A Conflict of Interests (16 page)

"I've been drinking," Whitfield informed him gravely.

"I guessed as much."

"Dutch courage. That's what I needed and now I've got it."

There was a note of finality in his voice, one that was given an added and special emphasis by a loud clunk and the purring noise which followed shortly after he hung up. For some moments Coghill sat there on the edge of the bed uncertain what to do, then, coming to a decision, he stubbed out his cigarette, broke the connection and started dialing.

"What's the matter?" Janice asked softly.

"Whitfield. I have a nasty feeling he's at the end of his tether and is about to do something stupid."

"You should sign up with the Samaritans."

"It seems I already have, the way you've been using me."

He held on to the phone, the receiver pressed against his ear, his temper fraying at the edges the longer the number rang. Finally, a bored voice said, "CID. Detective Sergeant Ingleson, night duty officer."

"Congratulations, sergeant," Coghill rasped. "What kept you?"

"I'm sorry, Guv," Ingleson said contritely, "I was out of the office. Call of nature…"

"I've just had a phone call from Whitfield," Coghill said, cutting the explanation short.

"That doesn't surprise me. He rang the station earlier and asked for your home number. I said you'd probably be out, but he wouldn't tell me why he wanted to get in touch with you." Ingleson paused, then said, "Was it important?"

"I'm not sure. How did Whitfield strike you? Did he seem hysterical, depressed or what?"

"He sounded a little agitated," Ingleson admitted, "but I didn't think anything of it. In my experience, most queers are inclined to be excitable in times of stress."

"Did he sound as though he'd been drinking?"

"No. No, he was as sober as a judge when I spoke to him."

"He isn't now," Coghill said. "You'd better put your skates on and get down there fast. I'll join you there in twenty minutes, but don't wait for me. If you can't get an answer, don't hesitate to break into the house."

"It's like that, is it?"

"I hope not," Coghill said and put the phone down. Racing against time, he grabbed his clothes from the chair, put his socks on inside out, then stepped into his slacks and zipped them up while shoving his feet into a pair of slip-on shoes. "I don't know how long I'll be gone," he grunted.

"So what's new?" Janice said.

"Not a damned thing. You'd better phone for a minicab to take you home."

"You're throwing me out?" Surprise and indignation vied with each other in her voice.

"You could put it like that." Coghill pulled a thin turtleneck sweater on over his head, slipped both arms into a sports jacket and checked the pockets to make sure he had his car keys and wallet. "I don't know how much minicab drivers charge these days," he said, "but don't stand for any old buck."

"Don't worry; I'll tell him my ex is a hard-nosed copper if there's any nonsense about the fare."

"I bet you will." Coghill took out his wallet, saw that apart from two one-pound notes he had nothing smaller than a tenner, and decided he could hardly leave her just a couple of quid. "Here," he said awkwardly, "this should cover your fare."

Her eyes went to the ten-pound note on the bedside table and narrowed spitefully. "You've forgotten the silver."

"What?"

"I believe it's customary to leave a tip for the maid."

"That's a pretty cheap remark, Jan."

"Well, I'm feeling pretty cheap," she called after him, then burst into tears as he slammed the front door and went on down to the street below.

Although the traffic was fairly light, the eight-mile journey across town to Wimbledon took longer than Coghill had anticipated. Two incidents delayed him, a burst gas main in Uxbridge Road and a prowl car that stopped him near the Putney bridge for illegal use of the Volvo's warning lights and for exceeding the speed limit in a restricted-speed zone. As a result, it was past eleven o'clock by the time he reached St. Mark's Hill.

A Ford Escort was parked in the Whitfields' driveway, but the house was in darkness and there was no sign of Ingleson. As he walked up the drive, Coghill noticed that the drapes had been drawn in the living room and, through the rippled glass to the left of the front door, he could see a shadowy figure in the recess under the staircase. Then the door opened at the sound of his footsteps and a grim-faced Ingleson was there to greet him.

"Whitfield's dead," Ingleson said bluntly. "I didn't waste any time getting here, but I was too late."

"It's not your fault; these things happen and there's nothing you can do about it." Coghill went through his pockets, found a pack of Silk Cut, lit two cigarettes and gave one to the detective sergeant.

"Thanks." Ingleson drew on the cigarette and slowly exhaled. "I've already contacted everybody I can think of — Superintendent Kingman, Doctor Harrison, the pathologist, the Regional Crime Squad and Commander Franklin. I didn't see any point in sending for an ambulance, thought it best to wait until our forensic people had had a good look around."

Coghill nodded. "Where did you find Whitfield?" he asked.

"In the dining alcove off the living room." Ingleson turned about, picked up the flashlight he'd left on the hall table by the wall phone and switched it on. "I'd better lead the way, Guv," he said. "One of the fuses has blown and none of the lights are working downstairs."

Coghill followed him down the narrow hall and into the living room on the right, the flashlight beam piercing the darkness to zero in on a pair of stockinged feet dangling in space above the overturned dining chair on the floor. Then it traveled slowly upward. Although Whitfield wasn't the first suicide victim Coghill had seen, the manner of his death was easily the most bizarre. As a preliminary step, he had apparently pushed the dining table toward the French windows and placed an upright chair on the dropleaf. Next, he had made a noose out of a length of electric cord and, after kicking off his shoes, had climbed up on to the makeshift scaffold to tie the loose end to the chandelier in the ceiling. Then he had slipped the noose around his neck and removed the electric light bulb.

"The switch is on and there's a burn on the index finger of his right hand," Ingleson said, as though reading his thoughts. "I figure he stuck it in the socket and the resultant shock knocked him off the chair."

"You're probably right; that's how it must have been."

The dining table was covered with bits of plaster and the chandelier was hanging askew, its glass pendants resting on Whitfield's chest like some monstrous diamond necklace.

"The curtains were already drawn when I arrived," Ingleson continued. "When I walked around to the back of the house, I could hear a transistor radio playing in the kitchen. Had to smash the utility room window to get in; fortunately, the key was still in the Chubb lock."

A car drew up outside the house, two doors opened and closed in quick succession and Ingleson broke off to listen to the sound of footsteps in the driveway. "Reinforcements," he said cryptically.

"The first of many," said Coghill. "You'd better let them in before they wake the whole street."

They arrived within a few minutes of each other, Kingman casually dressed and looking suntanned from the weekend he'd spent in Bournemouth, Tucker in a formal lounge suit and Franklin still in the dinner jacket and black tie he'd been wearing to attend a Sunday evening charity concert at the Festival Hall. The only absentee was Doctor Harrison, who'd telephoned to say that he could see no point in coming to the house if the police were satisfied Whitfield had committed suicide, and that being the case, he proposed to carry out the usual postmortem in the morning.

An element of farce about the whole business was compounded by the two forensic men, whose combined efforts to repair the fuse so that they could see what they were doing ended in a blowout each time the main switch was tripped. After three unsuccessful attempts to restore the lighting, Franklin finally lost his temper and told them to clear off and come back in the morning. The police photographer, uninhibited by the pitch-darkness, used up a reel of film and departed shortly before the ambulance arrived to collect the body. By that time, the press had somehow learned of the incident and several reporters had gathered outside the house. Knowing they would refuse to budge without an official statement, Franklin decided to hold an impromptu conference by candlelight in the kitchen.

"Well, now," he began, "I don't know how those people outside got to hear about Whitfield, but it certainly looks as though one of your officers must have tipped them off, Bert."

"It would seem so." Kingman leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest. "I'll tell you one thing, though," he growled, "whoever it was is going to wish he'd never been born when I catch up with him."

"Quite. The question is, what are we going to say to the press?" Franklin gazed at the assembled officers, then said, "Unless we're completely frank with them, they may jump to the wrong conclusions. You can be sure they'll latch on to the fact that Whitfield had been questioned at some length by the police shortly before he committed suicide, and I don't have to tell you what a meal they could make of that."

"Did he leave a note?" Tucker asked.

Coghill wasn't sure whom the question had been addressed to, but everybody was looking at him. "I didn't come across one in the living room," he said slowly.

"What about the rest of the house? Did you think to look in the study upstairs?"

The others had begun to arrive a bare ten minutes after Coghill had gotten there, but that didn't stop Tucker from implying he had been negligent. "Nobody's had a chance to yet."

"Well, it's about time somebody did," Tucker said.

"Too right." Franklin jerked a thumb at Ingleson. "You'd better check all the rooms while you're at it, Sergeant," he said.

"Yes, sir." Ingleson picked up his flashlight, left the kitchen and went upstairs. Moments later, they could hear him moving about in the study above their heads.

"Suppose there isn't a note?" Kingman said abruptly. "Suppose Whitfield made another phone call after he spoke to Tom?"

"I doubt if he did," Coghill said. "For one thing, it would have taken Whitfield at least ten minutes to prepare that scaffold and for another, Ingleson didn't waste any time getting here."

"We're going round and round in circles, getting nowhere," Franklin complained. "Those reporters will want to know why he committed suicide."

"Then I suggest we simply give them the bald facts and allow them to draw their own conclusions," Tucker said nonchalantly.

"What facts, what conclusions?"

"We can make the point that Whitfield was neither a model husband nor a reliable employee. As a result of questioning the other couriers at Travelways, we know he had a regular girl in Vienna, and according to his colleagues, they'd had to cover for him on more than one occasion when he was in the sack with her. And let's face it, he had every reason to hate his wife; she treated him like dirt, never ceased to remind him that the only things he owned were the clothes he stood up in."

"Who told you that?" Coghill asked.

"Whitfield. He dictated a very full statement and signed the original and three copies in the presence of his lawyer. Rest assured, it's all down there in black and white, the love nest at Abercorn House and the name of her last boyfriend, Oliver Leese."

"What about all the others, the men she was blackmailing?"

"Whitfield was reluctant to talk about them and I decided not to press him."

"Why?"

"I'm surprised you should ask, Inspector," Tucker said acidly. "The way the evidence was shaping up, there was a distinct possibility that we would eventually charge him with being an accessory to both murders. Naturally, in the circumstances, I didn't want to give Quainton any grounds for claiming that his statement had been obtained under duress."

Neither premise seemed likely to Coghill. Knowing Quainton and how anxious the lawyer was to come up smelling like a rose, he couldn't see him performing a sudden volte-face in court at the preliminary hearing. Nor was he entirely sure that Tucker really believed everything he'd just said.

"There are thirty-seven names in Karen Whitfield's address book," Franklin observed quietly. "And some of those men had an equally strong motive when you think of the harm she could have done to them."

"Maybe so, but I went through every entry and the figures show there wasn't a single one who'd refused to pay up. We should also remember that Whitfield had more to gain than any of her clients. At a conservative estimate, this house, the flat in Maida Vale, her jewelry and the two boutiques must be worth all of a hundred and fifty thousand, and that's not including the money she had in the bank."

Franklin was only too eager to accept the proposition; Coghill could tell that by the way the commander kept nodding his head. The Jeremy Ashforths and the Harold Egremonts could rest easy; Whitfield had been chosen as a convenient scapegoat and the police wouldn't be knocking on their doors. Any lingering doubt that he might be doing him an injustice was dispelled by Franklin's evident relief when Ingleson returned to the kitchen and informed him there was no suicide note.

12.

Coghill left the Volvo outside the cemetery gates and walked down a wide asphalt path between row upon row of weathered headstones. Although it was no longer raining, the dark cumulus clouds on the horizon looked ominous and there was an intermittent rumble of thunder in the distance. The atmosphere was oppressive and the utter stillness was yet another sign that this was merely an uneasy lull between storms.

The freshly dug grave was off to his right, four rows back from the asphalt path and directly in line with the public conveniences and the superintendent's office near the main entrance to the cemetery. Both hands shoved deep into the pockets of his raincoat, Coghill went on past the site, looking for a secluded spot where he could watch the interment without appearing obtrusive. The same idea had apparently occurred to Harry Mace, who was standing under a large yew tree a good twenty yards beyond the burial plot.

"Morning, Harry," he said, approaching the detective sergeant. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Nor me you, Guv." Mace removed the cigarette clinging to his bottom lip and stubbed it against the trunk of the yew tree. "Were you at the church?"

Coghill nodded. "Along with a handful of Karen's neighbors. Her son, Darren, was there, a tall gangling boy in long gray trousers and a regulation blazer. Either the headmaster's wife or the prep school matron was with him to lend moral support."

"Poor little bugger." Mace shook his head. "He's had a rough old time of it. I just hope those TV people keep their distance; the funeral's enough of an ordeal without cameras zooming in on him."

Coghill followed his gaze and saw two camera teams had ensconced themselves in front of a laurel hedge bordering the boundary railings. It was only to be expected that the media would want to cover the funeral; Whitfield's suicide made it even more newsworthy, especially as the morning papers had carried just a brief report in the stop press.

"I doubt if they'll move in close, Harry," he said.

"They'd better not," Mace growled.

A hearse drove slowly through the main gates and was followed by a large black limousine. Then a Cortina, a dark blue Jaguar and a Mini Metro pulled up outside the entrance to the cemetery and the remainder of the small congregation who'd attended the funeral service got out.

"The woman wearing a gray head scarf is Mrs. Underwood," Mace told him. "The fair-haired lad is Christopher Youens who gave us the license number of the BMW that nearly ran over her Pekinese. But I've never seen the willowy blonde in the navy two-piece costume before."

"Ah, that's June Strachey," Coghill said. "She's the manageress of the boutique in Wimbledon."

The hearse stopped a few yards beyond the graveside and four pallbearers got out, opened the double rear doors and, with practiced ease, removed the coffin and lifted it onto their shoulders. As they did so, the funeral director alighted from the limousine and adjusted his top hat, making sure the black ribbons were hanging correctly, while the chauffeur assisted Darren and the matronly lady from the Grange Prep School out of the car. Then the procession moved slowly forward along a narrow strip of lawn between the weathered headstones toward the open grave. With almost indecent haste, June Strachey and the other mourners cut across the grass to join them.

"I feel really sorry for that youngster," Mace said quietly. "He looks absolutely shattered now, but God knows how he'll feel by the time the media are through."

"I daresay the school will do their best to shield him from the worst."

"You're forgetting the other kids, Guv; they're bound to pass on the good news about his stepfather. Ingleson tells me that the statement we released to the press virtually said Whitfield hired somebody to kill his wife."

"Ingleson is exaggerating; we simply gave them the facts."

"And invited the reporters to draw their own conclusions." Mace lit another cigarette and dropped the spent match into a trash bin full of dead flowers. "Do you believe Trevor had a hand in his wife's murder?" he asked presently.

"I'm not sure of anything, Harry."

Franklin, Kingman and Tucker all appeared to think so, and who was he to say they were wrong? Nine murders out of ten were committed within the family circle and maybe he had attached too much significance to the fact that Karen Whitfield had been a high-priced call girl.

"Tucker has a reputation for being a hardnose, Guv."

And Whitfield was the sort of man he could reduce to a jelly. Trevor had had homosexual tendencies and Tucker had been astute enough to ferret that out. He had probably threatened him with the Theft Act of 1958 and a whole string of charges under Section 30 of the Sexual Offenders Act. That, and a lurid description of the sexual perversions he would be exposed to in prison, plus the biased advice offered by Stanley Quainton, would have induced Whitfield to make an incriminating statement.

"I phoned Swansea earlier this morning," Mace said abruptly. "It appears Pittis sold the BMW to a garage in Southwark."

"Did you pass the information on to the Regional Crime Squad?" Coghill asked him.

"There was no need to; the central licensing bureau had already been in touch with them. I suppose I should have told the Regional Crime Squad that I know a used car dealer in that neighborhood who's about as straight as a corkscrew, but it sort of slipped my mind."

"We're all inclined to be forgetful at times," Coghill observed in a neutral voice.

The priest was looking up at the lowering sky, hands clasped together in supplication. The matronly woman standing next to Darren gave him a gentle nudge and he bent down, picked up a handful of loose earth and dropped it into the grave.

"I was wondering if I shouldn't have a word with him, Guv? You can never tell, he might be able to put me on to the guy who sold the white Mini to Pittis."

"How well do you know this villain?"

"We go back a long way," Mace said.

The small crowd of mourners began to drift away from the graveside. Darren, his head bowed, walked on stiff legs toward the waiting limousine, the priest at his side murmuring comforting words which probably fell on deaf ears.

"What do you think, Guv?"

"I think you should renew an old acquaintance, Harry."

The hearse started moving and came on past the yew tree, the limousine close behind. The priest spared them a brief glance, his curiosity plainly aroused, but Darren looked straight ahead, tight-lipped and obviously struggling to hold back the tears.

"I'll be on my way then."

"Yes, you do that." Coghill watched the two vehicles make a double left turn to follow a parallel road back to the main gates and then set off toward the superintendent's office.

The wreaths and floral tributes had been laid out neatly in line on the path fronting the office, their attached cards prominently displayed so that he could see at a quick glance who had sent them. The Underwoods, the Youens, the headmaster and staff of the Grange Preparatory School, June Strachey and the staff of Karen's boutiques in Fulham and Wimbledon; the names of those outside the immediate family circle who'd wished to remember her were few in number and entirely predictable. It was no surprise either to find that Quainton should have sent a bunch of roses, but Coghill thought the dedication to a valued friend and client was a breathtaking piece of hypocrisy, even by the lawyer's standards.