A Fatal Flaw Page 4
These, then, were the facts.
Not quite so easy to ascertain were the more nebulous details surrounding the personality and circumstances of the deceased, in the weeks prior to her death.
Abigail Trent, according to all who knew her, was a pretty 19-year-old girl who had lived with her mother and father all her life. First that had been in Cowley, before the family moved to an area near Parklands on the outskirts of Summertown – a much more upmarket suburb of the city – when she was just 9 years old. She had three sisters and two brothers – all of whom were older than herself – and she had clearly been a young lady who had intended to ‘get on’ in life.
Unlike her sisters – who had married local lads before reaching their twenties – and her brothers – who both worked as labourers in a local construction firm – Abigail had always had (as her mother had proudly stated) ambition.
Being the youngest child, she had been the one to benefit most from the family’s relocation to Summertown, especially since (after passing her eleven-plus exams) she had attended a very good local school, where the mix of children tended to belong to the more professional and mobile middle-classes. She had done fairly well at school, and her exam results – though nothing spectacular – had allowed her to go on and do secretarial training. She had subsequently gone on to find her first ever job as an office ‘junior’ in a small but well-respected solicitor’s office.
But as her friends and contemporaries called to the stand to testify made clear, the dead girl did indeed have ambitions far beyond the environment of the office.
Dr Ryder had not added Grace Farley’s name to this list of witnesses, as he hadn’t wanted to complicate matters. As it was, her non-appearance hardly mattered, for Abigail’s friends told pretty much the same story. All agreed that Abigail had been very popular at school, being good at sports and music, and aided, no doubt, by her obvious physical beauty. The coroner and jury were shown some photographs of the dead girl, who turned out to be a tall, leggy brunette with a very good figure and undeniably pretty face. She even had a mole, widely known as a ‘beauty mark’, just above and slightly to the right side of her mouth, giving her even more appeal.
So nobody had been unduly surprised when she’d answered the advertisement for an upcoming beauty pageant to find Miss Oxford Honey.
Her best friend, Vicky Munnings, testified that Abigail had talked her into applying as well, although she had been rather less keen than her friend, but when both of them passed the initial auditions, Abigail (or Abby as everyone who knew her called her) had been delighted.
‘From that moment on, she was determined to win the competition,’ Vicky stated. Her friend, according to Vicky, had seen winning the pageant as a step towards something bigger and better. Everyone knew that the winner of the pageant would be automatically entered for the Miss Oxford contest next year, and the winner of that would then go on to enter Miss England, who, of course, would then be a contestant in Miss World.
‘Abby didn’t have her head so far in the clouds as to think she’d go that far,’ Vicky had defended her dead friend robustly. But she did feel that winning the competition would present her with more options. A life in London as an advertiser’s model perhaps. Or a model for one of the bigger fashion houses. Maybe, Vicky had said through some tears, her friend had even seen herself as living in Paris.
But in order to achieve these ambitions, she needed to win.
‘She became obsessed with beauty products and doing things to improve her figure,’ Vicky testified. ‘Like exercises to improve her bustline and slim down her waist.’ She also took to periodic ‘fasting’ to lose weight, and had spent all her money on face creams and lotions, which, Abby constantly complained, were all so expensive.
‘She was always reading in women’s magazines about this herbal stuff that you could make for yourself, to make your skin glow and all that kind of thing, that didn’t cost the earth,’ Vicky had added.
And it was here that Dr Ryder – and no doubt the jury and gentlemen of the press as well – really sat up and took notice. Because, finally, they were coming to the crux of the matter.
When Dr Ryder asked her if it was possible that her friend might have added something ‘homemade and herbal’ to her glass of orange juice in the mistaken belief that it would somehow help improve her looks or figure, Vicky hadn’t been able to give a proper answer. She’d dithered a bit and had seemed frightened and nervous and unsure. Eventually, somewhat tearful and upset, she admitted that Abby had made some stuff for herself before her death – including some sort of oat-and-milk face pack, following a recipe she’d seen in a newspaper article. That had been followed by an experiment with a homemade shampoo that was supposed to make her hair shine more. And yes, Vicky admitted, her friend had got the ingredients from some sort of plant material that she’d picked herself, but Vicky hadn’t bothered to ask what, because she hadn’t liked the smell of it.
But whether or not she would make stuff to actually eat or drink – she just didn’t know. When pressed, she was adamant that her friend ‘wasn’t stupid’ and that, as children, their parents had always warned them not to ‘eat berries from the hedges’.
But she also admitted that Abby, like herself, didn’t really know anything about what was poisonous and what wasn’t.
The parents’ testimony, as usual, was heartbreaking. Yes, they’d heard the hurtful rumours going around that their daughter was sometimes moody and volatile, and that she’d drunk the poison on purpose. But such an idea was ludicrous. Their daughter had been young and beautiful and looking forward to being in the beauty pageant, and to being on stage at the Old Swan Theatre for the final public performance. Furthermore, she had been making plans for her future. Yes, sometimes she could be a bit moody and up and down, but a lot of girls her age were the same. She had certainly not been under the doctor for depression or anything else.
She had no real worries in her life; she had a good steady job, and a young man she’d been stepping out with, one William Hanson – although they didn’t think it was serious – and no health issues. Why would she do something so dreadful?
The ‘young man’ in question, when called, admitted to ‘stepping out’ with her in the past, but that they’d seen less and less of each other since she’d started rehearsing for the beauty pageant, and that they’d more or less ‘called the whole thing off’. He admitted to having a new girl now, but had backed up Abby’s parents’ claim that she had definitely not been the ‘suicidal type’. He, too, couldn’t believe she had deliberately poisoned herself. Why would she do it?
Clement wondered the same thing – and he could see that the jury did too.
By four o’clock that afternoon, all the available evidence had been examined, and Clement could see that the jury was looking uneasy and uncertain.
With his vast knowledge of both juries and human nature in general, it wasn’t hard for him to read their collective state of mind. They clearly didn’t believe it was a case of suicide. There had been no note left, and in any case, most juries were reluctant to bring in such a verdict, because of the effect it had on the victim’s family.
There had been no evidence of ‘foul play’ either. Both her parents had testified that their daughter had gone to bed as normal and had obviously died in her sleep. There had been no evidence of an intruder or break-in at the house.
That left accidental death or death by misadventure.
Obviously the poison had been in the glass of orange juice (as chemical analysis had confirmed). But how had it got there?
Given what they’d been told, Clement thought it a good guess that they would bring in a verdict that the girl herself had made up a ‘beauty’ potion and had sadly and fatally poisoned herself in the process.
But Clement Ryder was not so sure.
So in his summing up, he very cleverly played on their confusion by stressing that an open verdict would give the authorities time to explore the matter further.
The gentlemen of the press quickly fled to file their stories – for the ‘mysterious death of a beauty queen’ could run for days, if handled properly, thus saving them the time and effort of going out and hunting down real stories. Besides, death and pretty girls always sold well, making everyone happy.
Well, everyone except for Robert Dunbar of course, who would not be a happy man at all. He had been hoping that the demise of Abigail Trent would be settled quickly and discreetly, and would not be allowed to sully his first foray into the world of showbiz.
* * *
The next morning, another man who felt decidedly unhappy was DI Harry Jennings. But then, he never was particularly sanguine whenever Dr Clement Ryder chose to drop by his office. It nearly always meant trouble and inconvenience.
But for once, the Inspector was determined not to play ball. ‘Sorry, you can’t have WPC Truelove. She’s been seconded on special duties,’ he informed the older man smugly.
Since Trudy had already told him that said ‘special duties’ required her to search the female suspects who were being brought in during a sporadic raid on the city’s brothels, Clement didn’t feel particularly impressed.
‘That’s a shame,’ Clement said mildly. ‘The press are going to be all over this case, whether we like it or not.’
‘I don’t see why there should be any trouble,’ Jennings growled uneasily.
‘Well, since there seems to be a joker at work in the theatre, the more ribald daily rags might make some play with it.’
The Inspector looked at him narrowly. ‘What do you mean? What sort of joker?’ he asked, feeling genuinely alarmed now. It seemed the wily old coroner was on to something that he didn’t know about. And that was never a good sign.
‘Oh, hadn’t you found that out yet?’ Clement asked casually. Luckily, Trudy had left nothing out when reciting Grace’s woes.
‘Apparently there’s been trouble within the beauty pageant. Spiked face creams and trip wires across the stage steps and such forth.’ He waved a hand casually in the air.
‘That just sounds like petty rivalries to me,’ Jennings said impatiently. ‘It hardly sounds like anything serious.’
‘Oh, I agree,’ Clement said. ‘But it does mean that you’ll have to concentrate some of your efforts around this competition. Just in case the prankster went too far, and maybe didn’t quite understand the poisonous possibilities of yew?’
‘So?’ Inspector Jennings tried to sound off-hand, but his unease was growing.
Clement shrugged. ‘I think the owner of the theatre and the organiser of the contest, not to mention the girls themselves, might take it amiss having big-footed male constables tramping about all over the place. Catching them out “accidentally” in their undies during the changes, gawping at them in their swimsuits and generally making a nuisance of themselves.’
Inspector Jennings flushed. ‘I hardly think that’s likely! My men are professionals through and through.’
‘Hmm. But men will be men. You don’t think they’re going to take advantage of so many pretty witnesses?’
‘I do not!’ Jennings huffed.
‘Because if they do, and there are any complaints… Can you just imagine the headlines in the papers?’ Clement gave a mock shudder.
‘It won’t happen,’ Jennings said flatly. ‘I’ll make sure of that!’
‘But why risk it? Don’t you think, since you’re lucky enough to have a woman police constable assigned to you, that it makes perfect sense to make use of her in a situation that’s clearly calling out for her services?’ he asked mildly.
The Inspector – who didn’t feel at all lucky to have had a woman foisted onto his previously all-male police station – eyed the older man warily. He didn’t like it when the old vulture talked in such a mild and reasonable tone. It made him feel very wary indeed.
Besides, he was damned if he was going to let the older man bamboozle him into doing what he wanted.
‘WPC Loveday is too inexperienced to be given any real responsibility yet,’ he said adamantly.
Clement, who was wearing his usual impeccable suit (today a dark-grey creation with a dark-red pinstripe so thin it was almost invisible), casually crossed one leg over the other at the knee, and regarded thoughtfully the short length of his burgundy-coloured sock which his actions had just revealed.
‘But unless she’s given the opportunity to gain experience, she’ll never get to learn, will she?’ he pointed out reasonably.
The Inspector sighed softly. ‘This is an ongoing case thanks to y… to the verdict brought in by the jury,’ he gritted. He was, of course, well aware that the coroner had directed the jury into the verdict, and was determined that the interfering old so-and-so wouldn’t get his way this time. For once, he and his little pet would have to learn they couldn’t win every time.
‘And for that reason,’ he swept on with a blithe smile, ‘I’ve decided to appoint a more able police officer to continue the inquiries into Abigail Trent’s death.’
Clement looked at him curiously. That the Inspector was being deliberately obstructive didn’t really surprise him. But he wondered, idly, what was behind it. Misogyny perhaps? Or was it Clement himself that Jennings objected to?
Either way, it didn’t really matter. He was in no mood to cross swords with such a feeble opponent. It was far easier – and quicker – to simply go over his head.
‘Well, if that’s the way you feel about it,’ he said with a pleasant smile, putting both his feet to the floor and rising abruptly from his chair. As he crossed to the door, putting his hat on his head as he went, he was aware that the policeman was watching him with both surprised and wary eyes.
‘Good day, Inspector,’ Clement said pleasantly from the doorway, before walking through the outer office and nodding every now and then to the polite greetings from the few officers who were working at their desks.
Back in his own office, it took the wily old coroner only two minutes to decide which of his friends he needed to call. There were several men who owed him a favour – and now he thought of one in particular. Back in the old days, he’d saved one of his colleagues from making a potentially disastrous mistake when he’d misdiagnosed a patient with a rare condition. It had been a mistake almost any doctor would have made, but Clement had been lucky enough to have had a similar case early in his own career, and thus he’d recognised the very subtle signs.
His friend was now a VIP on a large scale, with thumbs in many pies, and had been itching to get out of Clement’s debt for years. So it would make his day to hear that he could finally do Clement a good turn in exchange and feel that they were now even.
Ten minutes later, a fuming DI Jennings received a phone call from above ordering him to offer the coroner the police liaison services of WPC Trudy Loveday for the Abigail Trent investigation.
* * *
At that moment, Trudy was in the cells going through the handbags of several prostitutes while they watched, calling her names and offering her suggestions that would have made her mother’s ears burn.
She gamely tried to pretend her own weren’t burning at some of the more raucous jeering coming from the confined women, but in truth she was rather glad when she was relieved by another officer who told her that she was wanted in the DI’s office.
Naturally, this set off a whole barrage of innuendo from her tormentors, and she could only hope that her cheeks weren’t still burning when she knocked on the DI’s door a few minutes later and was bade, crisply, to enter.
Right from the start, she could tell
by her superior officer’s sarcastic tone and short, sharp sentences, that he was in a right royal tizzy. But she hardly cared, when he told her the good news that she was going to be working with the coroner again.
And the fact that she was going to be working with the coroner again on Abigail Trent’s case was the icing on the cake. Grace Farley would be so pleased!
At least now, Trudy thought with some satisfaction as she collected a bicycle and pedalled off towards Floyd’s Row, where the coroner’s office was situated, she might be able to give her friend some peace of mind.
Chapter 5
‘So where do we start?’ Trudy asked, beaming a thank-you smile at Dr Ryder’s secretary as she delivered a tray containing a large pot of tea, three cups and a tin of Huntley and Palmer biscuits, and then left with her usual silent discretion.
By now, Trudy was beginning to think of Dr Ryder’s office as a home-away-from home, and as she took a sip of tea, she looked across his big, but neatly ordered desk-top with an expectant look on her face.
‘Well, I thought we might start with your friend Grace,’ Clement said. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of telephoning her at work, and she’s agreed to come down here in her lunch hour’ – he checked his watch – ‘which should be in about ten minutes’ time.’
Trudy nodded happily. ‘So, what are your thoughts so far?’ she demanded eagerly.
Clement smiled. ‘I have none, in particular,’ he said, amused, as ever, by her eagerness. He reached for a biscuit and put it on the side of his saucer and with no trace of tremor in his hand today, lifted the full cup of tea with confidence.
In due time, he knew his speech would become slurred, and he’d begin to shuffle. But with luck he could still eke out a few more years before anyone would guess he had serious health issues, and he might even get another year or more after that before anyone dared challenge him on it.
In the meanwhile, he was determined to make the most of these last precious, golden years of his life before enforced retirement and illness finally got the better of him. Besides, as he listened to the young girl in the chair opposite him, he was very much aware that acting as Trudy Loveday’s mentor and champion was going to give him an investment in life for the foreseeable future.