Dead on Arrival Read online

  Thanet laughed. ‘That would make the headlines all right. Perhaps it would make the powers-that-be hurry things up a bit. Tell her I think she ought to try it.’

  Lineham grinned back. ‘I’ll do that.’

  ‘How are things going over in Coddington?’

  ‘Quite well. You heard we’d identified the body?’

  ‘Yes. Mr Hines told me. Who was she?’

  ‘A woman by the name of Marjorie Jackson. Known as Marge. She lived in Barton. Around forty-five, divorced, with a local reputation as a prostitute.’

  ‘And Mr Hines thinks one of her clients might have killed her?’

  ‘Seems possible. We had a stroke of luck. She was seen leaving the Fox and Hounds in Coddington with some bloke. Unfortunately the pub was crowded – there was a local darts match on – and we didn’t get much of a description – average height, slight build, youngish. The one useful item of information was a description of the man’s jacket. It was very unusual, apparently – grey leather, with the head of a dragon embossed on the back, in red.’

  ‘Sounds pretty distinctive. There shouldn’t be too many problems in tracing it.’

  ‘No. Especially since TVS ran a photograph of it on Coast to Coast last night. We’ve been swamped this morning with calls from people who were in the Fox and Hounds on Sunday night and we’ve all been working flat out, interviewing them.’

  ‘Pity you couldn’t have seen it through.’

  Lineham grinned. ‘Don’t worry, I’d much rather be here, working with you. What’s the story?’

  Thanet told him, in detail.

  ‘So what d’you think, sir?’ said the sergeant when Thanet had finished. ‘Do you reckon it might have been Carpenter? Sounds more than likely, to me.’

  ‘I know, and I agree, it does sound probable. But as I said, the trouble is that Carpenter is incommunicado at the moment. I’ve got someone with him, and I’ll be informed the minute he’s fit for questioning, but meanwhile I don’t feel we can just sit around doing nothing, in case he’s innocent.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that. So presumably the next thing is to trace the bloke seen coming away from Long’s flat … You think he might be one of the brothers?’

  ‘Could be. Or it might be Mrs Long’s boyfriend, Ivor Howells. If Long kept on pestering his wife to go back to him, Howells might well have decided he’d had enough, gone around to tell him so, and lost his temper.’

  ‘Yes. Though from what you say about the position of the body, it sounds as though whoever did it struck in cold blood, deliberately, from behind.’

  ‘True. All the same, it did occur to me that for an estranged wife, Mrs Long’s behaviour seems a little extreme. You can understand her being pretty upset, of course, but she’s behaving as though she was still passionately in love with her husband. If that was so, and he kept on pestering her to go back to him, it’s difficult to see why she didn’t.’

  ‘Oh I don’t know, sir. She might have been in love with him, but had finally decided that it simply wouldn’t work and there was no point in trying again.’

  ‘Yes, possibly. But I was wondering if there’s a little more to it than that. Now if she were feeling at all guilty, that could account for her somewhat hysterical attitude.’

  ‘Are you suggesting she might have killed him?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so, for a moment. But if her boyfriend had got fed up with Long pestering her, she might either know or be afraid that it was Howells who killed him, and feel herself responsible. I certainly think we ought to take a good look at Howells, question the neighbours. If there’d been any quarrels they might well have heard something, the walls of those flats are paper-thin.’

  ‘I’ll get someone on to it right away.’

  ‘Meanwhile, what I want to do is try and interview all of them today – the three brothers, including the twin, then Howells and, if he’s up to it, Carpenter … You know what strikes me as odd, Mike?’

  ‘What, sir?’

  ‘Well, according to Mrs Bence the Longs never had any visitors, but all of a sudden, on the very night Long was murdered, the place was crawling with them.’

  ‘True. I wonder what was going on.’

  Thanet had every intention of finding out.

  SIX

  Thanet and Lineham were just about to leave when Mallard arrived.

  ‘Ah, good afternoon, Luke, good afternoon, Mike. Back from the wilds of Coddington, I see.’ He was beaming at them over his half-moons and rubbing his hands together as if in anticipation of some long-awaited treat.

  He registered their raincoats. ‘Going out?’

  ‘If it’s about the PM, nothing that can’t wait,’ said Thanet, hastily shedding his coat and wondering what on earth could be coming, to have put the little doctor in such a good mood. Usually any hint of cheerfulness on Mallard’s part heralded the announcement of some especially significant medical evidence.

  ‘Just a preliminary report,’ said Mallard. He crossed to the window and stood bouncing gently on the balls of his feet and gazing out benignly, as if he were contemplating the Elysian Fields rather than the deserted streets of Sturrenden swept by sheets of driving rain on a bleak November afternoon.

  Behind his back Thanet and Lineham raised eyebrows at each other.

  ‘Won’t you sit down, Doc?’ said Thanet.

  ‘Don’t want to delay you.’ But Mallard took a seat, all the same. ‘Nothing very interesting to say, anyway.’

  ‘Oh?’ Thanet was puzzled. In that case, why all the bonhomie?

  ‘Cause of death was that blow on the head, as we thought. Apart from that, nothing. He was in good health and in the normal way of things should have lasted another fifty years or so, poor devil. You’ll get the written report, in due course, but I’m afraid you won’t find it much help.’

  ‘I see. Ah well, pity, that.’

  There seemed little more to say, but Mallard was inclined to linger.

  ‘How’s it going?’ he said.

  Thanet shrugged. ‘So so. There are one or two leads to follow up, but nothing very concrete as yet.’

  ‘What about the man who was picked up outside the house last night, Carpenter?’

  ‘Still in a state of shock, apparently. Conscious but doesn’t respond when talked to.’

  ‘You realise what’s the matter with him?’

  ‘Yes. Heard it on the local news this morning.’

  ‘So did I. Sad case, that. It’s possible that you might not have to look much further for your murderer. The strain has obviously been too much for him. It might well be a day or two before he’s fit to talk, though. The body has its own mechanisms for ensuring a proper period of recuperation, in circumstances like that.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Lineham shifted restlessly and Thanet knew that, like him, the sergeant was anxious to be off, now that Mallard had passed on the information about the PM. But Mallard, leaning back comfortably in his chair, fingers hooked into the armholes of his waistcoat, showed no sign of moving. What to do? Thanet didn’t want to be discourteous and bring the conversation to an abrupt end, especially with Mallard in this unusually amiable mood.

  The silence stretched out and began to be uncomfortable. Thanet cast desperately around for a suitable topic of conversation.

  ‘Long was an identical twin, we discovered.’

  ‘Really?’ Mallard’s face was alert with interest. ‘No chance you’ve got the wrong body, I suppose?’

  ‘The possibility had occurred to me. But his wife seemed positive enough that the dead man was her husband, and she ought to know, if anyone does. We know very little about the twins yet, except that they were separated at birth.’

  ‘But the other man lives locally?’

  ‘Yes. In Brompton Lane.’

  ‘Brompton Lane, eh? Well, well. A step up in the social ladder from Hamilton Road.’

  ‘Quite.’ Briefly, Thanet explained the circumstances which had led to the twins’ separation, and their subs
equent difference in life-style.

  ‘Interesting, that. There’s a fascinating book, you know, by a man called Shields, James Shields. It’s a study of monozygotic twins, brought up together and brought up apart.’

  ‘It does sound interesting. Er … What did you call them?’

  ‘Monozygotic. Identical.’

  ‘I’ve never quite understood the difference, myself,’ said Lineham. ‘Medically, that is. I mean, why is it that some twins are identical and some aren’t?’

  ‘Twins are conceived either as a single egg which splits into two within a few days of conception, which results in monozygotic or identical twins, or as two eggs which have been fertilised on the same occasion by two separate male sperms, which results in dizygotic or fraternal twins.’ Mallard was enjoying his lecture. ‘Fraternal twins are therefore no more alike than any other siblings – brothers and sisters – with the same parents.’

  ‘So what were the book’s findings?’ asked Thanet. ‘In terms of the identical twins who had been brought up apart?’

  ‘You can read it for yourself, if you’re really interested. I’ve got it at home, somewhere. I’ll look it out for you.’

  ‘Thanks, I would be, very. But briefly …?’

  ‘It was astounding how little difference there was between them in terms of mental and behavioural similarities, mannerisms and gestures, interests, drinking and smoking habits, even in type of occupation.’

  ‘Really!’

  ‘On the other hand, there were some intriguing findings. For example, it was found that the twin who stayed with the mother and was often brought up with brothers and sisters was frequently more neurotic than the one who was adopted and had been brought up as an only child, by older parents and probably in somewhat better social circumstances. And it was interesting that when they met, later on in life, they sometimes didn’t get on at all.’

  ‘As in this case, to a certain degree, apparently. According to the mother, anyway.’

  ‘Fascinating.’ Mallard took out his pocket watch, flicked it open. ‘Good grief, is that the time? I must go.’ He jumped up out of his chair, said goodbye and was gone, in a matter of seconds.

  Thanet and Lineham looked at each other, bemused.

  ‘What on earth’s got into him?’ said Lineham.

  ‘Search me. He was like this last night, too – well, perhaps it wasn’t quite so obvious. But noticeable, all the same. D’you know, Mike, if it were any other man, I’d say …’ Thanet paused. He had been going to say ‘he’s in love’, but somehow, with reference to Mallard, the words sounded slightly indecent, insulting, almost. Mallard had loved his wife with a loyalty and devotion that caused him to treat all other women with polite indifference. Was it possible that he had at last found someone to replace her? Thanet sincerely hoped so. But he wasn’t going to voice his suspicions to Lineham, not yet, anyway.

  ‘What?’ But Lineham wasn’t really interested. He was already buttoning up his coat, eager to be gone.

  ‘Nothing.’ Thanet, too, hurried into his coat. There was a great deal to get through, today.

  Just as they reached the door the telephone rang. A further delay? But it could be important and they couldn’t afford to ignore it. Reluctantly, Lineham turned back.

  ‘DS Lineham.’

  He listened intently for a few moments.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’m afraid it’s true, sir, and I’m sorry you had to hear the news like that. Yes, very distressing for you … Just one moment, sir.’ He covered the receiver and said quickly, ‘It’s the twin brother, sir, Geoffrey Hunt. Very upset. Just heard the news on Radio Kent. Do you want to speak to him?’

  Thanet shook his head. ‘Tell him we were hoping to have a word with him some time today. Fix up an appointment, if you can.’

  Lineham spoke again, listened, covered the mouthpiece once more. ‘Says he’s free now, if we’d like to go along.’

  ‘Tell him we’re on our way.’

  SEVEN

  The last time Thanet had seen this face the eyes had been sightless, the features slack in death. Intellectually, of course, he had been prepared for the resemblance, but emotionally the impact was both unexpected and disconcerting; it was eerie, positively uncanny, to see the dead man standing before them in apparent good health.

  ‘Inspector Thanet?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Thanet introduced Lineham, studying Hunt for ways to distinguish him from his brother. Here was the same thin face, beaky nose and very dark, almost navy-blue eyes. Geoffrey was a little thinner than Steven had been – or perhaps it was simply that he had been ill, and lost a little weight recently, for his jeans hung loosely on him. Thanet remembered the FOR SALE board by the gate and recalled that Geoffrey’s adoptive mother had died only a couple of months ago. Perhaps grief – or perhaps simply a bachelor existence – had thinned him down.

  ‘Ah yes. It was you I spoke to on the phone,’ Hunt said to Lineham. ‘Come in, won’t you?’

  Most of the houses in Brompton Road were Victorian, but this one was of nineteen thirties vintage. Its rooms were spacious, its proportions generous, its one fault the stupefying dullness which seems to have hung like a pall over the domestic architecture of the period. Everywhere was evidence of material prosperity – thick fitted carpets, original paintings, antique furniture. Outside, in the double garage, was a new Scimitar SS1.

  Lineham, always a car enthusiast, had come to an abrupt halt.

  ‘Look at that, sir!’

  ‘Very nice.’

  ‘Nice! 0–60 in 9.6 seconds, maximum speed 110 mph …’

  ‘I can never see the point in being able to go that fast if it’s illegal.’

  ‘It’s just the knowledge that you’ve got the power, sir.’

  ‘Mike, come on. We’ve got a job to do.’

  ‘Costs around £7000, you know. And look, there’s a hydraulic lift and a proper inspection pit …’

  ‘A very fortunate young man,’ said Thanet drily. Obviously over-indulged by an adoring mum. He put his forefinger firmly on the front door bell and concealed a grin at Lineham’s undignified scamper to catch up with him. ‘But we knew that, already.’

  Hunt led them into a pleasant drawing room which ran the depth of the house, with windows on three sides. At the back, tall glass patio doors – obviously a recent innovation – opened on to a paved terrace and an extensive lawn which petered out in a little coppice of silver birch, their few remaining butter-yellow leaves valiantly clinging to the delicate, wiry branches.

  The room was in a considerable state of disorder. A pile of bed-linen topped by two multi-coloured Welsh blankets still in their polythene bags stood beside two packing cases, one full of books, the other half-filled with objects wrapped in newspaper. The book-shelves were almost empty and bundles of discarded books tied up with string were stacked near the door. A number of the smaller pieces of furniture had labels tied on to them.

  ‘Sorry about the mess. I’m in the process of packing up, as you can see.’

  ‘Please, don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Sit down, Inspector, Sergeant.’

  Hunt crossed to the low coffee table which stood in front of the settee, and piled on to a round silver tray the pair of coffee cups and two brandy glasses evidently left over from last night.

  So Hunt had had company the previous evening, thought Thanet. Female? Probably. Two male companions would be more likely to have occupied separate armchairs and to have skipped the coffee.

  Thanet took an armchair and Lineham chose a corner of the settee.

  Hunt, after a moment’s hesitation, deposited the tray clumsily on a small table near the door, knocking off a small china figure in the process. He grabbed for it, but missed it. It bounced harmlessly on the carpeted floor and he picked it up, restored it to its original position, then sat down in one of the other armchairs.

  He shook his head. ‘I still can’t believe it. It said on the radio he was found in his room … How did it happen?’
>
  ‘He died from a blow to the head. I’m sorry. You must feel it especially, as a twin.’

  Hunt folded his arms across his chest and hunched forward, as if to try to contain his grief and pain. ‘It’s difficult to describe … It’s as if part of myself had died.’

  ‘Though you weren’t especially close, I gather.’

  Hunt’s head came up sharply. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Your mother.’

  Briefly, Hunt looked disbelieving. ‘My … Oh, you mean my natural mother, of course. I’m afraid I never think of her as my mother. My own mother died, nine weeks ago.’ He glanced around. ‘That’s one of the reasons why I decided to move. This place is much too big for one person. Well, it was too big for two, really, but she was very fond of it and wanted to stay on, after my step-father died.’

  ‘Quite a big job, clearing out a house of this size.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not doing it all. I’m just packing up the things I want to take with me. I’ve bought a flat and most of the stuff here is much too big.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Tamworth, in Staffordshire. I had a job offer that was too good to turn down.’

  ‘A large company?’

  ‘It’s with Scimitar, actually. I’ve always had a love affair with Scimitars – you may have noticed that I’ve got one.’

  ‘Yes, I did. Beautiful cars, aren’t they? So you’re moving quite soon?’

  ‘Tuesday of next week. At least, I was going to. But now … I shall have to stay on, for the funeral, of course. How soon do you think that’s likely to be, in the … in the circumstances?’

  ‘Not for some time, I should think. You’ll be able to complete your move and then come back for it.’

  ‘Good. I was going to come back anyway. All the stuff I don’t want is going to auction, and there are various other things to attend to … Oh God, what am I doing, talking about moving and auctions, when Steve …’ Hunt raked his hair with hooked fingers. ‘I just can’t believe it, that’s why. It doesn’t seem real. Who would want to do a thing like that?’

  ‘That’s one of the questions we wanted to ask you.’