Brian Freemantle - A Mind to Kill

Bailey frowned, needing for the first time to go back to the file on his desk. It was several moments before he looked up, smiling. ‘Not a great deal in it, really. But on balance the right.’

‘What about the left arm. What was the extent of the hardening there?’

The pathologist went back to his file, although more briefly this time. ‘Very little. The softness of the skin was a contributory factor, I decided, to the puncture wound being larger than the others.’

‘Something else not in the newspaper reports but mentioned in your statement, was how long Mrs Lomax had been unconscious.’

Bailey breathed in sharply and the irritation made it even more difficult for him initially to respond. ‘Mr Davies was furious with the policeman, for talking about the bladder collapse. That was most unnecessary. Most distasteful.’

‘How long?’ repeated Hall.

‘A considerable time: the bladder collapse was an early indication of organ deterioration.’

‘Working back from the time she was found – three-twenty in the afternoon, according to Gerald Lomax – what time the previous night would she have become deeply unconscious?’

‘Twelve hours, at least. The evening meal had been steak: very little had been digested. The blood alcohol content was also extremely high.’

‘There was no mention whatsoever in any report I read but in your written statement you talked of an abrasion inside Mrs Lomax’s upper lip?’

Bailey nodded. ‘Something else that didn’t need to be brought out to cause Mr Lomax any further distress. In my opinion it resulted from Mrs Lomax, in a very unsteady condition, accidently striking her lip between the glass and her teeth, when she attempted to drink from the brandy goblet that was found on the bedside table.’

‘As a medical expert, what’s your opinion of Mrs Lomax being prescribed meberevine hydrochloride?’

Bailey gave the impression of considering the question. ‘As you know, a diabetic makes excess glucose. Some proprietary brands of meberevine hydrochloride have lactose and sucrose added to them. I don’t think it’s an ideal preparation for a diabetic but the two, by themselves and with the instructions being strictly followed, wouldn’t be overly dangerous. But with an excess of alcohol and insulin it is, as I said at the time, a lethal cocktail.’

He smiled, expectantly, but Hall didn’t respond. Instead, tightly, he said, ‘Thank you,’ and stood up. How many deaths crying out for a proper investigation, as this had been, were dismissed by platitudes, quick chats between fellow members of the local golf club and preconceived, unsubstantiated opinions?

Bailey frowned. ‘But I haven’t told you anything.’

‘Enough,’ assured Hall.

Hall considered recovering the car but decided against it, instead taking a taxi from the station. The recognition took longer than he expected and was encouragingly disinterested.

‘You’re the lawyer, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘She coming home.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Lots of stuff on television.’

‘I saw some of it.’

‘Lot of people believe in ghosts, you know. My Doris does.’

‘So do a lot of other people now.’

‘Suppose you’re right, considering.’

Hall was relieved to get to the one-constable police house at Four Marks, which was the closest to the Lomax mansion. He was early but Harry Elroyd was already waiting in a front parlour with chintz loose covers on the furniture and long ago photographs of the man stiffly upright in army sergeant’s uniform. Elroyd sat nervously with a tattered, yellowing notebook on his knee. With him was Paul Hughes, the police inspector whom Hall had confronted over the press intrusion and who had been called before Mr Justice Jarvis. A third, narrow-faced man very formally offered a card attesting that Derek Peterson was a solicitor at law.

‘Protecting the interests of the Constabulary,’ declared the man.

‘Do they need protecting?’

‘We’ve no indication of the purpose of this meeting.’

The personal curiosity went far beyond the professional but there wasn’t the awe of the hospital and Hall was glad. He recited the same explanation he’d given the pathologist and at once Peterson said, ‘Are you alleging professional negligence or incompetence?’

‘No. I simply want to talk to Constable Elroyd to understand a few things more clearly.’

‘Whom do you represent?’ asked the solicitor. ‘I can’t let this proceed unless I am sure you are representing someone.’

‘Mrs Jennifer Lomax, who is the unencumbered heir to the estate of Gerald James Lomax,’ said Hall, matching the formality.

Peterson nodded, the reluctance obvious. Mrs Elroyd came hesitantly in with coffee and biscuits on a tray. She was so intent upon Hall that she jarred the tray against the table edge, spilling the coffee, and hurried out muttering apologies. She was a lot fatter now than she’d been in the wedding photographs on the sideboard.

The irritation at the solicitor’s attitude was fleeting. If there were oversights in the investigation into Jane Lomax’s death – and Hall was becoming increasingly convinced there had been – then this man was responsible. Was there anything after so long to learn from a portly, rubicund country policeman who could probably spot an illegally shot pheasant through thick canvas but miss an inconsistency that might have led to a murder charge? ‘Did you know Mrs Lomax, before you went to the house that afternoon?’

‘Knew who she was,’ said the man, the voice blurred by his local accent. ‘She and the mister. They’d made themselves well enough known since moving in…’ He looked uncertainly at the senior officer. ‘Not, perhaps, as much as the new Mrs Lomax, though. I hope she’s going to be all right.’

‘So do we all,’ said Hall. ‘But let’s stay with the first Mrs Lomax. What sort of things did you see her at?’

‘Village show. She was high church so she worshipped in Alton but she gave a lot of money, over?1,000, to the church roof appeal here in the village. Even attended services there sometimes.’

‘So she was well liked?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘What about the pub?’

‘Pub?’

‘There is a local pub, isn’t there? Did she ever go there?’

‘No. They never did things like that.’

‘You hear a lot in a village like this, a man in your position?’

Elroyd smiled, proudly. ‘Keep my ear to the ground. Eyes open.’

If only, thought Hall. ‘Did you ever hear that Mrs Lomax drank?’

‘I never did. That’s what surprised me that day, all that drink around.’

‘Not enough to mention it to anyone? A senior officer, maybe?’

Peterson stirred.

‘I didn’t know she had an illness: that she shouldn’t,’ protested the man. ‘What people do in their own house is their business, as long as it’s not breaking the law, isn’t it?’

‘That sounds perfectly satisfactory to me,’ said Hughes, in quick support.

It did, conceded Hall. ‘I know what you found in the kitchen and in the bedroom but what about the rest of the house? Was it tidy or untidy?’

‘Very tidy. Mrs Simpson was the housekeeper then. She’s a very neat person. Her cottage is a picture.’

‘Mrs Lomax was in her nightdress, in bed, when you entered the bedroom?’

‘Dr Greenaway and the ambulance people were trying to revive her.’

‘This is all in Constable Elroyd’s statement,’ reminded Peterson.

Hall ignored the interruption. ‘What about the clothes Mrs Lomax had been wearing, before she changed into her nightdress. Was there any sign of them around the bedroom?’

Elroyd shifted, uncomfortably, squinting down into the ancient book. Looking up doubtfully he said, ‘I haven’t made a note here of any day clothes.’