‘Yes sir,’ Harry admitted miserably.
‘And with some considerable success?’
‘Yes sir,’ he was again forced to agree.
‘Very well then. As I said, the Chief Constable is with me on this, Inspector. After the inquest on my son is over – no matter what the verdict may be – you will approach Dr Ryder and ask him to make further discreet inquiries about my son and the circumstances of his death.’
‘Superintendent, sir, I don’t think that’s really wise …’
Keith Finch gave a harsh bark of laughter, and for the first time looked seriously angry. ‘It may not be wise, Inspector,’ he snapped, leaning forward in his chair, ‘but everyone’s going around saying that my boy – my boy! – murdered that girl and then killed himself.’ Suddenly he slammed the flat of his palm down on Jennings’s desk so hard and fast, that Jennings nearly went into orbit. The sharp ricochet of sound had the heads of the police officers in the outer room swivelling in their direction.
‘And I’m not having it, Jennings. Is that clear?’ Superintendent Finch said through gritted teeth.
Harry nodded wretchedly. ‘Yes sir,’ he agreed. Clearly the Super still had some clout with the higher-ups, and he was in no mood to be thwarted.
‘Very good. So, continue your investigation into the Carmody case,’ the Superintendent said mildly now, standing up and looking as if nothing dramatic had happened. ‘Let nothing interfere with that. Continue regarding my son as a suspect if you must. But let that clever girl of yours and the old vulture sniff around my son’s case without any impediment. Understood?’
‘Yes sir,’ Harry said, standing up politely.
It was clear, all right, but that didn’t mean to say he had to like it. And, whilst he might have to tread carefully – for now, anyway – that didn’t mean he would always have to toe the line. Especially if they finally got some proper evidence as to who had murdered Iris Carmody, and why.
He watched his superior officer leave the room and then slumped back down behind his desk with a groan. Great! As if he didn’t have enough troubles already. This was infuriating – another case with his station’s annoyingly efficient and pesky lone WPC and the old vulture snooping around in police business.
Just what he needed!
Chapter 2
Dr Clement Ryder, city coroner, was tidying his desk in preparation for leaving for the day. Like his police colleagues he often worked on Saturdays, and although he was not obsessive about neatness, he didn’t like dealing with mess at the start of any working day.
Outside, the daylight was beginning to diminish, and he was looking forward to going to home to his attractive Victorian terrace overlooking South Park, and indulging himself in a small cognac. A widower for some time, with two adult children off leading lives of their own, he was content enough to live alone. Nevertheless, he was glad that he’d been able to find a good ‘daily’ who not only kept his home tidy, but also left a tasty supper warming for him in the oven every evening.
A man just a shade over six feet tall and clean-shaven, he had a head of thick silvery-white hair and slightly watery grey eyes. Although not fat, he was certainly getting a little hefty around the middle, but that was not about to stop him from enjoying his housekeeper’s cooking!
He reached for a stack of files, intending to lock them in the bottom deep drawer by his right leg, but as he lifted them off the oak, leather-lined top, he felt his left hand give a quick, involuntary jerk. He had to quickly drop them back onto the desk and then catch the top one before it slid off onto the floor.
He was still scowling angrily at his now slightly trembling hand, when his secretary knocked on the door. Quickly, he thrust his hand down out of sight below the top of the desk, and looked up, careful to put a polite, inquiring smile onto his face.
His secretary, a comfortable-looking, middle-aged woman answered with a polite smile of her own. ‘You have a visitor, Dr Ryder. He doesn’t have an appointment, but I think you’d prefer to see him. Detective Inspector Jennings?’
Clement Ryder blinked, hoping he didn’t look as astonished as he felt. For all the five or so years he’d now been working as a city coroner, he could never remember DI Jennings calling on him voluntarily. Usually, it was he who bearded the policeman in his own den.
‘Of course, please show him in,’ Clement said, but was very much conscious of the hand trembling in his lap. Surreptitiously, he began to massage his weaker palm with the fingers of his other hand.
Clement had been a surgeon for most of his adult life, but nearly six years ago, he’d noticed a slight tremor in his hand. His worst fears had been confirmed when he’d undertaken a series of tests – abroad and under another name – which had confirmed the onset of Parkinson’s disease.
Naturally, he had been obliged to retire at once, not only from surgery, but also from medicine in general, as he could not put any of his patients at risk. It was a decision that had baffled and stunned his friends and professional colleagues alike, as he’d given no real reason for it. But he’d known that he would never be able to keep his condition a secret for long from medically trained, observant people, and being unwilling to endure the pity of others, it was important to him that he kept his illness totally under wraps.
And yet, he’d been unable to retire and do nothing, so he’d retrained instead as a coroner, studying law and passing the requisite examinations for the position with ease. Here, at least, his medical knowledge and general acumen when it came to observing and understanding human nature wouldn’t go to waste. And, he was honest enough to admit to
