Death in Cold Print Page 6

  Roger glanced at Tenterden sharply. The local man had known about this, of course, and an obvious possibility screeched at him that the other man was the dead night-watchman. That would give Blake the strongest possible motive.

  ‘Who was this man?’ Roger demanded.

  Blake stared at him blindly.

  Then the silence was broken by a car drawing up outside. Both Roger and Tenterden noticed it, but Blake appeared oblivious. Car doors slammed. Roger caught a glimpse of two men getting out of it, and thought they were Tenterden’s men. Tenterden seemed reluctant to go and open the door, but went without being prompted. Roger felt resentment welling up against the Corby superintendent. It was one thing to want the Yard to handle the people with whom he was personally involved. It was another to withhold information, even for a few hours.

  Blake was standing and looking rather like a church dignitary, tall, lean body rigid, hands still clenched by his side, eyes screwed up.

  ‘Who was the man involved in your fears, Mr Blake?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Blake said, whispering. ‘I don’t know who it was, only that there was another man.’ He backed towards a large armchair, and lowered himself slowly. Voices sounded outside, on a low key. ‘She used to go to an old school friend of hers every Wednesday and Saturday night. I was happy she had someone to visit, it meant that I could go out as usual, and she wouldn’t be at home by herself, but—she didn’t just see her friend.’

  ‘How do you know she went out with any man?’

  ‘It was easy to tell,’ answered Blake, still huskily. ‘It was the way she changed, the way she looked at me, and—there was the smell of tobacco on her clothes. She doesn’t smoke and I don’t, either, and I’m very sensitive to the odour of tobacco.’ He seemed to be talking to himself, as if he was glad to be able to give voice to these thoughts at last. ‘I don’t know who it is, but there’s another man, and—now she’s left me.’

  Tenterden called: ‘Can you spare a moment, Superintendent?’

  Roger thought, ‘I’m going to have trouble with you, that’s sticking out a mile,’ and called back: ‘In a minute.’ He looked bleakly into Blake’s eyes and saw the pain in them and did not know the real cause of that pain. He had to find out quickly. There were influences at work here which he didn’t like at all. If Tenterden was soft-pedalling, he, Roger, had to go all out. And Blake was in a corner, and might even be the killer; the pressure must be remorseless. ‘Blake, what is the name of the man your wife is going with?’

  ‘I don’t know!’

  ‘I believe you do.’

  ‘I tell you I don’t know the name of the man! I don’t even—want to know it, if I knew who it was I would—’

  Blake caught his breath. His hands were unclenched now and stretched out in front of him, the fingers crooked, and there was an expression of hatred on his face. His teeth were actually bared. He checked his words, but could not check his manner, or his trembling, or the way his fingers were crooked.

  Then, he said: ‘I love her! I love her so much the fear of losing her is driving me out of my mind.’ He closed his eyes again, and Roger heard a creak at the door, guessed that Tenterden was just outside. If Tenterden broke this up, Roger would tear a strip off him. The door didn’t open any wider. ‘I didn’t think such a thing could happen to me, I didn’t think that a young and beautiful woman could ever marry me. When she did, I was the happiest man in Corby, the happiest man alive. And then I realised that she was going with this other man.’

  He stopped.

  ‘Why don’t you name this man?’ demanded Roger harshly.

  There was a flash of anger in Blake’s eyes. ‘Are you calling me a liar, Superintendent?’

  ‘I think you know the man.’

  ‘And I tell you that I have no idea who he is,’ answered Blake. ‘And if I had, what business is it of yours? If my wife chooses to leave me, it has nothing to do with the police.’

  ‘Provided nothing happens to the man, it’s not.’

  Blake began: ‘What—?’ And then the anger faded. It was impossible to be sure whether his new expression showed simply alarm, or astonishment, or sudden fear, or simply the surprise of realising what these questions were leading up to. ‘Do you mean—’ he began in a squeaky voice, but the words faltered in mid-air.

  ‘What is the name of the man your wife was seeing?’ demanded Roger.

  ‘As God is my judge,’ said Blake, in a slow, deliberate voice, ‘I don’t know the man’s name.’ He paused, stood up from the arm of the chair, and asked, ‘Do you know, Superintendent?’

  This was Tenterden’s cue, and he took it. The door opened wider, and he came into the room, massive and comfortable looking, as if oblivious of the fact that he might be choosing the wrong moment. But he had taken the pressure off Blake smoothly and cleverly.

  ‘Can you spare me a minute, Mr West?’

  ‘I’ll be with you in a moment,’ Roger said roughly, and glowered. The local man hesitated, then flushed a little and backed out of the room. He closed the door. Blake was staring at Roger, but his eyes had a glazed look, as if he were aware only of pain. ‘Blake,’ Roger said, ‘it might be of extreme importance for us to know the name of the man with whom you believe your wife associates. The only wise thing is to tell the truth. Do you understand?’

  Blake muttered: ‘Yes.’

  ‘What is the man’s name?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Blake. ‘I didn’t dare try to find out, for fear of what I might do to him.’

  Blake didn’t say anything more, and it was impossible to be sure whether he was lying to save himself or whether he was telling the truth. There wasn’t any doubt that Tenterden had interrupted deliberately, but this wasn’t the moment to have it out with him. Roger went out, nodded to the Corby man as they went outside the cottage. A crowd had gathered, thirty or forty people, mostly youngsters. A man was saying: ‘Now get off, you kids, there’s no need for you to hang around here.’

  ‘What’s new?’ Roger asked in a low-pitched voice.

  ‘It was Doris Blake all right.’

  ‘How was she killed?’

  ‘Manual strangulation, that’s certain now.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘We’ve got a cellar at the station which we use as a morgue.’

  ‘What about a pathologist?’

  ‘Dr Owen was coming over tonight from Colchester anyhow, with a full report on Jensen, so he can do the autopsy. The local police surgeon, Dr Arnold, will help.’

  ‘When will the woman be at the morgue and fairly presentable?’ Roger was still brusque.

  ‘You mean, for an identification?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Give them half an hour.’

  ‘All right,’ said Roger. He saw that not only the youngsters in the crowd but also the adults who had joined them and the local police were watching him and Tenterden, as if trying to make out what they were saying. From the moment he had arrived there had been a feeling of being watched, and it wasn’t going to get any less acute. He had a feeling, too, that in spite of the men coming from Colchester, Corby was isolated. Anything that happened to anyone in Corby was the whole town’s business. Anyone in trouble had to be protected by the town. ‘Do you know if Doris Blake was having an affair with Jensen?’

  Tenterden hesitated, and then said heavily: ‘Yes. They were meeting at R. & K.’s twice a week.’

  ‘It’s time we had a talk, to clear the air,’ Roger said flatly. ‘Let’s get in the car, where we can’t be overheard.’ They squeezed in, watched by a crowd which refused to move on. The doors slammed. ‘Listen, Arthur,’ Roger said, ‘you’re doing all you can to help Blake. You’re keeping facts from me, too. What’s this all about?’

  Tenterden stared straight ahead at two boys leaning on the front of the car.

  ‘I told you this wasn’t my job,’ he said.

  ‘Now, easy,’ Roger said. ‘You haven’t handed in your resignation, have you?’

/>   Tenterden answered: ‘No, you know I haven’t, and I know that means I’m still a copper. All right, I’m a copper. I knew something which pointed to Charlie, and I’m all for Charlie, so I made sure I couldn’t let prejudice get in the way.’

  ‘You didn’t have to lie to me.’

  ‘You discovered it without help from me.’

  ‘Hours late.’

  ‘What do a few hours matter?’ demanded Tenterden.

  Roger hesitated. Much of his anger had evaporated, he could understand Tenterden’s anxiety not to allow his personal knowledge to affect his judgement either way. There was another fact: a few hours couldn’t matter much – except that for personal reasons he wanted to be free after three o’clock tomorrow afternoon; he didn’t want to waste any time at all. He must watch himself, but he must also watch Tenterden.

  He said: ‘An hour could make a hell of a lot of difference, and you know it. If we can prove it’s Blake, time’s unimportant. If it wasn’t, we haven’t even made a start. So I want to find out one way or the other.’

  Tenterden said. ‘All right, Handsome. How?’

  ‘I want Blake to identify his wife’s body, now.’

  Tenterden began: ‘Listen, Handsome—’

  ‘We can judge from his reaction whether he knew she was dead or not.’

  ‘But if he doesn’t know, it’s torture.’

  ‘Like Jensen suffered. Like Doris Blake suffered.’

  Tenterden said gruffly: ‘Have it your own way.’

  ‘That’s the ticket,’ Roger said briskly. ‘I’ll have another go at him. Have a shorthand writer outside the door, will you?’

  A quarter of an hour later, Blake was sitting back in a big chair, all his colour gone, perspiration heavy on his forehead, the tension in his body almost intolerable. Roger had questioned him solidly and steadily, not once raising his voice, simply forcing the same questions over and over again about the guillotine, because he believed that Blake had a guilt complex about that, and also about the identity of his wife’s man friend. Blake did not crack; if he was going to, it would be at the sight of his wife’s body.

  ‘Blake, I want you to come with us and identify a body,’ Roger said brusquely. ‘It won’t take long.’ He watched the man intently, but saw nothing to suggest that Blake realised whose body it would be.

  The crowd had increased to at least a hundred people, and Roger realised that the identity of the body in the silo had got around; these people weren’t simply curious about the police visit to Blake, they knew why the police were here.

  There was a hush as two policemen opened the door of Tenterden’s car, but before Roger and Blake used it, a small man stepped forward from the crowd, dodged the policemen who were protecting the cordon, and reached Charlie Blake.

  ‘You needn’t worry, Charlie,’ he said quietly. ‘No one believes you did it. We’ve known you too long for that. You haven’t got a thing to worry about.’

  Blake said heavily: ‘Did what, Will?’

  ‘We all want you to know we blame—’ the man named Will began.

  ‘That’s enough, sir,’ Roger said crisply. ‘Move aside, please.’ He hustled Blake forward, and Blake did not try to hold back, but bent double so as to get into the back of the car. Roger joined him, Tenterden and another Corby man went into the front. Close to the window there was a sea of young faces, which vanished as the car moved off. It was only five minutes’ drive to the police station, where at least forty people were in the street. As they got out, a woman called: ‘You’ll be all right, Charlie!’

  Blake looked bewildered, as if he really didn’t know what this was all about. Was he pretending to be too dumb?

  The cellar was approached from a passage at the back of the old police station building. Tenterden led the way down a flight of wooden steps, then into a small, brightly lit room with some green steel filing cabinets round the walls. The floor was of concrete, and the room struck chill.

  The body, covered with a white sheet, lay on a trestle table with a marble top, a home-made mortuary slab. No one was on duty down there. Tenterden stood by Blake’s side, and Roger went to the trestle table, stood on the side opposite Blake, and then turned back the sheet.

  Doris Blake looked as if she were sleeping.

  ‘Do you know—?’ Roger began, but didn’t finish.

  Blake stared at the face of his dead wife for perhaps ten seconds, his lips parted, his hands raised, his breathing hushed. Horror showed in his eyes, and then died out of them as the lids closed, he folded up in a faint.

  Tenterden held and then supported him to an upright chair. As he straightened up, the Corby superintendent looked at Roger as if he hated him.

  Chapter Eight

  Night Work

  ‘He needs a doctor,’ Tenterden said harshly. ‘Even you won’t torture him anymore.’

  ‘Listen, Arthur,’ Roger answered quietly. ‘I came down here to do a job at your request. I’m doing it the best way I can. If you’re going to hold a brief for Blake, you’re going to get in my way. Want that?’

  They were alone in the little morgue, where it was so chilly. Tenterden was near the unconscious Blake’s chair. Roger was still on the other side of the home-made mortuary slab, with the dead woman’s face, still uncovered, restful, and undamaged. Tenterden had a bull-doggish look about him, and there was a glitter in his eyes. He said as if with an effort: ‘I’m not holding any brief for Charlie, but he’s not been found guilty yet. If he did it, he’s got to pay for it, but what he pays is up to the judge, not you. Just now, he needs a doctor.’

  ‘Who’ll give him a sedative so that he can’t talk.’

  ‘He needs a sedative,’ Tenterden growled. ‘Can’t you see he hasn’t slept for nights?’

  ‘I can see he’s more likely to tell us what he did last night now than after he’s had some rest,’ Roger retorted, tight-lipped.

  ‘I tell you—’

  ‘Let’s have the lot,’ Roger interrupted icily. ‘Who else are you going to protect? Who else gets special treatment in this feudal area? The Richardsons? The Keys? And what about those I’ve never heard of yet?’

  Tenterden drew in a deep breath.

  Roger said: ‘When Blake comes round I’m going to question him. Do you intend to be present?’

  ‘No,’ Tenterden said hoarsely. ‘No, I don’t.’ He stared at Roger with his eyes still glittering, but his full lips parted; he was breathing very hard. Without another word, he swung round and went out. The door closed slowly behind him, with a sighing squeak.

  Roger looked at it, still tight-lipped, then down at Blake, who hadn’t stirred. He looked pale and so very, very tired. ‘If he did it, he’s got to pay for it, but what he pays is up to the judge,’ Tenterden had said, and there were times when Roger would have said exactly the same. Was he going too far? Was this remorseless pressure on Blake really justified? Was he really out to get a record quick finish, so that he could get off to Bedford?

  ‘If he did it, we’ve got to know now,’ Roger said, sotto voce.

  Blake stirred.

  Roger gave him two or three minutes, and then asked: ‘How long had you known about your wife and Jensen, Blake?’

  Blake looked at him with agony in his eyes, and then his face began to pucker up, and he began to cry.

  Roger went to the door, opened it, and saw Tenterden and a police sergeant were nearby.

  ‘Better get him upstairs and send for a doctor,’ he said brusquely. ‘There’s nothing more I can do now.’

  Tenterden said. ‘Dr Arnold’s on his way.’

  Once Arnold had arrived, of course, he would have come into the morgue. Tenterden had declared war over Charlie Blake.

  Two questions nagged at Roger. Was he being too tough? Or was Tenterden really prepared to protect others in this feudal part of the land?

  Dr Arnold was a short, slight, brisk, outwardly officious man, with very black hair and a startlingly white centre parting. He appeared to be completely
objective. Blake needed a sedative after the shock. He could not stay alone in his cottage, so the best place was a private ward at the local cottage hospital. There would be facilities for the police to sit by his bedside. Roger made no demur about any of this, Tenterden made no comment, and Blake was taken off in an ambulance, watched by a crowd now much larger; Roger recognised several of the people who had been at the cottage. The ambulance had hardly driven off before a massive Rolls-Royce, of early pre-war vintage, pulled up outside the police station, and a tall, youthful-looking man in purply grey Harris tweeds stepped out, a pink woollen scarf round his neck, a deerstalker hat pulled down on his head. He stood for a moment surveying the crowd, and gave Roger the impression that he rather relished an audience.

  ‘Dr Owen,’ Tenterden whispered. It was the first time he had volunteered even a word since stalking out of the morgue.

  ‘Hallo, there,’ Dr Owen greeted bluffly. But for his greying hair and the lines at his cheeks and mouth he would have passed for thirty; he was probably fifty-two or three. ‘You’ve got another corpus for me, I understand.’ He looked at Roger, and quite suddenly beamed and shot out his hand. ‘You’re Handsome West,’ he declared. ‘I saw you giving evidence at the Old Bailey once, and was glad I wasn’t in the dock.’ He thrust out a big hand, and Roger gripped it. ‘Made any arrests yet?’

  ‘Several are pending,’ said Roger mildly.

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ They turned and walked up the steps of the police station, and Tenterden gave a short but comprehensive report. Owen made little comment, but went with them to the emergency morgue, made what appeared to be a cursory examination of the dead woman, from the waist upwards, and then said: ‘I’ve brought all I need. Going to turn this place into the laboratory again?’

  ‘I think we’d better.’

  ‘Well, get your chaps to bring down my stuff, will you?’ asked Owen. ‘It’s all in the boot, just bring everything.’ He handed over a bunch of keys. ‘Use the small key with the rusty top. And warn Mr West what a testy individual I am if anyone is breathing down my neck when I’m doing a job like this, won’t you?’