But as a police officer, Trudy was aware that it had to be simply trust and faith in his son that made him so sure that David was innocent of killing Iris Carmody. For if the Superintendent had had any solid proof, or even circumstantial evidence, he’d have handed it over to DI Jennings the moment it had come into his possession.
When news of the murder of the May Queen had first burst on the station in such spectacular fashion that early morning on the first of May, Trudy had been as fascinated and appalled by it as much as everyone else. DI Jennings had seemed both chuffed and slightly alarmed to be put in operational charge of such a high-profile case, and had quickly assembled his team around him.
Of course, she had not been let anywhere near it, and had been forced to complete the usual tasks that were her lot. Filing. Patrolling the streets where handbag snatchers were wont to try their luck. Taking witness statements from female victims.
But that didn’t stop her from keeping her eyes open and her ears on the alert for any titbits that might come her way whenever the Iris Carmody case was being discussed. So she’d overheard many conversations in the communal office that had given her at least some grasp of what was happening with the May Queen murder case.
She knew, for instance, that the medical findings had confirmed that the murdered girl had probably been dead for only a short while before she was found – making it almost certain that she had been killed around dawn. She had not been pregnant, but neither was she virgo intacta. And cause of death had been due to manual strangulation. Somebody – a man presumably, because of the strength it would have taken – had taken her by the neck and throat and throttled the life out of her.
She also knew that David Finch had quickly become a person of interest, as the girl’s beau. He had told DI Jennings that on the evening and night before her death, he’d been at home with his parents, and at dawn the next day, had been asleep in his bed. Not that that helped much, as it would have been perfectly possible for him to sneak out at any time.
Although attending university, he was back home for a few days, no doubt so that he could share and participate in his girlfriend’s big day. In the village of Middle Fenton, May Day, apparently, had always been a big day.
In normal circumstances, of course, the word of a superintendent and his respectable wife wouldn’t be doubted. But these were hardly normal circumstances. And most people – particularly those responsible for writing news articles – were quick to point out that there weren’t many mothers who wouldn’t swear blind to the innocence of their beloved sons. Even the mothers of the most hardened criminals would swear that their darling boy was tucked up in front of the radio whenever a jeweller’s was being turned over, or some poor victim was being beaten black and blue.
‘You say he became angry?’ Clement’s voice cut into Trudy’s glum speculations and focused her mind on the here and now. Guiltily, she hastily continued to take her shorthand notes.
‘Yes. After three or four days with no arrest, he became very bitter. I told him that these things could take time, but he began to … not lose faith in the police officers investigating the crime, exactly, but become impatient for a result.’ Superintendent Finch shrugged a little helplessly. ‘It was understandable, of course. He’d lost the girl he was growing fond of, and he wanted justice for her. He was young and impatient,’ the dead boy’s father added flatly.
‘And what form did this impatience take?’ Clement asked, genuinely curious now. Sometimes, he felt, conducting an inquest could feel a bit like conducting a symphony, with all the main players already knowing all the notes in advance, and it was merely his job to make sure things ran on a smooth, expected course. But sometimes he preferred to stray from the allotted path – like now.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Sergeant O’Grady, back in his seat in the front row, was looking distinctly uncomfortable, and was trying to catch his eye – no doubt with a view of trying to indicate that he wanted Clement to rein the witness in.
Clement steadfastly kept his eyes on Keith Finch.
The Superintendent considered the question for a moment, then sighed heavily. ‘He said that he probably knew Iris as well as anyone, along with Iris’s friends, and far better than any policeman did. And that he should be able to figure out what had happened to her if he just used his brain. I learned that he then began talking to them, and others in the village, trying to press them for information. I had to rebuke him sharply – such a thing is, of course, totally unorthodox.’
Of course, Clement thought, there were two ways of looking at the dead boy’s behaviour. Either David Finch was genuinely trying to find out who had killed Iris, or else, he was trying to find out exactly what it was the police were learning, and if they were likely to stumble on any evidence that he himself had committed the crime. And playing the part of the avenging boyfriend was a good cover for such activities.
‘And did he listen to you?’ Clement asked.
For a moment, the man on the stand visibly hesitated, and Clement watched him closely, wondering if he was, probably for the first time, going to come
