,” she said. “I don’t believe it.”

  Thanet said nothing, waited.

  “It’s not possible,” she said, after a few moments in which she was clearly trying to assimilate the news. “Not Dr Pettifer.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, because with some men, yes, you can imagine them doing it, killing themselves if they were desperate, but Dr Pettifer … it’s just out of character, that’s all. He’s such a strong person, very … powerful, determined. If he’s up against something he doesn’t sit back and hope it’ll go away, or just give up, he fights. And usually wins.”

  “You’re saying, then, that it would be totally out of character for him to kill himself.”

  “That’s right. Totally. And then, well, it was only yesterday he was in—here at the Centre, I mean. Today’s his day off, you see, that’s why we haven’t missed him. Though …”

  “What?”

  “His car. It’s still here. And I did wonder … I noticed it when I arrived this morning. I thought it must have broken down, that he’d had to leave it here overnight. I was half expecting him to give me a ring about it this morning.”

  “I’ll check. What make is it?”

  “A brown Rover. New.”

  “Right. But you were saying, about yesterday …”

  “Well, he seemed so cheerful. Unusually so. He wasn’t a very forthcoming person.” Unconsciously Mrs Barnet had already slipped into the past tense. “He was a very good doctor, everybody respected him, but he could be a bit, well, off-hand I suppose you’d call it, in his manner. Oh, he wasn’t rude or anything like that,” she added hastily, “I hope I’m not giving the wrong impression. But yesterday, well he was telling me all about this terrific meal he and Mrs Pettifer had had last week. It was their second wedding anniversary, apparently, and they’d been to the Sitting Duck out near Biddenden for a celebration dinner. That’s what I mean by unusually cheerful. In the normal way of things he’d never have been so chatty.”

  “Did he have any health problems, to your knowledge?”

  “I don’t suppose I’d have known if he did, unless it was something very obvious, but not to my knowledge, no. He always seemed very healthy. Doctors often are. They build up an immunity I suppose, being in constant contact with germs.”

  “Yes. Though I understand that in fact yesterday Dr Pettifer did think he had a cold coming on.”

  “Oh, really? Well, he certainly wouldn’t have mentioned it to me, if he had. He wasn’t one to make a fuss.”

  “You saw no sign of it, then?”

  “No, but then in the early stages of a cold there often are no visible symptoms, are there?”

  “No, I suppose not. What about the Health Centre? Were there any problems connected with his practice that might have been worrying him?”

  She frowned. “I’m sure there weren’t. I’d have known, if there had been. I’m not saying we don’t get the odd problem cropping up, it would be a miracle if we didn’t in a busy practice like this, but something serious enough for one of the doctors to kill himself … no, never.”

  “How many doctors are in practice here?”

  There were, he learnt, three in addition to Pettifer. Dr Pettifer had originally been in practice with his father-in-law by his first marriage. When the old man died Dr Lowrie, now in his late fifties, had come into the practice, followed at intervals by Dr Fir, who was away at present on holiday, and Dr Braintree, who had come in only three years previously and was the baby of the practice. All three were married and only the Braintrees were childless.

  The Centre was funded by the Area Health Authority and the medical practice was an independent one, paying rent to and sharing administrative costs with that authority. It was a flourishing practice, having around 11,500 patients on its books—rather a heavy work-load, Thanet learned: it was generally accepted that the standard number of patients per doctor should be around 2,500. Could overwork have been a contributory factor in Pettifer’s death? he asked.

  Mrs Barnet didn’t think so.

  “Is there any chance of having a word with either Dr Lowrie or Dr Braintree?”

  “Not at the moment, I’m afraid. They’re both out on visits. I’ll have to contact them of course, to tell them about Dr Pettifer … Oh dear, they’re so much under pressure at the moment. We were supposed to have had a locum to take over Dr Fir’s work while he’s on holiday, but unfortunately the man had a car accident the day before he was due to arrive and we weren’t able to get a replacement at such short notice. And now, well, goodness knows how we’re going to manage.” She bit her lip. “That sounds awful, doesn’t it, thinking of the Centre when there’s poor Mrs Pettifer …”

  “Life always has to go on,” Thanet said gently.

  “I suppose so … Anyway, let me see.” She reached for a desk diary, flicked it open. “Ah yes, I thought so. Dr Lowrie has to be back here at two, to meet someone from the new Family Counselling service they’re starting in Sturrenden. When I speak to him I’ll tell him you’d like to have a word with him, shall I?”

  “That would be kind.”

  “What arrangement shall I make, about your seeing him?”

  “Would it be possible for him to get back here a little early, say at a quarter to two? Then I could see him before his meeting.”

  “I’m sure that’ll be all right.”

  Thanet thanked her and left.

  In the car park a mechanic was tinkering with the engine of a brown Rover. Parked alongside was a small blue pick-up with CLOUGH’S FOR CARS on the side. Thanet strolled across. />
  “Trouble?” he asked, pleasantly.

  “Looks like it, don’t it?” The mechanic barely glanced up.

  “Dr Pettifer’s car, isn’t it?”

  A grunt of assent.

  “Serious?”

  “Give us a chance, mate. I only just got here, didn’t I?”

  “Perhaps I’d better introduce myself. Detective Inspector Thanet, Sturrenden CID.”

  The man’s back stiffened. He gave Thanet a wary glance, then straightened up. “Oh?” He was in his thirties, small, wiry and hairy.

  “When did you hear that Dr Pettifer’s car had broken down?”

  “Yesterday afternoon.”

  “What time?”

  “Must’ve been about half past four, quarter to five. Harry—Mr Clough, that is—come into the workshop and told me.”

  “What, exactly, did he say?”

  “Harry? He said Dr Pettifer’d just rung to say his car wouldn’t start.”

  “And?”

  “Well, Harry said he couldn’t send someone straight away because the other mechanic was off sick and I was trying to get this job finished for five o’clock, for another customer.”

  “Was Dr Pettifer put out?”

  “Not according to Harry. Harry told him that if he’d like to hang on at the Centre I’d get there as soon as I could, but Dr Pettifer said it didn’t really matter. He wasn’t on call last night and wouldn’t need the car, and he was off duty today and anyway if he needed a car he could always use his wife’s.”

  “So what arrangement was made?”

  “I’d get along as soon as I could this morning and deliver the car back to the house.”

  “How did you get the keys?”

  “Dr Pettifer said he’d leave them at the desk.”

  The receptionist obviously hadn’t bothered to mention them to Mrs Barnet, Thanet thought. No doubt there had been other, more urgent matters to attend to.

  “Were you surprised that Dr Pettifer didn’t want you to see to it right away?”

  The man shrugged. “Didn’t think about it one way or the other.”

  “You’ll be delivering the car yourself?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well when you do I should just park it and hand the keys to the constable at the door. Mrs Pettifer won’t want to be bothered. I don’t suppose you’ve heard, but Dr Pettifer was found dead this morning.”

  The man’s face sagged and his mouth fell open slightly. “No kidding?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Heart attack?”

  “You’ll hear all the details in due course, no doubt. Perhaps you’d let your boss know.”

  “Sure.” The man looked down at the spanner in his hand as if he wondered what it was doing there and then, as Thanet walked to his car, turned slowly to peer once more inside the raised bonnet.

  Before driving away Thanet sat for a few minutes, thinking. What now? He wanted to talk to Lineham, but he didn’t really have time to go to Pine Lodge and be back by one-forty-five. No, that wasn’t strictly true. He did have time, just, but he wanted to be by himself for a while, to think and to assimilate all that he had learned this morning. He made up his mind. He would ring Lineham from a call box and then have a beer and sandwich in the nearest pub. As he drove out the mechanic straightened up and nodded farewell. Thanet raised a hand in response.

  He found a phone box on the corner of the next street.

  “Mike? Thanet here. Anything new?”

  “I rang Pettifer’s bank and there doesn’t seem to be much point in going down there. The Manager was cagey, of course, but he was definite that Pettifer’s financial position was what he called ‘very healthy’.”

  “Have the lads finished yet?”

  “Just about. I checked up with the travel agents, by the way. Pettifer did call in to pay for that holiday yesterday afternoon. Just after five, apparently.”

  “Hmm. So what are you doing now?”

  “Still looking around. I’m not sure how thorough you want me to be.”

  “Thorough. It really does look as though something is beginning to smell.”

  “Does it?”

  Thanet smiled at the eagerness in Lineham’s voice. The sergeant’s unfailing enthusiasm for his work was one of his most endearing qualities. Thanet had seen so many good men grow blasé and cynical. He hoped it would never happen to Lineham. He told him about the car.

  Lineham whistled. “Why bother to get your car repaired if you know you’re never going to need it again?”

  “Exactly. It isn’t as though Mrs Pettifer would need it. She’s got a car of her own, apparently, as one might expect. Have you taken a look at Pettifer’s desk yet?”

  “I didn’t think that came under the heading of ‘discreet’.”

  “Good. Leave it, then. I’d like to have a go at it myself. Where’s Mrs Pettifer?”

  “In bed.”

  “And Mrs Price?”

  “Hasn’t stirred out of the kitchen.”

  “Right. Well, try and find out from her—without making it obvious what you’re doing—exactly where Mrs Pettifer stayed last night.”

  “So that’s the way the wind blows, is it?”

  “I’m not sure, and that’s the truth. Or even if it’s blowing at all. If you want to get in touch, I’ll be back at the Health Centre at 1.45. I’m seeing one of Pettifer’s partners then.”

  A couple of streets away Thanet found a promising little pub. He went in. There were perhaps half a dozen customers. Thanet ordered a cold beef sandwich and carried his beer across to a corner table. Another day he might have stayed at the bar and chatted. Today he wanted to be alone.

  The beer was good, the beef sandwich superb—a great wedge of succulent pink meat between slabs of crusty, homemade bread. Thanet abandoned himself to the pleasure of this rare gastronomic treat and then lit his pipe and sat sipping his beer, staring into space and trying to get his thoughts into some sort of order.

  As he had said to Lineham, all the circumstantial evidence seemed to point to suicide—the note, the timing, the method chosen—and yet … So far there had not been even a whisper of anything resembling a reason why Pettifer should have killed himself. He had apparently had no financial, health or marital problems, he was respected in his work and his medical practice flourished. Moreover, his wife was pregnant with their first child and only yesterday afternoon he had made a booking for an expensive holiday in a fortnight’s time. Then there was the business of the car. As Lineham had said, why bother to get your car repaired, if you know you’ll never use it again? What was more, each of the four people interviewed so far—wife, housekeeper, secretary and old friend—had violently repudiated the idea of suicide as being out of character, and each of the three women had individually insisted that Pettifer had seemed in especially good spirits yesterday.

  No, there was no doubt about it, the whole thing simply didn’t hang together. And in view of the man’s medical knowledge it was out of the question that he could have been unaware of the danger of settling down in bed with a lethal supply of alcohol and drugs to hand. Impossible.

  Thanet became aware that he was shaking his head and that some of the men at the bar had turned to stare at him. Had he been talking aloud? Embarrassed, he quickly drank off the rest of his beer and rose to leave.

  So, he thought as he returned to his car, if suicide looked unlikely and accident were ruled out … Unconsciously his shoulders stiffened and his nostrils flared slightly, as if he had just scented danger on the wind.

  5

  Short and rather plump, with a bald head and gold-rimmed spectacles, Dr Lowrie was the antithesis of his dead partner. The laughter lines around eyes and mouth spoke of a warm and jovial disposition.

  “Come in, come in, Inspector.” Lowrie advanced, hand outstretched, and settled Thanet in a chair at right-angles to his desk. “This is a terrible thing, terrible. It’s ridiculous, I suppose, but I can’t help hoping that Mrs Barnet must hav
e got it wrong.”

  Thanet shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

  Lowrie frowned. “How, exactly, did it happen?” Briefly, Thanet gave the details. Lowrie listened in silence, with complete attention, eyes fixed on Thanet’s face. Thanet awaited his reaction with interest. If Pettifer had indeed been murdered then Lowrie must be regarded as a potential suspect. And if Lowrie was guilty, this was his cue to present reasons why Pettifer should have killed himself.

  “Incredible,” Lowrie said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Absolutely and completely incredible.”

  So Lowrie might be as innocent as he looked.

  “I just can’t believe it!” Lowrie jumped up, went to stand looking out of the window, hands clasped behind his back. He was silent for a few moments and then he turned. “Look, Inspector, as you can imagine we see a considerable amount of mental illness here.” A brief sweep of the hand encompassed the consulting room, the Health Centre itself. “And we become pretty astute at spotting it. Approximately thirty per cent of our patients have anxiety-based or stress-related symptoms. Are you asking me to believe I wouldn’t have noticed it in one of my own partners? Now if …” he broke off.

  “Yes?”

  Lowrie shook his head. “Nothing. The point is, I’m certain that if Pettifer had been suffering a degree of strain sufficiently acute for him to kill himself, for God’s sake, I would have noticed.”

  “We often notice least changes in those we know best. Especially if we see them every day.”

  The doctor shook his head impatiently. “I know that. But I can’t accept that it applies here. Dammit, I’m trained to notice that sort of thing. It becomes as automatic as breathing. And I knew Pettifer well. We’ve been partners for eighteen years. He just wasn’t the sort of man to crack under pressure. In fact, he seemed to thrive on it. A challenge was meat and drink to him. If this place had gone up in flames, Pettifer would have been in the thick of it, calmly directing salvage and rescue operations.” He shook his head again. “It’s no good, I simply can’t believe it.” He gave a wry smile. “And don’t think I’m not aware how often one hears those very words from the friends and relations of suicides. But in this case I do assure you they’re justified.”