Quintin Jardine - Stay of Execution

‘Well I’ll tell you what; you ask the thief. . only catching him might not be too easy.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ Rose argued. ‘I could probably give you a dozen names, and he’d be among them. As it is, the emergency service has a tape of the call. I’ve told George Regan to get hold of it and have a listen. If nobody in our office twigs the voice, he’ll take it around the CID offices to see if anyone else does.’

‘But he won’t have the gear any more, so he won’t say a word. .’

‘Depends how I ask him.’

‘You could get the DCC to ask him, and you still wouldn’t get anywhere.’

‘Time may tell, but for now, Mrs Whetstone’s had time to get her coat off. Let’s go and break the bad news.’

‘Unless she’s been out shopping for a new black suit already,’ Steele muttered.

‘Cynic,’ Rose chided him. ‘Come on.’ She stepped out of the car, into the cold grey afternoon.

They crossed the street and opened the blue-painted iron gate, then walked once again up the paved pathway to the entrance porch. Steele rang the doorbell.

In fact, the woman was still wearing her heavy coat when she opened the door. She was naturally large and formidable, and it made her look all the more imposing. Although she was in her early fifties, she was fresh-faced and she wore no makeup, other than mascara and a very light lipstick. ‘Not again,’ she exclaimed.

‘Excuse me?’ said Rose.

‘I said, not again,’ she repeated. ‘I had two of you people at the door on Monday afternoon. I thought I made my feelings perfectly clear then. If not, let me say it again. I am not sympathetic to fundamentalist religious views, I think that you are vain, silly, obsessive people and I would like you to go away.’

The detective superintendent took out her warrant card and held it up; Steele following suit. She smiled. ‘Mrs Whetstone,’ she explained, ‘we’re not Jehovah’s Witnesses. We’re police officers. I’m Detective Superintendent Rose and this is Detective Inspector Steele.’

The woman in the doorway blinked. ‘You are?’ She peered at their identification. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. They’ve been canvassing this area lately, you see, and I find that unless you are very firm with them you have trouble getting rid of them. How can I help you? Has there been a crime in the neighbourhood?’

‘No,’ said Rose, quietly. ‘That’s not what it’s about. May we come in, please? It would be better if we did.’

The first sign of uncertainty showed on Virginia Whetstone’s face. ‘Of course.’ She opened the door wider and stepped aside to allow them to enter, slipping off her coat as they passed her and turning to hang it on a hallstand. ‘Go into the drawing room; first door on the left. Don’t mind the dog; I’ve only just let him back inside, and it would be cruel to put him out again.’

Stevie Steele was a dog lover. . he would have owned one, but for his single lifestyle. . but he had never seen one quite like the animal that looked up at them as they entered the big, well-furnished room. It was lying on a rug in front of the fire, as big as a German shepherd, with a pure white coat. He might have taken it for an albino, but for the fact that it had vivid blue eyes. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘He’s a Siberian husky,’ said his owner. ‘The size of him scares some people, but Blue’s as docile as they come, just a little down because I haven’t been able to walk him in this damn fog. That should be my husband’s job, of course, but he’s never. .’ She faltered, as if she was no longer able to keep her anxiety at bay. ‘This is about Ivor, isn’t it? Has there been an accident?’

Maggie Rose found herself wondering how often she had been asked that question in her police career. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘But what we have to tell you is still the worst possible news. The body of a man was found on the Meadows this morning. We believe it to be that of your husband.’

Virginia Whetstone blinked, then looked down at the dog. She reached out a hand and touched the back of a blue, cloth-covered armchair, then seemed to feel her way round it, until she sat down. ‘I see,’ she whispered. ‘You believe that it’s Ivor.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re certain?’

The superintendent glanced across the room at a large framed photograph that stood on a sideboard against the wall, beside the door. It showed Mr and Mrs Whetstone in evening dress; two tall, smiling, confident people. ‘As certain as I can be without a formal identification. There was a driving licence in his wallet.’

‘I see,’ the widow said again. She looked quickly up at Rose, then back at the dog; she stayed motionless for several seconds, until suddenly she stood up. ‘Would you excuse me for a few minutes?’ she asked. ‘I think I need to be alone for a bit.’ Her cheeks, pink when she had opened the door, had a pale yellowish tinge to them.

‘Of course,’ Rose agreed. ‘Would you like us to wait in our car for a while? We don’t mind.’

‘No, no. You stay here with Blue. I’ll just go upstairs and,’ she paused, ‘compose myself.’ She frowned. ‘Or better still,’ she said, with an attempt at briskness, ‘I’ll go through to the kitchen and make us all a cup of tea. They say it’s called for at a time like this.’

Steele would have preferred coffee, but he decided not to ask for it. Instead he stood silently to one side as she left the room. ‘Should we be doing this?’ he asked. ‘Leaving her alone, I mean. If this is a murder inquiry. . and it bloody well is. . she might be a suspect, for all we know at this stage.’

‘She couldn’t have got him up there,’ the superintendent pointed out.

‘Maybe she had help. I mean. .’

‘I know, I know. Stranger things have happened, but in the absence of proof, let’s just be kind, and assume that we’ve broken the worst news this lady’s ever had in her life, and let’s help her handle it the best we can.’

Steele smiled grimly. ‘I suppose so. You’re right, of course. Listen to me, for Christ’s sake, quoting the book at you. It must have been exposure to Manny English this morning that did it.’ He crouched down beside the dog and scratched it behind the ear; the animal rolled on to its side. He played with it for a while, and it was still licking his hand when Mrs Whetstone came back into the drawing room. She was carrying a tray with three mugs, a sugar bowl and a milk jug. Her face was still as pale, and the rattling of spoons on the tray told the detectives that she was trembling. Steele jumped quickly to his feet and relieved her of her burden.

She asked for no milk, one sugar; having been brought up to believe that hot sweet tea was a remedy for everything from shock to shingles, the inspector gave her two. She sipped the brew as she settled back into the armchair. The two detectives took their mugs and sat on the settee, part of a traditional suite.

‘You understand that there are some questions we must ask you, Mrs Whetstone,’ Rose began.

‘Of course.’ Her voice was strong and steady, but the officers could tell that it needed an effort to keep it that way.

‘It doesn’t have to be now, though. I can put that off for a bit, if you wish.’

The woman shook her head. Reflections of the room’s central light sparkled in her hair. ‘No, I’ll deal with that now. I have some questions of my own first, if you don’t mind.’

‘What can we tell you?’

‘You can tell me what happened to Ivor. Was he attacked? Was he mugged?’

Rose took a deep breath. ‘He was found hanging from a tree,’ she replied quietly.

Virginia Whetstone flinched; her hand shook violently for a moment, spilling some tea into her lap. ‘Oh dear,’ she whispered, pawing absently at the marks. ‘Had he been there long when he was found?’ she asked.