Dead Men and Broken Hearts: A Lennox Thriller (Lennox 4) (25 page)

I wondered how long it would take for all this crap to hit the headlines. I hoped I’d be out of this jam before the papers got a hold of my name. In the meantime, I found myself thankful that I had quit my digs when I had instead of waiting the full month. At least I wouldn’t have to see that look of weary disappointment on her face when she found out I was in deep trouble again.

I must have dozed off eventually, but was woken again at three by voices from a cell further down the block: one voice loud, strident and shrill, crying out in pain; two others deep, quiet and controlled, occasionally grunting as if engaged in physical labour. Obviously a couple of Glasgow’s guardians of law and order had dropped in on a miscreant – at the dead of nightshift – to discuss the error of his ways. Maybe the grunting was them rearranging the furniture for their guest.

I wondered if I would get a visit, but guessed I wouldn’t. Paradoxically, that troubled me. The coppers were doing everything by the book with me, and that smacked of keeping their act clean for a date in the High Court, where the judge was allowed to wear a black cap when passing sentence.

The only window in the basement cell was high up and out of reach, but still barred and meshed. When they came round with a breakfast of the same scalding brown sugary sludge and butterless toast, the small square of window was still dark and they switched on the cell block lights again.

It was mid-day when they again parked me in the interrogation room, having left me to stew in my cell until then.
Ferguson and his dumb stooge Dunlop were waiting for me at the cheap oak table and a homely, uniformed WPC sat in the corner with a notepad, ready to take down in shorthand everything that was said. Everything by the book for the judge with the black cap.

Dunlop kicked off by mumbling through my caution that my answers could be used as evidence in court. Then they went through the questions. Had I killed Andrew Ellis in my Gordon Street offices? How did I get the bloody nose and the marks on my face? Could I identify the two men I
claimed
to see running away from my office?

‘And while Ellis was being murdered in your place of business,’ asked Dunlop, ‘you were meeting a Hungarian woman you say called herself
Magda
, attached to some refugee group?’

‘That’s right. You can ask at the station coffee bar.’

‘We have. You were there, all right, the girl at the cash counter recognized your photograph right away, but she didn’t see you with anyone else – mysterious foreign woman or otherwise.’

‘We sat over at the back. You couldn’t see us from the counter and Magda kept her back to everyone. At least it proves
I
was there, doesn’t it?’

‘It proves you were in the coffee bar, but not when. I get the feeling that the girl behind the counter took a shine to you, which is why she remembered you. But she’s hazy about the times. In fact, she guessed you were in a half hour before you said you were. And that doesn’t put you in the clear at all.’

‘She’s just muddled about the timing. Come on … if I went to the coffee bar deliberately to rig up an alibi, I’d have asked her the time, or if the station clock was right or some crap like that.’

‘Maybe you did,’ said Dunlop, his smug smile straining under
the weight of his fleshy cheeks. ‘Maybe she just forgot that you asked …’

I didn’t answer but made a face to suggest the question was just too dumb to warrant a reply. Jock Ferguson gave him a similar look and Dunlop’s fat neck and cheeks reddened.

‘Let’s talk about something else,’ said Ferguson. ‘I came into your office a couple of days ago and asked about the deaths of Thomas and Sylvia Dewar in their home in Drumchapel. Do you remember that?’

‘Of course …’

‘And you told me, when I specifically asked, that you had never met either of the Dewars before that date.’

‘That’s right. What’s this got to do with Ellis?’

Ferguson ignored me. ‘So you just went to the Dewars’ home in response to his telephone call earlier that day?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘I know that’s what you said …’ Ferguson held me in a hooded gaze. He rested his hand on a thick buff folder that sat on the desk. I had déjà-vu of Hopkins doing exactly the same thing during his interrogation. ‘Tell me, Lennox, has business been good? Of late, I mean?’

I shrugged. ‘Okay, I guess.’

‘I thought things might be a bit tight for you. You know, making you feel like you need to drum up a bit of business.’ Ferguson was trying to be sarcastic and he did so with the grace of a rhinoceros on ice-skates.

‘Your point?’

‘The Dewars’ door was open, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Just like you found the door to your office open?’

‘Just like I find a door open when a door is open anywhere.’

‘You found Mrs Dewar dead on the floor of the kitchen?’

‘Yes.’

‘And found Thomas Dewar hanging dead upstairs?’

‘That’s right. What are —’

‘You touched nothing in the Dewar home?’

‘Other than the ’phone to call the police, no.’

‘Okay.’ Ferguson paused, looking down at the desk and pursing his lips for a moment. ‘Do you know Mrs Maisie McCardle?’

‘Who?

‘Maisie McCardle. Do you know her?’

‘No. I’ve never heard the name before.’

‘No reason that you should have. She lives along the street from the Dewar home. A widow. Her husband died eight years ago and she has no family, so she devotes herself to her dog. She walks it regularly, three times a day, rain or shine.’

I hadn’t heard the name before, but an ugly, scowling woman and her ugly dog came immediately to mind. I was in trouble.

‘Listen, Jock —’

‘Mrs McCardle doesn’t have a lot in her life, so she tends to remember people. She remembers you, for example. She remembers seeing you drive away the night the Dewars’ bodies were discovered, but – and here’s the odd thing – she
also
remembers having seen you outside the Dewar home a week before, during the day. She’s very clear on that. The funny thing is you had a different car the first time. Now that would make me believe you’ve not been entirely straight with me. Of course, there’s always the possibility that old Maisie is mistaken, so let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Back to my question about your techniques for canvassing for business. You have just confirmed that you didn’t touch anything at the Dewar house …’

He paused to reach into the folder. He laid a small white
rectangle of card on the desk for me to see. I recognized it, of course: my business card. He repeated the process and placed a second next to it.

‘I have this very strange image of you entering the Dewar house, finding both spouses dead, then taking the time to take the wallet out of a dead man’s hip pocket while he’s dangling from the lightshade, slipping your business card in and putting the wallet back. Then, on your way out, you tuck a second business card into Sylvia Dewar’s address book next to the hall telephone. You see, that
must
be what happened …’ Ferguson leaned forward, dropping his tone a bar or two. ‘Because if it isn’t, then you have been telling me lies. You lied to me in your office when I asked you if you had previous contact with Dewar and you just repeated that lie to me just now.’

‘Okay, Jock, I can explain …’

‘I’m not finished.’

I waited for him to say his piece. Maybe that would give me enough time to put together how I was going to tell him the truth without it sounding like a cobbled together collection of hastily improvised lies.

‘We’ve been talking to a lot of people and tracing a lot of your steps,’ continued Ferguson. ‘I must say, I wish I had whatever it is that you’ve got going for you as far as the ladies are concerned. They all seem to remember you, even the more unlikely candidates. For example, a waitress in a tearoom in Blythswood Street. She recognized your picture too. She would swear in court that it was you who came into her tearoom and ordered coffees for you and your friend – your friend who looked more than a little shaken up. More than a little roughed up too. She remembers his face wasn’t so much swollen, but in
the process of swelling up, as if he was fresh from a fight or a beating.’

I stayed silent.

‘Do you know the
really
odd thing?’ he continued. ‘We showed her a photograph of Thomas Dewar and guess what? She positively identified him as your chum with the face like a slapped arse.’

‘Like I said, I can explain all of that.’

‘I’ll look forward to your explanation … but first, I’d like to explain something myself. A couple of the finer points about evidence. We talked about a circumstantial case; well, for a circumstantial case to have any value, it has to comprise a number of mutually supportive, court-admissible proofs. One of the main proofs is flight or intended flight. If a prosecutor can demonstrate that the accused was in the process of running away, or preparing to run away, then it is an admissible possible indicator of guilt. For example, if – immediately prior to the commission of a crime or crimes – the accused empties his bank account, quits his lodgings and cancels all of his charge accounts.’

I sighed. ‘I know you’re not going to believe this, Jock, but I decided to go back to Canada. I was going to tell you, but I’ve only just made up my mind to go.’

‘And you intend to go back when?’

‘Three, four weeks …’

‘That’s odd, because I called round to your digs and Fiona White – and correct me if I’m wrong, but you and Mrs White have more than a contractual relationship – Fiona White told me you’ve quit your digs and she has no idea where you’ve moved to. Then there’s the under manager at the bank, who actually used the phrase “indecent haste” when describing you
badgering him to speed up the transfer of money out of your savings account, as well as emptying your cash account there and then.’

‘Christ Jock, he’s a Scottish bank clerk. The Earth’s crust moves at “indecent haste” in comparison. I was just getting everything sorted out in advance, that’s all. I had to chase the bank or it would take forever.’

‘On its own, that might sound almost reasonable. But let’s go back to circumstantial proofs. Another is proof of concealment – if the accused had taken steps to hide himself. Where are you staying for the three or four weeks until you leave Bonnie Scotland?’

‘I already told Dunlop. The Paragon Hotel. In Garnethill.’

‘Yes,’ said Ferguson contemplatively. ‘We sent a couple of CID boys round to check it out. The rather attractive redhead there is another female under your spell it would seem. But there seems to be some confusion about your name – she swears blind that you are Mr Kelvin. Can you explain that?’

I felt my shoulders slump. ‘As a matter of fact, Jock, I can’t. Least not in a way that would make any sense.’

‘And then there’s the question as to why you have changed cars, less than a month before you return to Canada.’

‘I haven’t changed cars,’ I protested. ‘The Atlantic has been acting up and I’ve rented a car for a while. The garage that has the Atlantic is coming up with a price to buy it from me.’ It should have sounded more convincing, but it didn’t. ‘Are you seriously telling me that you think the Dewar deaths had anything to do with me? Everything I told you about him ’phoning me that day and the reason for his call … all that was absolutely true. I didn’t tell you about my previous visit because it had nothing to do with whatever was going on
between the Dewars. All I was doing was trying to keep things
uncomplicated
.’

‘Thing is,’ said Ferguson, ‘there’s a possible anomaly in the times of death of Sylvia and Thomas Dewar. Added to which there are no fingerprints on the ashtray. Now why would Thomas Dewar, knowing he was going to kill himself immediately after, wear gloves to murder his wife? And the pathologist’s guesses at timing suggest that she died sometime in the early afternoon, when Dewar was at work. So instead of a murder-suicide, what we could be looking at is Dewar, whose state of mind was pretty fragile because of his suspicions about his wife, coming home to find her murdered, decides he wants to join her and goes up to his room and strings himself up.’

‘But that puts me in the clear … I was there
after
Dewar hanged himself. Anyway, why would I then ’phone the police?’

‘Because you were there in the evening doesn’t mean you weren’t there earlier in the day. Maybe you forgot something, or maybe you were puzzled as to why there hadn’t been word of a murder in Drumchapel, and you went back to check it out. You get there and find a grief-stricken Dewar dangling from the ceiling and instantly you’ve got a patsy for his wife’s murder. It’s a godsend for you so you call it into the police.’

‘Or maybe it’s just the way I told it. Dewar is driven mad by his wife’s repeated infidelity, finally cracks and kills her, then himself.’

‘What about the delay between her death and his?’

‘I don’t know … maybe he’s in shock. Maybe he sits with her for a while or can’t make his mind up to do himself in too.’

‘And let me guess,’ chipped in Dunlop. ‘The day in the tearoom in Blythswood Street … he had the smacked-looking face because
you had been slapping the idea of murder-suicide out of him, is that it?’

I ran through what had happened that day and how Dewar had tried to jump me in Sauchiehall Street Lane, and how it was all a huge misunderstanding because he thought I was one of his wife’s wrestling partners. Maybe it was the prison uniform I was wearing, but when I heard myself say it all out loud, even I didn’t believe it. Ferguson sat impassively, as did his fat friend, and made no comment when I was finished.

‘Let’s move on,’ he said. ‘Ellis’s murder. You say that you were originally hired by Andrew Ellis’s wife to investigate the possibility that he was having an affair?’

‘That’s right.’

‘So you followed Ellis about, and got Archie McClelland to do the same, because you were being paid to by Pamela Ellis?’

‘Yes’

Ferguson frowned. ‘Well, that gives us a bit of a problem. You see, Mrs Ellis told us not only that she never hired you, or any other private detective, but that she never had any suspicions whatsoever about her husband’s fidelity. She’s never heard of you, Lennox.’