The Murder Room (18 page)

Douglas Anderson was standing a little behind the half-opened door of the car, watchful and silent as a chauffeur inviting them to take their seats. With Kate, Dalgliesh moved over to the body. It was slumped back in the driver's seat and turned slightly to the right, the remains of the left arm close to the side but the right flung out and fixed in a parody of protest. Through the half-closed door he could see the ulna, and a few burnt fragments of cloth adhered to a thread of muscle. All that could burn on the head had been destroyed and the fire had extended to just above the knees. The charred face, the features obliterated, was turned towards him and the whole head, black as a spent match, looked unnaturally small. The mouth gaped in a grimace, seeming to mock the head's grotesquerie. Only the teeth, gleaming white against the charred flesh, and a small patch of cracked skull proclaimed the corpse's humanity. From the car came the smell of burnt flesh and charred cloth and, less persuasive but unmistakable, the smell of petrol.

Dalgliesh glanced at Kate. Her face was greenish in the glare of the lights and fixed in a mask of endurance. He remembered that she had once confided a fear of fire. He couldn't remember when or why, but this fact had lodged in his mind as had all her rare confidences. The affection he felt for her had deep roots in his complex personality and in their joint experience. There was respect for her qualities as a police officer and for the courageous determination which had got her where she now was, a half-paternal wish for her safety and success, and the attraction she held for him as a woman. This had never become overtly sexual. He didn't fall in love easily and the inhibition against a sexual relationship with a colleague was for him—and, he guessed, for Kate also—absolute. Glancing at her rigid features he felt a surge of protective affection. For a second he considered finding an excuse to release her and send for Piers, but he didn't speak. Kate was too intelligent not to see through the ruse and so was Piers; he had no wish to humiliate her, particularly not in front of a male colleague. Instinctively he moved a little closer to her and her shoulder briefly touched his arm. He felt her body straighten. Kate would be all right.

Dalgliesh asked, “When did the fire service arrive?”

“They were here by six forty-five,” Anderson said. “Seeing there was a body in the car they rang the Police Homicide Adviser. You may know him, sir, Charlie Unsworth. He used to be a SOCO with the Met. He made the preliminary inspection and didn't take much time concluding it was a suspicious death so he rang the FIU at the Met. As you know, we're on twenty-four-hour call and I got here at seven twenty-eight. We decided to start the investigation at once. The undertakers will collect the body as soon as you've finished. I've alerted the mortuary. We've made a preliminary inspection of the car but we'll get it moved to Lambeth. There may be prints.”

Dalgliesh's thoughts moved to his last case at St. Anselm's College. Father Sebastian, standing where he stood now, would have made the sign of the cross. His own father, a middle-of-the-road Anglican priest, would have bent his head in prayer, and the words would be there, hallowed by centuries of use. Both, he thought, were fortunate in being able to call on instinctive responses which could bestow on these awful charred remains the recognition that here had been a human being. There was a need to dignify death, to affirm that these remains, soon to become a police exhibit to be labelled, transported, dissected and assessed, still had an importance beyond the scorched carcass of the Jaguar or the stumps of the dead trees.

Dalgliesh at first left the talking to Anderson. It was the first time they had met but he knew that the FIO was a man with over twenty years' experience of death by fire. It was he, not Dalgliesh, who was the expert here. He said, “What can you tell us?”

“There's no doubt about the seat of the fire, sir, the head and upper part of the body. The fire was mostly confined, as you can see, to the middle part of the car. The flames caught the soft top which was up, and then rose to set alight the corrugated plastic of the garage roof. The panes of the window probably cracked with the heat, giving an inrush of air and an outrush of fire. That's why the flames spread to the trees. If they hadn't, the fire might have burned out before anyone noticed, anyone on the Heath or on Spaniards Road, I mean. Of course, Mrs. Clutton would have known at once when she returned, flames or no flames.”

“And the cause of the fire?”

“Almost certainly petrol. Of course we'll be able to check that fairly quickly. We're taking samples from the clothing and the driver's seat and we'll get an immediate indication from the Sniffer—the TVA One Thousand—whether there are hydrocarbons present. But, of course, the Sniffer's not specific. We'll need gas chromatography for confirmation and that, as you know, will take about a week. But it's hardly necessary. I got the smell of petrol from his trousers and from part of the burnt seat as soon as I came into the garage.”

Dalgliesh said, “And that, presumably, is the can. But where's the cap?”

“Here, sir. We haven't touched it.” Anderson led them to the back of the garage. Lying in the far corner was the cap.

Dalgliesh said, “Accident, suicide or murder? Have you had time to reach a provisional view?”

“It wasn't an accident, you can rule that one out. And I don't think it was suicide. In my experience suicides who kill themselves with petrol don't hurl the can away. You usually find it in the foot-well of the car. But if he had doused himself and chucked the can away, why isn't the cap close to it, or dropped on the floor of the car? It looks to me as if the cap was removed by someone standing in the far left-hand corner. It couldn't have rolled into the back of the garage. The concrete's fairly even but the floor slopes from the back wall to the door. The slant's no more than four inches, I reckon, but that cap, if it rolled at all, would have been found near the can.”

Kate said, “And the murderer—if there was one—would be standing in the dark. There's no bulb in the light.”

Anderson said, “If the bulb had failed you'd expect it to be in place. Someone removed it. Of course, it could have been done perfectly innocently, maybe by Mrs. Clutton or Dupayne himself. But if a bulb fails, you usually leave it in the socket until you've brought a new bulb to replace it. And then there's the seat belt. The belt's burnt away but the clip's in place. He'd fastened the seat belt. I've not known that before in a case of suicide.”

Kate said, “If he was afraid of changing his mind at the last minute he might have strapped himself in.”

“Hardly likely though. With a head doused with petrol and a struck match, what chance of changing your mind?”

Dalgliesh said, “So, the picture as we see it at present is this. The murderer takes out the bulb, stands in the dark of the garage, unscrews the cap on the can of petrol and waits, matches either in hand or ready in a pocket. With the can and the matches to cope with he probably found it convenient to drop the cap. He certainly wouldn't risk putting it in his pocket. He'd have known that the whole thing would have to be very quick if he was to get out himself without being caught by the fire. The victim—we're assuming it's Neville Dupayne—opens the garage doors with the Yale. He knows where to find the light switch. He either sees or feels that the bulb is missing when the light fails to come on. He doesn't need it because he has only a few steps to walk to the car. He gets in and fastens his seat belt. That's a bit odd. He was only going to drive out of the garage before getting out and shutting the doors. Belting himself in could have been instinctive. Then the assailant moves out of the shadows. I think it was someone he knew, someone he wouldn't fear. He opens the door to speak and is immediately doused in petrol. The assailant has the matches handy, strikes one, throws it at Dupayne and makes a quick exit. He wouldn't want to run round the back of the car; speed is everything. As it is, he was lucky to get out unscathed. So he pushes the car door half closed to give himself room to get past. We may find prints, but it's unlikely. This killer—if he exists—would have worn gloves. The left-hand garage door is half closed. Presumably he had a mind to close both doors on the blaze, then decided not to waste time. He had to make a getaway.”

Kate said, “The doors look heavy. A woman might find it difficult even to half close them quickly.”

Dalgliesh asked, “Was Mrs. Clutton alone when she discovered the fire?”

“Yes sir, on her way home from an evening class. I'm not sure what she does here exactly but I think she looks after the exhibits, dusts them and so on. She lives in the cottage to the south of the house, facing the Heath. She rang the Fire Brigade from her cottage at once and then got in touch with Marcus Dupayne and his sister Caroline Dupayne. She also rang the secretary–receptionist here, a Miss Muriel Godby. She lives close by and got here first. Miss Dupayne arrived next and her brother soon after. We kept all of them well away from the garage. The Dupaynes are anxious to see you and they're adamant that they won't leave until their brother's body has been removed. That's assuming it is his body.”

“Any evidence to suggest it isn't?”

“None. We found keys in the trouser pocket. There's a weekend bag in the boot but nothing to confirm identification. There are his trousers, of course. The knees aren't burnt. But I could hardly . . .”

“Of course not. A positive ID can wait for the autopsy, but there can't be any serious doubt.”

Piers and Benton-Smith came out of the darkness beyond the glare of the lights. Piers said, “No one in the grounds. No vehicles unaccounted for. In the garden shed there's a lawn-mower, a bicycle and the usual garden paraphernalia. No can of petrol. The Dupaynes appeared about five minutes ago. They're getting impatient.”

That was understandable, thought Dalgliesh. Neville Dupayne had, after all, been their brother. He said, “Explain that I need to see Mrs. Clutton first. I'll be with them as soon as possible. Then you and Benton-Smith liaise here. Kate and I will be in the cottage.”

5

As soon as the Fire Brigade arrived an officer had suggested to Tally that she should wait in her cottage, but it had been a command rather than a request. She knew that they wanted her out of the way and she had no wish to be anywhere near the garage. But she found herself too restless to be confined between walls and instead walked round the back of the house past the car-park and into the drive, pacing up and down, listening for the sound of an approaching car.

Muriel was the first to arrive. It had taken her longer than Tally had expected. When she had parked her Fiesta, Tally poured out her story. Muriel listened in silence, then said firmly, “There's no point in waiting outside, Tally. The Fire Brigade won't want us getting in the way. Mr. Marcus and Miss Caroline will be as quick as they can. We'd better wait in the cottage.”

Tally said, “That's what the fire officer said, but I needed to be outside.”

Muriel looked closely at her in the car-park light. “I'm here now. You'll be better in the cottage. Mr. Marcus and Miss Caroline will know where to find us.”

So they returned to the cottage together. Tally settled in her usual chair with Muriel opposite and they sat in a silence which both seemed to need. Tally had no idea how long it lasted. It was broken by the sound of footsteps on the path. Muriel got up the more quickly and was at the front door. Tally heard the murmur of voices and then Muriel returned, followed by Mr. Marcus. For a few seconds Tally stared at him in disbelief. She thought,
He's become an old man.
His face was ashen, the small cluster of broken veins over the high cheekbones standing out like angry scratches. Beneath his pallor the muscles round the mouth and jaw were taut so that his face looked half paralysed. When he spoke she was surprised that his voice was almost unchanged. He waved aside her offer of a chair and stood very still while she told her story once again. He listened in silence to the end. Wishing to find some way, however inadequate, of showing sympathy, she offered him coffee. He refused so curtly that she wondered whether he had heard.

Then he said, “I understand an officer from New Scotland Yard is on his way. I'll wait for him in the museum. My sister is already there. She'll be coming to see you later.”

It wasn't until he was at the door that he turned and said, “Are you all right, Tally?”

“Yes thank you, Mr. Marcus. I'm all right.” Her voice broke and she said, “I'm so sorry, so sorry.”

He nodded and seemed about to say something, then went out. Within minutes of his departure the doorbell rang. Muriel was quick to respond. She returned alone to say that a police officer had called to check that they were all right and to let them know that Commander Dalgliesh would be with them as soon as possible.

And now, alone with Muriel, Tally was settled again in her fireside chair. With the porch door and the front door closed there was only a trace of acrid burning in the hall and, sitting by the fire in the sitting-room, she could almost imagine that nothing outside had changed. The curtains with their Morris pattern of green leaves were closed against the night. Muriel had turned the gas fire up high, and even Tomcat had mysteriously returned and was stretched out on the rug. Tally knew that outside there would be male voices, booted feet clumping on sodden grass, the blaze of arc-lights, but here at the back of the house all was quiet. She found she was grateful for Muriel's presence, for her calm authoritative control, for her silences which were non-censorious and almost companionable.

Now, rousing herself, Muriel said, “You haven't had supper and nor have I. We need food. You sit there and I'll see to it. Have you any eggs?”

Tally said, “There's a new carton in the fridge. They're free-range but I'm afraid they're not organic.”