Читать книгу Exit - Belinda Bauer - Страница 15

Geoffrey’s Day Out

Despite being arrested for murder, Calvin thought that Geoffrey Skeet seemed to be enjoying his day out.

He and Jackie had been careful with the wheelchair, and considerate when helping Geoffrey haul himself from it and into the back of the police car. Calvin thought he could have carried him from the house to the car if he’d had to, the man was so thin.

Then – because Geoffrey obviously didn’t get out much – Jackie had taken the scenic route from Exeter to Bideford, down pretty lanes and through tunnels of trees, and then across what people still called the new bridge over the Torridge, even though it had been there thirty years. It gave a glorious view up and down the river – of sailing boats and bright little trawlers leaned over in the swirling mudflats, and grand houses with gardens that sloped all the way down to the water, and of the Old Bridge further upstream, tripping across the river in twenty-four uneven arches.

Geoffrey had enjoyed the scenery and the progress, and chatted about the past – his and theirs – and marvelled to find that he’d once taught European history to Jackie Braddick’s father, who now owned half of Appledore, despite having had no interest in the Hapsburgs. Then Calvin had let slip that he’d grown up in Tiverton, where Geoffrey had also spent time in his youth, and he’d kept trying to name somebody they both knew – although without much success.

‘Different generations, I suppose,’ he’d said more than once, while Calvin had nodded in the rear-view mirror.

Then when they’d reached the police station he’d noticed Tony Coral was wearing a South West Steam Society lapel pin, and they’d got talking about locomotives and gauges and signage, and the tragic conversion of branch lines into ghastly tarmac tracks filled with dogs and bicycles instead of rolling stock, and how eBay had become a bloody minefield for honest, decent grisers trying to preserve an enamelled bit of railway history.

Calvin and Jackie went to report to DCI King and left Tony asking whether Geoffrey wanted tea or coffee or another slice of his wife’s leaden fruit cake.

King picked up the Cann file and headed for the interview room. ‘Does he seem worried?’

Jackie shrugged. ‘As an orphan at the circus.’

There were four of them in the cramped Victorian cell-cum-interview room, with village-hall plastic chairs pushed aside for the wheelchair, and an old wooden desk that held a digital recorder. In one corner of the room was a television; in the other was a camera pointing at Geoffrey.

DCI King glanced at Calvin and Pete, then cleared her throat and began. ‘Geoffrey Skeet, we were given your number by a Mr Charles Cann, also known as Skipper, of Black Lane, Abbotsham.’

Geoffrey said nothing.

‘Mr Cann says he spoke to you several times in your capacity as the organizer of the Exiteers regarding arrangements for his proposed suicide.’

Silence.

‘Is that true, Mr Skeet?’

Geoffrey looked at her and then sighed regretfully. ‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ he said, ‘but I have no comment.’

‘Well, we have no reason to doubt Mr Cann’s version of events.’

Silence.

‘He says you told him that two people would be there today to witness his suicide.’

Silence.

‘Given that, doesn’t it seem logical that, when two people arrive at his home this morning, they would have been sent by you?’

Geoffrey sighed. ‘No comment.’

DCI King took a piece of paper from a case file and laid it on the table between them. ‘We found this at the scene.’

Geoffrey patted his pockets until he found his reading glasses, and cleaned them thoroughly on the end of his tie, and then put them on so he could see what she was showing him.

‘Do you recognize it?’

Geoffrey took off his reading glasses and lay them on the table. ‘I really can’t comment.’

‘It’s a waiver,’ said King. ‘Releasing the Exiteers from any culp­ability in the death of a client – in this case, Mr Charles Cann.’

Geoffrey said nothing.

‘There’s also this will,’ she said, flattening said document on the table. ‘Have you any knowledge of this?’

‘No comment.’

Kirsty King shrugged. ‘Mr Cann says you advised him to buy nitrous oxide from a dentist called Mr . . .’ She glanced at her notes. ‘Williams. And that you gave him precise instructions on how to use it.’

‘No comment.’

‘Where does Dr Williams practise?’

‘I really can’t comment.’

King watched him for a long beat, then lifted an old leather briefcase on to the table. ‘This was left behind too,’ she said, and clicked it open. ‘And these . . .’

She removed the thermos, the N2O cylinder and the foil-wrapped sandwich, and laid them out in a neat, if random, row.

‘Do you recognize any of these?’

Geoffrey put his glasses on again. ‘Is that a sandwich?’

‘Yes.’ DCI King peeled back the foil.

‘Strawberry jam?’

‘Yes.’

‘In that case,’ said Geoffrey, ‘no comment.’

King pursed her lips at him. ‘This is not a joke, Mr Skeet. It’s your right not to answer my questions, but I’d very much appreciate it if you’d remember that a man has died.’

‘You’re right,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I apologize. I’m a little nervous, that’s all. This is all very new to me.’

‘I understand,’ nodded King.

‘May I have a glass of water, do you think?’

‘Of course.’

Calvin fetched it. Geoffrey thanked him and took a careful sip. His hand shook a little as he did and he smiled thinly at them. ‘Parkinson’s,’ he said. ‘I spend most of my life spilling things down my shirt.’

King remained stony-faced. She tapped the briefcase. ‘These items were left behind in the Cann house. The older Mr Cann – your client—’

‘Alleged client.’

‘Alleged client . . . says that this morning he put the cylinder beside his bed with the attached mask within easy reach, along with his will and this signed disclaimer, which he says was provided to him by you. He says he was expecting somebody from your organization to witness his suicide.’

Geoffrey said nothing.

‘However, Mr Cann says he woke later to find the cylinder, will and waiver removed from his bedside and a stranger in his room. When he asked what was going on, the man left without a word. Somebody had already called the police but by the time we got there, the intruders had escaped. Sadly, a man was already dead. The wrong man.’

She let the words hang there for a moment.

‘Not Mr Charles Cann . . .’ She tapped the will with a short, no-nonsense fingernail, ‘. . . but his son, Albert.’

Geoffrey’s eyebrows flickered upwards, and King nodded, as if she agreed wholeheartedly with his surprise.

‘So,’ said King, ‘what went wrong?’

Geoffrey frowned as if he was trying to work that out. ‘No comment,’ he said very slowly.

‘Have you spoken to the people involved?’

‘No. Comment.’

‘Has anyone in your organization made this kind of mistake before?’

‘No comment.’

‘This waiver shows that you understand how carefully your operatives have to carry out their duties to stay the right side of the law.’

Geoffrey didn’t look at it.

‘But of course,’ King said, ‘the waiver is meaningless unless the person who signed it is the person who actually . . . you know . . . dies.’

Silence.

‘So where does that leave you?’

He did not reply.

‘Then I’ll tell you,’ she said. ‘Up to your neck in it.’

He did not reply.

DCI King sat back in her chair and observed him coolly. ‘You’re not helping yourself, you know, Geoffrey. You think you’re protecting the people who attended this scene, but refusing to reveal their identities amounts to an obstruction of justice at the very best. Accessory to murder at worst. Albert Cann used oxygen for emphysema. It was right there in his room next to his bed. Huge big tank. Anyone who was there must have seen it. Anyone with common sense would have understood that it might lead to confusion. They would have double-checked. Should have double-checked. To have not done so is criminally reckless at best.’

Geoffrey said nothing.

King leaned back in her chair with a sigh. ‘The trouble is, Geoffrey, you’re the only suspect we have right now, and unless you help us to identify anyone who may be more culpable, I’m afraid you’re it.’

Geoffrey smiled faintly.

‘What’s funny?’

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘It’s just, they say that on TV police dramas and then the suspect always breaks down and tells the police everything they want to know. I just wondered whether it ever works in real life.’

‘Often,’ said King, ‘but only because it’s true.’ She smiled. ‘You know what else often works?’

‘What’s that?’

‘A search warrant.’