A Mind to Kill

Chapter Three

John Bentley liked murder but decided almost at once there wasn’t going to be any personal benefit from this one. There would automatically be some publicity from Gerald Lomax being a millionaire City high-flyer and Bentley was ready to bet a mistress with big tits would emerge within forty-eight hours but it wasn’t like the other twelve he’d solved without a single failure to justify the promotion to Detective Superintendent at the age of thirty-nine and the legend he worked so aggressively to maintain.

If there was anything at all remarkable about this one it was that it was virtually over before it began, an open and shut domestic stabbing in full view of sixteen credible witnesses.

The only thing to do was organize the routine, find the motive when he found the mistress and hope she had a pretty face as well as big tits for the photographers. It would still count as a success on his record, which was all that really mattered.

The ambulance paramedic, leaving his partner applying the emergency dressings to Jennifer’s arm and hands, crossed towards Bentley. Gesturing down to the blood on his jacket the man said, ‘She’s badly cut. Needs suturing. And she’s in pretty deep shock.’ He rubbed at the bloodstains. ‘It’s a bastard getting this stuff off.’

Bentley looked towards the vacant-eyed woman. ‘Wouldn’t believe she was capable of it, would you?’

‘She did a pretty good job. The poor sod is cut and stabbed to buggery. Whatever he did, it upset her.’

A young pathologist whom Bentley didn’t know was bent over the body, mumbling into a hand-held tape recorder.

‘It’ll be sex. Classic syndrome,’ predicted Bentley. He turned to two policewomen in the outer corridor. ‘Go with her in the ambulance. I’ll come later.’

Jennifer allowed herself to be laid on the stretcher trolley and Bentley stood aside for her to be wheeled past him. Her eyes were closed but there was a faint smile on her face.

‘Call us when the body’s ready to be moved,’ said the ambulanceman as they went by.

Bentley nodded, staying to the side of the room for the overalled forensic team to enter. He recognized Anthony Billington at the head of the group: he’d worked with the obese man on three of the previous murders.

‘All fairly straightforward?’ said the scientist.

‘Looks that way,’ agreed Bentley.

‘Shouldn’t take us long.’

‘Let’s get everything, just the same.’

‘We always do,’ said Billington, curtly.

‘I know,’ placated Bentley. Fucking prima donna, he thought. The room was becoming crowded, so he went into the outer corridor. From there he looked down into the trading room. Malcolm Rodgers, his inspector, had everyone seated at their terminal stations, giving statements to attentive constables. It really was straightforward. If it hadn’t been part of the routine there wouldn’t have been any reason for his even being there.

The pathologist scuffed out of the office and immediately began stripping off his protective suit. He smiled at Bentley and said, ‘Hewitt, Felix Hewitt.’

They shook hands. Bentley was a gaunt, tall man who towered over the medical examiner.

‘Multiple stab wounds and extensive lacerations,’ said the pathologist. ‘I won’t know until after the postmortem, obviously, but I’d say at least five would have been fatal. Quite a concentration around the heart area, as if she was specifically hitting him there. That and the face. A lot of cuts there, like she was determined to disfigure him.’

‘Hell hath no fury,’ said Bentley.

‘I haven’t got much on, so I can let you have a report by tomorrow.’

‘That’ll be fine.’

Rodgers emerged from the lift for which the doctor was waiting to descend. Looking down towards the trading floor Rodgers said, ‘First time I’ve known sixteen statements all saying the same thing in virtually the same words. This is going to be the easiest ever.’ The two had worked on eight of the previous murders and spent a lot of time together socially. Their wives liked each other.

‘No question about it,’ agreed Bentley.

‘It’ll be another woman.’

‘Guaranteed.’

‘Flat here in London, country house in Hampshire where the little wife lives most of the time with the baby. While the cat’s away, the mice play.’

‘Wonder what the mistress will be like?’

‘Classy,’ guessed Rodgers. ‘Lomax was loaded. He could afford the best.’ He looked needlessly at a notebook. ‘This is the second wife. Name’s Jennifer. Worked in the firm to begin with. Brilliant, from what they said down there. First wife, Jane, died of an overdose.’

Bentley turned hopefully from looking down at the trading floor. ‘Anything suspicious?’

The inspector shook his head. ‘She was a diabetic. It was an insulin imbalance, according to what they’re saying.’

‘Was Lomax having an affair with this one while the first wife was alive?’

‘For almost a year, apparently.’

‘So he made a habit of it?’

‘Seems that way: lucky bugger.’

From the doorway Billington said, ‘We’re through with the body. Can we get it out of the way?’

A uniformed policeman further along the corridor looked enquiringly at Bentley, who nodded and said, ‘Please.’ The policeman, glad of something to do, began talking into his radio.

‘She said anything?’ asked Rodgers.

‘She’s in shock, according to the paramedic. She’ll know who the other woman is. We might as well go and find out.’

Both men were keen rugby fans and on the drive along the Embankment the conversation was about that Saturday’s international between England and Wales. Both had tickets. Rodgers, whose mother had been born in Swansea, offered a?5 bet on Wales, which Bentley took. They gambled between each other a lot. Bentley usually won.

‘If this had been a difficult one it could have buggered Saturday up,’ suggested Rodgers, putting their Scotland Yard identification on the dashboard as he parked in a consultant’s reserved space.

Jennifer was in a single ward. One of the policewomen outside the room rose at their approach and said, ‘They did the stitching under local anaesthetic. And the doctor insists there’s no shock. They’re happy for her to be interviewed.’

The second policewoman made room for them as Bentley and Rodgers entered the tiny ward.

Bentley formally identified himself and Rodgers and then said, ‘You’re Jennifer Lomax?’

‘Yes.’

‘You know why we’re here?’

‘Gerald,’ said the woman.

Hurriedly, anxious for everything to be kept in its proper routine sequence, Bentley recited the official caution before she could say anything more.

As he did so Jennifer frowned towards him, head curiously to one side.

‘Have you got anything to say?’ demanded Bentley.

‘It wasn’t me,’ said Jennifer. ‘It was Jane.’