The Unkindest Cut (9 page)

‘Not off the top of the head but I'll ask Manfred.'

‘I suppose there wasn't any of my champagne left.' Jane's thoughts had now moved on and she felt she surely deserved something more exciting than water with her dinner tonight.

‘Funny you should say that! There was about enough to fill a bathtub that they didn't manage to finish so I decanted some into a few cider screw-tops and brought it home. The rest seems to have vanished into the private stocks of members. Do you want a glass?'

‘Do I ever! But first I must go and see what I can do about that wedding dress. Roley, did you mind that I had to make rather an indecent picture of myself?'

‘I thought you looked quite gorgeous,' Roland said.

‘That's not quite answering the same question,' Jane said, but it was as far as Roland would commit himself.

Ian Fellowes arrived home rather late that evening, but he had phoned to warn Deborah. His meal was waiting for him, still warm though slightly desiccated. He had already told her about the second knifepoint robbery.

‘I had to make sure that everything was set for tomorrow, including getting Lucas Fraine to list everybody who was present at Jane's whoopdedoo. They're supposed to be sending me a coachload of woodentops. Bright's prepared to bet that we only get two to interview the whole lot of them and he's probably right.'

‘You've got to get out of the habit of referring to the uniformed branch as woodentops,' Deborah said severely. ‘You know they hate it.' Deborah paused, her mind having turned to more important questions. ‘I wonder how Jane makes that elderflower champagne. I'd like to find out while elderflowers are still in season. Mine never comes out quite so … What would you call it?'

‘Mind-numbing,' Ian said after a moment's thought. Then his train of thought moved back to the matter at hand. ‘You arrived with Jane. It seems that the robber must have headed straight up the hill to Kempfield. Who did you see arrive at about the same time? And did you overtake a cyclist on the hill?'

‘I don't remember anybody but I'll think about it.'

‘Do that. And add this to the equation. Jane asked an interesting question about head shapes. Since then, I've been looking at heads through new eyes and she was right. There is a usual shape of head but only about a third of the Caucasian part of the human race conforms to it. The others may be sort of sharp-faced – Dodd called it streamlined – or round like a ball, with or without sticking-out ears. But he described his visitor as having a head like a chimney-pot, more or less cylindrical but with protruding ears. See if that image doesn't jog your memory.'

‘I'll try,' Deborah said doubtfully. ‘But the only one I remember won't help you much.'

‘Try me anyway.'

‘All right. But I only noticed because it was a car very like yours and there was a pair of gloves above the dashboard with one finger sticking up rather rudely so that an oncoming driver thought that he was getting the finger and shook his fist in reply. Elspeth Bryden was driving it – Elspeth Stevenson she used to be but she married Angus Bryden. They were both at school with me. I liked her a lot but I couldn't stand him. Great tall streak of nothing very much; I wouldn't trust him near the baby's piggy-bank. She overtook the limo on the climb up to Kempfield. I was going to speak to you later about overtaking when you couldn't see far enough ahead, but when we got out of the limo I saw that Elspeth was driving and it wasn't you at all. She said to me later that she'd been held up by her mother-in-law on the phone wanting to know where Angus had got to. Well, almost everyone else knew where he'd got to – what the Americans call
first base
with that gipsy-looking girl who serves in the Canal Bar, but his mother would never believe that he was anything but a perfect gentleman. That was the fat woman who talked loudly while you were trying to make your speech.'

‘Tell me again in the morning,' Ian said. ‘I'm not really taking in the rush of information just now, between being tired and trying to think ahead to all that I'll have to do in the morning.'

‘I'll leave you in peace, then. But first let me just mention that there were two or three motor scooters and there was already a row of about ten pushbikes in the racks at the side of the car park.'

‘Was any of them remarkably clean and shiny?' asked Fellowes, in reference to Mr Mowatt's description of the witness possibly arriving at the petrol station on such a vehicle.

‘Not that I noticed. In fact, several of them and the motor scooters all looked due to go in the nearest skip. But at least for most people it would be downhill all the way home.'

Ian sat up and frowned. ‘Did you notice whether any of the pushbikes had a saddlebag?' he asked.

Deborah matched his frown. ‘Not to say notice, but I think several of them did. Why?'

‘Because he arrived at two different scenes-of-crime carrying a largish knife. He might have dangled it down a trouser-leg though I wouldn't have fancied that much myself. Some clumsy beggar would only have to knock into you … Anyway, it doesn't seem the premeditated sort of crime for which somebody might have made a special sheath and he wouldn't want to walk around carrying it openly and he certainly didn't drive to the door of Ledbetter's garage, he very likely cycled there. He was wearing a T-shirt as well, so even less places to hide a knife.'

‘But he could have carried a kitchen-type knife loose in a saddlebag,' Deborah said. ‘I'm with you now. You don't see many handlebar baskets these days so a saddlebag does seem likely. I'll keep my eyes open for a bright-looking pushbike with a saddlebag.'

‘You do that,' said her husband, pouring himself a large glass of elderflower champagne.

M
onday morning came in wet and Mondayish. Ian Fellowes made a point of being early to work. He had beaten his own staff to it and there was no sign of the promised help, not even an email. That was all he needed to start the week as it would probably go on. However, he was slightly mollified to see that the former gymnasium, now available for functions or for use as an incident room, had been equipped with desks, chairs, phones, a computer and all the other paraphernalia of the HQ for a complex case – presumably for
his
complex case, though as things were going he would not have been surprised to find that the room had been annexed for use in connection with a missing tomcat.

DS Bright arrived seconds behind him and reassured him on the latter point. Ian's two bright young DCs followed almost immediately. Emails being conspicuous by their absence, Ian sent the younger DC, Hopgood by name, to collect Lucas Fraine's list from him, failing which Fraine was to be fetched in to explain himself. Ian began to feel better, but only until a liveried Vauxhall arrived bringing the promised collator and three borrowed DCs with no promises of further help.

If Hugh Dodd had been obliging enough to throw himself on the point of the knife like some Roman warrior falling on his sword, Ian mused, the town would have been clogged with personnel: officers for fingertip searches, scene of crime specialists, collators and others who always seemed ready to browse around a death scene without ever quite admitting who the hell they were. (Ian was hard pressed to remember many of the finer details because in the event of a death by foul play a more senior officer than a mere DI would undoubtedly take charge, hogging the credit but not any blame that happened to be going, and only the best and most senior would ever pause to explain anything.)

With Ian's other DC, Morrison (the only one to have received any training as a SOCO) being sent to examine and release the two crime scenes, aided by a borrowed beat bobby, it was a small team that assembled at the desks in front of the whiteboards that had been recovered from the store and hooked up on the long wall facing the door. If the next victim of the knifeman (and Ian was sure that they had not seen the last victim) should lose blood, the numbers would increase exponentially and more so if that unfortunate should happen to … Ian was suddenly amazed to realize the incredible number of euphemisms there were for
dying
and
death.
Before Ian had time to dwell much further on the matter, the return of DC Hopgood with Mr Fraine's list of names increased the team considerably.

Bright, who was used to Ian's
modus operandi
, stood at the whiteboard while Ian explained what had happened so far. Ian detested slang such as ‘Chummy', so it was under the heading ‘The Knifeman' that the first list began to extend:

Jeans. Plain white T-shirt, no printing on it, spotted with something but not a colour.

The spots looked grey. Could've been paint or some kind of dirt or oil.

Dark hair. White trainers, new-looking. (Old Mowatt says old or dirty.)

Digital Timex watch with expanding bracelet, all chrome. (Hugh Dodd)

Rasping, whispery voice, probably assumed. Upright head. Protruding ears. Plaster on back of neck.

Bike clean and shining. Possibly saddlebag.

Probably but not necessarily male.

Microchipped.

Bright sat down beside the whiteboard but Ian stayed on his feet as he addressed the room. ‘The reason is simple as to why the possibility of Knifeman being Knifewoman is not dismissed. I don't always trust the advice given by psychologists but in this instance I phoned our usual shrink. He said that there is a slight statistical bias towards females when stabbings are concerned. He went into some unpleasant details about women, envy and penetration, which you can look up in the textbooks for yourselves. Just take it that the possibility of a female Knifeman exists.

‘If I sent you into the town to bring back anybody fitting this description – ignoring the plaster that may have been intended to mislead us, and anyway is easy to remove – I doubt if this room would hold them and we don't at the moment have any fingerprints or DNA samples for elimination purposes.

‘The one certain means of identification is that Miss Highsmith, as she was then – she's Mrs Fox now – managed to stab him with a microchip during the robbery. I say
managed
but in fact she intended to put him to sleep but the wrong syringe came to hand.' At this point – with a sweep of his hand – Ian acknowledged Jane, who had just entered through the door at the back of the room – having been summoned earlier with a phone call.

Jane coughed, more to gain attention than to clear her throat, and said, ‘Let me break in at this point and save you some time. I did some research yesterday. I tested a microchip and repeated my test with the microchip taped on to my husband's back. The result was surprising, but Knifeman would have no difficulty discovering the same facts. Incidentally, I was horrified to find that the apron the manufacturers gave me as protection when I bought the device is not very effective, probably because it has to be flexible, necessitating small gaps. Thankfully in my condition –' Jane laid an instinctive hand on her belly – ‘I have hardly taken any X-rays recently. So in terms of blocking out the microchip so that the reader couldn't pick up on it, I discovered that lead foil is not very good and is very fragile. It tears easily. But aluminium foil worked very well at first and, being cheap and common, could be replaced quickly and easily. And, of course, being very thin, it would be difficult to detect by feel under clothing. On the other hand crumpling soon ruined its effectiveness. Make what you like of that. In future, I shall take X-rays with my lead apron backed by kitchen foil. May I leave now?' Jane had said her piece and was ready to go and actually earn a living.

‘Many thanks for your contribution,' Ian said to her retreating back as Jane slipped out of the room. Ian Fellowes took a few seconds to absorb the information. ‘We shall have to devise a new drill for testing suspects,' he said. ‘Meanwhile, continue doing it the simple way. So far we have managed to borrow two microchip readers, but Morrison's next task is to phone vets and anybody else anyone can think of in the hope of borrowing one or two more. Don't forget that you have to hold it close to the suspect's left kidney to get a signal, use any excuse to crumple any foil under the clothing and don't be concerned if the device tells you that the suspect is a Pomeranian terrier or a pat of butter. Any signal at all will do.'

When the laughter had subsided, Ian went on, ‘By my reckoning that leaves us three DCs plus myself and my sergeant with two microchip readers to interrogate the six people listed by Lucas Fraine, the manager of Kempfield, as having arrived at about the same time as the bridal party. Don't forget to ask each of them who they remember seeing arrive around the same time – with quite a large margin either side, because it took Mrs Fox some time to change and clean up the puppy's blood and, conversely, we don't know how long it took the knifeman to get up the hill. He may even have gone home to stick another plaster over the puncture, because a microchip is inserted through a fairly fat needle compared to the hypodermics you may be remembering. Incidentally, you'd also have thought that there'll be some broken skin or early scarring where the microchip went in – at least for the next few days – so any excuse to actually take a look at the person's flesh would be very useful. But be tactful about this for obvious reasons.' Again there was the sound of light laughter around the room.

Ian continued, ‘It would have been very helpful if some of the stolen money had been in unusual denominations, but no such luck! If it seems appropriate and without raising a storm it might be helpful to know which of our young people has started spending money or settling a debt.

‘Any questions?' There were none. ‘Any suggestions as to what I may not have thought of yet?' Again a deathly hush. ‘Pass any possibly relevant information or ideas as it's obtained to the collator, Mr …?'