Murder at the Bridge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 20), page 30
DS Jones maintains her composure.
‘Had you done it?’
The woman inhales deeply.
‘I’ve had the papers in my surgery for weeks. You know we are stretched to breaking point. I just hadn’t got around to reading them.’ She exhales and breathes in deeply again. ‘He did keep asking me – reminding me to bring them home – he offered to run through them with me – as he’s got an accountancy background.’
There is alarm in the eyes of her onlookers.
But now she gives a small ironic choked laugh.
‘The NHS backlog saves a life! Am I right?’
They don’t like to agree – but it is a breakthrough – indeed, the woman reveals she is beginning to grasp the predicament from which she has escaped.
Now she has more to add.
‘Recently – he has been suggesting we take drives out on Sunday afternoons.’
‘Where to?’ It is Skelgill’s interjection.
It takes her a moment to recall – her gaze drifts to the window and the landscape beyond; the low autumn sun is in her eyes, and she almost closes them.
‘He said he wanted to find obscure places that we could fish – using green lanes – so that we could drive there – I have an off-road vehicle – I need it for my job, to reach isolated farms.’ She looks directly at Skelgill. ‘We tried to get to Red Screes Tarn – but the track was blocked by a landslide. He was keen to try again – he wanted us to be the first to fish there.’
Skelgill would beg to differ – they would be beneath him on the honours board (and others, he has no doubt) – though he reached the place on foot, a hard-won ascent. But he knows the precipitous track, with a sheer drop of three hundred feet into an abandoned slate quarry. How surprised would anyone be if an off-roader foolhardily drove that way and met an ignominious fate.
He decides not to share his thoughts; he merely nods to indicate his understanding, and DS Jones picks up her script.
‘Dr Goodman – you mentioned you are not his GP. We have obtained his medical records – both those since he returned to the UK as Anthony Goodman, and prior to his leaving – as Tobias Jubb. There is no mention of a diagnosis of multiple sclerosis.’
The woman is silent – though her expression, an introspective frown, indicates some degree of self-analysis.
DS Jones continues.
‘I’m sure you’ll be aware – it is not uncommon for a psychopathic personality to affect a long-term illness – as a means of endearment or manipulation – and of gaining trust. It can also be a convenient practical excuse when a person needs to retreat from public view.’
The woman looks at her sharply.
‘Is he doing that now?’
DS Jones glances at Skelgill. He seems relaxed.
‘Yes. But our medical team can find no problems with his vital signs.’
‘He is overweight – and he smokes.’
The comment seems curious – as though it escapes before she can think about it. But she follows up quickly with a question.
‘What is he saying?’
‘He is denying that he is Tobias Jubb. He says this must be some kind of witch hunt – to find a scapegoat for the death of Kyle Betony. Otherwise, he is refusing to cooperate.’
Dr Lucy Bedlington regards the young female detective pensively. Then she gestures to the photographs.
‘It looks like him – but – do you have anything more conclusive?’
Again DS Jones makes a quick referring glance to her superior; he gives a faint shrug.
‘His DNA is a match for samples retrieved by the FBI from the Jubb car and home in Missouri.’
Now the woman’s gaze becomes more penetrating.
‘Why would he kill Kyle Betony?’
DS Jones reaches unhurriedly to indicate the DAA fishing team.
‘A copy of this photograph was on the wall in the bar at The Partridge. It was removed on the night of Mr Betony’s death. We believe that Mr Betony saw a magazine article about the incident involving Tobias Jubb in the USA – the attempted murder of his wife, Jolene. We think he put two and two together and either challenged him about it – or maybe even just joked about the coincidence – the unusual surname, the physical resemblance. Whichever the case, Anthony Goodman seemed to think he was about to be unmasked as Tobias Jubb.’
The doctor is nodding; but her training demands that she follows through the logic.
‘And do you know that Anthony did it?’
‘From the boot of his Mercedes our forensic team has recovered strands of Mr Betony’s hair and further traces of DNA. In our subsequent investigation we have also recovered Mr Betony’s mobile phone, and the original framed photograph.’ She does not reveal how or where, but in her authoritative tone there is the implication that these were in the possession of the said perpetrator.
The woman has listened carefully – but there is something in her manner that again causes DS Jones to prompt her.
‘What is it, Doctor?’
She raises both hands and gently massages her temples with her fingertips. Skelgill watches her, somewhat intrigued. She might almost be coaxing out an unwilling memory from its retreat – and it makes him think of the way a seagull tramples turf to simulate rainfall and tempt earthworms from their burrows.
After a moment, she has it.
‘On the night – when I collected Anthony after the dinner. He came out and I began to drive away – but then he immediately remembered that he had left his bow tie – he said he took it off in the bar afterwards. I reversed back – but he made a point of wanting to go in at the side door – he said so that he didn’t get waylaid by one of the committee and keep me waiting. But he took a little longer than I expected – he said someone had picked it up from the table and handed it in at the counter.’
DS Jones is nodding encouragingly.
‘And did he have anything with him – the photograph?’
Now Dr Lucy Bedlington frowns.
‘I suppose he could have had it tucked inside his overcoat.’
DS Jones looks at Skelgill – he nods – they sense they are winning her over – but recognise that she is riding a little rollercoaster of shock and disbelief.
There is a missing piece in their jigsaw – and they are close to it now.
Skelgill slumps back and casually digs his hands into his pockets. He is entrusting matters to DS Jones.
‘You couldn’t make the DAA dinner yourself, Doctor Bedlington.’
‘I was on call – I probably attend less than half of the committee meetings for the same reason.’
‘When you collected your fiancé – what was the arrangement?’
DS Jones’s tone is conversational – when otherwise she might appear accusative.
But the woman’s manner has materially changed; she seems galvanised, and her words come without hesitation.
‘I was due to finish at ten. I’d originally thought that I could at least arrive in time for a drink – so I offered to pick up Anthony. We arranged a fallback of eleven fifteen – to give plenty of leeway in case of emergency – and I was delayed, of course.’
‘And what was the sequence of events after you left The Partridge?’
‘I drove us back to my place. We had a drink – and, er – went to bed.’
She blinks a couple of times as she looks at DS Jones – there is the suggestion of a euphemism at play. She briefly turns down her mouth.
DS Jones smiles understandingly.
‘And did – Mr Goodman – stay the night?’ She uses the familiar name. ‘I mean – what time did he leave the next day?’
But Dr Lucy Bedlington is already shaking her head.
‘Actually – it was about two a.m. He said he needed to be in his office at Fellview early in the morning. He was working overtime on the annual accounts – that he had left his files at home. He said it would be easier to go back while he was still awake.’ She ends – but then appears to anticipate the next question. ‘He ordered a taxi.’
There is a moment’s silence.
So that is the answer. Goodman – or Jubb – took a taxi back to The Partridge and removed his car in the early hours – even before their dawn arrival. By the time they had impounded it ten days later, it had been professionally valeted – but in the world of modern forensics there is the maxim “every contact leaves a trace”. And it usually does.
Perhaps she perceives the collective reaction, for now she shudders.
‘I met you – the following evening, in The Partridge?’ DS Jones nods on behalf of her colleagues. ‘Anthony said he wanted to treat me because I had missed the dinner.’
They wait.
‘It was a return to the scene of the crime.’ There is distaste in her voice. ‘Like the proverbial arsonist, joining the back of the throng to watch the burning building.’
DS Jones responds.
‘Or to check that he was in the clear, perhaps.’
Dr Lucy Bedlington nods, though her gaze seems to lose its focus.
‘There have been inconsistencies – I dismissed them as cognitive failings, side-effects of his illness. Things about his past that contradicted, or didn’t quite stack up. And he was always rather evasive. He would say there had been some unhappy episodes – things he was not ready to discuss – that we should look forward to our future.’
She swallows, as if the latter promise still troubles her.
‘And his MS. Well – I sometimes wondered. He seemed to have symptoms when it suited him – to get his own way. But most of the time – you’d never know. Though it can present in many forms – no two sufferers have the same experience.’
The woman starts a little, as if she realises her monologue has been at the exclusion of those around her. She looks pointedly at DS Jones.
‘But an Osman letter – I would have rejected it. I probably would have told him straightaway – that it was preposterous. I would have inadvertently warned him – and perhaps placed myself at more immediate risk.’
She glances about, as if she is trying to gauge the reaction to her admission.
‘Doctor – it is entirely understandable. We realise – well – when you have been close to someone – and they turn out to be someone else – literally.’
The woman shakes her head slowly.
‘Apologies if I have seemed uncooperative.’ She sighs. ‘The things you do, when a person says you are special.’
DS Jones shoots a glance at Skelgill; he anticipates her attention and quickly averts his eyes.
When Dr Lucy Bedlington has been ushered out, they sit reflectively.
‘She’s coming round to it.’
It is DS Jones’s assessment – but DS Leyton looks a little less optimistic.
‘There’s more to come. She ain’t going to like that.’
He refers to interviews he has since conducted with the Chief Executive of Fellview Nursing Home. In the first instance, before mention of Anthony Goodman’s arrest, she had given a glowing report. He came with first-rate references and top qualifications – frankly, they thought they were lucky to get him. Pay is not high in the care sector, never mind in rural Cumbria. He was good with staff, and had a real knack of engaging with patients – and he would spend time with them whenever he had a spare moment. The controversy of the legacies left to the organisation and challenged by relatives – it could happen to any such institution.
But a minor query had arisen in relation to Anthony Goodman’s unexplained absence. A recently admitted resident, an elderly widow, had been asking for him – it seems he had been feeding her cat, left to fend for itself at her empty home. At the property, police officers found evidence of careful ransacking, a copy of the woman’s will with the executors, bequest and signature pages missing, and – hidden inside tomato growbags in the garden shed – the framed photograph from The Partridge, and Kyle Betony’s mobile telephone.
Initial work by forensic accountants has already identified that Anthony Goodman had siphoned off significant portions from the historical legacies – as bogus solicitors’ fees as executors – when in fact he had managed to get himself appointed as sole executor. His closeness to residents, and financial role working with Social Services to organise care plans, meant he gained full knowledge of and access to vulnerable elderly residents’ finances, and he especially targeted those who had no close or nearby relatives. At his own home, two more wills made in his favour were discovered.
And then another little bombshell – here the greater source of DS Leyton’s disquiet. Understanding the seriousness of the offences, the Chief Executive had expressed concern for Anthony Goodman’s nurse fiancée. DS Leyton had countered – surely she meant doctor? No, no – a geriatric nurse – a full-time employee of Fellview.
DS Leyton had asked to be introduced to her; she was not Lucy Bedlington.
And now he pronounces.
‘Poor old Doc – far from being special – in the eyes of Tobias Jubb, she was simply prey.’ He compresses his features into an expression that combines both anger and sympathy. ‘And now she reckons she’s been taken for a fool.’
Skelgill resorts to an oath.
‘In his eyes, we’re all fools, Leyton.’
‘To a monster, the norm is monstrous.’
DS Jones seems to speak from a daydream.
Then she realises that her colleagues are staring at her.
‘It’s a John Steinbeck quote.’
They nod.
JASMINE BETONY, POLICE HQ, 11 a.m.
‘The man is a monster.’
The three detectives briefly look at one another.
DS Jones, however, nods in exaggerated sympathy. Indeed, she is prompted to reach and touch Jasmine Betony on the hand; they have more shared moments in the storm than the Thai girl can realise.
Jasmine Betony, however, looks up, a little surprised.
‘It’s okay – I’m fine. I don’t allow these things to affect me.’
She smiles reassuringly, a full smile of the wide mouth showing bright white teeth. It would be possible to think she is speaking of a lost purse, or a broken washing machine; though closer scrutiny reveals that in the dark pools of her eyes there seem to swim shadows – and DS Jones is reminded of her idea that these are not the first traumas in the girl’s short existence.
But there remain aspects of the knotted case that the police must yet unpick. Not least there is the disappearance of the true crime magazine. And the suicide-confession letter and the events surrounding it – the audacious claim that it was Kyle Betony’s involvement in drugs that prompted his wife to kill him and take her own life to escape the attendant shame.
‘Jasmine – we have to ask you some questions – for completeness. It will help cement our final case in court.’
‘Naturally, I understand.’
DS Jones slides a polythene evidence folder containing a creased page across the table.
‘I take it you have never seen this before?’
If it were a mock interview for training purposes, she might be criticised for phraseology, for asking a leading question; but anything more ambivalent would seem hostile. Besides, they have already matched the paper and printer ink to the office of ‘Anthony Goodman’ at Fellview Nursing Home, and further analysis is expected to yield a corresponding DNA profile.
Moreover, it is true that Jasmine Betony has not seen the exhibit before. She does not pick it up, but leans over and reads. She takes longer than the limited missive demands – but there is some novelty in reading such a letter, authored by proxy.
Finally, she looks up and merely shakes her head.
‘Mrs Betony – when Inspector Skelgill and I visited you – our second call, on the Monday afternoon, the day before the – the bridge?’ Jasmine Betony nods inscrutably. ‘The flowers – the lilies that we asked you about when we phoned you?’
The woman understands.
‘It was earlier – in the morning – I had just finished translating a press release for Air Siam – and I was in the kitchen making tea. He came to the back door – which is unusual for anyone to do.’ She hesitates, and takes a moment to look at Skelgill and DS Leyton before returning her gaze to DS Jones. ‘He introduced himself as Sir Montague Brash. I had no idea he was actually Anthony Goodman – or –’
‘Tobias Jubb.’
‘Yes. You see – I have never met any of the committee members – but Kyle had spoken often of Sir Montague as an important person – the Chairman.’
‘And what did the man say?’
‘He advanced his condolences and gave me the lilies. I offered him tea, but he declined. But he asked if I would mind if he looked at Kyle’s committee file. I said I would bring it down from Kyle’s study, but he replied that he knew what it looked like and that he would do it – that I should put the lilies in water.’
‘Was he long?’
She shakes her head.
‘Less time than it took me – I was still trimming the stems when he came down.’
‘Did he have anything with him – the file?’
‘No – not that I noticed.’
‘What was he wearing?’
‘It was a shooting jacket – a Barbour type.’
DS Jones senses that Skelgill shifts in his seat. She can almost hear him thinking aloud, “Aye, with a poacher’s pocket.”
DS Jones produces the true crime periodical purchased by Skelgill.
‘We suspect he took your husband’s copy of this magazine. It contains an article about Tobias Jubb – an attempt to murder his second wife, in the United States. We believe it was what prompted your husband to suspect – or at least infer – that Anthony Goodman was Tobias Jubb.’
Jasmine Betony appears to absorb the information without question.
‘And Anthony Goodman – Tobias Jubb – suspected that I knew, also? Is that why he wanted to kill me?’
DS Jones does not answer directly.
‘Did he ask you anything that might suggest so?’
Now she ponders, though her expression remains serene, and perhaps only her breathing quickens a little, a slight flaring of her nostrils.
‘His visit was unexpected. But it seemed entirely plausible. He did ask about Kyle – along the lines that he had seemed agitated on the night of the dinner – and did I know why?’
