The Last Detective pd-1 Read online

  'But the basis of your contract – your understanding, or whatever you called it – had altered,' Diamond pointed out. 'She no longer had a career.'

  'So what? Just because Gerry was unemployed I didn't expect her to stay at home and darn my socks. She put her energies into building a social life for herself. She gave up the flat in Ealing, of course.'

  'Difficult for a woman used to London, coming down here and not knowing anyone,' Diamond remarked, resolute in his belief that the marriage must have been fatally flawed.

  'Not for Gerry. Word soon got round that she'd moved down here. The invitations came in thick and fast.'

  'Did you get invited, too?'

  'Quite often. I couldn't usually join her. I had a brand new department to set up, and that took up most of my time. I gradually got to know the crowd she spent her time with. We had the occasional party here.'

  'People from Bath?'

  'Bristol. All around, I gather.'

  'You gather? You didn't get to know them that well, then? Weren't they your sort?'

  Jackman gave him a cold stare. 'People don't have to be my sort, as you put it. Anyway, I didn't make a point of asking them where they lived. If you want their names and addresses, I dare say I can find her address book.'

  'You mean you don't even know the names of your wife's friends?'

  'I didn't say that. There were some people called Maltby. They were from Clevedon, I believe. Paula and John Hare. Liza somebody. A tall fellow by the name of Mike -I'm not sure where he lived.'

  'Don't bother,' said Diamond. 'I'll go through the address book, as you suggest. Did your wife ever mention falling out with any of the friends she made?'

  'Not that I recall.'

  'Shall we move on again?' Diamond started back in the direction of the house by way of stepping-stones across a lawn still damp with dew that would probably remain all day. 'I sense from what you've been telling me about your marriage that she might not have discussed her friends with you,' he commented as he picked his way gingerly across the path.

  'Probably not,' the Professor answered from behind him. Nothing appeared to wrongfoot him.

  Ahead, virtually in the centre of the garden, was a solidly paved area, darker at the centre. Diamond mistook this at first for a flower-bed, but as he got closer he saw that the blackness was the burnt-out foundation of a building, roughly octagonal in shape. 'Looks as if you had a fire some time,' he said conversationally.

  'It was quite a feature of the garden,' Jackman responded with the urbanity of the practised host. 'A summerhouse. It burned down on the night Gerry tried to kill me.'

  Diamond stopped with such suddenness that he practically lost balance. When he managed to find his voice again, it sounded quite different, shocked into a flat, breathless delivery. 'I don't know if I heard right, Professor, but I think we've jumped ahead a bit in the story.'

  PART TWO

  Gregory

  Chapter One

  IT WAS 5 AUGUST WHEN my wife Geraldine attempted to murder me.

  The killing of a husband calls for a degree of disaffection, not to say loathing. Gerry was known to everyone as a warm, exuberant personality, a charmer. She was extremely good-looking, too. She had reached the stage of her life when 'beautiful' was beginning to give way to words that were no less appreciative, merely more dignified: words such as 'elegant' and 'soignee'.'air was gathered and fastened high on the nape of her long white neck. The fact that she favoured black skirts and blouses was in no way sinister; that was good dressing.

  I'm bound to say that in the privacy of home it was a different story. In the last six months she had become increasingly difficult to live with. Her moods were unpredictable. She was subject to fits of temper, irrational outbursts when she would blame me for little things that thwarted her. I recall that she accused me of tampering with her car when it failed to start, of hiding her newspaper and of emptying the hot water tank when she had clearly left a tap running herself – silly, domestic things that she inflated into major incidents, claiming blatant evidence of malice on my part. Yet at other times she swung to moods of gaiety and amusement that could be almost as difficult to take, followed often by black, silent depression. All this worried me, naturally, but it stopped a long way short of personal violence, or so I believed.

  With hindsight, I can see that the first intimation that Gerry was planning something came indirectly, from the doctor. Towards the end of July I went for my annual check-up, a routine that my employers at the university insisted upon. After the nurse had weighed me, checked my blood pressure, water, reflexes and every function on her list, I was ushered into the consulting room for the verdict. My regular GP was not available, so for the first time I met the senior man in the practice. Dr Bookbinder is one of the old school, pitted and grizzled, with a bow-tie and cufflinks. He's the sort who refuses to go near a computer. Although he had an anti-smoking poster on his wall and kept the window open, his room reeked of cigars.

  'How do you feel in yourself?'

  'Fit as a butcher's dog,' I answered, and although I say it myself I looked it, clear-eyed, sturdy and cheerful.

  'What aretly – indecently young for a professor. What's your subject? Nothing in the medical line, I hope?'

  'English.'

  'Fine.' Dr Bookbinder's brown eyes glittered as he looked at me over his glasses. 'You won't be telling me my job. I didn't know they bothered with the mother tongue up at Claverton.'

  'I'm in the process of building up a department. The chair was created a couple of years ago.'

  'Chair of English, eh? Sounds all right, but don't be tempted to sit in it too long. The sedentary life can lead to constipation and piles.'

  'It's not all sitting. I stand up and stretch at intervals.'

  'Splendid. Is it stressful?'

  'The standing up?'

  'The running,' said Dr Bookbinder. 'Of the department.' 'Not really. I don't have many students yet.'

  The doctor glanced through the form containing the nurse's findings and stuffed it ham-fistedly into the buff folder that represented all of my life in medical terms. 'Haven't read anything so boring since that book about the hobbits – or was it the rabbits? In insurance terms, Professor, I would describe you as a ruddy good risk so long as you don't burn yourself out. You're married to that enchanting young woman who used to play Candice Milner on the television, aren't you? She's a patient of mine.'

  I nodded.

  'She was in here on Monday,' he went on. 'It's one of the perks of this job that I tend to see the ladies more often than the husbands. No insult intended.'

  'None taken. I make a point of avoiding doctors unless it's inescapable,' I riposted, uncrossing my legs prior to making my exit. 'And since I'm not here to wangle a week off work, I shan't take up any more of your time.'

  Dr Bookbinder made a downward movement of his hand to signal to me to remain seated. 'When Mrs Jackman makes an appointment they go bananas in reception.'

  'The power of the box.'

  'Want to know why she came to see me?'

  Indiscretion was in the air. I didn't care for it. I remember saying guardedly, 'My wife and I respect each other's privacy.'

  'Do you sleep together?'

  My eyes widened. I pulled myself up in the chair in a formal attitude. 'Does that have some relevance?'

  'I wouldn't ask it otherwise, would I?' said Dr Bookbinder.

  After a moment's consideration, I said, 'If you mean in the same room, the answer is yes.'

  'In that case I'm not being unprofessional. You must have noticed it.'

  'Noticed what, Doctor?'

  'Your wife's insomnia.'

  'My… wife's… insomnia?'

  That's why I asked you about the stress. It crossed my mind that you could, quite unwittingly, be passing on your concerns about the job to her, but you tell me that isn't the case.'

  Now, I don't care for half-baked psychiatry. I don't care much for psychiatry at all. So I told him, '
I don't often discuss my work with Geraldine.'

  Then we must look elsewhere for a possible cause of anxiety. Could it be traced to some dissatisfaction with her present mode of life? She has to put up with rather less of the limelight now.'

  'True. She does the occasional commercial, but otherwise the television work has dried up.'

  'Why is that? Because everyone still thinks of her as Candice?'

  'That's part of it, certainly.'

  'You didn't notice she was losing sleep?'

  'Frankly, no. We have twin beds and when my head touches the pillow, I'm off.'

  'You don't enquire in the morning whether she slept well?'

  'Not usually. My impression is that she's always sleeping soundly when I get up.' I paused. 'But I must say I feel very uneasy about this conversation, Doctor. If Geraldine is worried about losing sleep, she could have mentioned it to me. The fact is that she didn't. She came to you in confidence.'

  'I made the not unreasonable assumption that you knew about the problem,' the doctor told me. He followed this up with an insinuation that I didn't like in the least: 'You are concerned, I take it?'

  With difficulty I controlled myself. 'Naturally I'm concerned now that you've told me. I'll do whatever I can to help, if it's only making her cups of hot chocolate in the night.'

  The doctor sniffed. 'You don't have to stay awake and keep her company. That's no way to tackle insomnia.'

  'What do you suggest?'

  Off-handedly he said, 'Don't bother – she'll get her sleep now. I've put her on phenobarbitone.'

  I frowned. 'Is it as bad as that?'

  'We've run through the milder hypnotics. She tells me they had little or no effect.'

  'It's been going on for some time, then? I didn't know.'

  'This is severe, intractable insomnia, Professor. We must break the cycle somehow, and in cases like this a good old-fashioned barbiturate will do the trick when some of the newer tranquillizers will not. When we have re-established the habit of sleep, the natural pattern should reassert itself in a few weeks.'

  'You mean there's nothing I can do?'

  'There's still the underlying problem. It may be physical, but of all the causes of sleep loss, anxiety is the most common. I can see that you're sympathetic, and that's helpful in itself, so if you can find out what is troubling her and do something constructive about it, you'll do more good than phenobarbitone in the long run. Please be discreet, however.'

  That's rich!' I said.

  'Professor, as an intelligent man, I'm sure you won't need telling that a patient's confidence in her doctor is vitally important.'

  'Point taken,' I told him, and this time I didn't hold back. 'And as an intelligent man, I ought to advise my wife to change her doctor. Good morning.'

  I got up and walked out.

  Before starting the car I sat for some time trying to understand why Geraldine should have been losing sleep and how it was that I had failed to notice. The possibility didn't cross my mind that the phenobarbitone was intended for me.

  Chapter Two

  Later the same morning at the University of Bath, I found myself watching Miss Hunter – who is the personal assistant to the Dean of Letters – arrange six chocolate digestives on a plate. In the next room the University Steering Committee was in session and I had been summoned for item six on the agenda. I was due to go in with the coffee. After twenty minutes I was getting restless. I still hadn't got over that uncomfortable session with Dr Bookbinder. I remember helping myself to a biscuit and saying facetiously, straining to put myself in a better frame of mind, 'Peculiar name to give it – the Steering Committee. What do they do in there – ride around on pushbikes?'

  Hilary Hunter likes a giggle. She seemed to enjoy the mental picture of five professors solemnly pedalling around the dean's office for the entire morning, but as a loyal PA she couldn't laugh at the dean's expense, so she turned and flicked the switch on the kettle. It had come to the boil twice already.

  Another minute passed.

  The buzzer on her desk sounded. She poured the coffee and picked up the tray.

  I opened the door for her and murmured, 'Watch out for the race leader in the yellow jersey.'

  It was like a nudge in the ribs for Miss Hunter. She made a snorting sound as she stepped through the door.

  The dean said, 'Do you require a tissue, Miss Hunter?'

  She shook her head.

  'Leave the tray, then. We'll help ourselves. Jackman, do come and join us.' The dean gestured towards a vast chintz-covered settee. The comforts of life are important to him. He goes in for check-patterned woollen shirts and hand-woven ties. His flat cap and golf bag were hanging on the door. This year it was his turn to preside over the Steering Committee. The others were drawn from different faculties. I knew three of them slightly and sometimes propped up a bar with the fourth, Professor Oliver, the Art man.

  'How is the fledgling School of English faring?' the dean asked in his ponderous way.

  'Chirpy enough,' I answered.

  'Ha – yes. Ready to take wing?'

  'What's on offer, then – a trip to the States?'

  The dean chuckled. 'You're an optimist.' He turned to his left. 'Isn't he an optimist? Professor Oliver, would you be so good as to explain?'

  'Me?' Tom Oliver asked in a spray of biscuit crumbs. He needed something to chew. Smoke-free committee meetings are an ordeal for a man who habitually keeps a pipe alight. He took a gulp of coffee and swallowed hard. 'You probably know, Greg, that we're trying to buff up the university's image in the town.'

  'The city,' said the dean.

  'Correction. The city. There was some criticism a year or two back that we'd built the proverbial ivory tower up here at Claverton and were ignoring the burghers.'

  'Now that's uncalled for,' said the dean.

  'Burghers,' Oliver repeated. 'The good citizens. The suggestion was untrue, of course. With our strength in science and technology we've always been involved with local industry through sandwich courses. We provide a marvellous range of extramural courses. We have the Concert Society arranging musical events. At Christmas we let hundreds of shoppers use the car park for the park-and-ride scheme. And of course the students have their rag week and so on.',

  'The sedan chair race,' contributed the Professor of Comparative Religions, a featherweight who annually agrees to be transported around the course.

  That, too. What I'm leading up to is that three years ago, before you joined us, Greg, we held an exhibition in the Victoria Gallery.'

  'The one over the public library,' chipped in the dean. 'Fine exhibition, it was, for a pioneering effort.'

  A guarded look dropped like a visor over my features.

  'It fell to me to organize it,' Oliver continued. 'My brief was to put on a show called Art in Bath, featuring painters who actually lived here at some point in their lives. A motley crew, I have to admit. Gainsborough, Sir Thomas Lawrence, Whistler, Lord Leighton and a few lesser lights.'

  'Professor Oliver had one of his own on show,' said the dean. 'An abstract, mainly in pink, as I recall.'

  Oliver said self-consciously. 'I needed to fill a space. I would have preferred to put on a complete show of modern work, but the Society of Bath Artists had its annual show in the gallery a month before, and I was told firmly that this must be different in character, a more traditional exhibition.'

  Sensing, perhaps, that the positive aspects of the Art in Bath Exhibition needed to be stressed more, the dean came in again. 'There was a first-class response to our request for the loan of pictures – from private collections as well as the more obvious sources. That's partly the point of an exhibition such as this. It's a way of involving the local people, reminding them that we exist. It got into the papers and on local television and radio. Professor Oliver got to be quite a media man in the end.'

  Tom Oliver's eyes rolled upwards at the memory.

  By now I'd heard enough of this. I sat back and folded my arm
s. 'Let's have it, gentlemen. What am I lumbered with?'

  The dean frowned. 'No one has lumbered you with anything, Jackman. I would have thought a professor of English might have employed a more felicitous word than that.'

  'Clobbered?'

  'We seem to be at cross-purposes,' said the dean. 'I know you don't mince words, Jackman, but there's no cause to be obstructive before we have even outlined the proposition. I see this as a shining opportunity for the English Department to make a name for itself. You know, as the newest department in the university you have a lot of ground to make up on those of us who were here at the beginning. And with only two years' intake of students to administer I wouldn't have said you were overburdened. You won't be awarding degrees for another year.'

  'Fair cop,' I said. 'You want me to bang the drum this year. Do I have a free hand?'

  'Within limits.'

  I shrugged. 'I don't have a free hand.'

  'We have a proposal – rather an engaging one -originating from the city council itself. It has this committee's strong support, naturally.'

  'What is it?'

  'Jane Austen in Bath.'

  There was a silence.

  'Jane Austen, the writer,' added the dean, whose sarcasm wasn't complicated by subtlety. 'In case you weren't aware of it, she lived in the city for several years.'

  'You learn something every day,' I said. 'Is that the deal -just Jane?'

  'And Bath. The theme, the rationale, of the exhibition is a celebration of Jane Austen's years in Bath.'

  'A celebration?'

  'Exactly.'

  I drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. 'Pity she isn't still around to enjoy the irony of this.'

  The dean bristled. 'You had better explain that remark.'

  'Jane Austen's years in Bath were no cause for celebration. She was pretty pissed off with the place.'