The Monday Theory Read online

  “Lord knows. It wouldn’t surprise me if somebody she’d written about had murdered her. But as there were two of them, I’d say it was an accident. Rhoda Carvell wouldn’t commit suicide. Too sure of herself, if you take my meaning, George. Capable of beating hell out of life and everybody in it. No need to yield to weakness. That sort of thing.”

  Masters allowed a moment or two of silence before asking: “So you favour accident, sir. Gas leak, perhaps?”

  “No gas in the damned cottage according to the local police.”

  “Not even butane or something like it? These out-of-the-way houses often use bottle gas.”

  The AC shook his head. “Nothing like that. There is a generator and batteries for light and cooking and open fires for warmth.”

  Masters grimaced. “Presumably the West Sussex people are dealing with it, sir. So what do you want me to do? Speak to the Daily View and explain things?”

  “Quite frankly, I don’t know, George. The journalist who rang me up didn’t say so, but I got the impression he could have been hinting at—or hoping for—murder. I want you to find out how and why he knew about the deaths and, in general, sort him out. And while you’re at it, tell him and his colleagues not to ring me at seven o’clock in the morning. I don’t want that sort of thing to become a habit.”

  “Do the West Sussex people assume it was murder, sir?”

  “Too early for them to say, George. I rang them immediately I’d got rid of that reporter. They promised to ring back as soon as they had anything to go on.”

  “I’d prefer to know the score before I go to see this journalist. You haven’t given me his name, by the way, sir.”

  “Sorry. Heddle.”

  “Is that his christian name or surname?”

  “Surname. Why do you ask?”

  “There was a famous singer . . .”

  “Ah, yes! Forgotten him for the moment. Got an old record of him somewhere singing The Fair Maid of Perth. My missus likes it. So do I, come to that.”

  Masters let the AC talk on without interruption. A few years earlier, when on holiday in Scotland, the Andersons had visited the Fair Maid’s cottage. The AC rambled on, talking about the North Inch and the South Inch in Perth, explaining as he went that these were really tracts of riverside meadowland and ideal for picnics if the weather was clement. Masters listened gravely, though itching to be away. He was extremely grateful when the clamour of the external phone cut Anderson short.

  The AC took the call and listened for a few moments before asking: “Arsine? That’s a gas isn’t it? Arsenical gas?”

  It seemed he got a yes in answer to this query and he listened a little longer, making a scribbled note on his pad as he did so. Then he, in turn, gave a yes or two and Masters guessed that his senior officer was agreeing either to help or take over the case completely. The conversation was too broken for Masters to be sure which, but he realised that he and his team were to be implicated in the investigation in some way.

  Anderson put the phone down.

  “You heard, George? It was a gas, after all. Or so they think. Arsine.”

  “They’re not sure, sir?”

  “Educated guess on the part of the medics apparently. In advance of the full laboratory tests.”

  “Did they say why they suspect arsine?”

  Anderson consulted his pad. “The bodies smelt of garlic, apparently, and . . . hang on a moment while I interpret this . . . ah, yes . . . and the eyelids of both were noticeably oedematous.” He looked up. “That means swollen, doesn’t it? Full of watery fluid?”

  Masters nodded. “I thought we’d finished with arsenic for murder years ago, sir. I hope it’s not going to start cropping up again.”

  “These things can go in cycles, George. Somebody will always be there to copy what others have done before them.”

  “So, West Sussex are definitely treating it as murder, sir, and you think it will help them if we can find out how one of Rhoda Carvell’s colleagues knew it was murder, or hinted that it was, before ever the local police knew what to think?”

  “It can’t do any harm, George.”

  “Do they know you’re proposing to help them, sir?”

  “Not me. You. They asked me if we would take it.”

  “The entire investigation, sir? Do they think we’re touting for business? The crime was committed in West Sussex.”

  “They reckon on it being largely connected with London. The cottage was only the Carvells’ second home.”

  “The Carvells? Plural? She was married?”

  “And found dead in bed with a man other than her husband! Actually it isn’t as bad as it sounds, George. Carvell divorced her a week or so ago and this Woodruff character was the man in the case. Or so I’m told.”

  “I see.” Masters realised he still felt as he had done earlier in the day—rather glum. The case seemed likely to turn out to be one of those he was still old-fashioned enough to regard as unsavoury. It bade fair to be even worse when the AC asked: “You know who Carvell is, of course?”

  “No, sir.” Somebody important, otherwise the AC wouldn’t have mentioned him in quite that way.

  “Professor Ernest Carvell. Big-wig at the university. Gaine Professor of something or other at Disraeli College.”

  Masters’ spirits sank even further. The conversation with Cartwright last night! Cartwright didactically laying down the law! His wife acting the part of the pedagogue’s mate! ‘My goodness, Chief Superintendent, how very out of date you are.’ Insinuating that they should know better than he did because they were school teachers. He groaned inwardly. A professor in the case! And though the overall responsibility belonged to the West Sussex County force, it appeared he had been offered the tarry end of the stick not only here in London, but on their patch as well.

  “Not that Carvell is likely to come into it very much, George, but when you see him, walk on eggs, because he’s a haughty bastard.”

  “You know him, sir?”

  “Met him. The Great-I-Am. Lectures at the Royal Society and that sort of thing. Writes learned papers. And talking of papers, watch it with those dam’ journalists, too, or anything you say will be taken down and twisted into a rod for our own backs.” The AC sniffed as though he had the beginnings of a cold, but Masters recognized it as the usual sign of the hidden anger that seized him whenever it seemed likely that an investigation might be hampered by considerations other than those of strict police work.

  “I’ll have to start with this young man, Heddle, sir.”

  “He’s probably some youngster horning in on what he probably thinks will be a scandal.”

  “Very likely, sir.” Masters got to his feet. “I’d say he made the call off his own bat before the day staff got in. Now, if you could tell me who is dealing with the case for the West Sussex people, I’ll be on my way, sir.”

  “A DCI at Chichester called Robson.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll call him for a few more details and arrange to meet.”

  *

  Masters, Green, and Detective Sergeants Reed and Berger used the police Rover to get to Fleet Street. Reed drove. Masters was in no mood to appreciate the glorious day. Instead of thinking about the case, he was wondering how Mrs Cartwright was faring in Oxford Street. She had announced that she proposed to get up early this morning to go to the stores to buy the material for the new coat she and Wanda had been discussing last night. Masters had asked if the school was closed for a holiday thus allowing her the time to go shopping on a Wednesday morning. The answer had done little to endear her to him. ‘How little you know of what goes on today, Chief Superintendent. School teachers are not confined to the school premises as if in a prison, as they were in your time. We go and come as and when we have work to do. I have no classes tomorrow morning until after play-time. Have no fear, I shall be in my place by a quarter to eleven to give my lesson in Civics.’ Masters doubted the assurance she had seen fit to give him. If he read Mrs Cartwright correctly,
choosing coat material to suit her head as well as her body and pocket would be a long-drawn-out penance for the shop assistants.

  “A penny for them,” said Green. “Or aren’t you proposing to talk to us in case it cuts your handicap down?”

  “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking about it. My mind was on that damned Cartwright woman.”

  “No wonder you look fit to kick somebody. Forget her, George. Forget what I said about her.”

  “I’ll go down the side alley, Chief,” said Reed. “Better than leaving it at the kerb.”

  Masters grunted. It could have meant acquiescence or that he couldn’t care less about what the sergeant did with the car. Reed made his choice and manoeuvred into the Daily View’s loading bay.

  “You can’t leave it here, mate.”

  “Police. We’re going inside.”

  “I don’t give a toss where you’re going. We have paper coming in here, mate. Big rolls of it. Somebody might just fancy rolling one on a fuzz car.”

  Green got out and glared balefully at the man in the apron. “I don’t like you, and I don’t like your tone.”

  “Only trying to be helpful. Take it or leave it.”

  “We’ll leave it. Here. And if there’s a scratch on it when we come out, or anything in the way to hold us up, I’ll blame you, Dixon. And when I blame people, I make them pay.”

  “Here, how d’you know . . .” Dixon grinned, showing an incomplete set of very stained teeth. “I’m slipping, and no error. It’s Green. I didn’t recognize you with grey hair. It’s been a few years since you were plodding round here.”

  “You’ll likely remember, too, that I didn’t stand for any nonsense. I still don’t, grey hair or no grey hair.” Green turned to join Masters who had started to stroll towards the street, hands in coat pockets, head down and still grumpy. Reed, still in the car, started up and manoeuvred it into a corner of the bay. When he and Berger caught up with the other two, they were waiting in the foyer by the enquiry desk.

  “Thanks for waiting,” said Berger to Green.

  “Don’t kid yourself, lad. We’re only here because that cub reporter hasn’t got down here to fetch us yet.” He turned to Reed. “Did as the man asked, did you?”

  “The Chief says to co-operate whenever possible.”

  “You’ll learn. Co-operation means doing what you want to do and letting others conform to you.”

  Reed didn’t reply. There was no need. They were joined by a young man.

  “Chief Superintendent Masters?”

  “Are you Mr Heddle?”

  “Derek Heddle to my friends.”

  “Don’t count your chickens, lad,” said Green. “We’re not universal aunties.”

  Heddle was in a chocolate-brown suit with a heavy, wide-spaced chalk stripe and flare-bottomed trousers. His hair was pale yellow and thin, in shoulder-length straggles. The white, tired face looked as if a spot of open-air and exercise would do it no harm.

  “Do you rate a private office in this beehive?” asked Masters.

  “No. But there’s an interview room we can use on the first floor.”

  They followed him up the stairs.

  “Are you the cub reporter?”

  “Crime junior, actually.” Heddle offered chairs and French cigarettes. Masters refused both and walked over to the window of the little room. Green accepted the Gitane and straddled the chair. The sergeants followed suit and waited for Masters who was looking out of the window. At last he turned to face Heddle who was sitting behind the desk, apparently not the least put out by the presence of the four Yard men.

  “Did you know Rhoda Carvell?” asked Masters.

  “Of course. Well, not socially, exactly, but I often saw her here. She came in about once a week.”

  “Was she a good looking woman?”

  “Very good looking with a smashing figure and nice legs. She was your real open-air type.”

  “Did you ever try to get to know her better?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Did you ever ask her out for a drink or a meal?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “It’s a simple question, lad,” growled Green.

  “But not relevant,” announced Heddle.

  “Not relevant to what?” demanded Green.

  Heddle was at a loss, but he tried. “Not relevant to telling me what the police are doing about her death.”

  “We’re doing better than that, son. We’re showing you the police in action investigating her death.”

  “How do you mean? Asking me if I’d tried to get next to her? That’s investigating?”

  “Did you?” said Masters.

  “Did I what?”

  “Fancy her, or whatever the current term is? And knowing she wasn’t too strict in her behaviour, hope you might succeed?”

  Heddle looked round the others in disbelief. All three stared back, poker faced. “This,” he asked incredulously, “is a murder investigation?” He gave a nervous laugh. “Now I know why the undetected crime figures are rising.”

  “Oh? Why? Please tell me, Mr Heddle. It’s a problem that has been exercising my mind for years. But if you have the answer, why not let me know what it is?”

  “You! Spending your time asking me personal questions instead of being out chasing a murderer.”

  “I suspect I may be questioning one now.”

  Heddle was astounded.

  “Me? You suspect me?”

  “Why not, Mr Heddle? You knew Mrs Carvell had been murdered before ever the police did. Such knowledge is a factor common to all murderers. I can think of no other material link so absolute as that. So how did you know she had been murdered?”

  “I didn’t know she’d been murdered. Not for sure. Not like that.”

  “I find that hard to believe, Mr Heddle.”

  “Why?”

  “You rang up the AC (Crime) at his home while he was still in bed and gabbled about murder . . .”

  “I never mentioned murder.”

  “You’ll have to do slightly better than that. You accused the AC of lying down on the job . . .”

  “Well . . .”

  “Well what? He could hardly be said to be lying down on the job if the deaths were due to natural causes or accident, could he? So you must have been sure it was murder.”

  “I didn’t know for sure.”

  “Then we’d better take you in for being a public nuisance, lad,” said Green. “Making alarming and unfounded phone calls is an offence.”

  “I’m the press,” screamed Heddle, his voice cracking on the top note. “I’m a crime reporter. I was calling in the line of business.”

  “If that is so,” said Masters, “tell me why you, a crime reporter, don’t know the police system in this country?”

  “I do.”

  “Obviously you don’t, or you’d have known that unexplained deaths in West Sussex are the responsibility of the West Sussex force, not the Metropolitan Police. And another thing, I have never heard of a crime reporter, however senior, ringing up the Assistant Commissioner when he’s at home, in bed. There’s a press bureau at the Yard, though you apparently have never heard of it.”

  “Yes, well . . .”

  “So what little game did you think you were playing, Mr Heddle?”

  Heddle answered disconsolately: “I wanted a story. A big one.”

  “And that’s your only excuse for, or explanation of, such odd behaviour? You killed Mrs Rhoda Carvell because she wouldn’t have you? And then, like a lot of killers, you couldn’t resist letting people know you knew she had been murdered? It often happens with psychopaths, Mr Heddle, and they often select some big bug to show off to, like you chose the Assistant Commissioner.”

  Heddle didn’t reply because he was incapable of speech. He sat, mouth hanging open, staring at Masters like a frightened youth awaiting the hiding of his life.

  “Nothing to say, lad?” asked Green, selecting a crumpled Kensitas. “Cat got your tongue?
Oh, and I’d close my mouth if I were you. If the wind changes it could stick like that.”

  “Eh? No. I mean, this is all wrong.”

  “Is it? Well now, suppose you tell Mr Masters and the rest of us all about it. Right from the very beginning, leaving nothing to the imagination, or we might start imagining some weird and wonderful things. Show us where we’ve gone wrong, because the Chief Superintendent seemed to me to have a lot going for him. It sounded very feasible, his theory.”

  “Where? I mean when shall I start?”

  “Suppose we say the last time you saw her alive.”

  “Well . . . she came up to the desk of the editor of the Women’s Page and . . .”

  “Everything, laddie,” said Green wearily. “The day, the time of day, what she was wearing, who she spoke to on the way in, what she said. The lot. Start again.”

  “You can’t possibly want to know . . .”

  “Everything,” asserted Green. “You’re in a hole, lad. You’ll have to work hard to climb out of it.”

  “It was a week last Monday,” said Heddle at last. “In the morning.”

  “What time in the morning?”

  “About eleven o’clock, I think, because the coffee trolley was on its second round, and I remember she was offered some by Kath—that’s the woman who takes it round—and she said she couldn’t drink the institutional plastic variety out of greasy cardboard. I’d been wanting to say that myself for a long time, but it carried more weight coming from her.”

  “Go on,” said Masters, coming into the circle to take the chair that had been left for him. “How do you remember it was a week last Monday?”

  “Because she always comes in to file her copy on Tuesdays. Or she did, I should say.”

  “Are you saying that last week she broke the habit and came in a day early?”

  “Yes. Her column appears on Wednesdays, you see, so Golly Lugano—that’s her editor—has to have it on Tuesday. But I heard Mrs Carvell tell Golly last week that her divorce from the Professor was coming up on the Tuesday and she wanted to be in court, though she hadn’t got to be, in case she could get some material for a future article. So she delivered her piece on Monday.”

  “I think I’ve understood that,” said Masters. “What I’d like to know is how you were near enough to hear this conversation between Mrs Carvell and the Lugano woman.”