Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 148, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 900 & 901, September/October 2016
- Автор: Дивер Джеффри, Эллин Стенли
- Год: 2016
- Язык: английский
- Год: Penny Publications
- ISBN: 0013-6328
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 148, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 900 & 901, September/October 2016». Краткое содержание книги:
“Yes,” said Annie. “It’s short for succinylcholine.” They were on their way to talk to Doreen Harris, who lived in Sherburn-in-Elmet, near Selby, and Annie had just got the results of Dr. Glendenning’s postmortem on Max Belling. The pathologist had found a needle mark under Belling’s left arm and had tracked down what had been injected there. “But it’s not that,” Annie went on. “That’s the other drug it’s hard to trace in the system after it’s been used as a murder weapon. The doc’s convinced this killer used potassium chloride because of the damage to the heart and the elevated levels of potassium. It’s never a hundred percent, but it’s the best we have to go on. Here we are, I think.”
Banks pulled up outside a grand house on the edge of town. Detached, with its own garage and a large overgrown garden, bay windows, and gables, it seemed to stare at them like a giant head as they walked up the garden path. The place looked deserted — in fact, it looked as if it had been abandoned for years — and they hadn’t called ahead, not wanting either to alarm or tip off Doreen Harris to their interest.
Just when Banks was starting to think they’d had a wasted journey, a woman answered the doorbell. She was in her mid forties, Banks guessed, and had clearly been an attractive woman not so long ago, but she had let herself go to some extent. The clothes she wore were ill fitting and creased, and there was a food stain on the front of her blouse. Her hair seemed lifeless and her skin pasty, doughlike, her eyes dull, perhaps with tranquillisers or antidepressants.
“Oh, come in,” she said, without any real enthusiasm, when they announced themselves. As she led the way, Annie glanced at Banks and pulled a face. The place was hot and smelled as if it hadn’t been aired in months. A thin patina of dust lay on the surfaces, and despite the sunlight outside, very little light made its way through the grimy windows, which hadn’t been washed in months. Doreen Harris made no apology for the state of the place. Perhaps she didn’t notice. She also made no offer of refreshments as they all sat down in the gloomy living room. There was music playing faintly in the background, Banks noticed. Piano music. He thought it might be Chopin, but he wasn’t knowledgeable enough to be certain, despite his enthusiasm for classical music.
Banks leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “We’d like a word with you about your daughter, Mrs. Harris.”
“My daughter’s dead, and my name’s Grainger now. I went back to my maiden name. But you can call me Doreen.”
“Very well, Doreen. We know that your daughter is dead, and I’m very sorry to bring the subject up. I know it must be painful for you.”
She shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”
“Just two years,” said Banks. “It’s not that long.”
“I don’t know why you’ve bothered coming here asking questions, even after two years. My daughter took her own life.”
“We know that,” said Banks. “What we’d like to know is whether you know of any reason why.”
“Becky was depressed. The doctor said it was clinical, that she needed expert help. But she killed herself before we could arrange anything.”
“Which doctor was that?”
“Dr. Cruickshank, of course. Oliver. He was our doctor. And our friend. He was trying to get Becky in a special clinic, but he was too late.”
“Was this before or after Tony Platt left the village?”
“Tony Platt? So you know about him? It was after he left.”
“Was Becky upset about Tony going away?”
“Why should she be?”
“They were friends, weren’t they?”
“Friends? But he...”
“He what, Doreen?”
“Look, I’m sorry, but I don’t like to talk about it.”
“Talk about what?”
Doreen Grainger took a Silk Cut from the packet on the table and lit up. For a split second, Banks felt the urge to smoke too, but it passed. “You know what,” she said, breathing out smoke, “or you wouldn’t be here.”
“I want you to tell me in your own words.” Banks was bluffing. He had no idea what she was talking about, but if she thought he did, it might help to coax her along.
Doreen sat in silence for a while, then she seemed to snap out of her mood, or whatever it was that was enveloping her consciousness like a mist. It was as if she recognised her surroundings for the first time. She gazed around the room, then back at Banks and Annie. “You must forgive me,” she said. “This place is a terrible mess. I’m not usually such a slattern. I don’t get many visitors. I get depressed sometimes. It must run in the family.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Annie. “You should see my place.”
“Becky and Tony Platt,” Banks repeated.
Doreen paused, looking from one to the other, as if deliberating with herself whether to speak or not. Finally, she said, “He raped her, as you’re well aware. See. You’ve made me say it. She came home one night, all bruised and bleeding, and she told us Tony Pratt had raped her in a field by the river. She was never the same again.”
“When was this?”
“When she was fifteen.”
“Three years ago? A year before she killed herself?”
“Yes, about that. She was a beautiful child. We did our best, George and me. We loved her as best we could. We tried to cope.”
“Did you report the rape?” Banks asked.
“What would be the point in doing that?” Doreen answered. “Put poor Becky through all that humiliation and pain just so a jury could let him walk free, put him in a home, or give him a slap on the wrist or a suspended sentence.”
“It might not have been like that.”
“Of course it would. That’s what...”
“What?”
“That’s what Oliver said.”
“So what happened?”
“He had to leave the village. Tony. It was decided. He had to leave the village and never come back.”
“Who said he had to leave? Oliver?”
“All of us.”
“The whole village?”
“People knew what he’d done. People whose children he played with, who didn’t like it. Now there was something very real to be frightened of. He couldn’t be allowed to stay. What about their daughters? Nobody was safe.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know. One day he was just gone. The movers came, took his stuff. He didn’t have much.”
“Which movers?”
“The local firm. Howard’s.”
“Ned Howard?”
“That’s right.”
Banks saw Annie make a note of the name. They could check with the company’s records and find an address. “And he didn’t say where he was going?”
“Not to me.”
“And after that?”
“Nothing. Poor Becky was never the same. She became more withdrawn. She’d shut herself in her room, or if she went out we wouldn’t know where she was.”
“And a year later, two years ago, she—”
“Committed suicide. Yes. George and I struggled along for a while, but you’ve no idea, not unless it happens to you, you’ve no idea what the loss of a child can do to a couple, even a loving couple like George and me. In the end I... it seemed best, just, you know, to come here. My parents used to live here. I grew up here. They left the place to me when they died. We were going to sell it, but I came to live here by myself instead. Back where I started.”
There seemed nothing more to say. Annie packed away her notebook and Banks got to his feet. “I’m sorry we had to bother you, Doreen. I’m not sure if you know about this, but Max Belling was murdered in Fortford yesterday, and we’re investigating his death.”
She glanced at Banks sharply. “Max? Oh, dear God, no. Max was... Max was the only one...”
“The only one what?” Banks asked.
“The only one of us who wanted to do the right thing. To call the police. You know. After Becky was raped. George and Oliver and Ned and the others, they talked to him nearly all night. He went along with the rest in the end, but he wasn’t happy. Talk to George. You should talk to George.”