Death of an Expert Witness (32 page)

“Can you remember how it was driven? Did the driver turn into the drive confidently as if he knew where he was going? Or did he hesitate as if he were looking for a convenient spot to stop and happened to see the open driveway?”

“He just slowed down a little and drove straight in. I think it was someone who knew the place. But I didn’t wait to see if he drove up to the Lab. Next day, of course, I knew that it couldn’t have been the police from Guy’s Marsh or anyone with a key, or the body would have been discovered earlier.”

He looked at Dalgliesh with his anxious eyes. “What will happen to me now? I can’t face them at the Lab.”

“Inspector Massingham will drive you to Guy’s Marsh Police Station so that you can make a formal statement and sign it. I’ll explain to Dr. Howarth what has happened. Whether you go back to the Lab and when must be for him and your
Establishment Department to say. I imagine they may decide to give you special leave until this affair is settled.”

If it ever were settled. If Bradley were telling the truth, they now knew that Lorrimer had died between eight forty-five, when his father had telephoned him, and just before nine-eleven when the Guy’s Marsh bus had moved away from the Chevisham stop. The clue of the vomit had fixed for them the time of death, had solved the mystery of the call to Mrs. Bidwell. But it hadn’t pointed them to a murderer. And if Bradley were innocent, what sort of life would he have, inside or outside the forensic science service, unless the case were solved? He watched Massingham and Bradley on their way, then set out to walk the half-mile back to Hoggatt’s, not relishing the prospect of his interview with Howarth. Glancing back, he saw that Susan Bradley was still standing at the doorway looking after him, her baby in her arms.

Howarth said: “I’m not going to trot out the usual platitude about blaming myself. I don’t believe in that spurious acceptance of vicarious liability. All the same, I ought to have known that Bradley was near breaking point. I suspect that old Dr. MacIntyre wouldn’t have let this happen. And now I’d better telephone the Establishment Department. I expect they’ll want him to stay at home for the present. It’s particularly inconvenient from the point of view of the work. They need every pair of hands they can get in the Biology Department. Claire Easterbrook is taking on as much of Lorrimer’s work as she can manage, but there’s a limit to what she can do. At the moment she’s busy with the clunch pit analysis. She’s insisting on starting the electrophoresis again. I don’t blame her; she’s the one who’ll have to give evidence. She can only speak for her own results.”

Dalgliesh asked what was likely to happen about Clifford Bradley.

“Oh, there’ll be a regulation to cover the circumstances somewhere. There always is. He’ll be dealt with by the usual
compromise between expediency and humanity; unless, of course, you propose to arrest him for murder, in which case, administratively speaking, the problem will solve itself. By the way, the Public Relations Branch have rung. You probably haven’t had time to see today’s Press. Some of the papers are getting rather agitated about Lab security. ‘Are our blood samples safe?’ And one of the Sundays has commissioned an article on science in the service of crime. They’re sending someone to see me about three o’clock. Public Relations would like a word with you, incidentally. They’re hoping to lay on another Press conference later this afternoon.”

When Howarth had left, Dalgliesh joined Sergeant Underhill and occupied himself with the four large bundles of files which Brenda Pridmore had provided. It was extraordinary how many of six thousand cases and nearly twenty-five thousand exhibits which the Laboratory dealt with each year had the numbers 18, 40 or 1840 in their registration. The cases came from all the departments: Biology, Toxicology, Criminalistics, Document Examination, Blood Alcohol Analysis, Vehicle Examination. Nearly every scientist in the Laboratory above the level of Higher Scientific Officer had been concerned in them. All of them seemed perfectly in order. He was still convinced that the mysterious telephone message to Lorrimer held the clue to the mystery of his death. But it seemed increasingly unlikely that the numbers, if old Mr. Lorrimer had remembered them correctly, bore any reference to a file registration.

By three o’clock he had decided to put the task on one side and see if physical exercise would stimulate his brain. It was time, he thought, to walk through the grounds and take a look at the Wren chapel. He was reaching for his coat when the telephone rang. It was Massingham from Guy’s Marsh station. The car which had parked in Hoggatt’s drive on Wednesday
night had at last been traced. It was a grey Cortina belonging to a Mrs. Maureen Doyle. Mrs. Doyle was at present staying with her parents in Ilford in Essex, but she had confirmed that the car was hers and that on the night of the murder it had been driven by her husband, Detective Inspector Doyle.

The interview room at Guy’s Marsh Police Station was small, stuffy and overcrowded. Superintendent Mercer, with his great bulk, was taking up more than his share of space and, it seemed to Massingham, breathing more than his share of the air. Of the five men present, including the shorthand writer, Doyle himself appeared both the most comfortable and the least concerned. Dalgliesh was questioning him. Mercer stood against the mullioned windows.

“You were at Hoggatt’s the night before last. There are fresh tyre marks in the earth under the trees to the right of the entrance, your tyre marks. If you want to waste time for both of us, you can look at the casts.”

“I admit that they’re my tyre marks. I parked there, briefly, on Monday night.”

“Why?” The question was so quiet, so reasonable, he might have had a genuine, human interest to know.

“I was with someone.” He paused and then added, “Sir.”

“I hope, for your sake, that you were with someone the night before last. Even an embarrassing alibi is better than none.

You quarrelled with Lorrimer. You’re one of the few people he would have let into the Lab. And you parked your car under the trees. If you didn’t murder him, why are you trying to persuade us that you did?”

“You don’t really believe I killed him. Probably you already suspect or know who did. You can’t frighten me, because I know you haven’t any evidence. There isn’t any to get. I was driving the Cortina because the clutch had gone on the Renault, not because I didn’t want to be recognized. I was with Sergeant Beale until eight o’clock. We’d been to interview a man called Barry Taylor at Muddington, and then we went on to see one or two other people who’d been at the dance on Tuesday. From eight o’clock I was driving alone, and where I went was my own business.”

“Not when it’s a case of murder. Isn’t that what you tell your suspects when they come out with that good old bromide about the sanctity of their private lives? You can do better than that, Doyle.”

“I wasn’t at the Lab on Wednesday night. Those tyre marks were made when I parked there last Monday.”

“The Dunlop on the left-hand back wheel is new. It was fitted on Monday afternoon by Gorringe’s Garage, and your wife didn’t collect the Cortina until ten o’clock on Wednesday morning. If you didn’t drive to Hoggatt’s to see Lorrimer, then what were you doing there? And if your business was legitimate, then why park just inside the entrance and under the trees?”

“If I’d been there to murder Lorrimer, I’d have parked in one of the garages at the back. That would have been safer than leaving the Cortina in the drive. And I didn’t get to Hoggatt’s until after nine. I knew that Lorrimer would be working late on the clunch pit case, but not that late. The Lab was in darkness. The truth, if you must know, is that I’d picked up a woman at
the crossroads just outside Manea. I wasn’t in any hurry to get home, and I wanted somewhere quiet and secluded to stop. The Lab seemed as good a place as any. We were there from about nine-fifteen until nine-fifty. No one left during that time.”

He had taken his time over what was presumably intended to be a quick one-night lay, thought Massingham.

Dalgliesh asked: “Did you trouble to find out who she was, exchange names?”

“I told her I was Ronny McDowell. It seemed as good a name as any. She said she was Dora Meakin. I don’t suppose that more than one of us was lying.”

“And that’s all, not where she lived or worked?”

“She said she worked at the sugar-beet factory and lived in a cottage near the ruined engine-house on Hunter’s Fen. That’s about three miles from Manea. She said she was a widow. Like a little gentleman, I dropped her at the bottom of the lane leading to Hunter’s Fen. If she wasn’t telling me a yarn, that should be enough to find her.”

Chief Superintendent Mercer said grimly: “I hope for your sake that it is. You know what this means for you, of course?”

Doyle laughed. It was a surprisingly light-hearted sound. “Oh I know, all right. But don’t let that worry you. I’m handing in my resignation, and from now.”

Dalgliesh asked: “Are you sure about the lights? The Lab was in darkness?”

“I shouldn’t have stopped there if it hadn’t been. There wasn’t a light to be seen. And although I admit I was somewhat preoccupied for a minute or two, I could swear that no one came down that drive while we were there.”

“Or out of the front door?”

“That would be possible, I suppose. But the drive isn’t more than forty yards long, I’d say. I think I’d have noticed, unless he
slipped out very quickly. I doubt whether anyone would have risked it, not if he’d seen my headlights and knew that the car was there.”

Dalgliesh looked at Mercer. He said: “We’ve got to get back to Chevisham. We’ll take in Hunter’s Fen on the way.”

Leaning over the back of the Victorian chaise longue, Angela Foley was massaging her friend’s neck. The coarse hairs tickled the back of her hands as, firmly and gently, she kneaded the taut muscles, feeling for each separate vertebra under the hot, tense skin. Stella sat, head slumped forward in her hands. Neither spoke. Outside, a light scavenging wind was blowing fitfully over the fens, stirring the fallen leaves on the patio, and gusting the thin, white woodsmoke from the cottage chimney. But inside the sitting room all was quiet, except for the crackling of the fire, the ticking of the grandfather clock and the sound of their breathing. The cottage was full of the pungent, resinous aroma of burning apple wood, overlaid with the savoury smell from the kitchen of beef casserole reheated from yesterday’s dinner.

After a few minutes Angela Foley said: “Better? Would you like a cold compress on your forehead?”

“No, that’s lovely. Almost gone in fact. Odd that I only get a headache on those days when the book has gone particularly well.”

“Another two minutes, then I’d better see about dinner.” Angela flexed her fingers and bent again to her task.

Stella’s voice, muffled in her sweater, suddenly said: “What was it like as a child, being in local authority care?”

“I’m not sure that I know. I mean, I wasn’t in a Home or anything like that. They fostered me most of the time.”

“Well, what was that like? You’ve never really told me.”

“It was all right. No, that’s not true. It was like living in a second-rate boarding house where they don’t want you and you know that you won’t be able to pay the bill. Until I met you and came here I felt like that all the time, not really at home in the world. I suppose my foster parents were kind. They meant to be. But I wasn’t pretty, and I wasn’t grateful. It can’t be much fun fostering other people’s children, and I suppose one does rather look for gratitude. Looking back, I can see that I wasn’t much joy for them, plain and surly. I once heard a neighbour say to my third foster-mother that I looked just like a foetus with my bulging forehead and tiny features. I resented the other children because they had mothers and I hadn’t. I’ve never really outgrown that. It’s despicable, but I even dislike Brenda Pridmore, the new girl on our reception desk, because she’s so obviously a loved child, she’s got a proper home.”

“So have you now. But I know what you mean. By the age of five you’ve either learned that the world is good, that everything and everyone in it stretches out towards you with love. Or you know that you’re a reject. No one ever unlearns that first lesson.”

“I have, because of you. Star, don’t you think we ought to start looking for another cottage, perhaps nearer Cambridge? There’s bound to be a job there for a qualified secretary.”

“We’re not going to need another cottage. I telephoned my publishers this afternoon, and I think it’s going to be all right.”

“Hearne and Gollingwood? But how can it be all right? I thought you said …”

“It’s going to be all right.” Suddenly Stella shook herself free of the ministering hands and stood up. She went into the passage and came back, her duffel coat over her shoulder, her boots in hand. She moved over to the fireside chair and began to pull them on. Angela Foley watched her without speaking. Then Stella took from her jacket pocket a brown opened envelope and tossed it across. It fell on the velvet of the chaise longue.

“Oh, I meant to show you this.”

Puzzled, Angela took out the single folded sheet. She said: “Where did you find this?”

“I took it from Edwin’s desk when I was rummaging about for the will. I thought at the time that I might have a use for it. Now I’ve decided that I haven’t.”

“But, Star, you should have left it for the police to find! It’s a clue. They’ll have to know. This was probably what Edwin was doing that night, checking up. It’s important. We can’t keep it to ourselves.”

“Then you’d better go back to Postmill Cottage and pretend to find it, otherwise it’s going to be a bit embarrassing explaining how we came by it.”

“But the police aren’t going to believe that; they wouldn’t have missed it. I wonder when it arrived at the Lab. It’s odd that he took it home with him and didn’t even lock it up.”

“Why should he? There was only the one locked drawer in his desk. And I don’t suppose anyone, even his father, ever went into that room.”

“But Star, this could explain why he was killed! This could be a motive for murder.”