The Killing of Katie Steelstock (17 page)

He said, “I’ve got nothing to say to you. This is a respectable establishment. Regularly inspected. Licensed by the London County Council. Passed by the health authorities and the fire authorities.”

“Do the authorities know that you employ juvenile models?”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“That boy who just came out of your studio.”

“A relative. Paying me a visit.”

“He might have been a relative, of course. What he said was that he was one of your favourite models.”

“Joking, Sergeant. You know what boys are. They say the first thing that comes into their heads.”

“The first things people say are often the truth,” said Shilling. “Actually, I didn’t come here to talk about your studio. Or only indirectly. The person I wanted to ask you about was Miss Steelstock.”

Up to that point Ruoff had been standing. Now he came across and sat down, very slowly, at the table opposite to Shilling. He said, “You’re referring to Katie Steelstock, of course.”

“Yes.”

“Who was killed two days ago.”

“Yes.”

“Apart from the fact that I took a number of publicity photographs of her some years ago, I can tell you nothing about her at all.”

“You did a little more than that, didn’t you?”

“Meaning?”

“Using your influence to get her a start in television.”

Ruoff’s babyish mouth opened in what might have been the beginning of a smile. A tip of pink tongue looked out. He said, “Who have you been talking to?”

“I had a word with her agent, Mark Holbeck.”

“You mustn’t believe all that agents tell you. The only way I influence anyone is by taking beautiful, beautiful photographs. The eye of the camera, Sergeant, which never lies, but seldom tells the whole truth.”

The inner door opened and the two young men came out. They had put on track suits. They looked incuriously at Shilling and one of them said, “Anything more, Rod?”

“I’ll tell you when this lot come out,” said Ruoff. “If they’re as good as I think they’re going to be, there’ll certainly be more.” As the door closed behind them he said, “An interesting pair. Cousins. They both have beautiful bodies. Did you know that it was Michelangelo who first exploited the full potentiality of the male body?” He got up. “I’m afraid I can’t help you any further, Sergeant.”

Shilling got up, too. He said, “What did Katie steal from you?”

He saw the colour rising like a tide from the veins of the neck into the cheeks, turning pink to dark red and red to crimson.

“Who said anything about stealing?”

“Actually it was you. Something you said to Mark Holbeck at a party.” Shilling was watching him closely.

“Did I say that? I’d forgotten. It can’t have been very important, can it?”

“Possibly not.”

“And in any event, if such a thing did happen, it happened years ago. It could hardly affect your inquiries.”

“Mark Holbeck said last year. And until I know what she took from you, sir, I’m in no position to judge.”

If his forehead was made of glass, thought Shilling, I swear I’d be able to see those brain cells working. He knows damn well what Katie stole. He’s thinking it out, in all its aspects. Will it be to his advantage to tell me or not? Will it damage him in any way? Dare he tell me? Dare he
not
tell me?

In the end Ruoff evidently came to some sort of conclusion. He said, “If I do happen to remember, Sergeant, I’ll let you know.”

And Shilling had to be content with that.

Mrs. Havelock came into the operations room at the Hannington police station like a very large liner towing a very small tug. The tug was Sim. She had him fast by one hand.

Knott said, “Please sit down. You too, lad. I gather you’ve got something to tell me.”

“It’s Sim here who’s got to do the telling.” She looked down at her son, who was very pale. “It should be the older boy, Roney, but he wouldn’t come, so Sim’s got to do it alone.”

It took ten minutes of patient questioning to get the story into some sort of shape.

“Just those two occasions you and your brother saw Jonathan and Katie by the boathouse?”

Sim nodded.

“And when you got there they were lying on the grass together?”

“Yes.”

“Could you see what they were doing?”

“Not really.”

Knott paused. He knew only too well with what delicacy a nine-year-old witness had to be handled.

“O.K.,” he said. “They were just lying there. Then what happened?”

“Then they went into the boathouse.”

“How did they do that, when the door was locked?”

“Oh, everyone knows how to do that. You just put your hand through that place where the glass is gone and turn the handle. The one on the little door.”

Knott nodded. He had read Shilling’s report. He said, “What”There was no point hanging around. We came home.”

“Did that happen both times? I mean, going into the boathouse.”

“No, that was only the second time.”

“How long ago was the first time?”

“I can’t exactly remember.”

Mrs. Havelock said, “Was it holidays or term, Sim?”

“Holidays. Last holidays. Just before term started.”

“That makes it early May,” said Mrs. Havelock.

“And the second time?”

“I can’t exactly remember. It was before the regatta.”

“Long before?”

“Not very long before.”

“That would make it early July,” said Mrs. Havelock. She had one eye on Sim. He was going to be sick and she wanted to get him outside before it happened. Knott picked up the warning in her eye. He said, “That’s fine, Sim. You’ve done very well. Only one more question. You’re nine. Right? Nearly ten. Old enough to know what telling the truth means.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Because you may have to stand up in court and say all this to a judge.”

“Outside,” said Mrs. Havelock.

She got him into the courtyard in the nick of time.

Knott had kept Dennis Farr at Reading informed about the progress of the investigation. He had telephoned him each evening and sent him copies of all the interrogation reports. He took this extra trouble because he knew that it would be repaid in cooperation.

As he drove over to Reading he could already see the bones of the Crown case. There were grey areas, to be sure, and shadowy corners, but that was the way with murder investigations. Some points of detail were never cleared up. There were questions which remained unanswered even after trial and conviction. Why should a man who had poisoned his wife with lead arsenite and watched her die in agony keep more than twenty photographs of her pinned up around his bedroom? Why had the college porter who had murdered two girl students wasted long minutes after each killing smashing up their bicycles? These were problems for psychologists, not for policemen. They needed investigation only if they were going to form part of the defence case.

“Not much doubt who did it,” said Farr. “The difficulty is going to be proving it.”

“As bloody always,” said Knott. “Did you fix things for me?”

“Both sound men. And very willing to help. I could see the point of having a word with Cowie, of course. But why the schoolmaster?”

“I want to find out why Limbery was sacked.”

“Resigned by mutual agreement was what I heard.”

“I don’t believe he’d have left the school unless he was forced to. Remember what Katie called him when they had that slanging match? A schoolmaster manqué.”

“You might be right. I certainly got the impression he enjoyed working with kids.”

“Too thoroughly perhaps?”

Farr said, “I shouldn’t have thought there was anything like that. You never can tell, of course. Is it important?”

“It would give us a motive. He’s unbalanced. I don’t mean mad. But he’s got a hair-trigger temper. And Katie had a saw-edged tongue. Suppose she said something to him like ‘You’re no good to a girl. Small boys are your scene.’ He’d lash out without thinking twice about it.”

“He’d lash out,” agreed Farr, “but that doesn’t mean he’d plan a cold-blooded killing days or weeks later.”

“That’s what I thought, at first,” said Knott.
“But suppose we’ve all been jumping to conclusions.
Suppose that note was genuine. Suppose he really did want to make things up and put things back on their old footing.”

“Rolling round on the punt cushions to prove he could do it.”

“Right.
But suppose Katie had quite different ideas.
Suppose she planned to spend a few enjoyable minutes telling him exactly what she thought of him. You great big poof, go chase a choirboy. What then?”

“He’d blow his top, no question. But do you think you could make a jury understand it?”

“Twenty years ago, even ten, I wouldn’t have cared to try. Nowadays I think they’d take it.”

“I suppose you might call that progress,” said Farr, “of a sort. Look in on the way back and tell me how you got on.”

“It’s all right,” said Roney. “I told him you didn’t want to do it. I told him Mum made you.”

“Good,” said Sim. They were sitting on the fence at the bottom of the garden. Since Rosina had sneaked up on them they had avoided the veranda. “What did he say?”

“He said O.K. He understood.”

“Good.”

“What I can’t see is why everyone thinks it must be him who did it.”

“It could be anyone.”

“That’s right.”

“It could be the rector.”

“Or old Mr. Beaumorris.”

They considered them. Neither of them seemed plausible murderers. Roney said, “I’ll tell you what. What about Mr. Mariner? It could easily be him. He was always hanging round the boathouse.”

“I’d rather it was him than Johnno.”

“I’ll tell you something else. Johnno isn’t going to let them arrest him.”

“How’s he going to stop them?”

“He’ll fight them.”

“He couldn’t fight them all.”

“He could. He’s got lots of weapons. He showed them to me. He’s got a sabre and a kukri.”

“What’s a kukri?”

“It’s a thing the Gurkhas have. A sort of curved knife. They used them to cut off Japs’ heads.”

Sim tried to visualise a row of decapitated policemen.

“And a swordstick. And a pistol.”

“Did he show you the pistol?”

“No. He’s got that hidden somewhere. But I saw the swordstick. It’s got a catch just under the handle and you pull it and it comes
out—wheesh.”

Not decapitated. Impaled. It seemed tidier somehow.

Mr. Ferris, headmaster of Coverdales, was a distinguished scientist, a fact evidenced by the string of initials after his name. He was small and squat and his iron grey hair stood up from out of his head like a crown of thorns. It was clear at first encounter that he was a man you did not take liberties with.

He said to Knott, “I accept your authority to ask me questions. I have an equal right not to answer them.”

“That is so, sir.”

“I am prepared to answer them on the understanding that anything I say is off the record. That I shall, if necessary, deny that I said it and shall not be asked to give evidence in any court proceedings.”

“Quite so, sir,” said Knott easily.

“Totally off the record, Superintendent.”

“Totally, sir.”

“Then suppose you switch off whatever gadget it is you’ve brought with you.”

Knott had noticed the curious object on the desk between them. It was made of black metal and was about the size of a cricket ball. The top was opaque milk-coloured glass. Behind the glass a yellow eye moved and flickered.

“It’s called an ‘Encore,’ Superintendent. It records any instrument receiving or emitting electric impulses within a range of about a hundred feet. There are larger instruments with much longer ranges. This is what you might call a pocket model.”

“Interesting,” said Knott. He slipped one hand into the side pocket of his jacket and switched off his tape recorder. “To tell you the truth, I’d forgotten I had it switched on.” He told this lie without embarrassment.

The yellow eye centred in the glass and stood coldly still.

“Very well, Superintendent. What is it you want to know?”

“I’d like to find out why Limbery was sacked from this school.”

“Sacked?”

“So I was told.”

“The person who told you that was using an inaccurate piece of shorthand to describe a complex situation. It is quite true that Limbery did not take the initiative in the matter. He was happy here and got on well with the boys. Less well with the girls, but since he did no sixth-form teaching he didn’t come across them much. And our pay here is good. Above Burnham Scale.”

“Then,” said Knott, “if he was happy here . . .”

Mr. Ferris was not to be diverted. He had an explanation to make and he proposed to offer it in the same logical way that he would have explained any natural phenomenon.

“When I said that he got on well with the boys, it would have been more accurate if I had said that he got on too well.” Although Knott had not tried to speak, Mr. Ferris held up one hand as though rebuking an importunate student. “And when I say that, I do
not
mean that he made advances to them or interfered with them. Had he done so, he would indeed have been sacked. No. It was more subtle and more difficult. I think the truth of the matter is that he was the same age, mentally and emotionally as the boys themselves. That is perhaps why he got on with them and not with the girls. Girls become adult more quickly.”

Here he paused so long that Knott ventured to say, “That hardly seems any reason for getting rid of him.”

“You might not think so. But it had one unfortunate result. If any difference or difficulty arose, regardless of the rights or wrongs of the matter, he
always
took the side of the boys as against constituted authority. This did not make him popular with other members of the staff, who had more old-fashioned ideas about discipline. It came to a head over one particular boy. Another member of the staff wished to punish him. Limbery, I am told, threatened to kill him if he did so.”

My God, thought Knott, I wish I could get that tape recorder turned on. His hand was actually in his pocket when he saw the yellow eye on the desk looking at him. He took his hand out again.