A Mansion for Murder, page 8
Mr Cohen gave a nod of acknowledgement. I noticed that he extended the fingers of his right hand that protruded from the sling, and then closed his fingers, forming a fist. This could have been because he needed to stretch his cramped hand. Yet something in the way Cohen shifted his position slightly and, unseen except by me, repeated the action and made a fist, alerted me that he may be preparing himself for a sparring match.
What had he picked up that I had missed? Mr Whitaker had said that David Fairburn was here by appointment, giving the impression that he was here as a witness, nothing more.
Cohen cast a kindly avuncular look at the young constable. In the tone of voice that might just as well be saying, Here’s a thrupenny bit. Go buy a poke of sweeties, he said, ‘You may leave me with my client now, Officer.’
The constable hesitated slightly before standing and taking himself back into the corridor.
Mr Cohen began his questioning with the confidence of a man who has spent hours boning up on Saturday’s tragic incident.
Within a few moments, we knew that at age fourteen Ronnie Creswell was apprenticed to David Fairburn, who was then twenty-five years old. David was now thirty-three years old, married with two children, and sharing a house with his parents. His father still worked in the mill and his mother in the canteen. He had three sisters; the youngest, Dorrie, still lived at home. The Fairburns and the Creswells were friends. They went to the same chapel.
I took notes as if a life depended on it, because that may be the case.
According to David, he and Ronnie had got on well from the start. Ronnie was bright and willing, had learned a lot from helping his dad in the gardens at Milner Field. Without being taught, he knew how the factory boilers worked because they were larger versions of those that heated Milner Field’s hothouses.
After his initial enthusiasm, Ronnie was less keen to work on the mill machinery. Over time the two of them worked together less, with Ronnie working on the fabric of the buildings. They shared responsibility for the reservoir, however, undertaking regular inspections and maintenance between engineer’s visits. An engineer inspection had taken place last week.
‘Describe this reservoir for me,’ Cohen asked.
‘The tanks hold five hundred thousand gallons of rainwater that feeds the boilers. On top of the warehouses, there’s a smaller tank, holding seventy thousand gallons, drawn from the river in case of fire. We check that, too.’
David braced himself to give yet one more account of finding Ronnie’s body, and raising the alarm. He had spotted bruising and a cut to Ronnie’s cheek and jaw. The police had tried to make something of this, David told us. They had made inquiries and found out about a falling-out between David and Ronnie when the two men had stepped outside on a Friday night when they were at a dance.
I took it that ‘stepped outside’ meant that there was fisticuffs, but when Mr Cohen pressed him David said, ‘You can’t buy beer in Saltaire. We went outside to meet a pal who was bringing us a couple of beers to take round the back.’
My handwriting grew in size and swirl as I wrote faster to keep up. I was about to raise my hand for a pause when Mr Cohen said, ‘Tell me why and how you and Ronnie came to blows.’
David Fairburn remained silent. I looked up from my note-taking and gave David a hard stare. He needed to be straight with his solicitor if he wanted to walk free. What was he keeping quiet about?
David clamped his jaw. His breathing became heavy. At least he had not given an outright refusal.
Mr Cohen said, ‘You were friends with Ronnie for a long time. Did you exchange blows on the day he died?’
‘No!’
‘Did you play any part in his death?’
‘No! We were friends.’
‘Friends fall out. What did you quarrel about at the dance?’
‘I’d rather not say.’
‘Don’t you think your old friend would want you to tell something, however personal or embarrassing it may seem to you, for the sake of arriving at the truth?’
‘It’s not just concerning me and Ronnie.’
‘I didn’t suppose for a moment that it would be. I can’t put names in your mouth. Don’t waste precious time, Mr Fairburn. Chivalry is admirable, but do not leave some poor female with the blight on her life that you saved her reputation at the cost of your life.’
David looked across the table, his eyes wide, his hands shaking. ‘It’s private.’
‘You must be straight with me. Your friend’s death may have been an accident. Is that what you think?’
‘I don’t know. Ronnie was always careful. It was a routine job. I can’t think what could have happened.’
‘Then we must consider possibilities, including another person at the scene of the death.’
‘Nobody would have harmed Ronnie. He was popular; everybody who met him liked him. He stuck up for his workmates, was captain of the cricket team, on the up and up in his job.’
‘That’s three reasons he could have made enemies. Tell me what caused you to quarrel.’
‘It wasn’t even a quarrel.’ David took a deep breath. ‘We went dancing every Friday night, me and my wife and sister, and Ronnie, and others, friends of ours. Some of us had taken ballroom-dancing lessons. Ronnie and my sister Dorrie were the ones who turned out to be good at it. Pamela was a good dancer, too, according to Ronnie, but she never came. She couldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘She and Ronnie played their cards close to their chests. It would have been the talk of the mill, the talk of the village, if it came out that they were—’
‘That they were what? Mr Fairburn? Don’t make this a guessing game.’
‘They planned to marry, permission or not.’
The penny dropped: David Fairburn knew of Ronnie and Pamela’s plans and kept their secret.
Cohen’s sigh seemed designed to indicate the unimportance, the triviality, of David’s admission. ‘So Ronnie came because he liked dancing and because it threw gossips off the scent of his liaison with Pamela Whitaker?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Who did Ronnie dance with?’
‘With my sister, Dorrie, and my wife, and with any girl that was sitting out.’
‘Did the quarrel that wasn’t a quarrel concern your sister?’
David turned a shade of pink. ‘My wife had them paired up, but it wasn’t like that. They were friends, more like family. Our parents have been friends for years.’
‘So you were close. What did Ronnie say about your sister that upset you?’
‘We were on the bottom steps, waiting for our pal and the beer. Ronnie had already narked me by saying he thought Mr Whitaker might be giving him more responsibility and, if so, he still wanted us to go on working together. He was getting above himself, jumping to conclusions. He then said not to take this the wrong way and he meant no harm, but he’d noticed a change in Dorrie. She wasn’t her usual self, and when they danced up close …’ David stretched out his fingers on the table and looked at the back of his hands, and then he looked up. ‘It was as if he’d hit me in the stomach because I knew what he was getting at. He’d no call to talk to me like that about my sister. He was saying Dorrie was in trouble. I punched him. I don’t know why I did it. He punched me back, just a reaction. That was it. I was angry.’
‘So you were on bad terms?’
‘No. He said he was sorry. He hadn’t meant to interfere, and probably he was wrong. He thought because she was my sister, she was his sister as well.’
‘Did you believe him?’
‘Yes. I was mad because he thought he knew Dorrie better than we did.’
There was a tap on the door. A young constable announced in a hushed tone, ‘The sergeant is on his way, sir. Five minutes.’
‘Shut that door!’ Cohen blared.
The door quickly closed.
‘Am I in trouble?’ David asked.
‘Did you and Ronnie Creswell usually go down to the reservoir together?’
‘We had a timetable, officially took it in turns, but if he was going down and I could be there I was, and the same for him. If there’d been a heavy rainfall, we’d join forces. That Saturday, Ronnie was working on one of the houses at the top of Victoria Road. He sometimes lost track of time.’
‘But he hadn’t forgotten?’
David hung his head. ‘No. I saw from the docket that he’d signed for going down there, but not that he’d come out. The door was unlocked, which it should never be.’
‘Who else had access to the keys?’ Cohen asked.
‘Me, Ronnie and the security officer. We signed out the keys from security.’
‘Has anyone else been in that area during the past week or two?’
‘Yes. The Water Board inspector and his apprentice.’
‘Who else?’
‘No one that I know of. Oh, security, I suppose.’
‘And who is the father of your sister’s baby-to-be?’
‘She won’t say. My wife says leave her for now.’
‘Why was Ronnie the first to know about your sister’s condition?’
David shrugged. ‘My wife might have known. If she did, she didn’t tell me. I suppose it was because Ronnie has always known Dorrie, and they danced together. They’ve been dancing partners since we all took lessons. And before you ask, there’s nothing more to it than that.’
As he opened the door, the sergeant greeted Mr Cohen and sat beside him, opposite David. He nodded to me, giving me a hard but not unfriendly stare. Do they teach these things on police training courses? ‘Today we do the hard stare in the morning, and the mild-mannered Tell-it-all-to-your-Uncle-Jack stare in the afternoon.’
The sergeant placed a manila folder on the table. ‘We have some results from a preliminary post-mortem report.’ He glanced at David. ‘This gives us considerable information about what took place before Ronald Creswell’s body entered the water.’
Cohen hadn’t nudged my foot, but I stared at the inspector. So did David, but with no change in his puzzled expression. He had the detached air of an observer who did not believe that this could be happening, and to him.
‘Perhaps you need to do a little more talking, Mr Fairburn,’ the sergeant said. ‘You admit to punching your unfortunate workmate on the jaw.’
‘That was over a week ago,’ David said.
‘The deceased had a fresh bruise to his right jaw, marks on his throat and wounds to his left temple and cheek from a blunt instrument.’ He looked across at David. ‘Do you have anything to add to your previous statement?’
David ran his hands through his hair. He leaned forward ready to speak, to blurt something out. His mouth opened but he couldn’t find words. He shook his head in a gesture of disbelief. ‘If you’re saying I hurt Ronnie, that’s mad, that’s crackers.’
Mr Cohen sighed. He ignored the sergeant and spoke to David. ‘Mr Fairburn, I am here to represent you. You need say no more at present. Sergeant Balcon is doing his job and I will do mine.’ He turned to the sergeant. ‘My client has made no secret of the brief fisticuffs between himself and his old friend and workmate. They made up. He has also said that his workmate was already dead when my client went into the reservoir area. I require a copy of the post-mortem report. I request that my client now be allowed to return home to his family. He has cooperated with your inquiries.’
‘That won’t be possible, Mr Cohen.’
Mr Cohen scratched his ample right eyebrow. ‘On what grounds are you detaining my client?’
‘His fingerprints were at the scene of the crime and—’
‘Of course his fingerprints are there. It’s his place of work. Have you identified other sets of prints—the Water Board inspector and his apprentice, visitors to the mill, security staff?’
‘Inquiries are ongoing.’ The sergeant turned to David. ‘David Fairburn, pending further inquiries, I am detaining you overnight for further questioning.’
Before Mr Cohen had time to intervene, David said, ‘You can ask me questions until Domesday. It won’t change anything. Just let’s get it over with.’
Mr Cohen remained quiet for half a minute. ‘My client has expressed a willingness to cooperate. My junior partner will attend during your morning interview, which must not be before eleven o’clock. Kindly arrange a telephone call to my office at nine a.m. to give the time of the interview.’ He turned to David. ‘It is noble of you to cooperate, Mr Fairburn. Do not answer further questions without legal representation. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
At the desk, Mr Cohen made formal requests for the documents he required.
Constable Harrison waited to speak to him. He looked a little uncomfortable. ‘Sir, I’m to inform Mrs Fairburn that her husband is detained. Is there anything I might pass on from you?’
Mr Cohen took a business card from his top pocket. ‘Please tell Mrs Fairburn that Simon Cohen Esquire will act for Mr Fairburn. Mrs Fairburn must feel free to telephone my office during business hours.’
We walked to our respective cars. Mr Cohen’s driver opened the door, helped the solicitor into an astrakhan coat with a fur collar, and buttoned him in.
Cohen caught up with me as I was about to start my car. ‘There’s the question of timings, Mrs Shackleton. My client says that he recovered the body of his colleague just as the body was about to sink. We’ll know from that timing how long Mr Creswell had been in the reservoir area, and at approximately what time the perpetrator left the area, leaving the door unlocked. If we can locate David Fairburn as being elsewhere during the period immediately prior to his entry and the sighting of the body, that could be of value.’
‘Anything else? I’m going to Saltaire tomorrow.’
‘See what you can find out from David’s pregnant ballroom-dancing sister …’
‘Dorrie.’
‘That’s the one.’
Chapter Thirteen
White light from the corridor shone through to the cell. The light penetrated David’s eyelids. He felt cold enough to shiver, though he was no softie. The narrow plank was hard and uncomfortable. David turned his face to the wall. If this was what having a solicitor did, he would have been best without one. A solicitor must make you look guilty.
Tom Harrison had told him to hand over the laces from his shoes. He’d then taken David’s suit, folding it carefully, saying, ‘I’ll put your suit on coat hangers.’
Hearing Tom say that, just for the seconds the words took to say, made David feel better, the words, the kindness behind them. But then he said to himself, What are you thinking? You’re in a cell, like a criminal. It cheers you up that two-left-feet plodder Tom Harrison will hang up your good suit?
Much good it had done him, turning up respectably dressed. He ought to have worn work clothes. They would have been warmer. Beryl was good at ironing. She only once scorched something and that wasn’t her fault. He couldn’t remember what it was now, only that she was upset. What would she be feeling now? He’d let her down. He’d let himself down and couldn’t put his finger on how this had happened.
Who was it? he wanted to know. Who got Dorrie pregnant? Pity she never took a fancy to Tom, a police constable, job for life, comes with a pension. Tom would have taken good care of Dorrie. Perhaps it might still happen. He should have listened to Ronnie. He didn’t ask Dorrie anything. He said nothing to Beryl, because he did not want to know, could not bear to think about what Ronnie had said. With Ronnie gone, David couldn’t imagine Dorrie or Beryl or himself ever wanting to dance again.
David had been given one damp blanket. It smelled of someone else’s sweat, stale tobacco and old booze. The picture that came to David with the smell was of a quiet, polite tramp screwing his courage, knocking on a door, asking for a cup of tea and a slice of bread.
Soon it would be Tides week. Factories closing down for the annual summer holiday, suitcases packed, kids excited. Why is it you can never find last year’s bucket and spade? It was left behind, that’s why. How could they have been so extravagant as to leave something behind? A holiday turned you dizzy and giddy, that’s why. They would still go, for the sake of the kids.
Ronnie had thought about giving Blackpool a miss this year, but in the end, he and Dorrie didn’t want to miss the dancing, having practised the tango for weeks. This might have been their last blast of glory. ‘You haven’t booked a bed,’ David told Ronnie when he decided to come after all. ‘You won’t get in anywhere.’
Ronnie just laughed. ‘I’ll find somewhere.’
He would have, too, squeezed in by their obliging landlady. She would have made someone double up.
The picture came to David of Ronnie in the water, his dead eyes, and then of the seaside, Blackpool, the two of them rolling up their trousers, gingerly stepping into the water, pretending to be old men. Oohing and ahing about the cold and their rheumatics, until they had everyone laughing themselves stupid.
David began to see faces. He didn’t know who they were or why they came floating into view, but they were the faces that brought sleep. He watched them appear, and disappear, and then he followed them into troubled dreams.
Chapter Fourteen
The night was cool, the car freezing, the visit to David Fairburn in Shipley police station dispiriting. I arrived home shivering, Mrs Sugden helped me off with my coat. ‘I heard the car. I’ve made you a hot toddy and I thought it was about time to finish off what’s left of the spice cake.’
‘What’s the occasion?’
‘No occasion. I thought you’d be cold after that drive.’
‘I am.’
‘You’ll soon warm up. Oh, and Jim’s here, and not his usual self.’
‘I heard that!’ Sykes came into the kitchen from the dining room.
We sat at the table, sipping hot toddies and eating cake and cheese.
Sykes’s news was no news. He had bought an early edition of the local paper and looked for Rosie’s patient number. The listing said simply, ‘Comfortable’.
Just to be sure that there had been no change that might have appeared in a later edition, he had driven back in the evening to the hospital gates, and seen the same announcement.
