Damned by Logic (7 page)

Belinda entered his office.

‘Grab a seat.' He indicated the one chair on the other side of his desk with the wave of an impatient hand.

Frick had been surprised when, a few days after she had joined the unit, he had heard someone remark that she made a man look twice and wonder. He certainly did not look at her and think of bed. She had a pleasant smile, a tuneful voice, a quiet manner; but so did many other women. And in his opinion, she also suffered from the female belief that she was always right, had no hesitation in arguing, and lacked a traditional respect for authority. All in all, just further justification of his conviction that women had no place in the police force, certainly not in CID.

Back to the present and to the case. If she was the only officer he had at his disposal, he guessed he'd have to make do.

‘The Sudely Woods victim has been identified,' he said.

‘Poor bitch.'

He was annoyed by her ‘canteen' expression. Trying to show she was right up there with the men. ‘An unfortunate description,' he said and to his annoyance judged he had sounded prim.

‘What's named her?' Belinda carried on regardless of Frick's evident apathy.

‘She was accused of GBH. An assault on a married man, Major Belamy – ex-marine – in his house.'

‘Was she sent down?' She had her notebook out and was scribbling away whilst asking questions. She was diligent, Frick had to admit.

‘He retracted his evidence before the preliminary hearing so the case was shot.'

‘What made him change his mind?'

‘Most likely because his wife returned unexpectedly early from Italy.'

‘Was Caine on the game?'

‘No firm evidence, but the circumstances indicate the probability.'

‘Helping the husband make up for lost opportunities.'

Frick again expressed his disapproval of her comment. Belinda was amused. He was a good sergeant, notably because he was always ready to help or defend any of his team in trouble or wrongly criticized by a senior, but he could also be so out-of-date.

‘Ascertain if the Caine woman, prior to her death, was living in the address given in the fax; if so, find out what you can about her. Have a word with Major Belamy – why did she attack him; how did he make contact with her; anything else about her that could be useful.'

‘I'll try not to be embarrassed by what the major tells me,' she said lightly.

‘I'd prefer to think you might be.'

He lit a cigarette after she had left. His wife Anne's birthday was only a week away and he had yet to decide what present to give her, a problem which worried most husbands, but few wives. He stared at the small, framed photograph of Anne on the desk and although not taken long ago, he saw a woman little changed by the twenty-seven years of their marriage; if he looked in a mirror, he saw a middle-aged man whose hair was disappearing and whose face was quite heavily lined.

Officers on the beat – the few, these days – were sometimes offered sex in exchange for ignoring some minor incident. He had refused every such offer and was proud of the fact, yet uncomfortable that he could experience pride from those refusals. Why did interaction with a modern, young policewoman like DC Draper lead him onto such thoughts? Perhaps he was just getting too old for the job ...

Belinda turned off the car's engine and stared up at the block of flats which possessed the visual charm of an oblong block of concrete. A countrywoman by birth and upbringing, she had returned to live with her parents in the country after her relationship with her fiancé, Peter, had soured.

She parked on a solid line, crossed the pavement, turned into the building. The entrance hall was divided into two unequal parts. In the first was a board of named call buttons and small post boxes. By flat one, there was still the name tag, M. Caine; by flat two, Mrs D. Greene. She pressed button two.

A female voice, sounding scratchy through the speaker, said, ‘Yes?'

‘Mrs Greene?'

‘If you're a reporter, please go away.'

‘I'm Detective Constable Draper and would be grateful if I might have a word with you.'

‘The first reporter said he was a policeman and wanted to ask me questions about Melanie Caine because of what had happened. I was so shocked ... In the end he went away. Then there were all the others. Some of them seemed so ... callous just wanting to know about her.'

‘Do you have a spyhole in your front door?'

‘Yes.'

‘If you look through it after I ring, I will show you my warrant card which proves I'm a policewoman.'

She was buzzed in the main door, crossed the tiled floor to flat two, rang the bell at the side of the door on the left-hand side and held up her warrant card by the small hole in the door. After some moments, the door was finally opened.

Mrs Greene, in her early eighties, had her left arm in a sling. Her face showed the inevitable damage of age, but it was possible to judge she had once been attractive. ‘Please come on in.' Now confident that her visitor was authentic, the old lady was all politeness.

Belinda entered the narrow hallway in which colour came from the roses in a cut-glass bowl on a small table. ‘I'm sorry you've been so troubled by the press.'

‘There was one in particular who kept ringing and saying he wanted to talk to me about the poor unfortunate woman. He was quite rude when I refused to discuss her or let him in.'

‘It must have been very disturbing for you and, unfortunately, now I'm adding to your worries.'

‘As my mother used to say, life was never meant to be easy ... If you will go into that room, I'll make some tea.'

‘Please don't bother.'

‘It's none and I'm sure you'd like a cup. I'd rather like one myself and it's nice to share it with someone for a change.'

‘In truth, I would. Thank you.'

Belinda entered the room Mrs Greene had indicated. The sitting room was lightly furnished. The two easy chairs were grouped in front of a flat screen television, a bookcase was overfilled with books, the painting on the wall opposite depicted an autumn country scene in which the leaves of trees were beginning to fall.

A morning paper was on an occasional table. She sat, opened the paper, skimmed through the report of the murder. There was no mention of the victim's name; Melanie had not been identified until the middle of the morning, hours after that edition of the paper had been printed.

Mrs Greene entered, stood just inside the doorway. ‘Will you tell me your name again? I fear I have forgotten.' She spoke in the clipped tones which once were heard much more frequently.

‘Belinda Draper.'

‘Mine is Jane Greene. Everything is ready on a tray on the table in the kitchen. Would you be kind and bring it in here? I'm afraid it would be rather difficult for me.' She indicated her slinged arm.

‘Of course.' She went through to the kitchen, picked up the tray, returned to the sitting room and put it down on a glass-topped table. ‘I'll pour, if you'd like?'

‘You mustn't wait on me.'

‘The least I can do after all the aggravation you've been through.'

The elderly lady sat, relieved at being able to make use of such helpful company. ‘A little milk please, and no sugar but two saccharin pills. One of the perils of becoming old.'

‘You've a long way to go before you can call yourself that.' Belinda poured out a cup of tea, picked up the plate on which were chocolate digestive biscuits, offered them.

Jane expressed an interest in Belinda's job. Did she like it, did she think it was safe for a woman? Belinda's answers were far sweeter than they would have been had the questions been asked by a man.

Carefully, she guided the conversation on to the subject of Mrs Greene's neighbour.

‘I can't say I knew her at all well even though we quite often met coming in or going out of the building and in the nearby supermarket,' Jane said. ‘Occasionally she'd ask me into her flat for a drink or I would ask her in for tea.'

‘Was she married?' Belinda now had her notepad out again ready to write down anything relevant.

‘She never mentioned a husband and did not wear a wedding ring.'

‘Did she have a job?'

‘She had a friend who ran a dress company and helped her, especially when one of the staff was ill or suddenly left, which seemed to happen often even though Melanie said they were well paid.'

‘Then she was quite busy?'

‘Must have been since she often was away. She told me the work was hard, but she didn't mind that because it enabled her to have nice clothes. She was always beautifully dressed.'

‘Where was the company?'

‘I expect she told me, but I'm afraid I can't remember.'

‘Did you meet the friend who ran it?'

‘I don't think so. No, I'm certain I didn't.'

‘Did Melanie have lots of friends?'

After a pause, Jane said, ‘It was strange.'

‘What was?'

‘Melanie was attractive and friendly, but I don't remember ever seeing her with anyone.'

‘One would have expected her to have a number of friends. And perhaps many of them male?' Belinda again tried to lead the conversation; often personal opinions were just as useful as facts.

‘I know, but I did have the impression ...'

‘That she preferred a quiet life?'

‘I'm probably being rather ridiculous.'

‘Most unlikely. I'm sure you're a very good judge of people.'

‘Well ... I had the impression that she disliked men, even despised them.'

‘Did you wonder why that could be?'

Jane said nothing.

‘Did she ever say anything to suggest she was worried about someone or something?'

‘No. But I must say that the day she got back from her cruise, I thought she was very nervous. Indeed, I asked her if something was wrong. She told me to mind my own business. I was really surprised. She'd never before been rude like that and I was only trying to help. Still, later she was friendly and showed me a photo of the ship she was on. It didn't look like they did when I was young, but not much does.'

Belinda phoned Glover. ‘I've had a chat with Mrs Greene and haven't learned enough to cover the head of a pin.'

‘Of course not, when all the fairies are standing on it.'

‘Fairies?'

‘And they say the intelligence of the average person hasn't been numbed by the box. Get back here as quick as you like and do some work.'

The team of three SOCOs and Glover attracted the brief interest of passing pedestrians as they left the police van and entered Ashcroft Building. Sergeant Cathart brought out a small bunch of skeleton keys which at different times had been taken from arrested housebreakers and at the third attempt unlocked the front door.

The flat was more tidy than the home of most – if not all – of those present. Dresses, of which there were many, hung in plastic dust bags, shoes were on racks, clothing was carefully folded and in drawers, a couple of magazines on a bedside table were squared with the table. There was a large television set, but no DVD and therefore no disks to collect. There was likewise no laptop, PC or tablet. Every paperback in the two small cupboards was examined page by page for insertions, every piece of paper on which was writing was read. Carpets were raised and floorboards examined for a hiding place. In the bathroom, the lavatory cistern was trawled and every bottle and tin in the medicine cupboard opened. In the kitchen, the refrigerator was emptied, the interior of the electric stove checked by torchlight, china and store cupboards examined.

Cathart reported the obvious. ‘Nothing, sir.'

Glover fiddled with some coins in his pocket. ‘She won't have worked without some form of records, so where in the hell did she keep them?' He answered his own question. ‘In her working place. Here, she lived a normal life.' He looked around at the tidy flat, deep in thought. ‘The old girl remarked on her apparent lack of friends, notably males ... Maybe a retired marine major would be of some help.'

D
espite DC Pascall's unwillingness – he and religion were strangers – he would have taken his wife to the church fête had he not been ordered to question Major Belamy instead. That Pam had believed his professed inability to drive her to the fête was an excuse, had – and still did – annoy him. As he passed through the gateway and passed the bordering oaks, he had a clear view of Manor House; the probability that the major was likely to be a wealthy man was confirmed.

He parked level with the end of a well clipped yew hedge. The gravel turning-circle was newly raked. The lightly carved oak front door, under a lead covered canopy, had been striated by time and weather. There was a well polished brass fox's bell-pull. From inside came the flat sound of a bell. A wonder it didn't sound ‘Rule Britannia', he thought sourly.

The door was opened with accompanying creaks. A man in white coat and striped trousers said, ‘Good morning.'

Pascall ‘heard' a question mark in the other's voice. Was he judged to have come to the wrong door? ‘Is Major Belamy in?'

‘Who is asking?'

‘Detective Constable Pascall.'

‘You wish to speak to Major Belamy?'

He would have liked to ask if the other thought he might be there to speak to the chief constable. ‘Yes.'

‘If you come in I will ask Major Belamy if he is available.'

If he thinks he isn't, he'll learn it's the twenty-first century, Pascall decided. He watched the butler cross to one of the panelled doors, knock, go inside. A woman came into the large hall, from another room and with one glance dismissed him as being of any consequence and walked over to the staircase with spiral balusters and carved tread ends. It pleased him to note she had a fat bottom.

The butler returned to the hall. ‘Major Belamy will speak to you in the study.' He then indicated the way with an outstretched arm and disappeared from view.