THROUGH THE GLASS DARKLY - OLD SINS CAST LONG SHADOWS

OLD SINS CAST LONG SHADOWS - EPISODE SIX

XIX

THE OTHER WOMAN

Secret Spa positioned in the centre of St Nicholas Street, close to the black windowed insurance building. It did not open until ten in the morning, and as another beautiful sunny morning, dawned, I sat outside a café, a few doors down. Drinking coffee and watching the clientele enter and leave in about an hour. Then my phone went off. Allum-Edwards. "Where are you?"  I told him.

"How is it going?"

"What I can tell you," I began, "don't trust Jan Burton's evidence."

"What?" he sounded exasperated. "You think Jan is not telling the truth? Why? Do you think that she did it?"

"No, no, of course not, but it is tough to tell the difference between a deliberate untruth and an accidental inaccuracy."

"What do you mean, I don't understand?"

"To lie -- is one thing. To be so assured, of your ideas and their essential authenticity -- is a special characteristic of an honest person. Already, mark you, she lied to us. She said she could tell the time Nicholas Casterton left when she could not have done so. She hears Nicholas Casterton leave and comes into the hall to check on the time. A-quarterto-six. So certain of her account -- is what matters! I pointed out to her the time reflected in the mirror. In fact, a-quarter-past-six. She assured me she had not made a mistake, so with anything else, she is right. So, she answers in the light of her knowledge, not because of enduring facts. The positive observer you should always treat with suspicion. The uncertain eyewitness who does not remember is not sure will think -- ah! Yes, that has now it has been, and they are infinitely more to depend upon!"

"Dear me," Allum-Edwards exclaimed, "what a complete and utter balls-up!"

"I astounded her when I said she couldn't have been able to see the right time from where she stood."

"Meaning?"

"She is one of those honestly confused persons, rather than a severe liar. "Jan Burton is a terrible witness because she is inaccurate. She stated that she knew the time Casterton left his aunt's house. At the time, I thought, improbable. The time on the clock only shows as a reflection in the hallway cheval glass. So, it will be back to front. What looked to be a quarter-to-six, happened to be a quarter-past-six. Her belief remained quite unaltered even after I confronted her with the essentials. She is not lying.

There is no motive for her to do so unless -- "

"What is?" 

"An idea came to me. It is too impossible -- yes, much too exceptionable!"

"Got to go," I refused to say any more about my thoughts, "I'll call you later."

I switched the phone off.

Completing my second coffee, I walked to the glass-panelled door and knocked. The curtain behind the door drawn back and the door answered by Trudi. Soft, ivory shoulders exposed, and her cherryred curls fell back. The lips carefully tinted red, and her skin flawless. Silver eyes shone like twin moons in the doorway, wearing a form-fitting outfit.

"Can I help?" Her voice huskiness personified.

"Yes, I would like to speak to Saskia."

"Is it business or pleasure?"

"Depends."

"Saskia?" Shouting over her shoulder. "Someone here for you."

Saskia appeared from one of the backrooms. Black circles around her eyes as though she had not slept. Her face, extraordinarily haggard and weary for one so young. An adult, I suppose but, little more than a child. Willowy, with perfect muscle definition. Skin like silk over a glass, and the only thing false about her? The breasts. Beneath the low-cut dress, unnatural, enhanced.

"Can I help you?" 

"Hope so. I want to talk to you about Nicholas Casterton."

The blood drained from her face, and she went as white.

"Who are you? A policeman?"

         "No,     I'm     a     consultant     for     the     Suffolk

Constabulary."

She laughed, without humour. "What, like

Sherlock Holmes?"

"No, not at all."

A comprehensive expression of alarm came into Saskia's eyes. She started up.

"What is it?"

         "It’s    shocking    news,    I'm    afraid,     Nicholas

Casterton's dead."

Saskia drew away from me, her eyes dilating with horror.

"When?"

"Last night."

"How -- how did-did he die?" 

"Stabbed."

Saskia raised her hand to her throat and gave a little cry. The shock, genuine.

"Last night, and you were the last person seen leaving, via the garden."

She stood for a moment, twisting her hands together. She was stunned by the colour of her face, as all the hue faded away.

"I didn't go to meet him," she said.

"An eye-witness said he saw you walk across the lawn."

Not far short of stamping her feet in anger, she insisted "I didn't do it!"

"Can you prove that?"

Staring at me with defiance, she turned on her heel and disappeared into a side room before coming back with her phone scrolling frantically.

"Received this from Nicholas Casterton, last night."

Sorry, Saskia, Cannot make it tonight.

Something came up.

Will send you something to make it up to you. All my love

Nick

Xxx

I handed the phone back to her.

"What did you think?" 

"Disappointed, of course, expected though."

"Why?"

"I contracted something from one of the other clients, and until the all-clear comes through, I can't fulfil aspects of my job. Without going into all the details if you understand what I mean."

"Don't worry. I appreciate what you imply."

She nodded. The colour had flamed into her cheeks.

"Did he try to make it up to you?"

"Of course, he did. He might not be the best lover in the world, but he knows how to look after a

woman."

"How did he make it up to you?"

"With these," she gestured to a huge vase full of beautiful florilegium. Expensive.

"What time did they show up?"

"Last night. A baby-faced handsome young man brought them"

"The time?"

"About eight."

"Which way did he go after he delivered them?"

"Straight towards the railway station."

"What did you do?"

"I went back to work. My turn on the reception desk."

I was glancing over her shoulder at the small wooden table behind her. It had a Formica top, spindly metal legs. On it, a black A4 diary for this year, a telephone, and a cash tin. Behind the moulded plastic chair, a small safe.

"Did you know the man who brought the

flowers?"

She hesitated.

"You must tell me what you know. It is crucial."

"No, I would have remembered meeting him before." 

"How did you make it to Nicholas Casterton's house?"

"By taxi. The same driver every week."

"Has he a name?"

"David."

"David, what?"

"I don't know his surname. Never thought I needed it for an alibi." I smiled.

"Which firm did you use?"

"Ox Tey, private hire."

I made a note or two in my pocketbook.

"Did he turn up to collect you?"

"No, I phoned him to cancel."

"How did he feel about that?"

"Not happy at all," she said, "They charged me a fifty-per-cent cancellation charge."

"Have you a number?"

"Of course."

She turned to the table, opened the archive, and removed a couple of business cards, and after sifting through them, selected one and gave it to me.

Studying the company on the business card, took out my phone and dialled. While it rang, I watched Saskia's face. She did not seem at all perturbed by my actions.

"Hello?"

"I would like to speak to David?" 

"Speaking."

"I'm an advisor for the Suffolk Police."

"Congratulations."

"Would you mind explaining whether you made your usual pick-up from the Secret Spa?"

"No, I didn't."

"Thank you."

"Hang on a minute," the voice instructed, gutturally. "I had another passenger earlier, which asked me to drop her off at the same place as where

I dropped Saskia."

"Man or woman."

"Female."

"Where did you pick her up from?"

"Oxmarket taxi-rank."

"Had you ever seen her before?"

"No, never."

"Go on."

"She told me to go to the country lane at the back of Nicholas Casterton's house. Told me to be quick, too. People always say that. As though I wanted to loiter. Sooner I get there and get another fare the better for me. Passengers never think. Mind you if there's an accident I'll get the blame for

dangerous driving."

"There wasn't a catastrophe, though."

"No," David agreed, unwilling to abandon his claim to such an occurrence. "Well, I got to my dropoff point after about ten minutes, and she tapped me on the shoulder, and I stopped. She paid and got out of my cab, and she crossed the road and began walking to the back of the house. She vanished between the gap in the hedge to the public

footpath."

"What did you do?"

"Drove down to the pub about half-a-mile away, did a U-turn on the forecourt, and came back the

way I came and drifted off." "You didn't wait." The taxi-driver laughed.

"I never wait. You ask Saskia."

"You didn't see anything else?"

"No, not a thing."

"Thank you for your time."

"Well?"

"Seems your friend backs you up," I told her. "He said he collected a woman before picking you up, took her to Nicholas Casterton's house and let her off near where he drops you."

"Did he recognize her?"

"No, he didn't."

"A shame."

"Yes," I said.

"Ought I -?" she paused. " -- go to the

authorities?"

"Let us not be in a hurry. I like to proceed at my space, with order and method. Once, I discovered the flower delivery man's identity, and it

may arise, your story is unnecessary." Her body relaxed.

"Sorry," she said. "Something familiar."

"In what way?"

"I'm not certain, but if I didn't know better, I would have said he wore Chanel No.5."

"Are you certain?"

"Of course, I'm certain. That is the perfume I use."

XX

FOLLOWING UP A LEAD

During the rush-hour, the place a seething mass of humanity. Everyone packed solid, in each other's faces, no personal space, no exceptions. Now, space between the people and somehow made it more awkward. Crowded, you can take in no information about anyone, and they were in your way -- moving, smelling, delicate, rude things. Now the faces of the locals were looking at me and thinking about me. Judging this man went unnoticed in the crowd. I watched them, forming opinions, deciding on the safest place to stand, nearer to whom, further from whom. I realized that I based my judgments on how well the person dressed. With a whine and displacement of air, the train arrived, and the platform emptied. 

The guard walked down the platform, His blond hair messed up, and he whistled a low tune to himself.

The guard looked tired, having worked all day. Though he knew his shift would soon be over.

His face lit up, and he shook my hand vigorously. I liked Jimmy Raistrick. A cheerful disposition and good company on a night out, if you kept him plied with lager. We stood for about ten minutes talking about the peculiarities of his job. I prompted him in the direction I wanted. By saying I was sure he had seen some bizarre goings-on late at night.

"Funny," he said with enthusiasm, "but only last night before I finished my shift, a girly-looking man went into the gentlemen’s toilets with a medium-sized suitcase, and came out ten minutes later dressed as a woman. Wearing make-up and a wig.

You ask Mary if you don't believe me."

"Mary?"

"The cleaner," he looked at his watch. "In the ladies' now, cleaning up."

On Jimmy's say-so, I walked into the ladies' where a stern-looking woman greeted me gruffly. The woman on duty until ten already gone home and Sylvia replaced her. Suspicious of any man loitering around her conveniences late at night. After resisting my inquiries for a short while, her patience with me started to falter. The way her eyes squinted at me reminded me of a pit viper's slit-like pupils. I gulped. A burning hatred developed in her amber orbs, and I could tell the probable cause of her anger, would have been me.

"There has been enough trouble with homosexual men and their rent boys sneaking in and out in women's clothing while I am not looking," she said. "So, I suggest you piss off before I call the police."

I apologized for upsetting her, thanked her for help, and promptly left. I walked past pebble-dashed bungalows and cottages to a harbour front, where a few dirty-hulled trawlers and fishing boats slumped at angles on the mud, waiting for the returning tide to give them grace and reason.

I walked along the road out towards the mouth of the estuary. With the tide out, just muddy plain dappled with pools and runnels of water, remained. I turned on to a cinder-covered parking area and walked up to my home, a converted boathouse. A stone building jutting out from the bank. Its lower half stood in the water staining the brickwork. Two small windows sat on either side of a door, like a child's drawing of a house.

I struggled to find the right key and finally, I nudged the door open. There were no interior walls, a single large room I decked out like a studio flat. I painted the interior white and installed a double-glazed arched window facing out on to the inlet. A small kitchen area had been built at one side, while a sofa and armchair stood either side of a wood-burning stove at the other. I had chosen sixties-style Scandinavian furniture, unadorned lines, and muted colours, with a deep-red rug, bought on the internet covering the varnished floorboards.

Small as the place was bright and airy, the sort of thing that could feature in the pages of a glossy travel magazine, and I was proud of it.

The morning chorus of birdsong reminded me of the owl. Pulling on my coat and boots, I went outside. The fog had lifted, although there was still a haze, part drizzle, part drizzling mist. It frosted the branches of the apple trees, beading the cobwebs with Quicksilver as I crossed the wet grass.

I walked across the uneven marshes, where everywhere I looked, the marshland moved, dipping, and lurching and the drizzle. I followed a vague trail, trampled out of the bogs that followed the contours of the land, but the farther I went, the more disorientating it seemed to become. The whole place changed and evolved, and even when the weather calmed in the lull between the gusts, it did not settle ultimately. Rain flecked against my face; the ground squelched under me; the grass seemed to reach up -- swiping at my hands, grabbing them.

The shower clung to the dark horizon like a gossamer sheet snared on something and -- beyond its limits -- only shadows, traces of things, vague shapes formed and dissolved, and not long before I felt even more discomfited.

Something moved.

I watched and waited.

Nothing.

I began moving again, glancing over my shoulder. Again, my heart was starting to beat faster. I looked behind me, each time scanning the mist, watching it form and reform, maturing and growing. I picked up the pace like being pursued. Nothing behind me, only my uncertainties.

I met Allum-Edwards for lunch, in a small restaurant in a dark and dingy backstreet in Oxmarket. There I had a delicious cheese omelette, while he had a lemon sole, and I had sticky toffee pudding and cream while my companion went for a selection of cheese and biscuits.

As we sipped our coffee, Allum-Edwards talked about the case for the first time.

"I hope you've got something for me?"

"I'm afraid not. There is something wrong, I am telling you. Somewhere or other, there is an important fact escaping me, and I can’t for the life of me see what it is."

"Listen," he said sympathetically. "Take some advice. Do not look for something which does not exist. You have a peculiar way of looking at cases. I cannot deny it. The assistant chief constable thinks you are some genius. I would not go far, but you are good. I will admit. You are too fond of having things complicated. A straightforward case is never good enough for you. No, not you. It has to be torturous. Try not to play a game of your own and get too far away from real life. Like my niece when she is playing solitaire online. If it does not work out right, she will cancel the game and start again. Well, it is the other round with you. If it is coming out, you cheat to make it harder."

"Well, with this case I'll tell you what jumped up at me, shall I?"

"Please, do," Allum-Edwards said his expression hardening.

"The motives to these murders are not obvious," I announced. "If they were -- why, the risk would truly be too immense! No, the murderer -- or murderers I should say -- cannot be obvious. I cannot accept the first resolution. I know who strangled Lady Casterton, and if you stopped to admit it, you do as well. I am still not sure about how Nicholas Casterton died. It would be too easy if Saskia, the prostitute, happened to be the killer. Casterton handed over good money every week. Why should she? She gave him the disease, not the other way round. No. Whoever, killed Nicholas Casterton took an enormous risk."

"What about Lady Casterton's murderer?" Allum-Edwards said. "Are you going to share this information with me?"

"No," I said bluntly. "It is a little idea, which may or not be justified, which would solve the entire case. If you would only think more clearly, you would have the same idea as me."

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       XXI

DOCTOR NORTON

I had phoned ahead and arranged an appointment to see Nicholas Casterton's doctor. The surgery was on the other side of the marshland. Little more than a large house on a hill, with the Nazi's defeated, it was converted into the doctor's general practice. Now the local doctors occupied the generous sized bedrooms and the lounge areas. Only the dining room and kitchens retained their original purpose. Nothing like the one Zoë had run in Whetstone, North London, where the receptionist was more plastic than the purified water dispenser. Here there was no openness, no space, nothing shines or has the smell of disinfectant. Instead, the way in was down a long corridor. It was so narrow if a wheelchair or trolley were to come to another way, I dipped into a side room to let it go by. Once painted, I could tell from the cream flakes remaining, only the grey undercoat or the concrete showed. The floor was uneven from so much traffic with both feet and wheels and darker than a mausoleum. The air was stagnant like I went into some pit and no hand sanitizer. How they prevented the spread of germs, I had no idea; they did not. From ahead came muffled sounds some angry, some placating.

Doctor Norton was no more than five foot six. My eyes rested on the tattoos playing peekaboo up his sleeves. His ears had holes for piercings, as did his nose. I was expecting him to talk like a biker, but he spoke so eloquently I began to imagine him squeezed into a posh school uniform instead. His voice was baritone and rolling. Under the wild black hair, he ruffled every few minutes with his hands, his eyes a warm brown.

After the introductions, I sat down and moved on to my first question. "I understand from DI AllumEdwards you examined Nicholas Casterton, once you

gained access."

He nodded.

"Yes."

"Can you tell me what you found?"

"I'll spare you the technical language. Stabbed at the base of the skull. By the expression on Casterton's face, I should say the blow unexpected. He died without knowing the identity of his assailant."

"Oh, I think he knew his attacker."

"Would you like to enlighten me?"

I shook my head. "No, sorry."

"Of course, of course," He tried to hide the disappointment in his voice. "You don't want to show your hand, quite yet, do you?"

"Time of death, doctor?"

"Half an hour ago at least -- perhaps longer."

"The door locked on the inside when you got there?"

"Yes."

"What about the French window?"

"Bolted, as well."

"I examined it, and I found it unlocked." "What?" the doctor looked visibly stunned.

"Well, it wasn't when I got there.

"I don't know how? Any valuables missing?"

"Not, according to Miss Khalifa."

He said nothing and I did not press. I wondered about his silent reaction when I mentioned Mia's name.

"Now -- a rather conventional question -- but -- any enemies?"

         Doctor    Norton    laughed.    "Is    the    Pope    a

catholic?"

I smiled without humour.

"Any close friends?"

"No."

"Who profits from his death?"

"Hard to imagine. Both properties heavily mortgaged?"

"Are they now? Because of his debts?"

"Lady Casterton, needed to find the money for death duties for her sister and brother-in-law. About finished them financially."

"Are there any next of kin?"

Doctor Norton shook his head, regretfully.

"Doesn't look like it."

I switched to discussing his health. "What about Casterton's illness?"

My sudden change of direction surprised the excellent doctor.

"A secondary STD occurs as the infection progresses. More lesions in his mouth and he also started to experience a rash. Rough, reddish-brown spots started to appear on the palms of his hands and bottoms of his feet."

"When he came to you, could you describe his symptoms?"

"A fever. Sore throat, fatigue, suffered severe headaches, swollen lymph glands, some patchy hair

loss and started losing weight."

"How did you treat him?"

"A single intramuscular injection of long-acting Benzathine penicillin G will cure a person of primary,

secondary or first latent syphilis."

"Did it work?"

"He wouldn't survive."

"Why not?"

"Chronic lymphocytic leukaemia, to be precise."

"Hence the Bendamustine?"

"Yes."

"What about Miss Khalifa?"

"What about her?"

"You are her GP as well?"

"Yes."

"How did you treat her?"

"The same. Only at stage one, though."

"What about you, Lady Casterton's?"

"Yes,"

"In a good state of health?"

"Excellent for an octogenarian. Love to walk five miles every day. I told her to slow down."

"Shocked?"

"Of course."

"The prime suspect happened to be her nephew?"

"I'd heard, yes. Do you think Nicholas murdered his aunt?"

"By your face, doctor, you consider it to be a ridiculous suggestion. Such a family background and history to his name, the idea could be dismissed. No one scrutinized Jan Burton too much until I pointed out an unusual anomaly."

"Oh?"

I held up a hand in mock protest. "I'm sorry, doctor, it is ongoing. I need to be certain before I start revealing my solution."

"Of course, of course." "He owed a great deal of money." The doctor shrugged, submissively.

"Nicholas became addicted to gambling," he said, dryly. "Money went through his hands like water. He always wanted more."

"Did you try and help him?"

"I suggested he contacted an addiction counsellor, I think he did once, but he never took it any further. The counselling lasted for about thirteen weeks, but he would never commit. He did not want to give up. He enjoyed the excitement more than he should. The trouble with the wrong recreation it is like eating chocolate when working a nightshift. You get an uplift, a buzz, which enables you to continue, for a little while. When you come back down from the initial rush, the tiredness creeps in, and in Nicholas Casterton's case, the feeling of happiness only lasted while winning."

"Did he suffer from depression?"

"About four years ago, I prescribed him an antidepressant. Only on them for about eighteen months."

"Which ones?"

"Sertraline. A type of antidepressant known as a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor. It's often given for depression, and sometimes panic attacks, obsessive-compulsive disorder and post-traumatic stress disorder."

"Did he suffer from panic attacks?" I asked.

"No."

"What about post-traumatic stress disorder?"

"No, but OCD became an increasing possibility."

"With what?"

"Women and money."

I raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"Not only did he suffer from a gambling addiction," the doctor went on, "but he became addicted to prostitutes. He never went to streetwalkers, and he always picked massage parlours or escorts. He somehow felt safer."

I did not understand Casterton's thinking on, but I did not dwell on it.

"Did he ask his aunt for money recently?"

"I don't know -- none of my business. I would be shocked if not. Nicholas never went any longer than about six weeks without annoying her."

"What about her will?"

"Yes. At one time Lady Casterton has been rich, but the cost of running the house on her own drained her resources. And," he added, "constantly bailing out her nephew."

"Why?"

"How do you mean?"

"Not that common an aunt would bail out her nephew from his commitments."

"True," Doctor Norton accepted, "but she felt she owed it to him."

"Why?"

"She happened to be his surrogate mother?"

Momentarily stunned, I said, "Excuse me?"

"Her sister, Lilian was unable to bear children," the doctor explained. "Been trying for years. Lady Casterton offered to give them a child with a few requirements."

"Like what?"

"The child must never find out, and she wanted to fall pregnant naturally. No IVF."

I sighed in disbelief. "So, Lady Casterton started an affair with her sister's husband?" Doctor Norton shook his head.

"No. A business arrangement between three consenting adults."

"You can call it what you like; in my book, it is an affair."

Raw from the discovery of my previous relationship ending, my partner cheated on me with another man. A year ago, now, but it still hurt. I shook myself out of my reverie and got back to the job in hand.

"Casterton's relationship like with the woman he thought to be his mother?"

"Not great, there always seemed a sense of malice between them. Lilian trained to be a lawyer before she got married. Pretty but dull. His biological father? Horrible man if I am frank with you. He drank, took drugs and mixed in the strangest of circles."

"Maybe his son inherited some of his father's genetic traits?"

"Possibly."

"How did they die?"

"Car crash about fifteen years ago. Nicholas just turned sixteen."

"What happens to the contents of the will, now?"

"Don't know. You'll need to talk with the family solicitors."

"You're probably right. I take it you will be attending the inquest?"

"Of course. You?"

"Merely as an observer," I said, and a nervous twitch just below the doctor's left eye started.