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:
In the safety and comfort of his own home, as grand a place in its own way as his wife’s family house, George Harris was more at ease and forthcoming than he had been the previous day in the Hope and Anchor with Dr. Cruickshank and the others. Even so, he seemed shaken and reluctant to talk about the past, but the more they spoke, the more he seemed to want to open up, to unburden himself of something.
The study was a high-ceilinged, book-lined room, and in addition to the desk, there was room for three chairs around a glass table, and that was where they sat. George Harris didn’t offer refreshments either, but not out of neglect or impoliteness, Banks thought. This wasn’t to be a “would you like a cup of tea” sort of visit.
“We’re interested in the night Max Belling was killed, George,” said Banks. “Do you know anything about that?”
“I didn’t do it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” said Harris.
“I’m not thinking anything at the moment. I’d like to hear your story.”
Harris put his head in his hands. “My God,” he muttered, “how on earth did we get ourselves so far down this path?” He looked up. “I could tell you I know nothing about any of it.”
Banks shook his head. “We wouldn’t believe you. We’ve talked to your wife, and to Mandy Vauxhall. It’s all over, George. Who ran Nick Vauxhall off the road? You might as well tell us. Was that you?”
“God, no! I haven’t killed anybody.”
“Oliver Cruickshank.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Sometimes I think Oliver’s capable of anything. Or Ned, with his van.”
“Whose idea was it to implicate Max Belling in financial wrongdoings? We’ve looked, and we couldn’t find anything amiss.”
“I don’t know. It wasn’t me.”
“Oliver Cruickshank again?”
George hung his head. “Someone came looking for Tony again. To the Hope and Anchor, just last week. The same bloke who’d talked to Nick Vauxhall before. He was very persistent. I don’t think he believed that we didn’t know anything. We thought if we directed your attention towards the London underworld...”
“That we wouldn’t look closer to home? Start at the beginning, if you like,” said Banks. “We’ve got plenty of time.”
Harris took a long, deep breath and let it out in a sigh. On the bay tree outside his open window a blue tit flitted from branch to branch. Harris ran his hand over his silvering hair. “The beginning?” he said. “I’m not sure I know where that is anymore.”
“Start with your daughter.”
He gave Banks a sharp glance. “Becky? You know what happened. My ex-wife told you.”
“She told us that Tony Platt raped your daughter and instead of going to the police, you ran him out of town. Is that what happened?”
“Partly. At least it’s what Doreen believes. You have to understand, Tony was retarded. He was big and strong with the mind of a child. We didn’t like him being friends with the local children, none of the parents did, but he always seemed gentle towards Becky and the others. We still worried, though. He was the kind who might pick up a bird to stroke it and you’d find it crushed in his hand a moment later.”
“Is that what happened to Becky?”
“She never told us any details. I can only assume that’s what happened. That things went too far.”
“Did anyone confront Tony about this? Try to find out whether he really did it? Young girls aren’t always truthful.”
“Becky had no reason to lie, and yes, we confronted Tony Platt. He admitted it. He said he loved her, for Christ’s sake. He couldn’t understand why she was angry with him. You should have seen the bruises. She was bleeding between...” He put his head in his hands again and sobbed briefly, then pulled himself together.
“Yet none of you thought to let the police handle the matter, or get her the attention she needed.”
“Oliver took care of her. Whatever you might think about him, he’s a good doctor. And the police? We had no faith in justice. We’d all seen far too many rapists and pedophiles go free or get light sentences because the system let the victims down.”
“So you decided to take justice into your own hands?”
“If you want to put it that way.”
“I do.”
“Look, Tony Platt raped my fifteen-year-old daughter. What would you lot have done after your rape kits and your DNA tests and the lawyers and psychiatrists got involved? They’d probably end up saying she asked for it. That she was at fault and he was the victim.”
“You’re assuming an awful lot, George,” said Annie, “if you don’t mind my saying so. Could we have done any worse than you and your cronies did? What sort of justice have you ended up with?” She counted off on her fingers. “One murdered PCSO disguised as an accident, one mentally challenged young man run out of town to God knows where, your teenage daughter committing suicide, and now a good friend of yours brutally murdered and disfigured and put out on the green on display for the whole village. Is that justice? What was Max Belling’s murder supposed to be, George, a warning to the villagers who knew, or suspected? The ones who didn’t like Tony Platt playing with their kids. Keep quiet or this’ll happen to you too. Is that what it was? Because someone came to the pub asking about him for the second time? Christ almighty, George, could we have done much worse than that, imperfect as we are?”
“I didn’t mean... we didn’t mean. It wasn’t...” George fell silent for a few moments then spoke in a voice so soft Banks had to strain to hear it. “Tony Platt didn’t leave the village,” he said. “We killed him and buried his body on the moors.” Then he started to sob.
“Well, Oliver,” said Banks. “We’ve got a right mess on our hands here, haven’t we?”
“I’m not saying a word until my lawyer arrives,” said Dr. Cruickshank, sitting in a stifling interview room at Eastvale Police HQ, dragged from a local cricket match, white V-neck sweater still tied around his neck.
“I don’t think we need you to say a word just yet,” said Banks, glancing at Annie, who sat beside him. “I think I can piece most of the story together from what Mandy, Doreen, and George have told me, and from the events themselves. And while I’m telling you that, my forensic team is going through your house, your surgery, and your car with a fine-tooth comb, and believe me, they’re good.”
“They won’t find anything.”
“Don’t be so quick to say that. I’m sure you cleaned up, but nobody cleans up quite well enough for the CSIs, Oliver. You ought to know that.”
“It’s Dr. Cruickshank to you.”
“Three years ago, a mentally challenged young man raped fifteen-year-old Becky Harris, daughter of a close friend of yours, George Harris. I think that’s more or less beyond dispute. I hear you stick together in that village of yours, so naturally you were concerned, as were many of the other villagers. People were suspicious of Tony Platt because he was different, because he didn’t belong. You persuaded your mates and several concerned parents that it would be far more satisfying if you took matters into your own hands. So you paid Tony Platt a visit. Maybe you just intended to warn him off. Give him a beating. I’m not even sure how many of you there were, but I imagine you managed to gather together a tidy little mob. You marched Tony out of town, and once you were up on the moors, you beat him to death, or killed him in some other manner, and buried his body in the peat bog. Luckily for us, peat bogs preserve human bodies. Haven’t you ever heard of the Tollund man? He ended up in one in the fourth century BC, and he’s in a museum in Denmark today, perfectly preserved. There’s not much doubt that as soon as George Harris leads us to the burial site, we’ll be able to nail down the exact cause of death and glean a great deal of forensic evidence from Tony Platt’s body.”