The Dobie Paradox: british mystery novel: where nothing is as it seems Page 25

  ‘But how did she get in? The guard at the gate—’

  ‘She walked straight in, of course. And later on she walked straight out again. Knowing that Elspeth would be out of the way for a couple of hours or more playing hockey. The guard would have seen her each time all right and have checked her in and out … but again, he’d have checked her as Elspeth, he’d have made the same mistake as Mrs Train. He’d have seen her even less clearly on that black-and-white television screen he has, and of course he’s seeing Elspeth going in and out all the time … and all the kids in school uniform look alike to him, he told me so himself.’

  ‘She’d be taking a bit of a chance, all the same. Supposing he’d gone out and seen her more closely—’

  ‘What chance? She could have said she was calling on her friend Elspeth and all he could do would be turn her away. Of course, then she’d have had to think of some other trick if she wanted to get inside to see the boyfriend … but she’d have managed it, I promise you that. A very ingenious young lady, that one.’

  Jackson was dubious. ‘I dunno. With all this high-tech stuff they’ve got in here … a simple little dodge like that one …’

  ‘But that’s what’s ingenious about it. The simplicity. It’s like flying through a radar screen with an all-wooden aircraft. Or Toad of Toad Hall.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s how he got out of prison. Disguised as a washerwoman. Beverley got into Toad Hall in just the same way. And out again. Quite a few times. But always on a Saturday afternoon, when Elspeth was playing hockey. And always leaving well before six o’clock, when Elspeth would be getting back. It couldn’t have been difficult.’

  ‘If you say so, Mr Dobie. Though it seems to me … But who was she trying to get in to see, anyway? Who was the boyfriend?’

  ‘Ah,’ Dobie said. ‘As to that, I haven’t the faintest idea.’

  Jackson sighed. ‘Then I can’t see that we’re tuppence better off. Because it couldn’t have been anyone here. They’ve all got alibis, every bloody one of them.’

  ‘Well, there’s a time factor involved all right. It would have been far safer to take this stick away and burn it, get rid of it altogether. As I said, your Charley probably wouldn’t have wanted to take the risk of being seen with it … but it’s equally probable there wasn’t time to dispose of the thing properly. Up there in the trees with the boughs coming into leaf, there’d be every chance of its going undiscovered there at least till the winter, so as a spur of the moment decision it wasn’t a bad—’

  ‘You think the girl was killed there? Under those trees?’

  ‘Yes, I do. That’s how those leaves got knocked off a low branch – when one of the blows was struck – and stuck to the wound. It’s a quiet and well-screened spot, after all. Of course she didn’t actually die till later, but that’s beside the point. That’s where she got beaten up – with her own hockeystick – and if there was any kind of a fight or struggle, there’d hardly be any traces left of it after all that rain. But most probably there wasn’t. A sudden, unexpected, vicious attack … that’s how I envisage it. And somewhere, Jacko, an alibi that won’t stand up. But whose alibi …’ Dobie shook his head. ‘No, that I can’t tell you. On the face of it, there’s only one person here it could have been. But that solution makes no kind of sense at all.’

  Into Jackson’s somewhat befuddled brain there appeared the vision of the huge arrivals indicator board back in the Operations Room, the dozens of chalked symbols and figures, the sheafs and sheafs of statements lying in the wire tray on the desk. There wasn’t any way he and his colleagues could go through that lot again. Pontin would never allow it. Pontin would … ‘Can’t we narrow it down at all, Mr Dobie? Find somewhere to start? Even if it’s on a’ – looking up hopefully – ‘mathematical basis?’

  ‘You mean …?’

  ‘I don’t know what I mean,’ Jackson said. ‘I’m just asking myself where to start. That’s all.’

  Dobie, seemingly, was asking himself the same question. At any rate, he was pacing restlessly up and down, his hands clasped behind his back in approved university lecturer style. Since his head was lowered the while and his gaze fixed on the floor, he appeared to be in imminent danger of walking straight into one of the walls and debraining himself, but … Jackson reached out a hand and found reassurance in the thick padding that apparently lined the whole cell. Good. Someone had thought of that already.

  ‘Well,’ Dobie said, coming rather abruptly to a halt. ‘I don’t think it helps very much, but there’s someone here who shouldn’t be here. Probably under a false name. Which is odd, but doesn’t seem to have any real bearing on the situation, because—’

  Jackson was nodding. ‘Yes, we know about that. And it hasn’t. But it’s supposed to be … How did you find out about it, may I ask?’

  ‘One of the medical records in the computer here has been falsified. One of my friends is looking into it now, but it may be a while before he—’

  ‘Records?’ Jackson stopped nodding and looked puzzled instead. He was fast becoming extremely good at this. ‘There shouldn’t have been any need for that. The boy’s using an assumed name, that’s all. You see, his father … Well, we won’t go into all the details, they’re not really reverent, but you can take it from me the police are conservant with them.’

  ‘A boy?’

  ‘Yes. Eighteen or nineteen, maybe. Why?’

  ‘No. It’s a man I’m talking about. Name of Cooper. Martin Cooper. Forty-four years old, according to the records. It’s all a bit puzzling but he didn’t arrive here till the Saturday morning, just a few hours before the girl was killed, so obviously he couldn’t be the fellow the girl was seeing. All the same – you said a starting point, and it’s all I can think of.’

  ‘And he’s using a false name? I don’t quite see how you got on to him in that case …’

  ‘I was just checking the entries for that day,’ Dobie said, a little tiredly, ‘because that was the date the girl wrote down on that sheet of notepaper and when I was running it all through the computer it occurred to me that “Holiday” might conceivably be the name of a person or a private code-name for a person because it’s spelt with a capital letter, only the computer couldn’t find any—’

  ‘Forty-four?’ Jackson said suddenly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Forty-four years old, you said? Big guy with curly blond hair?’

  Height 6' 2"

  Complexion Fair

  Eyes Blue

  Hair Fair

  said the little computer disc at the back of Dobie’s mind. ‘Why, yes. In terms of general description … Yes …’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Jackson said. ‘I’ve got to get a look at this geezer. Now.’

  ‘Well, that shouldn’t be—’

  ‘Halliday. An A, not an O. The kid was scribbling it down, anyway, it must have been Ivor Halliday. I just hope I’m wrong, that’s all, because … But she knew him. Of course she knew him, he was supposed to be her father for Crissake. Her mother was Halliday’s bit of crumpet before she … Come on, Mr Dobie, we got to get out of here …’

  ‘But who is this chap?’

  ‘Used to run a night club and a chain of girls in those days for Dai Dymond. Then when Dai went into the drug scene, Halliday acted for him. His hard man, right? Did all the shoving around that had to be done and put two or three bodies in the Taff, if only we could prove it.’ Jackson was speaking jerkily and rather incoherently, as he was now and simultaneously hammering on the door for all he was worth. ‘Why in hell’s name doesn’t someone open? They can’t keep us stuck in here for ever, can they?’

  ‘Last time it was only about half an—’

  ‘Those bloody imbeciles in their white jackets, I’ll have their guts for garters, you see if I don’t.’

  ‘Jacko, what are you getting so worked up about? Even if this chap is here, he’ll be locked up in a cell in just the same way as we are.’

  ‘I hope so. Becaus
e this is making sense in a way I don’t like. If this Cooper character’s Halliday, then he’s here for a reason and I fancy I know what that reason is. Dai’s given him the contract.’

  ‘What contract?’

  ‘Tit for tat deal. Heavy stuff. Dai wants to get back on a guy called Tom Haining who grassed on him and knocking off Haining’s son is how he plans to do it. We were warned about it only last week.’ Jackson removed his right shoe and began hammering on the door again with the heel of it. ‘Why do I wear rubber heels anyway? Oh hell.’

  ‘Ah. I begin,’ Dobie said, ‘to see the light. This is the boy you were talking about—’

  The door opened and the face of Horatio Carter peered cautiously round it. Cautiously, and displaying apparent perturbation. He opened the door further, revealing two more of the ubiquitous white-jacketed gentlemen in close attendance. ‘Now looky here,’ Jackson said, about to brandish his shoe threateningly and then changing his mind, ‘I’m a police officer and I’m here in the dereliction of my duties and I demand to see a responsible official of this establishment immediately. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Er, well, no,’ Carter said, his eyes darting past Jackson to meet Dobie’s placid, indeed ruminative gaze. ‘But obviously a mistake, another mistake has been made. Professor Dobie, of course, I … Yes. Recognize. And you, sir, are really a police officer?’

  ‘I keep telling you I am, I’ll reduce my identical dottyments if you require them.’ Jackson was clearly in a state of high excitement.

  ‘No, no, that won’t be necessary. In fact your arrival here couldn’t be more opportune. We have very urgent need of your services.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Because someone’s just been murdered,’ Carter said.

  Thursday March 29th

  Another really dull day. Aren’t they all?

  No news. No letters. Nothing. Tried to work on my novel but no, it wouldn’t gel.

  Everybody seems to be on edge, somehow. Like in prison when they’re leading someone off to the execution chamber. But I can’t see any reason for it. Bad vibes, maybe.

  Horse has got the sulks and won’t talk to me. Charlie Chan won’t even let me help him with his bloody crossword puzzles. The paranoid kid down the passage goes on and on about he thinks his cover’s been blown, like John le fucking Carré or something. And the big guy next door is the worst of the lot, even worse than the Chicken, just sits there staring at the newspaper and clenching and unclenching his fists like he’d like to crumple the thing up and ram it down someone’s throat. How can I ever write a book about this place? It’s like being in a crossword puzzle. With all the clues screwed up.

  1 across Backward horse is in at the death (3,3)

  — except they used that one in that Jack Nicholson thing, didn’t they? A pretty stupid film that was, too. Going mad, it isn’t like that at all. I can say that quite definitely. Going mad is

  He stopped typing.

  He listened instead.

  Footsteps. Outside. Heavy, purposeful. Clumping along down the passageway. He knew all the footsteps by now but he didn’t recognize these. Further down the corridor, a door slammed loudly.

  Someone shouted.

  Something was happening. Seymour wondered what.

  ‘Now listen,’ Jackson said, striding vigorously down the passageway. ‘There’s a prisoner here called Cooper, you know who I mean? Well, I want someone to get through to whoever’s on duty at the main gate and tell him that Cooper isn’t to be allowed through, under whatever circumstances. He may try to do a bunk. In that case, he’s got to be stopped. Never mind why. I have my reasons.’

  ‘He won’t be breaking out,’ Carter said. ‘You can be quite sure of that.’

  ‘I don’t know that I can. Frankly, the security here—’

  ‘He’s the one who’s dead.’

  ‘Ah,’ Jackson said. ‘Is he now.’

  Not the wittiest of rejoinders. But then he had yet again been taken quite seriously aback.

  Despite Dobie’s increasing familiarity with the characteristic contortions adopted by other people’s corpses when sprawled untidily out over the floor, he was still unable to view them with that degree of professional aplomb achieved, as a matter of course, by Kate, or with that air of faintly proprietorial approval demonstrated by Jackson. He didn’t go so far as to avert his gaze while Jackson was examining the body, but he contrived none the less to suggest his own dissociation from all these goings-on, gazing fixedly into the middle distance like a Pekinese owner whose pet has just voluminously vomited over somebody’s suede leather shoes. The corpse in question lay almost in the exact centre of a cell room virtually identical to that in which he and Jackson had been until a few moments ago incarcerated; it was that of a large fair-haired man whose features (since it lay face downwards) weren’t immediately discernible, though it was apparent that something extremely nasty had happened in that area where the thick blond hair cascaded down over the nape of the neck. There was blood and stuff there. Ugh. Jackson, who had stooped over at a dangerous angle in order to perceive the deader’s face more clearly, righted himself and, teetering awkwardly back on his heels, stepped back a couple of paces.

  ‘That’s our Ivor all right. Well, I’m blessed.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘What happened? He’s been shot. That’s the exit wound you can see there, the entry’s right in the centre of the forehead. He must have been facing the gun when …’

  ‘Or looking out the window.’

  ‘Or, I was going to say, looking out of the window when …’ Jackson circumnavigated the cell floor cautiously and peered, equally cautiously, at the open window space. Behind the bars, green leaves glistened in the raindrops, a grey cloud-torn sky. And on the floor, a corpse. Our Ivor. Or Martin Cooper. A name that fitted an entry on a minidisc corresponding, in turn, to an entry in Dobie’s memory store … that no longer corresponded to anything … There were times when, in their endless pursuit of mathematical paradox, the cells of Dobie’s brain seemed themselves to have become locked in an endless circle, as a natural response to the ultimate inconceivable weirdness of life; this was one of them.

  ‘The room was locked, was it?’ Jackson, turning back and towards Carter, who also stood by the door leaning slightly forwards like an attentive footman in a very old British B-movie. ‘Who found him?’

  ‘I did. But just … Only because I was running a routine surveillance check on the monitor screen and there he was, lying on the floor. I didn’t realize that he’d been … I thought he’d fainted or something like that. So I came round at once. And then, of course …’

  ‘Did you examine the body?’

  ‘Only in the way that you just did. And he was clearly dead.’

  ‘Not long dead, though.’

  ‘The wound was still bleeding, certainly. And of course he seemed to be perfectly OK at the time of the previous monitor check. Half an hour earlier.’

  ‘And what was he doing then?’

  ‘Standing by the window. Looking out of it.’

  ‘Yes. That’s how it happened all right. Someone out there among the trees with a gun. A pistol, by the look of it.’

  ‘But people here aren’t allowed to have guns.’

  ‘Someone here has got one, all the same.’

  Dobie wasn’t paying too much attention to all this. He, too, was looking out of the window, but without seeing anything very much; the expression on his face was one of total vacancy, but Kate would have recognized it as being, on the contrary, indicative of intense and probably highly idiosyncratic ratiocination. The little grey cells were back in operation, putting two and two together to make three, as usual. ‘All right,’ Jackson was saying. ‘I’ll ask you to lock this room again, if you’ll be so good, and let me have the key. My colleagues should be here in fifteen minutes or so and in the meantime I’d best have a word with the Director. He won’t be too pleased at this development.’

  ‘Yes,
I mean no. Not pleased at all. He’ll be in his office. I’ll take you there.’

  ‘No need for that. I know the way. I’d like you to return to your own office, if you would, carry on as usual for the time being. Same goes for those two … The warders. Say nothing to anyone. Follow your normal routine, as far as possible. I’ll know where you are if I’ve any further questions to put to you. And if you’ll take Mr Dobie along with you, so I know where he is, I’ll be greatly obliged.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Certainly,’ Carter said.

  Carter’s first action on entering his office was one that Dobie found immensely reassuring. To the left of his desk was a small green metal cabinet. This Carter opened with a key. Inside the cabinet was a bottle of Dimple Haig. This Carter placed on his desk. Inside the neck of the bottle was a cork. This Carter removed. On another shelf of the cabinet were several glass tumblers, two of which Carter also placed on the desk and proceeded forthwith to fill, or very nearly. Dobie nodded sagely. It’s well known that in times of great stress and strain one does well to fall back on a comforting and familiar routine and Popeye, though a psychiatrist and a fitness freak to boot, obviously had sound instincts at bottom.

  ‘Well …’ Carter said.

  ‘Yes, well …’ Dobie said. Cheers hardly seemed an appropriate rejoinder. They sat down on opposite sides of the desk and with one accord imbibed the invigorating liquid. Dobie’s head in fact was still aching slightly from his over-indulgence of the night before and a hair of the dog, he decided, would do him no harm at all. On the other hand, he didn’t intend to get sloshed. Not a good idea. Especially since out of the fog swirling around in his brain some kind of a pattern seemed at last to be emerging. A paradox, taking shape. A picture forming …