Peter Lovesey - Wobble to Death

Constable Edward Thackeray was not a man to be trou-bled by atmospheres, sinister or otherwise. His long career in the Force was blemished here and there by other short-comings, but in situations that required a steady pulse he was exemplary. It had become accepted in every station at which he served (he was often moved) that Thackeray was the constable who attended the most gruesome occasions; he was a tower of strength at exhumations. This gift unhap-pily did not bring the promotion that he once expected, but it had, early in 1878, brought him on to the fringe of a mur-der investigation, leading to the arrest of the notorious Charles Peace. The formation of the Detective Branch soon afterwards, and the call for constables experienced in serious crimes led to Thackeray’s present appointment. He was justly proud.

He approached the track and watched the solitary pedes-trian for a full lap, assessing the rate of progress as a cautious swimmer tests the water. At length he recognised Cribb’s brisk step somewhere behind him, and this encouraged him to cross the arena to await Mostyn-Smith on the track itself. He stepped smartly away at the right moment, pace for pace with the walker, exchanged identities and then gave all his attention to the walk. The rate of progress was not exces-sive, but he found that to maintain it comfortably he had to swing his arms across his chest. That, in ulster and bowler-hat, embarrassed him a little. Somewhere in the shadows Cribb would be savouring the spectacle.

At length, inhibitions conquered, he opened the ques-tioning.

‘You are the doctor who attended the man that died?’

‘I assisted. The official doctor was always in charge of the patient,’ answered Mostyn-Smith, speaking without strain.

‘You was with him till the end, though?’

‘Yes, that is true.’

‘What we need to know, Doctor, is whether he made statements of any sort while you attended him.’

There was a pause while they passed close to the lap-scorer.

‘Not strictly statements,’ Mostyn-Smith said. ‘The spasms were set off by the slightest movement, you see. Although he was fully conscious, we tried to discourage him from speech, even early in the condition. He did, however, make it clear, by the briefest utterances, that he could not understand the reason for his condition.’

‘What was they, sir?’

Thackeray instinctively felt for his notebook, thought again, and let it drop back into the pocket.

‘Oh, odd fragments. I remember that he said, “Never happened to me before.” And later, “What causes this?” Otherwise they were mostly exclamations of pain.’

The constable inhaled a gulp of air, committing the phrases to memory.

‘Did you give the man anything to drink?’

‘Warm tea, Officer. It sometimes helps.’

‘Nobody else visited the room I suppose?’

‘Nobody else.’

‘Thank you, sir. You didn’t know Mr Darrell before the race?’

‘Not at all.’

‘I think that’s all then, sir. You carrying on like this for long?’

‘Until Saturday. Good night to you.’

Thackeray eased his stride, and Mostyn-Smith padded cheerfully away into the gloom. The constable raised a leg and massaged his aching shin. At Cribb’s voice, immediately behind him, he dropped it like a guardsman.

‘Watch it, Thackeray. Next event the high jump.’

A bleak smile greeted the sergeant.

‘Right, then. What did you get while you were footing it?’ ‘Just as you thought, Sarge. Victim said very little, but enough to put suicide out of the question.’

They approached Darrell’s tent. Thackeray was moving forward to open the flap, when Cribb restrained him, rais-ing a hand for silence. With the stealth of a brave he crept to the opening, loosened the flap and flung it open. Someone inside scrambled to his feet. It was a uniformed policeman.

‘Never rest on duty,’ Cribb advised him. ‘I might have held a knife, lad.’

The young constable sheepishly emerged to face a with-ering look from Thackeray. Cribb dismissed him to the Hall’s police office where the detectives had first swooped on him as he was drinking cocoa, earlier in the evening.

With the lamp ignited, Darrell’s tent made a passable interviewing room. As well as two chairs and a bedside table, which Thackeray at once rearranged, there was a gas-ring and kettle. Milk and a teapot were found in a small food-cupboard, which also contained bread, whisky, a tin of liniment, various potions, a leathery remnant of calf-bladder and a slice of strong-smelling cod. Still on the table were the bottle and mug from which Darrell had taken Monk’s ‘bracer.’ Cribb sniffed at them charily and removed them to the cupboard.

‘We’ll have every liquid analysed,’ he announced. ‘Your job, Thackeray. Get ’em out at daybreak to a lab. Now where’s this trainer? Monk… Monk; heard of him, have you?’

‘Can’t say that I have, Sarge. But that don’t mean a lot. On my earnings I ain’t what you’d call one of the Fancy.’

‘Just as well,’ Cribb reassured him. ‘But if you ever do lay a bet, remember this: four legs support a body better than two. I’ll trade foot-racing for a Newmarket sweep any day.’ There was the sound outside of scuffled footsteps. Walter Jacobson entered, half-supporting Sam Monk, a bedraggled figure, damp about the head and shoulders. He deposited him in the waiting chair. He was about to seat himself on the still unmade bed when Cribb intervened.

‘My thanks, sir. And now you-and Mr Herriott’ (the promoter had just heralded his entry by kicking a hip bath) ‘shall get some sleep. Busy day coming up, I dare say.’

After their exit, Thackeray fastened the flap and took a standing position behind Monk, resting his weight on the chair-back. The flickering light greatly magnified his shadow so that it loomed over the trainer like a shade from hell. It was not his intention to terrorise the man. He was there merely to see that Monk did not relapse into sleep. The worst that threatened was a timely prod.

‘Your name Monk?’ Cribb began, without much refinement.

‘Yes.’

‘You know who we are? Police officers.’

A wary glint in his eye showed that the point had not escaped Monk.

‘Making inquiries into the death of Charles Darrell.’

A pause, while Cribb studied his man.

‘You’re fit to talk, are you?’

‘Yes,’ answered Monk without enthusiasm.

‘Known him long, then?’

‘Two year, off and on.’

‘And took over his training…?’

‘December, Seventy-seven. He managed himself up to then.’ ‘You made a better runner of him, though?’

Monk was not easily deceived by flattery.

‘He knew the game well enough before he met me.’

‘Never took such big prizes, though.’

Cribb’s brief study of Darrell’s career was helpful. The praise loosened Monk’s tongue a little.

‘I taught him a bit. We was a good partnership, me and Charlie. He would have won this mix, no doubt of that. Bloody tragic, this is.’

‘You prepared him well, then?’

‘Never better. When Charlie toed the scratch last Sunday night he was set for six hundred. No doubt of it.’

Cribb shifted suddenly to the attack.

‘What went wrong, then?’

‘What d’you mean, mister?’

‘The man was limping by Monday night. That’s no cham-pion.’

‘Ah, foot trouble. Nought you can do about that. Blisters. I had ’em fixed, though. Likely he looked worse than he was. Charlie could be tricky, you know.’

‘Right! Tuesday morning, one o’clock. He comes in here to sleep. What state is he in?’

The switch of tense and the sudden reminder where they were proved effective. From Monk’s expression it was clear that the scene flashed vividly into his mind’s eye.