Timetable of Death

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Weapon at the ready, Gerard Burns knelt motionless behind the bushes and waited for his moment. The bird circled, hovered for an instant then descended to the fence and scanned the ground below. Burns pulled the trigger and the crow was instantly blown off its perch by the shotgun blast. The gardener’s dog scampered out from its hiding place to retrieve the bird and bring it back to its master. Burns took it from the animal’s jaws and walked across to the shallow pit he’d already dug, tossing the lifeless body into it then using a boot to cover it with earth. He hated crows more than anything else and killed them whenever possible. The noise of the shotgun had made the other birds scatter in a crescendo of squawks and screeches so he was able to put the weapon aside and reach for his spade to fill in the grave properly.

One of the undergardeners came around the angle of the house.

‘What have you shot this time, Mr Burns?’

‘It was another crow.’

‘Wood pigeons are better. You can eat those.’

‘I’ll kill any pests I can.’

‘Slugs are the worst.’

‘There’s poison in the shed. Use it.’

‘Yes, Mr Burns.’

Recognising that the head gardener was in no mood for conversation, the other man went off to hoe some flower beds. Burns, meanwhile, went back to the shed with the spade and the shotgun. Ejecting the empty cartridge, he dropped it into the bin he kept for rubbish. Everything was in full bloom during the summer so there was a lot to do in the garden and he worked long hours to keep everything under control. However, his time was not entirely taken up with horticulture. Reaching behind some tarpaulin in the corner, he brought out a heavy object and tested it for balance. It was not ready yet, he decided. There was still plenty of work to do on it but Burns loved the feel of it in his hands. Stepping outside the shed, he tried a few practice strokes with his new cricket bat. He heaved a sigh, conscious that his days of real prominence on a cricket field were over. What he missed most was the applause for a ball well struck or for the latest wicket he’d taken. Burns was no longer the leading light of a county team. He was now condemned to take part in lesser contests where spectators were few and ovations non-existent.

The new bat was part of a dream. He played one final cover drive, saw an imaginary ball hurtling through the air like a bullet, then went back into the shed. It was time to return to reality.

The train journey to Duffield did not take very long. In earlier days, the village had stood in an area of scenic beauty at the lower end of the Pennines. Situated near the junction of two rivers, the Derwent and the Ecclesbourne, it was like many other Derbyshire villages, agricultural communities that had been transformed by the growth of industry and the development of the railways. When first opened in 1841, the railway station there was little more than a halt but it was now a solid permanent structure. Farm labourers existed in dwindling numbers in tied cottages and the new houses in the village had, in many cases, been built by the Midland Railway for its employees who travelled to the Derby Works each day by train.

Victor Leeming was not interested in the history of Duffield. His only concern was to follow Jed Hockaday in order to confirm the alibi that had been given to the detectives. When the train steamed into Duffield station, therefore, he stayed in his compartment until the other passengers had alighted. Only when the train was about to depart again did he leap out onto the platform and slam the door shut behind him. Leeming looked around to see in which direction his quarry had gone. Over a dozen people were in view but Hockaday was not among them. Leeming had the lurching sensation that he’d been tricked. It looked as if the cobbler had been aware that he was being followed and, instead of getting off at Duffield, had simply stayed on the train. There was a consolation. The sergeant had the names and addresses of two people with whom Hockaday claimed to have spent time on the night of the murder. More to the point, he would not have been able to reach them first in order to tell them what to say to the detective. The journey to Duffield was not in vain, after all.

The cottage in King Street was little more than a hovel. Clearly, Hockaday’s friends were in straitened circumstances. A rusty bell hung outside the front door. When he rang it, Leeming had to wait some time before the door was opened by a wizened old man bent almost double. Having established that he was talking to Seth Verney, the sergeant explained why he was there. The mention of Hockaday’s name put some animation into the old man.

‘Yes, sir, Jed was here that night.’

‘What time did he leave?’

‘He caught the last train back home.’

‘Had he been drinking?’

Verney cackled. ‘Oh, yes — he likes his beer.’

‘But he should have been on patrol in Spondon and constables are not allowed to drink on duty.’

‘It were his day off, sir.’

‘How long was he here?’

‘Jed’s never here for long but we loved seeing him.’

‘He told us he was in the village for some hours.’

‘That’s as maybe. We only saw him at the very end of the evening.’

‘So where did he go before he came here?’

‘I don’t know, sir, but he’d been drinking.’

‘How often do you see him?’

The old man cocked his head to one side. ‘What’s this got to do with that murder you talked about?’

‘I’m not sure,’ admitted Leeming.

‘Jed is a constable. He’s one of you, Sergeant.’

‘I appreciate that, Mr Verney.’

‘He’s not in any trouble, is he?’

‘No, no, I’m just … checking up on something he told us.’

‘Why’re you doing that? Don’t you trust his word?’

‘It never does any harm to confirm certain facts.’

But the other man was increasingly defensive. Leeming found it hard to get the information he was after. What surprised him was Verney’s age and obvious penury. He seemed an unlikely friend for Hockaday, especially as the old man claimed that he’d signed the pledge and was thus no drinking companion of the cobbler. Leeming couldn’t imagine what they’d have to talk about. He was wondering with whom Hockaday had spent time before he came to see Verney and his wife.

‘Let me go back to a question I asked earlier,’ said Leeming.

‘Which one?’

‘How often do you see Mr Hockaday?’

‘He only comes every now and then.’

‘Why is that, sir?’

‘Shouldn’t you be back in Spondon, trying to catch that killer?’ asked the old man with a burst of anger. ‘It wasn’t Jed, I tell you. I’d swear to it.’

‘Why do you say that, sir?’

‘It’s because he only comes here when he has money to give us.’

‘Is he a relative of yours, Mr Verney?’

The old man looked over his shoulder to make sure that nobody inside the cottage could hear him, then he leant forward to confide in Leeming’s ear.

‘I’m Jed’s father.’

Harriet Quayle’s health had swiftly declined. Though there’d been no apparent ill effects from her sojourn in the grounds, she later became visibly unwell. Even though she was in a warm bed, she began to shiver. Her face whitened and her breathing was irregular. She complained of pain in her limbs. But the biggest change was in her attitude. Hitherto, she’d made an effort to cope with the devastating news of her husband’s murder and had even been able to go for a ride in the landau. It was almost as if the ugly truth had finally sunk in. She had lost the man who’d been beside her for so many years and who’d fathered her four children. Her grief was exacerbated by the fact that one of those children was no longer there to comfort her.

‘Mother is getting worse,’ said Agnes.

‘Give her something to help her sleep,’ advised her elder brother. ‘The doctor left those tablets.’

‘She’s rambling, Stanley. Her mind is crumbling.’

‘Stay with her. If Mother doesn’t improve, send for the doctor. I’ll look in on her when I get back.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’ve business in Nottingham.’

‘I feel so much better when you’re here — everybody does.’

‘Goodbye, Agnes.’

After brushing her cheek with a token kiss, he ignored her plea and left the house. The landau was waiting for him on the drive. Standing beside it and holding the door open was John Cleary. He acknowledged Stanley Quayle with a nod. After clambering into his seat, the passenger turned on the coachman.

‘Do you see what you did, Cleary?’

‘I don’t know what you mean, sir,’ said the other, folding the step into position and closing the door.

‘Thanks to you, my mother is very ill.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir.’

‘You should have considered her health before you agreed to take her for a drive. Her constitution was too weak for an outing.’

‘Mrs Quayle seemed well enough to me, sir.’

‘It wasn’t your place to make such a judgement.’

‘No, sir,’ said Cleary. ‘I know that.’

‘My mother left the house against the express wishes of my sister. You must have been aware of that when they came out together.’

‘I was too busy helping Mrs Quayle into her seat, sir.’

‘You’ve displeased me, Cleary,’ warned the other.

‘I didn’t mean to,’ said the coachman, earnestly, ‘and I didn’t think that it would do Mrs Quayle any harm. I was as worried as anybody when she disappeared. Well, you saw me, sir. I helped in the search for your mother and I was very relieved when she was found.’

Stanley Quayle looked at him with undisguised contempt. Unable to decide if the coachman was being honest or merely obsequious, he repeated his warning that Cleary’s job hung in the balance. If he was given the slightest cause for annoyance, Quayle would have him dismissed.

‘Do you understand, Cleary?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘When I make a threat, I always mean it.’

The coachman’s manner was courteous. ‘Yes, Mr Quayle.’

The passenger sat back in his seat and waved a lordly hand.

‘Take me to the railway station.’

Whether on the cricket field or off it, Gerard Burns always committed himself to the task in hand. In the time that he’d worked in the gardens at Melbourne Hall, he’d suggested a number of initiatives. Though some had inevitably been turned down, those that had been implemented proved to be universally successful. He was always looking for ways to improve vistas and add floral refinements. His latest project concerned the fountains and he was studying them yet again when he realised that he had a visitor. Robert Colbeck seemed to have materialised out of thin air.

‘I never expected to see you again, Inspector,’ said Burns.

‘I’d hoped it might not be necessary, sir.’

‘It’s not really convenient for me to talk now.’

‘Then I’ll wait for you in the police station, Mr Burns, and we can have the interview there. It might not be quite so private, I’m afraid.’

Colbeck’s threat had the desired effect. If Burns was seen giving a statement in the police station, it would soon become common knowledge. Several people were employed at the Hall. One of them was certain to catch wind of the development and taunting was sure to follow. If it was known that Burns was a suspect in a murder inquiry, his job might be at risk. Changing his mind, he led Colbeck to a quieter part of the garden and they sat on a bench in the sunshine.

‘What would you like to know, Inspector?’ asked the gardener.

‘I’m sure that you recall that cricket match in Ilkeston.’

‘Very clearly.’

‘I went there,’ said Colbeck, noting the look of surprise from the other man. ‘I have to say that I’ve seen better pitches.’

Burns recovered quickly. ‘If you took the trouble to check up on me, you’ll know that what I told you was the truth. I did play cricket there on that day.’

‘It’s not what you told me that’s at issue here, Mr Burns. It’s what you deliberately held back from me.’

‘And what was that?’

‘After the match, you took a train to Derby.’

Burns shrugged. ‘Is that a cause for suspicion?’

‘Why did you go there?’

‘That’s a personal matter.’

‘Did you go to see a friend or were you drawn there by an enemy?’

‘Speak more plainly, Inspector.’

‘If you were in Derby late that night, you were not far from Spondon.’

‘That doesn’t mean I went there.’

‘No, but it raises the possibility that you could have.’

‘I could have done all sorts of things.’

There was an underlying smugness in the reply that alerted Colbeck. He sensed that Burns had reverted to the posture he’d adopted at their first meeting when he’d been evasive and unhelpful. It was at their second encounter that he’d been far more honest. The gardener was behaving as if he’d expended his reserves of honesty and was falling back on prevarication. Waiting for the next question, he offered a challenging smile. Colbeck jolted him out of his complacency.

‘We’ve spoken to Miss Lydia Quayle.’

Burns was startled. ‘Where is she?’

‘The lady lives in London now, sir. I didn’t have the pleasure of meeting her myself but I’ve had a full report of what transpired.’ He could see the gardener’s extreme discomfort. ‘You may be relieved to know that Miss Quayle did not talk about you at any length.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘You belong to an episode in her life that she has left behind her.’

‘It’s the same in my case, Inspector.’

‘When we last spoke, you told me of a threat made against you. The same vile threat was repeated to Miss Quayle by her father. It was the final straw that broke the bond between them. And, of course,’ added Colbeck, ‘it severed the bond between you and the young lady.’

There was a lengthy pause. Burns gritted his teeth and looked him in the eye.

‘If you’re waiting for a comment,’ he said, eventually, ‘I don’t have one to make except to say that I wish Lydia … Miss Quayle well.’

‘I’ve no doubt that those are her sentiments with regard to you, sir.’

A note of aggression crept in. ‘So why are you really here, Inspector?’

‘An odd coincidence has occurred, Mr Burns.’

‘What is it?’

‘Before I tell you that,’ said Colbeck, gazing around, ‘can you tell me how you keep these gardens in such pristine condition. The lawns are like brushed velvet and the flower beds have nothing but flowers in them. How do you control weeds?’

‘We dig them out by the root.’

‘Some will already have propagated.’

‘I treat those with a herbicide,’ explained Burns. ‘Horticulture is a science that is constantly changing and you have to keep up with the changes. The Americans have done a lot of research on herbicides but I get my inspiration from the Germans.’

‘What do they recommend?’

‘It used to be sodium chloride but some scientists experimented with sulphuric acid and iron sulphate. As it happens, I prefer a herbicide that uses both.’

‘May I see it, please?’ asked Colbeck.

Harriet Quayle had rallied enough to be able to sit up in bed and to talk with more coherence than she’d earlier managed. Watching her with concern, her younger daughter and her younger son sat either side of the bed.

‘Where’s Stanley?’ asked Harriet.

‘He’s gone to Nottingham,’ replied Lucas.

‘Why?’

‘He didn’t say, Mother.’

‘He should be here, mourning with the rest of the family.’

‘I agree,’ said Agnes. ‘Nothing is more important than that.’

‘Stanley is attending to business somewhere,’ said her brother. ‘That’s the one certain thing I can tell you. It proves what I’ve believed all along. He doesn’t feel things the way that the rest of us do. Stanley has no heart.’

‘Let’s have no backbiting, Lucas,’ warned his mother.

‘It’s just an observation.’

‘Where could your brother have gone?’

‘We honestly don’t know, Mother.’

‘He was driven off in the landau,’ said Agnes. ‘That’s all I can tell you.’

‘It’s so inconsiderate of him,’ scolded their mother. ‘Stanley was my firstborn. He was such a delight as a baby. He had such a pleasant disposition.’

‘There’s no sign of that now,’ said Lucas under his breath.

‘In fairness to Stanley,’ said Agnes, ‘he’s taken responsibility for things that neither Lucas nor I really wanted to do. We should acknowledge that.’

‘I agree, Agnes. He’s borne the brunt.’

Harriet went off into a trance for a few minutes and the others waited in silence, communicating by looks and gestures. Their mother finally spoke.

‘If he went to Nottingham,’ she said, ‘he might have been going to the undertaker because the premises are in the town. Stanley may have gone somewhere else, of course, and I’d like to know where.’

‘There’s no need to do that, surely,’ he said.

‘I’m curious.’

‘Then wait until Stanley comes back and ask him.’

‘I want to know now,’ Harriet told him. ‘If Cleary took him to the station, he might know what Stanley’s destination was.’ She clenched her fists and the veins stood out on the backs of her hands. ‘My elder son should be here. I want to know where he is and what he’s doing there.’

Victor Leeming had arranged to meet Colbeck back at the hotel so that they could compare notes but, when he got there, the sergeant saw no sign of him. He was not long without company. As soon as Leeming went into the lounge, Stanley Quayle rose from an armchair and came across to him. He was still in black garb.

‘Superintendent Wigg told me I might find the inspector or a Sergeant Leeming here.’

‘That’s me, sir.’

‘I’m Stanley Quayle.’

‘I guessed that you might be,’ said Leeming.

‘Where’s Inspector Colbeck?’

‘I’m not entirely certain, sir, but he’ll be collecting evidence somewhere.’

‘Then I’ll have to talk to you, I suppose.’

There was a note of resignation in his voice that Leeming did his best to ignore. Working all the time in Colbeck’s shadow, he was used to being undervalued and disregarded. Quayle resumed his seat and Leeming took the chair next to him.

‘First of all,’ said the other, ‘I must apologise for being so uncooperative when the inspector called at the house.’

‘I understand, sir. You were distracted.’

‘That doesn’t excuse my rudeness.’

Though the words were trotted out smoothly, Leeming couldn’t hear a vestige of sincerity in them and the expression of disdain on the other man was unmistakable.

‘Your brother came to see the inspector, sir. He was very helpful.’

‘It was my brother’s visit that prompted this one. I wanted to correct any misleading statements he made.’

‘That’s a matter between you and your brother, surely.’

‘It has a bearing on this investigation,’ said the other. ‘Lucas may have given you the impression that we were a disjointed and unhappy family. It’s a travesty of the truth, Sergeant. Most of the time, I can assure you, we live in perfect harmony with each other. If my brother and I were not on such amicable terms, we could not run the coal mines so efficiently together.’

‘I thought that you ran the business and that your brother merely assisted.’

‘Lucas has clearly misled you on that score.’

‘I never actually spoke to him, Mr Quayle. I’m only going on what the inspector told me.’

‘Then I must correct some misapprehensions.’

Stanley Quayle was still unwilling to divulge any new information about the family that might assist the investigation. He simply wanted to portray it in a more favourable light than his brother. He spoke of a loving father who’d imbued his sons with the aspirations that drove them on. While conceding that his brother had been wayward at times, he insisted that Lucas was now following in the Quayle tradition of enterprise. The other reason for coming to Derby was to find out if there had been any developments in the case. Leeming was succinct, explaining that they’d made some encouraging progress but were in no position to make an arrest as yet.

‘What we really need to know is where your father was on the day when he was murdered. Didn’t he keep a diary?’

‘Yes,’ said Quayle, ‘and he filled it in scrupulously. If we could find it, a lot of things would become clearer, but it’s disappeared. You’ll have to manage without it, I fear.’ He sighed. ‘But you do have suspects in mind, I take it?’

‘There are people at whom we’re looking more closely, sir,’ said Leeming, guardedly. ‘That’s all I can tell you.’

‘Mr Haygarth is one of them, I hope. And then, of course, there’s …’

Quayle drew back from mentioning the name of Gerard Burns.

‘That gentleman has been interviewed, sir,’ said Colbeck.

‘He was no gentleman, Sergeant.’

‘But he was a good cricketer, I’m told.’

‘I don’t want to talk about that,’ said the other, curtly. ‘We indulged the fellow in all manner of ways and he repaid us with …’ He gestured with both hands. ‘My brother will have told you about the betrayal we suffered.’

‘We’ve heard about it from all sides, Mr Quayle.’

‘Don’t believe a word that Burns told you.’

‘Yet his version of events was supported by your sister.’

‘What?’ cried the other, aghast. ‘You’ve seen Lydia?’

‘Yes, sir, we did. We tracked her down in London.’ There was fury in the other man’s eyes. ‘Your sister had a right to know what was going on, sir,’ argued Leeming. ‘After all, it’s her father as well as yours.’

Stanley turned away. ‘I don’t want to hear any more.’

‘Your sister has no intention of coming home.’

‘No more!’ snapped Quayle. ‘We have enough problems without getting embroiled in that one again. As far as I’m concerned, my elder sister does not exist.’

‘Your brother takes a different view.’

‘Lucas will do what he’s told.’

‘Don’t you wish to know where Miss Quayle has been since you parted?’

‘The subject is closed, Sergeant, and so is this conversation. I’m sorry that I was unable to see the inspector instead of having to put up with your impertinent questions.’ He got up. ‘I’ll bid you farewell.’

‘One moment,’ said Leeming, also on his feet. ‘There’s another name that’s come to our ears and it’s a most unlikely one. We gather that this person might bear ill will against your father.’

‘Who is it?’

‘Superintendent Wigg.’

‘I’d forgotten him.’

‘Should we treat him as suspect?’

Stanley Quayle pondered. ‘Yes,’ he said at length. ‘Yes, you should.’

Now that the shock of the murder was wearing off in Spondon, people were starting to remember things that had seemed irrelevant at the time. The reporter was therefore able to pick up scraps of information here and there that might be of use to the detectives. Having become a familiar figure in the village, he’d won the trust of most of the inhabitants so they were more ready to confide in him. When his work was done, he strolled towards the railway station with the feeling that his day had been well spent. Before Conway reached the building, however, he saw Jed Hockaday emerging from it. Spotting the reporter, the cobbler bore down on him with a vengeance.

‘I want a word with you,’ he said, angrily.

‘You can have as many as you like,’ replied the other, coolly.

‘Stop telling lies about me to those two detectives.’

‘You’re the one who’s been telling lies, Mr Hockaday. According to you, on the night of the murder, you weren’t even in Spondon. Yet when the sergeant had a word with the stationmaster, he discovered that you got back here on the last train.’

‘I’d been drinking,’ said Hockaday. ‘I was confused.’

‘You were sober in the morning. When you woke up in your own bed, you must have realised that you got back home somehow.’

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘If it’s relevant to the murder investigation, it is my business.’

‘I had nothing to do with the murder,’ said the cobbler, brandishing a fist, ‘so you can stop saying that I did. I never even knew the dead man.’

‘Are you sure?’ challenged Conway.

‘I’m very sure.’

‘What about Mr Haygarth?’

Hockaday glared. ‘Who?’

‘Donald Haygarth — did you know him?’

There was a momentary delay in replying that gave the cobbler away and his manner was shifty. Though he insisted that he was neither friend nor acquaintance of Haygarth, his claim was unconvincing. The question had put him on the defensive and it irked him. He went back on the attack again.

‘Keep away from Spondon,’ he warned.

‘It’s a free country. I can come here, if I want to.’

‘You’re not welcome.’

‘You don’t speak for the whole village,’ said Conway. ‘Most people have been very friendly. They’ve been glad to help, especially as it may get their names in the Mercury.’

Hockaday stepped in close. ‘Don’t spread lies about me — or else.’

‘Are you threatening me, Mr Hockaday?’

‘There’s such a thing as slander.’

Conway laughed. ‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ he said. ‘I work for a newspaper so I’ve had the laws of libel and slander drummed into me. It’s the reason I always tell the truth. Malicious lies can be expensive.’

‘You’d do well to remember that.’

Hockaday stood over him as if about to strike a blow. In the end, he took a step to the side so that the reporter could go past. Conway paused.

‘Let me ask you again,’ he said. ‘Do you know Donald Haygarth?’

Unable to contain his anger, Hockaday stalked off.

Colbeck was intrigued. Of all the people involved in the case, he found Gerard Burns the most interesting and not only because of his prowess as a cricketer. On the journey back to Derby, he reflected on the character of the gardener. Until his romance with Lydia Quayle, he’d been viewed as an ideal employee, honest, dependable, hard-working, keen to improve the gardens he tended and ready to lend his skills to the family on the field of play. Yet he was also capable of dishonesty, entering into a relationship that called for systematic deception on his part. Having heard from Leeming what an attractive young woman she was, Colbeck could understand how Burns had been drawn to her but he sensed that there was another element at work. Gerard Burns was a man who liked danger and who would be drawn into a romance by the very thing that should have kept him at bay. He might have been beaten by hired ruffians, but he’d taken care to point out that he’d given both men a good fight before he was overpowered.

Where had he been after the match in Ilkeston? The groundsman there had placed him in Derby on the night of the murder and Burns had admitted it freely. What he refused to say was what he was doing there and who might vouch for his whereabouts at a time when Vivian Quayle was being lowered into a grave in Spondon. Colbeck had left Melbourne Hall with many questions unanswered. Burns had been unmoved when it was pointed out that poison similar to that in the herbicide he used had been found in the murder victim. Of the main suspects — Burns, Wigg and Haygarth — the gardener was the one most likely to have committed the crime on his own. The others would probably have used a trusted confederate. As a policeman, Wigg seemed the least likely candidate but Colbeck had arrested a murderous sergeant in his time so he knew that a police uniform was no proof of innocence. Wigg might have had a ready assistant in someone like Jed Hockaday and Haygarth merely had to call on Maurice Hope.

His meditations took him all the way back to the headquarters of the Midland Railway. Colbeck felt that the warm welcome he received from the acting chairman was a trifle forced. Haygarth pressed for details. When he heard that Colbeck had made a return visit to Melbourne Hall, he wondered why the inspector had not arrested Gerard Burns on the spot.

‘I had insufficient evidence, sir,’ explained Colbeck.

‘You had him lying about where he was on the night of the murder and you discovered that he uses a weedkiller which contains a poison found in the victim’s body. What else do you need?’

‘Mr Burns didn’t lie to me. He merely withheld the truth and that’s a slightly different thing. As for the herbicide, he’s not the only gardener who uses it.’

‘But you just told me that it came from Germany. How many people would even know that such a product existed?’

‘Good horticulturalists are observant people,’ said Colbeck. ‘They read articles about developments abroad. Mr Burns is luckier than most in that he’s encouraged to keep abreast of the latest news.’

‘I think you’ve got enough to put him behind bars.’

‘Then you have an inadequate grasp of the law.’

‘I don’t think so. On the evidence we have — including his hatred of Vivian Quayle — a clever barrister could send him off for a rendezvous with the hangman.’

‘I dispute that,’ said Colbeck, firmly, ‘and I speak as a former barrister. When you prosecute an innocent man, it can be embarrassing and not without consequences. To begin with, the police can be sued for wrongful arrest. Before you go to court, you must ensure that you have watertight evidence of guilt.’

‘But you have it, Inspector. Burns is the obvious killer.’

‘The burden of proof still lies with us.’

‘Arrest him now before he makes a run for it.’

‘Where would he go, sir?’ asked Colbeck. ‘Burns has a wife and a child on the way. It’s one of the factors that I deem important. He loves his job. Would he risk losing everything by committing a murder?’

‘Yes,’ asserted Haygarth, ‘if he could get away with it.’

‘Most killers suffer from that delusion.’

The remark produced a long, heavy silence. Haygarth pretended to look for something on his desk then opened a drawer to continue the search. He slammed it shut in annoyance.

‘There was something I wanted to show you,’ he said, ‘but I can’t find it.’

‘Give it to me another time, sir.’

‘It was the list of the new locomotives being built for the Midland. I thought you might be interested in it.’ He looked up. ‘And you still haven’t visited the Works, have you? Cope is ready to show you round.’

‘Thank you.’

Colbeck knew that he was just trying to change the subject. In an office as tidy as his, Haygarth would know exactly where everything was. He’d instituted the false search because he’d been knocked off balance. Colbeck exploited the weakness.

‘Is it true that you haven’t been to Spondon for decades, sir?’

‘Yes, it is. I told you so.’

‘Then you must have a twin, Mr Haygarth. I have reliable reports that someone looking remarkably like you attended the funeral of Mrs Peet.’ He gave a quizzical smile. ‘Have you any idea who that might have been?’