A Fatal Affair Page 5

  But neither the police nor his office wanted these details to get into the public domain just yet. However, a few facts did need to be established here and now, as it might prove relevant to the jury’s decision when it came to bringing in a verdict. ‘I take it you subsequently made inquiries concerning this letter?’ he asked mildly, casting the public gallery a quelling glance as they began to murmur excitedly.

  Within seconds the hubbub died down, and on the witness stand, Sergeant O’Grady fought to keep the smile from his face. It took a brave soul to withstand a witheringly contemptuous glance from the old vulture, and not for the first time, he had reason to be glad that Dr Ryder kept a firm control of his courtroom. Although some of his colleagues hated testifying when he was presiding, the Sergeant had long since realised that, so long as you showed the man respect, there was actually very little to fear. Well …

  ‘And what did you discover?’ Clement’s voice snapped the policeman back to the matter in hand.

  ‘We discovered that, prior to his death, the deceased and the young lady in question had been stepping out together for the past four or five months.’

  ‘I see.’ Clement glanced at the jury, but decided not to lead them. No doubt they were already letting their fertile imaginations loose – with some of them deciding David Finch had murdered his girlfriend and then killed himself in a fit of remorse or fear. The more generous or romantically minded might be inclined to give the young man the benefit of the doubt, and prefer to think him innocent of murder, but that he had killed himself due to a broken heart.

  Since he could already see that the writing was on the wall, and he had no doubt that the jury was likely to return a verdict of suicide there was little point, at this stage, in him trying to influence them towards a more useful Open Verdict.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant. I think it’s time we heard from those nearest and dearest to the deceased now.’

  There was a low moan of disappointment at this, but another ferocious glance from the coroner’s steely grey eyes quickly had the spectators subsiding into a slightly resentful silence. His bushy white eyebrows smoothed out into an amiable line again.

  He understood it, of course – the majority of them had come for answers and news, but the police liked to give away as little as possible.

  ‘I call Superintendent Keith Finch.’

  At this, any residual resentment fell away and heads turned and necks craned to get their first glimpse of the dead boy’s father. Of course, the fact that he was a high-ranking police officer, and that his dead son had to be the prime suspect in the May Queen murder case only added considerable grist to their mill.

  The coroner caught Duncan Gillingham’s slightly ironic glance as he watched the witness take the stand. Usually, and especially in cases of suspected suicide, the press tried to show the proper sympathies for the grieving parents, as did juries, who nearly always tried to soften the blow by bringing in the caveat ‘whilst of unsound mind’ whenever returning a suicide verdict.

  But Clement noticed that the man taking the stand, by the ramrod rigidity of his spine and the tight-clenched line of his jaw, suspected that he couldn’t expect these normal courtesies.

  Clement regarded Keith Finch with plenty of sympathy, but also with a cool, analytical glance. Naturally, no father would be willing to believe that their son could strangle a young girl then hang himself afterwards. So it was no surprise that this man had insisted on a second, discreet investigation.

  But the man was also an experienced police officer, used to sifting evidence and always observant and vigilant. Was his desire to see his son’s reputation cleared based on more than merely wishful thinking? Well, they would soon find out. Clement cleared his throat, and said, ‘You are the father of the deceased?’

  ‘I am.’ The tall, brown-haired man glanced at Clement curiously. Although he’d asked specifically for this man’s unique talents to be let loose on his son’s case, he’d never actually had occasion to meet or talk with him before. And as he met the old vulture’s gaze, he hoped that he hadn’t misjudged this man. It was taking everything he had to take a back seat in this affair when everything in him was screaming at him to take an active part in the Iris Carmody case, and thus clear his boy of suspicion.

  But he knew he couldn’t do it. Instead, he was going to have to rely on this former-surgeon-turned-coroner, and a still-green WPC, to pull off another miracle.

  And he could only hope and pray that they could do it.

  Now, looking into the sharp grey eyes of the coroner, he could see nothing in them but calm appraisal, with no hint of acknowledgement of their shared secret.

  All in all, he felt assured that he’d done the right thing.

  ‘You were called by your colleagues in order to positively identify the deceased as your son, David Finch?’ Clement Ryder began briskly.

  The Superintendent stiffened slightly at this sudden and painful question, then nodded curtly. ‘I did. I wouldn’t ask my wife to do so. She was naturally distraught.’ The staccato sentences came out of him in flat, hard tones.

  There was a slight shifting of bums on seats at this, and a ripple of sympathy and pity cut through the pervading atmosphere of avid curiosity somewhat. Finally, the people around him were beginning to see the witness as a grieving father, not a police officer mixed up in scandal.

  ‘Quite so. And I’d like to extend the sympathies of the court to your wife,’ Clement said calmly. ‘Prior to your son’s death, had you noticed any changes in his behaviour?’

  The police officer slowly nodded. He’d been prepared for this, of course, and saw it as his golden opportunity to at least try to put the record straight for his dead son, who could no longer speak up for himself. And although, in the quiet desperate hours of the previous night, he’d rehearsed in his head many times what he might say in this moment, now that the time had actually come he felt terrified that he might fail. But he could only tell the truth, simple and unadorned, and hope that they believed it.

  ‘Naturally. The girl he was stepping out with had been brutally murdered, and David was distraught.’

  Excited whispering immediately broke out in the court, and Clement leapt on it at once. ‘Silence!’ he thundered. ‘If members of the public can’t conduct themselves with decency and decorum then I am going to clear the room.’

  There was instant silence. Although most members of the public didn’t know Dr Ryder from Adam, such was his tone of voice that none of them doubted he would carry through with his threat.

  In his seat, Duncan Gillingham smiled knowingly. During his career, he’d seen other coroners make the same threat, but by and large they tended to be empty, used simply as a means of making the court settle down. But he’d been present once when Clement Ryder had actually ordered the ushers to remove all but the relevant staff and witnesses, caring not a jot for the animosity it had earned him from the people being evicted. Ryder’s arrogance and indifference hadn’t surprised him – he’d long since come to the conclusion that the former surgeon probably believed his word was now literally law.

  Not that Duncan wasn’t willing to concede that, when it came to this particular man, he held something of a grudge. He was still smarting from the way he’d sabotaged his growing relationship with a certain, luscious WPC for a start.

  Clement, removing his scowl from the public gallery, turned back to his witness. ‘You say David was distraught. Did he ever indicate to you that he was in such despair that he might think of ending his own life?’

  The court seemed to hold its collective breath as it waited for the reply – but wisely made no other sound.

  Superintendent Finch flinched slightly. He took a deep breath, then shook his head; his voice, when he finally spoke, was a little rough but firm.

  ‘No, he did not. And I believe I would have seen the signs had he been thinking of taking such a dreadful action.’

  Clement made no comment, but he had to wonder – just how many other paren
ts of suicidal children had testified to the same thing? And was it really possible to know another being so completely, that you could be so sure of anything?

  Then he thought of his own children – grown up now, and gone from home. He didn’t see them that often, but he thought he would know if anything was seriously wrong. Or was that just wishful thinking on his part?

  ‘At first he was obviously upset and grieving,’ Keith Finch carried on, ‘but in the last few days of his life he became, if anything, more angry than despairing.’ At this, he glanced across at the press gallery defiantly. Some of those who’d submitted articles hinting at other things couldn’t quite meet his eyes, but the older, more seasoned professionals had no such trouble.

  In her own seat, Trudy felt her heart go out to this man. It must be awful to have to stand up so straight in such a public place, knowing that almost everyone around you suspected that somebody you loved had committed that most awful and unforgivable of crimes: murder. And to have to stand there and try to defend them, with only the power of your own convictions to sustain you.

  But as a police officer, Trudy was aware that it had to be simply trust and faith in his son that made him so sure that David was innocent of killing Iris Carmody. For if the Superintendent had had any solid proof, or even circumstantial evidence, he’d have handed it over to DI Jennings the moment it had come into his possession.

  When news of the murder of the May Queen had first burst on the station in such spectacular fashion that early morning on the first of May, Trudy had been as fascinated and appalled by it as much as everyone else. DI Jennings had seemed both chuffed and slightly alarmed to be put in operational charge of such a high-profile case, and had quickly assembled his team around him.

  Of course, she had not been let anywhere near it, and had been forced to complete the usual tasks that were her lot. Filing. Patrolling the streets where handbag snatchers were wont to try their luck. Taking witness statements from female victims.

  But that didn’t stop her from keeping her eyes open and her ears on the alert for any titbits that might come her way whenever the Iris Carmody case was being discussed. So she’d overheard many conversations in the communal office that had given her at least some grasp of what was happening with the May Queen murder case.

  She knew, for instance, that the medical findings had confirmed that the murdered girl had probably been dead for only a short while before she was found – making it almost certain that she had been killed around dawn. She had not been pregnant, but neither was she virgo intacta. And cause of death had been due to manual strangulation. Somebody – a man presumably, because of the strength it would have taken – had taken her by the neck and throat and throttled the life out of her.

  She also knew that David Finch had quickly become a person of interest, as the girl’s beau. He had told DI Jennings that on the evening and night before her death, he’d been at home with his parents, and at dawn the next day, had been asleep in his bed. Not that that helped much, as it would have been perfectly possible for him to sneak out at any time.

  Although attending university, he was back home for a few days, no doubt so that he could share and participate in his girlfriend’s big day. In the village of Middle Fenton, May Day, apparently, had always been a big day.

  In normal circumstances, of course, the word of a superintendent and his respectable wife wouldn’t be doubted. But these were hardly normal circumstances. And most people – particularly those responsible for writing news articles – were quick to point out that there weren’t many mothers who wouldn’t swear blind to the innocence of their beloved sons. Even the mothers of the most hardened criminals would swear that their darling boy was tucked up in front of the radio whenever a jeweller’s was being turned over, or some poor victim was being beaten black and blue.

  ‘You say he became angry?’ Clement’s voice cut into Trudy’s glum speculations and focused her mind on the here and now. Guiltily, she hastily continued to take her shorthand notes.

  ‘Yes. After three or four days with no arrest, he became very bitter. I told him that these things could take time, but he began to … not lose faith in the police officers investigating the crime, exactly, but become impatient for a result.’ Superintendent Finch shrugged a little helplessly. ‘It was understandable, of course. He’d lost the girl he was growing fond of, and he wanted justice for her. He was young and impatient,’ the dead boy’s father added flatly.

  ‘And what form did this impatience take?’ Clement asked, genuinely curious now. Sometimes, he felt, conducting an inquest could feel a bit like conducting a symphony, with all the main players already knowing all the notes in advance, and it was merely his job to make sure things ran on a smooth, expected course. But sometimes he preferred to stray from the allotted path – like now.

  Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Sergeant O’Grady, back in his seat in the front row, was looking distinctly uncomfortable, and was trying to catch his eye – no doubt with a view of trying to indicate that he wanted Clement to rein the witness in.

  Clement steadfastly kept his eyes on Keith Finch.

  The Superintendent considered the question for a moment, then sighed heavily. ‘He said that he probably knew Iris as well as anyone, along with Iris’s friends, and far better than any policeman did. And that he should be able to figure out what had happened to her if he just used his brain. I learned that he then began talking to them, and others in the village, trying to press them for information. I had to rebuke him sharply – such a thing is, of course, totally unorthodox.’

  Of course, Clement thought, there were two ways of looking at the dead boy’s behaviour. Either David Finch was genuinely trying to find out who had killed Iris, or else, he was trying to find out exactly what it was the police were learning, and if they were likely to stumble on any evidence that he himself had committed the crime. And playing the part of the avenging boyfriend was a good cover for such activities.

  ‘And did he listen to you?’ Clement asked.

  For a moment, the man on the stand visibly hesitated, and Clement watched him closely, wondering if he was, probably for the first time, going to come out with some lie. Then Superintendent Finch’s shoulders slumped slightly. ‘He seemed to. But I got the feeling he was still conducting his own inquiries, only becoming much more secretive about it,’ he admitted.

  There was another murmur at this, abruptly cut off as Clement turned to survey the room, his expression flashing out a warning to be silent.

  ‘I see. When you had been told the awful news of your son’s death, did you search his room for a suicide note?’ Clement asked next. It was a brutal question, but the police officer, apart from a quick blink, made no sign that the abrupt change of questioning had affected him.

  ‘Yes, I did, in the company of DI Jennings, who had come to deliver the news. No such note was found. And—’ here he turned to look directly at the jury ‘—it’s my solemn belief that my son would not have committed suicide, under any circumstances whatsoever.’ He paused, swallowed hard and added roughly, ‘He simply wouldn’t have done that to his mother.’

  At this there was another murmur that swept through the room, and several members of the jury had to look away from the grieving father’s flat stare. Clement decided it was a good moment to dismiss the witness.

  After a few more needful but – much to the public’s disgust – not particularly interesting proceedings, Clement finally gave his usual speech to the jury. He told them that they were there to establish the identity of the deceased, the cause of his death (which in this case the medical evidence made very clear was due to hanging) and, if possible, the manner by which he had come to his end.

  He pointed out heavily that, in the absence of a suicide note, and with no clear forensic evidence in play, they should not rush to judgements – and that an Open Verdict was perfectly acceptable should they be unsure.

  But as he dismissed them to consider their verdict he
was under no illusion, and sure enough, within only ten minutes, they came back with a verdict of suicide, whilst of unsound mind.

  His eyes briefly met those of Superintendent Finch before he thanked the jury and dismissed the court, and he gave an almost imperceptible nod. It was enough, he hoped, to reassure the grieving father that this was not the end of it and further investigations would duly be made.

  Chapter 6

  ‘Well, that was more or less what we expected,’ Clement said to Trudy, about twenty minutes later. They were sitting in his office, sipping tea and munching on some very nice gingernut biscuits that his secretary had kindly provided, after consuming some sandwiches cobbled together by way of a late lunch.

  ‘Yes – I felt sorry for poor Superintendent Finch though,’ Trudy said.

  Clement grunted. ‘Well, we need to make some sort of plan of action. What do you suggest we do first?’

  Trudy sighed. ‘Whatever we do, it’s going to be tricky. We can’t step on anybody’s toes by asking too openly about Iris Carmody, because that investigation is still ongoing, and the Inspector’s made it clear that’s his turf. On the other hand, it’s going to be hard to find out what might have happened to David Finch without at least exploring what also happened to her. No matter which way you look at it, their deaths have to be connected, don’t you agree?’

  Clement nodded cautiously. ‘I think it’s more probable than not,’ he conceded.

  Trudy nodded more firmly. ‘Right – either he did kill her, no matter what his father thinks, in which case he very likely did kill himself in a fit of remorse or despair or what-have-you afterwards, and we’ll just be chasing our tails trying to find evidence that points to anything else. Or he never had anything to do with her death – in which case, he still might have killed himself out of the grief and pain of losing her …’