Close Call (8 page)

Carol Smart shuddered a little at the thought, then asked whether she and Philip would be required to give evidence in the Coroner's Court. Lambert said, ‘Almost certainly not. The inquest will be formally opened, but then adjourned, under Section Twenty of the Coroners' Act. When we have made an arrest, there will be a Crown Court trial; this replaces the inquest.'

She nodded, digesting this. Then, unable to resist a little barb, she said, ‘You seem very certain you are going to make this arrest.'

Lambert smiled. ‘I am, Mrs Smart.' Then, without varying his even tone, he said, ‘Who do
you
think killed Mr Durkin?'

‘That's a preposterous question!'

‘Direct, perhaps, but not preposterous. You must surely have given some thought to the matter since this startling death occurred. I'm assuming you did find it startling, of course. What about you, Mr Smart?'

Philip Smart's florid and revealing face registered his surprise at this sudden switch of police attention; Lambert registered the fact that he seemed to be a man who could not easily conceal his thoughts. ‘I can't think that anyone at that party would have killed Robin Durkin. We all got on so well during the evening. We've already told you that.'

‘Yes, you have. Let me put my question in another, rather more diplomatic way. Are you aware that anyone who was at your street party had any reason to dislike Robin Durkin?'

Phil pretended to give the matter some thought; he was trying to show this lanky, intense superintendent that he wasn't the only one who could be diplomatic. ‘No. Robin had got us most of the booze at discount rates.' Phil spoke as if that clinched the dead man's friendship with all of them.

Lambert said impatiently, ‘That's hardly a guarantee of safety, is it? Had he seduced anyone's wife? Had he done the dirty on anyone in his business? Sold someone a dodgy car, for instance?'

‘No. Not that I know of, anyway. Carol told you, we haven't known the Durkins for long. Only since we all moved into the close.' He could hear himself sounding defensive, so he said, ‘His wife's quite a dish, you know. I wouldn't put it past some man to have had a go at Ally. Might have set up a confrontation with Robin, that, mightn't it? Perhaps Robin was going after him and the man fought back.' He caught his wife's movement beside him and said hastily. ‘That's all just speculation, of course. I'm just trying to be helpful, the way you asked us to be.' Phil Smart tried to dismiss the vision of Ally Durkin's shapely rear which thrust itself embarrassingly into his mind's eye.

‘I see. And what about Mr Durkin? Was he in the habit of pursuing other women? Is it possible that a jealous husband or partner might have been looking to do him harm?'

‘I don't know, I'm afraid.' Phil was already wishing he hadn't raised such matters. He wouldn't want his own track record in such things put under the police microscope.

‘What about you, Mrs Smart? Are you aware of any sexual liaisons being conducted by either Mr or Mrs Durkin?'

Carol was furious that a husband who couldn't keep it in his trousers should be throwing out these thoughts about other people. She gave Phil a blistering look and said to Lambert, ‘No. And I wouldn't tell you if I did.'

‘That would be a most unwise decision, Mrs Smart. Withholding information in a murder enquiry would be viewed as a serious instance of obstructing the police in the course of their duties.' Lambert was pleased to convey the impression that he would be delighted to arrest her for it. ‘If either of you think of anything which you consider might have a bearing on this crime, it is your duty to get in touch with us immediately. Your confidences will of course be respected, unless they later prove to be needed as evidence in a murder trial. Have you anything further to contribute before we leave?'

The Smarts glanced at each other, then shook their heads simultaneously. It was the only sign of unity they had given in the entire exchange.

‘We shall probably want to speak to you separately at a later stage, when we have a more detailed picture of the events of Saturday night. For the moment, thank you for your help.'

Carol Smart didn't like that last bit at all. She had always assumed that they would be together for any police questioning. The thought of what that dolt of a husband might say without her watchful presence at his side filled her with trepidation.

T
he full post-mortem report was in when Lambert and Hook returned to Oldford police station.

‘There's nothing you wouldn't have been expecting,' said DI Rushton gloomily when they entered the CID section. Lambert scanned the print-out of the report. Robin Durkin had been strangled with a piece of electric cable three feet seven inches long, which had bitten deeply into his neck, breaking his windpipe and killing him in seconds. In effect, he had been garrotted.

There were a few scratches on the neck around the line where the cable had bitten into the flesh, but as they had feared, they had been made by the dead man himself, struggling desperately and ineffectively to remove the instrument of his death in his last seconds on earth. There was skin and a little dirt under the dead man's nails, but they were his own skin and dirt, accumulated there in those last moments as he fought for his life.

Lambert said dully, ‘The cable is relatively new, but there are soil particles on it, the ph of which suggests that it had come from the area where it was used. In other words the cable was probably picked up on the building site which has now been transformed into Gurney Close.'

Rushton said, ‘I haven't been out there. Presumably there are lots of bits of cable and other builders' detritus still lying around.'

‘Yes. The Durkins's garden has been pretty well cleared. And so has Mrs Holt's plot, the first one as you enter the close: she's had this young man Jason Ritchie working pretty well full time at her place. But the others haven't progressed quite as far as that. In any case, the four owners have hired a skip jointly, and have been dumping builders' rubbish in there for the last two or three weeks as they began the work of clearing their plots and establishing gardens. I had a look into it. It's almost full of broken bricks and broken strips of wood and bits of copper and plastic piping.'

‘And pieces of electric cable, no doubt,' said Rushton sourly. It was what they had expected, but you always hoped against hope that the murder weapon would lead you straight to your killer.

Hook was trying to picture a murderer's movements in those minutes of warm darkness thirty-six hours earlier. He said slowly, ‘So anyone looking for mischief on Saturday night could have picked up this piece of wire easily enough, either from this skip or from somewhere else around. I noticed plenty of lush long grass and nettles in those gardens which hadn't been cleared; they've been growing like mad in this hot weather, after all the rain we had ten days ago.'

Lambert pointed out, ‘Anyone wanting us to think that this was a random killing could have picked up the wire days or even weeks beforehand, and waited for his moment. And there are no prints on the cable, so either the killer wore gloves or wiped it clean.'

Rushton said, ‘The Scene of Crime boys found bits of wire and other builders' leavings outside the fences at the rear of the gardens behind the new houses, too. So anyone coming in from the path by the river could easily have picked up this length of wire as he moved in. SOCO stresses that we shouldn't confine our enquiries to people living in Gurney Close.'

Lambert was still looking at the written PM report. ‘We also can't assume the killer was male. It looks as if Durkin was taken by surprise, as if this cord was thrown over his head from behind. The neck was savagely damaged, but no great physical strength was required to do this. It could have been a woman who was tightening that cable round his neck.'

Rushton nodded glumly. ‘There's nothing remarkable in the analysis of the stomach contents, which is what you'd expect. They bear out what we've heard about the evening from those who were there. Quiche, ham, strawberries, ice cream. And a fair amount of alcohol over the evening. What we were told to expect by those who were with him on Saturday night.'

Lambert was still studying the detail of the report. ‘Not quite, Chris. The alcohol blood count is seventy millilitres. That's less than I would expect. A very modest amount for a man who's been drinking throughout the evening and has no worries about driving home.'

Bert Hook said, ‘His drinking was spread out over five hours. Perhaps he'd urinated copiously and drunk pints of water before retiring for the night, the thing we're all told to do and which most of us forget.'

Rushton took the report from Lambert and looked again at the figure, annoyed that he had previously just noted the expected presence of alcohol and not the relatively low amount. ‘Or maybe he was just more abstemious than the rest of them. Maybe he felt that as it was on his own patch he should act the host and stay more sober than his guests.'

‘Both of those are feasible explanations. And so is the possibility that Robin Durkin was anticipating a meeting at the end of the evening and making sure that he was sober enough to handle it,' said Lambert.

‘You planning to come over to the house today? You've been conspicuous by your absence, so far.' Lisa Holt tried not to make it sound like a criticism.

‘I've been working in Monmouth. Job I promised to do for a pensioner weeks ago. Nice old couple. You'd like them, I think.' Jason Ritchie was conscious that he was forcing out the phrases, not speaking freely and naturally as he had grown used to doing with Lisa. He stopped and waited for her to fill the pause. When she didn't, he said defensively, ‘Anyway, it's a Monday, and you're out at work all day yourself, aren't you?'

‘I went home for a bit of lunch. Made myself a sandwich. I rather expected to find you there, that's all.' She could have bitten her tongue off as soon as she'd said it. It was just the kind of wimpish thing she'd told herself she'd never say again; it made it sound as though her life revolved around him. She'd told herself when her marriage ended that she'd never whine like this again. She said hastily, ‘Not that it matters, of course. I just had a bit of a hiatus in my working afternoon, so I thought I'd see how your day was going.'

‘Well, it's going quite well.' Jason was wondering what to say. He'd never had to do that with her before. ‘Well, I suppose I'd better get back to work. I've got concrete mixed, you see. It has to be used, once you've mixed it.'

‘Right. It's just that I thought we'd said that we'd carry on as normally as possible. So that the police wouldn't get suspicious, I think you said. And I thought that as you've been working at my place every day for the last three weeks, that would be classed as normal.'

She knew she should have let it go, not tried to explain away her action in ringing him. She was behaving like a gauche teenager, not a thirty-nine-year-old woman and mother. ‘Anyway, I'll see you some time, no doubt. Bye for now.' She had tried to ring off briskly and cheerfully, but she knew she had got even that wrong: she had made it sound like a querulous rebuke.

Jason Ritchie looked down at the mobile phone thoughtfully before he put it back into his rucksack. He had enough to think about with the police coming after him, without Lisa Holt getting all possessive.

Bert Hook didn't normally get home for lunch, especially when there was a murder investigation in progress. But today was a special day. Luke's birthday.

When you have waited a long time for children, you tend to make more of these things. Luke was twelve today, and Bert felt childhood passing away from his sons. The boys couldn't wait to be rid of it, whilst he and Eleanor cherished every scrap of infancy which was left in their progeny. That was one of family life's many puzzling paradoxes.

Luke had insisted on new football boots for his present, despite his father's preference for cricket and his insistence that football was out of season. But the boots were still in their box on the living room floor. It would normally have been difficult to prize their soccer-mad son out of them, even in the house. But they gleamed softly in their lidless box as Bert went into the room, their pristine state a sinister symbol that something was wrong.

‘The doctor's coming back this afternoon,' said Eleanor, her normally cheerful face grey with anxiety. ‘He left some more pills this morning and told me to ring back if Luke's temperature didn't come down. It hasn't and I did. He'll be here in half an hour or so.'

Bert Hook went into the boy's bedroom. Luke lay very still on the bed, his eyes closed. For a moment of horror, Bert had the illusion that he was not breathing. Then the thin, almost bloodless lips moved, almost imperceptibly, and Luke gave a tiny groan. He looked very small and frail beneath the single sheet. Bert's mind flashed back to a time he thought he had forgotten, when the boy had been only five or six and laid low with a childish chill.

Bert knew without any diagnosis that this was something much more serious. He put his hand softly on the boy's forehead, withdrawing it in horror as he felt how hot and dry the skin was. The eyelids fluttered open, the head turned just a little, and the blue eyes looked at him as if they were trying to recognize a stranger.

‘Happy birthday, son,' said Bert softly.

He fancied he caught the beginnings of a smile on the ashen lips. Then the eyes clouded and shut again.

‘You must know everything that happened on Saturday night by now. At the party, I mean.' Lisa Holt added that hasty qualification. They surely couldn't know who had killed Robin Durkin.

‘We have a good idea. We need your account of it. It may differ from what other people remember, you see,'said Lambert. He contrived to make the information seem like a threat.