The two policemen looked startled to hear this. ‘What happened?’ Pendragon asked.
‘Suicide. Poor Nick hanged himself.’
‘Can you give us some further details, Professor?’
‘It compounded the tragedy. Nick Compton always blamed himself for the accident. He was with Juliette, you see. Had been left alone with her for a few minutes when …’
‘There must have been an investigation into the incident?’
‘Of course there was, Inspector,’ the professor responded, a little testily. ‘A very thorough investigation, as a matter of fact. I can get you full documentation.’
‘That would be useful.’
‘Obviously Dr Napier too came under close scrutiny. He was the most senior staff member present and Juliette was his patient. He was investigated for any possible negligence, and fully exonerated. He gave a very detailed account of the lead-up to the accident. One of the patients … Helen Weatherington, I seem to recall … had felt sick. The two nurses were otherwise occupied, and Napier had taken the girl to a washroom. Nick Compton had been supervising Juliette who decided she wanted to take a walk along the jetty. It was getting late and had started to rain. Nick tried to dissuade her from going, but the whole excursion seems to have fallen into chaos by that point. Nick was inexperienced and easily persuaded by Juliette, who was a very forthright and intelligent girl.’
‘She went over the railings?’
‘Yes. The police were called. Nick went into the water to try and find her and was almost drowned himself. There was no sign of her.’
‘But the body was found some time later?’ Turner commented.
‘Yes.’ Professor Martins looked ashen. ‘Severely decomposed.’
There was a gentle tap on the door and they all looked up. Selina came over to the desk with a sheaf of papers. ‘Thanks,’ Martins said, without looking at the blonde girl, and she retreated. The professor handed Pendragon a dozen printed pages. There was a picture of Juliette Kinnear, taken probably a year before her death. She looked thinner than in the picture Turner had found. The DCI glanced through the material with Turner reading over his shoulder.
‘Juliette was rather an exceptional girl,’ Martins said after a moment. ‘She had been a promising young artist and also dabbled in writing and music. An all-rounder.’
‘Do you have any idea what precipitated her mental collapse, or was it simply a gradual process?’
‘Well, Inspector, it’s a complex matter, as you’ll appreciate. In Juliette’s case, her breakdown appears to have been brewing for a while unnoticed. Then, you could say, the dam burst. It’s a fairly common scenario.’
‘Can you elaborate?’
‘Juliette was a talented artist, there’s no doubt about that, but probably not as good as she thought she was. Consequently she was not receiving the recognition she thought she “deserved”. She experimented with drugs — we got some of the details out of her during group therapy. She believed she could enhance her artistic abilities and achieve success by taking the right cocktail of stimulants. When that failed, her mental stability began to slide, a decline exacerbated by the narcotics she continued to use. She was living with her father, John Kinnear, at Ashcombe Manor, near Braintree — about ten miles from here. He’s dead now. Mrs Kinnear had died a few years before when Juliette was fourteen or fifteen. John hadn’t remarried.’ Martins paused for a moment then added, ‘The family were biscuit manufacturers.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Pendragon commented.
‘When I interviewed Mr Kinnear on Juliette’s admission he recalled the way his daughter would lock herself away for days. She wouldn’t eat, talked to no one, painted and painted and then destroyed the canvases in a fit of rage. She caused a small fire in the house while trying to burn her latest collection in her bedroom studio.’
‘And no one thought this odd?’ Turner asked.
‘Well, yes, they did, Sergeant. But John Kinnear feared the embarrassment of Juliette’s condition becoming public knowledge. He was worried about his business interests.’
The DCI raised his eyebrows. ‘Naturally,’ he said with a weary sigh.
‘The tipping point came when she attacked the gardener.’
Pendragon had just reached the part of the report which described the incident, so was not too surprised. He looked up, scrutinising the professor’s face. ‘How serious was the attack?’
Martins swallowed and looked away for a second. ‘The poor man was stabbed, Inspector.’
Pendragon glanced down, looking for a police report.
‘There was no investigation.’ Martins anticipated his question. ‘John Kinnear managed to keep it quiet.’
Turner glanced at Pendragon. The DCI was staring blankly at the professor.
‘Money talks,’ Martins said matter-of-factly.
‘He paid off the gardener?’
The professor nodded and shrugged. ‘But Kinnear realised his daughter was seriously ill and she was sectioned.’
‘And the gardener?’
‘Macintyre, Jimmy Macintyre. He was a patient here for a short time after he was attacked. He’s still alive, lives alone — in a housing estate in Braintree, a short distance from Ashcombe Manor.’
‘We would like his address before we leave, if you have it?’
Martins nodded and leaned forward on the desk, hands clasped together over the report. ‘Inspector, I fail to see the connection between Juliette Kinnear and your current investigation.’
‘Well, we’ll keep you informed of any developments there, Professor,’ Pendragon said crisply, and stood up. ‘Thank you for your time and co-operation. I take it we can have this,’ he added, waving the report, and before Martins could say another word, had turned towards the door. ‘The address for Mr Macintyre … I imagine your secretary would have that on file?’
Chapter 35
‘Bloody odd,’ Turner commented as they strode across the gravel driveway back to the car.
‘Which part?’
‘Well, all of it, actually. But how did the Kinnears get away with covering up a serious assault?’
‘As Martins said, money talks.’ Pendragon tossed him the car keys.
‘So, what now?’ the sergeant asked.
‘We pay Jimmy Macintyre a visit.’
The country road taking them north-west towards Braintree was icy and treacherous. They drove slowly and stopped for a late pub lunch at a place called the Knight and Garter that was surprisingly good: a traditional ploughman’s and beer, rather than Korean, Ethiopian, or the other exotic cuisines favoured by so many pubs made over by their brewery.
They found the address extracted from the archives at Riverwell without too much trouble, and pulled up outside a tiny brick-and-slate council house. Its red-painted front door had faded to a fleshy pink; there were traces of snow on the roof, frost on the windows. The garden had been left untended and was overgrown with weeds. As they approached, the policemen noticed the door was badly cracked and the letterbox simply a rectangular hole.
Pendragon rang the bell. The house remained silent. Turner stepped back on to the path and looked at the upper storey. There were no lights on, the curtains were all drawn. Pendragon rapped his knuckles on the door. Still no reply. He stepped back to join Turner and the sergeant had another go, leaning on the bell. Eventually they heard some shuffling sounds coming from the hall.
‘Who is it?’ The voice was frail, that of an elderly man.
‘Police officers, sir. Is that Mr Macintyre?’
A silence. Then the sound of the man clearing his throat. ‘What ya want?’
‘My name is DCI Pendragon. We’d like to have five minutes of your time.’
‘Why?’
