A Talent For Destruction Page 9

  ‘Yes,’ snapped Quantrill, who had temporarily forgotten Tait’s unfailing ability to get right up his nose. ‘We’ve done a thorough job – if you’ll just wait until I’ve finished. Garrity was in fact seen again, later that same evening. The Rector and his wife say that they saw him by chance from the Rectory garden, at about half-past nine. They were standing in the drive, and they saw him weaving along St Botolph Street from the direction of the town, heading for the gate at the top of Parson’s Close. That means that after he left the Concorde he must have gone up into the town – but that’s where we’ve drawn a blank. We haven’t been able to discover where he went or what he did.’

  Inspector Tait’s expression made it clear that had he still been CID Sergeant at Breckham Market, the investigation would have been more productive.

  ‘Didn’t you discover that the Aingers had an Australian girl visitor last summer?’ he said. ‘I met her one evening when I went there for coffee. They mentioned someone called Athol, and I gathered that he was making a nuisance of himself by hanging round the girl. He probably went to see her after he left the Concorde.’

  Quantrill stared at Tait irritably. ‘Yes, of course we found out about Janey Rolph. I’d very much like to talk to her, but she’s left the country. The Aingers say that she was with them for the whole of that evening – but the question is, are they telling the truth? So what’s all this about your going there for coffee? Ainger told me that he knew you, but I assumed it was in your official capacity. Why the hell didn’t you say sooner that you knew them socially? They’re the biggest puzzle in this enquiry.’

  ‘And how was I supposed to know that? Anyway, I assumed that you knew them as well as I did. It’s part of the job, as I see it, to establish a good relationship with the leaders of the community. If you’d told me that the Aingers were puzzling you, I’d have come over to help as soon as you started the enquiry.’

  It would be a waste of time to take umbrage. Quantrill helped himself to another can of lager at Tait’s expense instead, and told him his grounds for suspicion. ‘I’ve now talked to them, together or separately, at least five times,’ he concluded, ‘and understandably they’re getting restive. They’ve volunteered a certain amount of information, but I’m inclined to think that they’re simply trying to cover themselves by anticipating what we might find out from other sources. They now insist that they know nothing more than they’ve already told me. I think that’s a lie, but there’s damn all I can do about it. When a man’s a parson, it’s hard to suggest to him that he’s not telling the whole truth.’

  ‘The real trouble,’ said Tait, going straight to the point, ‘is that forensic hasn’t been able to establish whether or not a crime has been committed. If this was a murder enquiry you could pull Robin Ainger in, parson or not, and persuade him to talk.’

  ‘Him or her. I’m certain they’re in this together – not necessarily concealing a crime, but concealing something from us. They’re both under considerable stress at the moment – though that’s partly accounted for by Gillian’s father. He’s infirm, and becoming childish.’

  ‘The old man must have deteriorated a lot since last summer, then,’ said Tait. ‘He was lively enough when I saw him, and working in the garden.’

  ‘He’s had back trouble, so his daughter said, and the bad weather didn’t help him. He knows, or suspects, something too – though he dislikes his son-in-law, so perhaps he’s just being malicious. Anyway, he’s being cussed with his daughter, and she’s nearly at the end of her tether. But even if we make allowances for their domestic problems, and for the strain of their job, it doesn’t account for the way they’re behaving. You know them better than I do, Martin; what was your impression of them?’

  Tait shied his empty coffee beaker into a waste-bin. The aero club was chronically short of funds, and members were expected to clear away their own empties.

  ‘The Aingers have been under considerable stress for months,’ he said. ‘Marital problems. They were hospitable enough, but it seemed a desperate kind of hospitality. I felt that they were beginning to grab at people in order to avoid being alone with each other. It was an interesting situation to observe, but it didn’t make for a comfortable evening out. The tension between them was hardly disguised on my last visit.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘The last week in June, just before I started my summer leave. I kept out of their way after I came back. I’d promised Robin that I’d talk to the youth club in September about CID work, but I never went back to the Rectory. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to hear that their marriage had broken up by now.’

  ‘A parson can’t very well admit to that kind of human frailty,’ said Quantrill. ‘A divorce would put an end to his career. Even a separation would ruin his credibility – after all, if he can’t keep his marriage going, what hope is there for the rest of us? But from what I’ve seen in the past few weeks, the Aingers’partnership seems to be working reasonably well now. What did you think was their trouble?’

  ‘He bullied her, and she let him. That must have been what drew them together in the first place,’ said Tait, an observant bachelor who liked to think himself something of an expert on marriage. ‘I don’t know what had happened to intensify their difficulties, but it seemed that when anyone or anything in the parish upset Robin, he’d come home and direct his anger at Gillian. She spent her time trying to placate him, offering herself as a doormat in an attempt to keep him happy. She even encouraged him to talk to the Australian girl because he so obviously liked her. Anyone could see what a fool thing that was for her to do, but I suppose she imagined that because her husband was a parson –’

  Tait bit off his sentence and shot to his feet, his eyes bright, his nose sharp. ‘God, what a potentially explosive situation! The Aingers’ marriage was fraying under tension, and then along came Janey Rolph with Athol Garrity somewhere in tow … And the point is that Janey was stunning, absolutely stunning – small and delicate, with pale skin, big brown eyes, and the most fantastic hair I’ve ever seen: a thick, vivid red, cut quite short all over so that it looked like a fox’s pelt. I didn’t see her for more than fifteen minutes – and on my last visit before going on leave, otherwise I’d have been after her myself – but I shan’t forget her in a hurry. They had another visitor at the time, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her either. More significantly, nor could Robin Ainger.’

  Quantrill sat up. When Gillian Ainger had told him about the post-graduate student she had befriended, he had imagined someone earnest, shy, myopic. It hadn’t occurred to him that a man as good-looking as Ainger would have been interested in the girl.

  ‘How did Janey Rolph react to him?’

  Tait stood taut, thinking hard. ‘My impression was that she behaved very tactfully. She was obviously accustomed to admiration, and knew how to deal with it. I remember thinking that she was giving quite as much attention to Gillian as she did to Ainger. She seemed to be encouraging them to communicate with each other – doing her best to bring them back together.’

  ‘Mrs Ainger didn’t resent her, then?’

  ‘Not in the least. She obviously liked the girl, and assumed that her husband was bomb-proof, though anyone could see that Janey had knocked him sideways. But the fact that he, as a parson, couldn’t do anything about Janey would make the situation infinitely worse for him.’

  ‘Good God …’ Quantrill pushed himself up out of his armchair and began to pace the clubroom, awed by the hypothesis. ‘And Garrity was following Janey about … She didn’t like him, according to Mrs Ainger, but that wouldn’t stop Ainger feeling jealous. He disliked Garrity anyway, he told me that –’

  ‘And Ainger is a tall man,’ contributed Tait, ‘and he has a temper. I’ve seen him go white with rage –’

  Quantrill took a sobering breath. ‘We haven’t a scrap of evidence to indicate how Garrity met his death,’ he remembered.

  ‘No. But between us, we know enough to confront the
Aingers. Garrity’s death might well have been an accident, but from what you’ve told me it sounds as though the Aingers know something about it. If we make the right approach we ought to be able to get an admission from one or other of them. We could –’

  ‘“We”?’ interrupted the Chief Inspector in charge of Breckham Market divisional CID.

  The HQ Inspector (Ops) was crestfallen. ‘Ah, hell, for a moment I’d forgotten my promotion. Look, sir, technology’s all very well, but I miss CID work. Let me in on your interview with the Aingers, please. I know it’d be irregular, but after all it’s my information you’re working on.’

  ‘Which is exactly why I’ve no intention of having you with me,’ said Quantrill firmly. ‘Not that I’m ungrateful, but it may turn out that the Aingers have perfectly clear consciences, and I’ve got to go on living in the town with them. I don’t want to be accused of encouraging you to abuse their hospitality by telling me about their private lives.’

  Tait shrugged. ‘Let me know how it goes, then,’ he said distantly. He looked at his watch. ‘I’m due for my pre-flight briefing in ten minutes, but I’ll walk back with you to your car.’

  The two men left the club hut and walked towards the parked cars, along an asphalted perimeter track scoured dry as a bone by March winds. ‘How’s the family?’ asked Tait politely.

  ‘Perfectly well in health, thanks. You’ve heard about Peter’s misdeeds, though, I suppose?’

  ‘We do get to hear most things at county HQ.’

  ‘Bloody fine state of affairs,’ grumbled Quantrill, ‘when a Chief Inspector’s son appears before a juvenile court accused of malicious damage. He said that the trouble in the church hall started as horseplay, and admitted taking part in it. All the youngsters involved say that the worst of the damage was done by a raiding-party – whether they’re telling the truth God knows, I certainly don’t. Anyway, Peter was conditionally discharged, with a fine that’ll take all his pocket money for the next six months. What he’ll get up to while he’s broke I dread to –’

  ‘And how’s Alison?’ interrupted Tait abruptly.

  Quantrill glanced sideways at his colleague, who had last year taken an unexpectedly serious liking to his younger daughter. ‘She rings us from London every week, and sounds very cheerful,’ he said.

  ‘Has she got herself engaged yet?’

  ‘No, no. She mentions various names, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone special. She’s only twenty, there’s plenty of time before she thinks about settling down.’

  ‘Tell her I asked after her,’ said Tait. ‘And thanks for coming over, sir.’

  ‘Thanks a lot for your help, Martin.’ Quantrill turned his head to watch, fascinated despite himself, as one of the little aircraft rose gracefully – presumably in the hands of a qualified pilot – into the limitless cool blue of the sky.

  ‘How much is this flying game costing you?’ he demanded.

  ‘It’ll be roughly a thousand to qualify, with club and exam fees and everything,’ said Tait matter-of-factly.

  ‘A thousand pounds?‘ Quantrill’s eyes bulged as he thought what he could do with that kind of spare money, if he had it. ‘You’d better stay a bachelor if you want to indulge in this as a hobby. Rather you than me, anyway. I prefer to keep my feet on the ground and make the most of married bliss.’

  Tait, who knew that the course of Quantrill’s marriage had been less than blissful, gave his former chief a grin. ‘Envious?’ he asked.

  ‘Not on your life.’ Quantrill craned his neck to watch the aircraft, now small as a butterfly, catching sunlight on its wings as it forged confidently upwards. For a moment he tried to imagine himself in Tait’s position: young, unencumbered, assured of accelerated promotion, affluent, free as air. Then, ‘Oh, all right, of course I am,’ he admitted ruefully. ‘Envious as hell, boy, envious as hell.’

  Chapter Twelve

  The following morning at ten o’clock the Reverend Robin and Mrs Ainger presented themselves, as urgently requested by the Chief Inspector, at Breckham Market police station. Quantrill was waiting for them in his office. They entered subdued, stiff with apprehension. He greeted them with a straight face and offered them neither coffee nor small talk.

  ‘I wanted to have a few words with you about the progress of our enquiry into the death of Athol James Garrity,’ he began.

  They sat silent, stiff as a pair of hypnotized rabbits, watching the words come out of his mouth.

  ‘As you know, the coroner’s inquest is to be resumed on Friday. Dental evidence of the man’s identity will be produced and you, Mr Ainger, have been called to attend and give evidence to account for his presence on your land, and to say what you know about him.’

  Ainger cleared his throat and nodded solemnly. Typical of the man, Quantrill thought, to come dressed in his clerical grey; difficult to disbelieve a man in a dog-collar.

  ‘The autopsy has been completed,’ went on the Chief Inspector, ‘but it provided no evidence as to the cause of death. It’s not for me to anticipate the coroner’s conclusion, but in the circumstances it’s likely that he will bring in an open verdict. Athol Garrity’s remains will be buried – by you next Monday, I believe, Mr Ainger – and the file will be closed.’

  He could almost swear that he heard the Aingers give a joint sigh of relief. Certainly they stirred in their chairs, and their tension slackened.

  Quantrill leaned forward across his desk. ‘However –’ he said sharply, and he saw with satisfaction that Mrs Ainger flinched, ‘– a closed file can be reopened at any time if new evidence comes to light. And frankly I’m not satisfied that, in the course of my enquiries, I’ve heard the whole truth. I am convinced that someone in Breckham Market knows more than he – or she – has told me so far. And withholding information from the police is a very serious offence.’

  He sat back in his chair and waited, watching them. They avoided his eyes, and also each other’s. Gillian’s cheeks had reddened, and the knuckles of her clasped hands were white. Robin’s hands were hidden in the pockets of his jacket, but his face was drained of colour. The silence in the room, Quantrill thought, was thick enough to cut and butter.

  ‘Look,’ he said suddenly, softening his voice and attitude. ‘I have a theory about Garrity’s death. I’ve heard from various sources that he wasn’t a particularly prepossessing young man – noisy, foul-mouthed, and quite a heavy drinker. Now, let’s suppose that he behaved offensively last summer, and that someone knocked him down. His opponent would probably then leave him and walk off, thinking that Garrity would pick himself up later. But instead, because he’d been drinking heavily, he choked and was asphyxiated by his own vomit. That can happen quite easily, you know – it’s why, when we lock up drunks in the cells here, an officer has to look at them every half-hour to make sure they’re all right.

  ‘But when his opponent discovered that Garrity was dead, he must have panicked. My guess is that he hid the body, after dark, in the bushes at the bottom of Parson’s Close, thinking – because he knew that the tenant farmer no longer used that field – that it wouldn’t be found. He hid the tent, too; hid it, or sold it, or gave it away – anything to get rid of it. And ever since then, he’s had to live with a man’s death on his conscience. He’s been afraid to confess, partly because of the damage it would do to his career and partly because he doesn’t want the real reason for his quarrel with Garrity to be made public. I think I can guess what that reason is, but it needn’t concern us here.’

  Silent tears had begun to slide down Gillian Ainger’s face, and now she gave a gasping sob. Her husband reached out for her hand and clasped it tightly, but they neither looked at each other nor spoke.

  ‘If my theory is anywhere near right,’ went on Quantrill quietly, ‘I want anyone who was involved to know that as long as he admits to what he did, there will be no need for the details of his quarrel with Garrity to come out in open court. And whatever may happen to his career if he confesses, I think that he and
his family will be able to live more happily in the future than they have done since Athol Garrity’s death.’

  The Aingers said nothing, but Gillian was crying openly now and Quantrill felt confident that she would talk if she were on her own. He sent Robin Ainger into an adjoining office under escort, lit a small cigar for himself and offered a cigarette to the Rector’s wife. She shook her head.

  ‘Why are you crying, Mrs Ainger?’

  ‘You know what I have to contend with at home,’ she said unsteadily, searching her bag for a handkerchief. ‘I’m at my wits’ end, trying to cope with Dad and the housekeeping as well as all the parish work … and now this.’ Her face was ugly, her eyelids swollen and her mouth gargoyled with the attempt to hold back her sobs. ‘You’ve been badgering us unmercifully, Mr Quantrill. Do you wonder I’m crying?’

  ‘It wasn’t my intention to make you cry, but I’m not surprised. You’re unhappy and pressured and frightened, and I think you’ll crack up if you don’t confide in someone. So please tell me what you know about Garrity’s death. It’s difficult for you, I realize that, but you’d do better to confess and suffer a quick burst of adverse publicity rather than to go on living in this state of permanent tension. Come on, get it off your conscience. The courts can be remarkably lenient, you know.’

  She put away her handkerchief. Her voice was clogged with emotion, but she spoke with dignity: ‘I – I have nothing to say.’

  Sympathy and gentleness was getting him nowhere. ‘Mrs Ainger,’ he said more sharply, stubbing out his cigar, ‘you must understand the seriousness of my enquiry. I have reason to believe that you can give me some information as to the circumstances of Athol Garrity’s death. Now tell me: what do you know about it?’