A Fatal Obsession Page 3

  Clement sighed heavily now as he took a large gulp of the claret. He was vaguely aware that, since he’d ceased operating, he had slowly grown used to becoming a social drinker – in a minor way. Fastidious about not touching alcohol for so many years, it made a nice change to be able to indulge now and then.

  But, he thought now, with a snort of amusement, if people did begin to detect the odd whiff of alcohol on his breath, getting a reputation for being a bit of a lush could be a positive bonus. It would help explain the odd stumble or two, or a bout of clumsy shaking.

  Now how was that for irony? A man who’d always been careful not to imbibe too much being taken for a lush? Still, it was better than being thrown on the scrap heap.

  Outside, the hail passed, but he continued to stare into the fire, his mind drifting back over the years.

  The loss of so much in such a short space of time might have broken a lesser man. But Clement Ryder had never been the sort of man to let life kick him when he was down. So, after tendering his immediate resignation, he had looked around for something to fill his time.

  He’d returned to Oxford, but had no desire to teach. Instead, he’d simply sat down one day and asked himself what he did – and didn’t – want from life.

  He certainly didn’t want to leave the world of medicine altogether, but he was wise enough – and knew himself well enough – to know that becoming a GP or consultant at some hospital would soon drive him insane. Surgeons were lofty individuals with very healthy egos, and heart and brain surgeons, especially, were used, quite literally, to holding the balance of life and death in their hands.

  As ugly and appalling as it sounded, he knew he couldn’t bear to become something less than he’d once been. He also felt he needed a complete change of direction – the challenge of something new, something that could grab his interest, and which would prevent him from slipping into self-pity or bitterness. In short, he needed another major and rewarding goal to aim for.

  So, after some thought and investigation, he’d studied law, and retrained to become a coroner.

  And it was the coroner’s court that had now been his home, and his world, for the last few years. There, his sharp mind, medical knowledge, newly acquired legal training and natural, dogged determination to find out the truth had become vital assets.

  He prided himself – with some justification – on just how quickly he’d come to grips with his new role. After barely a year, he was confident he could tell when witnesses were lying or fudging. He had quickly developed a sixth sense for what the police were thinking and wanted from him – and formed his own opinion as to whether or not to give it to them. And while this latter trait might not have endeared him overmuch to the local constabulary, no one had any doubt that, when Dr Clement Ryder was presiding, a case wouldn’t be allowed to get out of hand.

  He was both thorough and competent, and didn’t need to be told his name was both feared and respected by those that mattered – he simply took it for granted!

  Which was why the thought of their pity, or glee, should his medical condition became known, was anathema to him. And why he was so determined to keep it a secret for as long as humanly possible. Besides, they’d be bound to try and oust him from his office, and he was damned if he was going to restart his life a third time. No, they’d have to drag him from the coroner’s court by the scruff of his neck, kicking and screaming.

  And it would take someone with far more guts than any of his clerks, or those namby-pambies at the Town Hall to do that!

  With a grunt of amusement, Clement drank the last of his claret. He had court tomorrow and would be glad of a good night’s sleep. He’d be damned if he’d let his illness affect his professionalism.

  He got slowly to his feet – and at six-feet-one he had some way to rise from the chair. In the window he caught a glimpse of his reflection as he passed – his hair now fully silver/white, without even a hint of the dark brown it had once been. Rather watery grey eyes matched the rainwater running down the glass.

  With some satisfaction, he noticed that his hand had stopped trembling. For now, anyway. With a sense of relief, he gave a mild, self-satisfied grunt.

  Just as he suspected, there were still many good years left in him yet. Which was just as well. Only last year he’d had to steer a jury which had obviously been intent on bringing in an accidental verdict towards an open verdict instead, leaving the way clear for the police to pursue the case further and eventually arrest the guilty party for negligent manslaughter.

  As a surgeon who had once had the power of life and death over people, Clement Ryder had no qualms about sitting in judgement over witnesses he knew to be guilty. And making sure they got their just deserts. On his watch, nobody got away with anything!

  Naturally, such an attitude hadn’t earned him many friends, but then Clement had never been a man who’d needed the approbation of others. Which was probably just as well, since his friends – real, true friends – were few.

  The grandfather clock in the small hallway struck eleven as he tramped past it on his way to the stairs. Tomorrow the inquest on a schoolgirl who’d died after being struck by a car in St Giles would open.

  Her grieving family would all be in attendance. It was going to be grim.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Trudy’s black eye had paled into a mere smudge of yellow when, five days after catching the bag-snatcher (and losing the collar to the golden-haired, blue-eyed boy, Rodney Broadstairs), she returned from the Records Office and saw that something had caused a stir in the main office.

  Sidling over to Rodney, who was sitting at a desk, painstakingly typing out a report with his two forefingers, she whispered, ‘What’s up?’

  She nodded at the portly, prosperous-looking man with a neat moustache who was being ushered very civilly into Jennings’s private office by Sergeant O’Grady.

  ‘Dunno,’ Rodney said vaguely. ‘Some bigwig not happy about some poison-pen letters or something.’

  Trudy sighed.

  Knowing that pumping him for further information would be useless, since Rodney tended to be able to deal with only one thing at a time, Trudy sauntered casually towards the DI’s slightly open door, a file in hand for camouflage.

  Much to her chagrin, after her recent stint of roughhousing with the purse-snatcher, DI Jennings had promptly assigned her to Records and filing work. Now, opening the filing-cabinet drawer nearest to Jennings’s office (and pretending to search diligently for the right spot to deposit the file), she let her ears flap unashamedly.

  Inside the office, Sir Marcus Deering, slightly red-faced and breathing a touch heavily, slapped a piece of paper down onto the desk and snapped, ‘There!’ He took a long, shaky breath. ‘Just you read that and then tell me I’m overreacting,’ he challenged.

  Jennings, at not quite forty years of age, made vaguely appeasing sounds. A slender man with thinning fair hair and a nose just big enough to make him feel self-conscious about it, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  When Sir Marcus Deering had first telephoned to say he would be calling in and expected to see someone senior, he’d known he’d have to be careful. Naturally, his superiors would expect him to treat the man with kid gloves. The businessman’s charitable donations to many local good causes (including the police widows and orphans fund) were very well known. As was the fact that he sat on several boards where his influence spread further than just the Town Hall.

  Also, Jennings had no doubt at all that he was a fellow Mason.

  Mindful of all this, he cleared his throat carefully and read the green-inked missive in front of him.

  YOU HAVE FAILED TO DO THE RIGHT THING. YOU WERE WARNED THAT YOU ONLY HAD ONE MORE CHANCE. NOW YOUR SON WILL DIE. HE WILL DIE AT EXACTLY TWELVE NOON TOMORROW. PERHAPS THEN YOU WILL DO THE RIGHT THING.

  Over his right shoulder, Sergeant O’Grady gave a slight sigh. A slightly chubby man with a sandy quiff that tended to flop over his forehead, the Sergeant, at forty-one, had
long since given up on any hopes of gaining further promotion. Not that it worried him much. He’d been at the station for years and had it running just as he liked it.

  Now he pursed his lips. When the Inspector had told him a local dignitary had been receiving poison-pen letters he hadn’t been expecting this. The usual run-of-the-mill stuff tended to accuse the recipients of sexual misbehaviour. More rarely, they included death threats – but nothing this precise. In fact, to Mike O’Grady’s mind, there was something uncannily odd about the specific threat. What kind of madman actually told you when he intended to strike?

  ‘I can see that you would find this very distressing, sir,’ DI Jennings began diplomatically. ‘But first, let me assure you that nearly all anonymous letters are the work of cranks, and any threats made in them are very seldom carried out. What’s more, they’re usually written by women (rather than men) who either have delusions of grandeur or whopping great inferiority complexes. On the whole, they tend to be a rather sorry, pathetic bunch.’

  Sir Marcus, who was nervously fiddling with his hat – a nice homburg in dark grey – snorted impatiently. ‘Do you think I’m not aware of all that, man? That’s why, when I first started getting these blasted things, I just ignored them. Threw the first one in the bin, where it belonged. But when they kept on coming, all saying the same blessed thing, I started saving them – just in case. But this is the first one that’s threatened my son, damn it! That’s going too far.’

  Jennings slowly sat up a little straighter in his chair. ‘You’ve had others, you say, sir? I don’t suppose you brought…’ He broke off as Sir Marcus grunted and pulled a few sheets of paper from his pocket.

  ‘Yes. Here, read them. All identical, as you can see, except for these last two.’

  ‘Hmmm… yes. I can see why they’d make you feel uneasy, Sir Marcus,’ the DI conceded. ‘Do you have any idea who might have sent them?’

  ‘Not a clue,’ Sir Marcus shot back shortly. ‘And don’t think I haven’t wondered. This last month or so, I’ve done little else.’

  ‘Anybody you had cause to sack recently?’ Jennings persisted. ‘You’re bound to have a disgruntled employee or two in the offing, so to speak?’

  ‘Bound to,’ Sir Marcus said offhandedly. ‘But I doubt it would run to this, do you?’

  Jennings sighed. ‘Perhaps not, sir,’ he agreed, although secretly he wasn’t so sure. Folk did odd things when they got their gander up. ‘What about your domestic staff, sir?’

  ‘No, no. Been with me years, all of them,’ the millionaire said dismissively. ‘Well, the cook and my butler, certainly. The housemaids seem to come and go… leave all that sort of thing to my wife.’

  ‘Hmmm. And do you, er…’ Jennings paused, trying to find a tactful way to put the next question. ‘Do you have any idea what our anonymous letter writer means when they urge you to do the right thing?’

  Sir Marcus wavered. Again, he thought about the fire. And again he dismissed it. It was so long ago now, and it definitely hadn’t been his fault. ‘Er, no. That’s what’s so frustrating. Why can’t this bloody person just say what they mean in straightforward language? Usually these anonymous letters have no trouble doing that, do they?’

  And Jennings was forced to agree that Sir Marcus had a point. Your run-of-the-mill nasty letter usually spelt out, in very colourful language indeed sometimes, exactly what was on the writer’s mind.

  ‘It’s this blasted threat to Anthony that’s really thrown me,’ Sir Marcus admitted with a heavy sigh. ‘The boy just laughs it off, of course, but I’m not so sure.’ He leaned forward slightly in his chair and fixed the Inspector with a fierce eye. ‘Isn’t it the job of the police to protect citizens when their lives are being threatened?’

  And there it was, Jennings thought, biting back a groan. Ever since he’d read the letter, he’d just known this would be coming. And of course there was no getting around it. He’d have to waste a certain number of man hours on it.

  ‘Yes, sir, of course it is,’ he said soothingly. ‘And you can be assured that, come noon tomorrow, Sergeant O’Grady here will be at your house, and will have your son under observation at all times.’

  ‘Yes, well… so I should jolly well hope,’ Sir Marcus said, a little more mollified now as he leant back in his chair. ‘I’ve told Anthony I want him in the house, and although he kicked up a bit of a fuss about it, he’s agreed. Mind you, he says he can take care of himself, and I dare say he can, but, well, when you’re dealing with someone a bit cracked, as this blasted idiot obviously is, you never can tell, can you? I dare say Anthony could acquit himself well if it came to a brawl or a bout of fisticuffs,’ his father boasted proudly, ‘but what if the maniac has a knife? Or worse, a gun?’

  ‘I think that’s highly unlikely, Sir Marcus,’ Jennings reassured him promptly. But secretly, he had to wonder. A lot of men had brought their service revolvers back with them from the war. They weren’t supposed to, of course, but they did. So it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that the letter writer had the wherewithal to follow up on his threat to kill Sir Marcus’s son.

  ‘That’s as may be. But until we find out who’s been writing these damn letters, how can we be sure?’ Sir Marcus demanded fretfully. ‘It may well turn out to be some demented old woman who gets a kick out of scaring people, or some weedy little clerk in one of my back offices with a Napoleon complex or bearing a grudge of some kind. But then again it might not! Damn it, man, I can’t go around the rest of my life looking over my shoulder!’

  ‘No, sir, of course you can’t,’ Jennings said, and not without genuine sympathy for his point of view. ‘And we’ll definitely look into it for you. If you could just provide us with a list of anybody you think might, even by the remotest chance, have some sort of grudge against you or your family, sir?’

  The businessman nodded glumly and rose ponderously to his feet. ‘Very well, I’ll do that. And you’ll be at the house tomorrow?’ he demanded, drawing out one of his personal visiting cards and placing it on the desk. ‘This is the address.’

  ‘Yes, sir, my Sergeant and another constable will be there bright and early,’ Jennings promised. ‘I take it your son lives with you?’

  ‘At the moment. He has a flat in London, of course, but he’s still up with us for Christmas. He likes to attend the Boxing Day hunt,’ the older man said, a fond glint coming to his eye as he talked about his son and heir. ‘So he always stays on for another couple of weeks to enjoy the gallops. Boy always was horse-mad, and rides every day he’s with us.’

  Jennings, not one whit interested, nodded vaguely. ‘I see, sir. Well, leave it with us. Sergeant, show Sir Marcus out.’

  Outside, Trudy stepped smartly away from the filing cabinet and nonchalantly moved back towards a free desk.

  Sergeant O’Grady shot her a quick look, lips twitching, as he ushered their visitor out.

  Once back in with the DI, he sighed in sympathy. ‘It’s a bit of a pig, sir, and no mistake,’ he said flatly. ‘But there’s nothing much we can do for him, of course. Sooner or later our letter-writing friend will just get bored and move on to some other target. And as for the chances of anything funny happening tomorrow bang on noon…’ O’Grady snorted. ‘Well, that’s about on a par with pigs being seen flying over Brize Norton airbase.’

  ‘No good telling Sir Marcus that, though,’ Jennings said with a brief smile. ‘And I don’t mind telling you, that threat to his son was a bit odd. Naming a specific date and time like that.’

  ‘Yes,’ O’Grady agreed uncertainly. ‘It’s not the usual run-of-the-mill thing, I’ll grant you.’ And he wondered if his superior had picked up on the slight hesitation when he’d asked Sir Marcus if he had any idea what the letter writer meant by ‘doing the right thing’. Because the Sergeant was sure Sir Marcus had definitely looked a bit shifty-eyed then. And if the millionaire didn’t have a skeleton or two in his cupboard, he’d eat his hat. The rich, in his experience, always had something the
y’d prefer to keep quiet about.

  ‘Well, go and hold their hands tomorrow anyway,’ Jennings ordered briskly. ‘And although I agree that the chances of anything coming of it are virtually nil, take a strapping lad with you just in case. Broadstairs, perhaps. He’s handy to have in a scrap.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Oh, and Sergeant…’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘When you go tomorrow, take WPC Loveday with you, will you? All week long she’s been giving me long-suffering looks. It’s beginning to get on my nerves. She can help question the housemaids or something. They won’t know anything, naturally, so it won’t matter if she cocks it up.’

  O’Grady grinned. ‘Good idea, sir. It’ll be good practice for her too – honing her questioning skills.’

  Jennings shrugged indifferently.

  But as he closed the door behind him, Mike O’Grady didn’t think it was at all likely that WPC Trudy Loveday would cock anything up. She was a bright enough girl and, being pretty and personable as well, would probably have Sir Marcus’s domestic staff quickly eating out of her hand.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The next morning, Mavis McGillicuddy dunked a soldier into her boiled egg and glanced at the kitchen clock. She had an hour yet before she had to get her granddaughter up for school, which was just as well, since, at ten years old, Marie was fast getting to the stage where her endearingly childish eagerness to please was beginning to transform into something more mutinous.

  Not that Mavis minded all the ups and downs that came with child rearing, even at her age. Most women in their early sixties might have thought all that was behind them now, but Mavis was very much aware that without her son and his daughter living with her, she’d be just one more lonely widow.

  And she’d much rather be rushed off her feet or dealing with a childish tantrum than sitting twiddling her thumbs.