The Red Chairs Mystery Read online

  ***

  Jack had the taxi drop them off by a grassy park area at the foot of the hill near their cars. It was a fine, warm evening. Some teenagers were throwing a Frisbee about, and a mother was trying with little success to interest her toddler in flying a small kite in the light breeze.

  ‘How about an ice-cream?’ Her companion asked.

  Holly agreed readily. ‘What could be nicer?’ she said.

  They were still both officially on duty until end-of-shift at six-thirty. ‘My other half won’t be home until eight this evening, anyway’, Jack explained. ‘There’s nothing for me to rush home for’.

  They were soon sitting together on a bench near the parked-up ice-cream van. Holly realized that she didn’t feel like hurrying back home to Shoreham Beach just then either; also that she would enjoy spending some more time with Jack, getting to know him better. His obvious concern for her throughout the day was a pleasant change. The men in her life so far had been rather less caring. Having spent so many hours in each other’s company and shared a quick snack in the hospital cafeteria, she already knew Jack to be thirty-six, a Brighton and Hove Albion FC supporter whose father had also been a Brighton copper, and whose widowed mother had died earlier that year. She was impressed at how easily he felt able to share this kind of personal information, so it was of limited surprise to her when, without a trace of self-consciousness, as he was finishing the last of his cone, Jack said, ‘Did you know I’m gay, by the way?’

  She did not. ‘I would never have guessed’, she replied truthfully. Except for his evident compassion, nothing in his speech, manner or appearance had given her that impression at all.

  ‘I thought you might have heard my nickname at the Station. They usually call me “Sylvie”… Sylvie Sylvester, get it?’ With an inquisitive sideways look, Jack added earnestly, ‘I don’t like it, Angel; and I hope you won’t ever call me by that name.’

  ‘I won’t’, she said. And she never did; and on that first day working together they had become firm friends. It was also in the relaxed and happy company of Jack and his partner, Brian, in the well-tended garden of their pretty home in Portslade a few weeks later that Holly felt safe enough to mention something she was feeling ashamed about, a problem she could not resolve by herself.

  After the divorce from Tony, Holly tried keeping to herself. In the early days, their lovemaking had been passionate and inventive so, naturally, while increasingly enjoying solitude and independence, she missed the physical side of a relationship. She had a brief fling with another probationer on her course, but broke it off quickly when he told her once that he loved her. She wasn’t ready for that. She met someone at a friend’s wedding and slept with him a few times, but he lived in north London and neither of them wanted to travel. Her friend Brenda was always trying to fix her up with a partner, and she occasionally went along with it, but realized eventually that she didn’t truly have the stomach for casual sex. It could be fun, but often left her feeling somehow tainted.

  She decided to take a vow of celibacy to herself, and kept it faithfully for many months until, one November evening, still in uniform before transferring to the detective squad, she was called to the seafront between Brighton and Hove, not far from where the burned-out shell of the old West Pier jutted up out of the sea. A fully-clothed woman had been seen running into the cold sea in the dark and was still out there, floundering desperately in the waist-high shallows, when Holly and PC Winter arrived.

  The scene was illuminated by lights from the shore and, with Holly hesitating for a second, her colleague plunged right into the waves. The woman tried swimming away, but with waterlogged clothing weighing her down, she was making little headway. When he reached her, she tried to hit him, but her blows were feeble. Holly could hear her shouting for him to get away, but John Winter was a judo expert, and soon had her under control, dragging her back to the beach.

  Someone appeared with a blanket, which Holly grabbed gratefully, and threw it over the woman, who seemed terrified and continued to resist. The back-up van had arrived, and with it Sergeant Drew, who took command. His men quickly bundled the would-be suicide up the beach, into the back seat of a squad car. Holly was told to get in. PC Winter, nearly hypothermic, was simply told to go home, dry off and get warm.

  On the drive to the custody block at Hollingbury, Drew said they had had a missing person call from a psychiatric hostel somewhere near Davigdor Road. This woman fitted the description of Ruby Hawkins, a fifty-eight year old who suffered from paranoid schizophrenia.

  ‘That’s when they hear voices in their head, isn’t it?’ Holly enquired.

  ‘Well, I’m no expert’, Drew replied, ‘But basically… Yes. They have voices that say bad things about them, that people are out to get them, that they are worthless and should kill themselves… Things like that!’

  ‘It must be horrible, terrifying’, Holly said.

  ‘Apparently Ruby has been having episodes like this since she was seventeen and first went into St Francis’s, the big asylum up at Haywards Heath. The hostel people say she’s been living peacefully in the community since it closed in the late 80’s, completely free of symptoms until recently. She was on some medication that was working well, but it began to kill off her white blood cells for some reason, putting her at risk of death from even a mild infection. They had to switch her to something else, and it hasn’t been working as well. Even after all this time, the voices have come back. She’s going to need to be sectioned, so you’re going to have to speak to the doctor and the social worker on duty.’

  ‘Why the custody block?’ Holly asked.

  ‘Because we’ve used the Mental Health Act to put her on a Section 136, an emergency Police section, and it only allows us to transfer her to a so-called ‘Place of Safety’ for assessment. For some reason I don’t understand, we’re not allowed to take her either to A & E, or to Mill View, the psychiatric hospital in Hangleton. They are not deemed to be safe enough.’

  ‘Well they should be!’ Holly was astonished. ‘Freezing wet as she is, it can’t be right to bang Ruby up in a cell for the night, can it?’

  ‘You tell me’, said the Sergeant.

  In the event, the patient was treated very gently. She seemed to realize she was safe and had calmed down, although still responding in a whisper to her voices. Once she was dry and had warmed up, she was given a cup of tea and a slice of pizza, before being placed in one of the bare and functional cells. Holly spoke to the social worker and the ‘Forensic Medical Officer’, as the Police Surgeon was now called, but still had to wait until the duty psychiatrist arrived.

  It was late now, and the canteen was closed, so she got a cup of coffee from the machine and found a seat against the wall in the busy custody suite. A woman from the hostel was there too, saying how normal Ruby was between episodes, always thinking of others, even donating regularly to charity from her meagre benefits allowance. ‘She always says there’s someone worse off than she is’, the hostel-worker explained. ‘It’s such a shame the clozapine had to be stopped.’

  She had brought Ruby some dry clothes, and was called away, leaving Holly alone for an instant when one of the custody officers, taking a break, sat himself down beside her.

  ‘You’re looking a bit weary’, he said. ‘Is there anything I can get you? Something to eat, maybe?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks’, she replied. Something about this solid figure of a man was appealing. ‘I’m Holly, by the way’, she added.

  ‘Hello Holly… I’m Dave!’ He said, testing his wit. ‘Do you come here often?’

  She liked his silly attempts at humour. Even though not looking her best that night, he could still tell she was a looker. ‘I’ve got to go’, he said ten minutes later. ‘What’s your number?’ She gave it to him and he called the next evening. ‘Want to go to the pictures?’ he asked. ‘What’s on?’ she said. ‘Does it matter?’ he repli
ed. ‘I’ll let you choose if you like.’

  Dave Antrobus was also divorced. He seemed uncomplicated to Holly, living for the moment, not driven to worldly success as Tony had been, and she found that refreshing. They went to see a movie starring Matt Damon as a CIA hit-man who had lost his memory. It was good; and later, after a beer and a burger, they returned to his flat and made love. A month later when, by chance, his lease was up, Holly let him move in with her. She told herself she did not love him, or he her, but she liked having him around. They were both working shifts, which did not necessarily coincide, so she also had a reasonable amount of time on her own.

  They bought a kitten, a beautiful English Blue, and called him Horatio. Dave installed a cat-flap in the kitchen door. Holly took charge of feeding and cleaning the litter tray. It was an affectionate creature, but one day – only six months old – he went missing. Holly made laminated signs, ‘Missing Cat’, with a photo of their pet, but he was never found. Dave made the mistake of telling her that Horatio had probably been eaten by a fox. It may have been true, but she did not want to hear it, and she began to notice more evidence of a callous streak in him after that.

  One Sunday, a few weeks later, as he was driving them to Hayling Island, she opened the passenger glove box to look for the packet of strong mints he kept there. Dave was a smoker. He had been on a late shift the night before. He had slept in until past 10 am, and they were already overdue at his sister’s. It was her birthday, and they were invited over for a big roast lunch with her husband and two teenage children. Dave had not been looking forward to it. ‘They’re a couple of smart-arses, those kids’, he said. ‘No respect… Always taking the mickey!’ He was in a bad mood, driving too fast, and had just lit another cigarette.

  Holly thought a mint might take the edge off the foul smell of his Gauloise; but there in the glove-box was a half-empty packet of Silk Cut. ‘Dave would never smoke those’, she thought, her instincts alerted and suspicions aroused. ‘But this is definitely not the time to say anything. He’s already about to explode.’

  This was the problem she confided to Jack and Brian that sunny afternoon, a few weeks later. Like most good listeners, they knew the right questions to ask. It was a relief to Holly to relate her doubts about the relationship. When she said she suspected Tony of being unfaithful, Jack simply asked if she wanted him to find out. When she agreed, he asked her for her duty rota and Dave’s, so he could work out when she would be at work and he would be free.

  Two weeks later, Jack met Holly in a café and passed over a note and a computer disc. Alone later, she inserted the disc in her laptop. It showed several photographs of Dave with a pretty blonde woman, younger than Holly. There appeared to be a sequence, the impression confirmed by date and time markings in the corner of each frame. First, they were sitting outside a pub, smoking and having drinks. On the table in front of them were packets of both Gauloise and Silk Cut. Next, they were shown getting into a car together. Then they were disappearing inside the front door of an apartment building, hugging each other closely, the location identified in the following picture as being a street in Kemptown, not far from the Royal Sussex County Hospital. An hour and a half later, Dave is seen emerging, smiling, lighting up a cigarette and hailing a blue and white Brighton cab.

  Jack’s note simply said, ‘She’s a student nurse called Sandra Webb. I had them followed. There’s more graphic stuff if you need it.’

  The following Saturday, after Dave went off to work an early shift, Holly let the locksmith in, as arranged earlier in the week, to change the front door lock. At about midday, she went out for an hour, taking a hold-all with her. When Dave returned, she was ready. Having let herself out through the kitchen door, making her way quietly through the back gate, she came up behind him as he was out of the car, fumbling with his keys.

  ‘They won’t do you any good, Dave’, she said. ‘The locks have been changed.’

  ‘What’s this about, Holly?’ he asked, genuinely surprised and perplexed.

  ‘I know about you and Sandra’, she said. ‘And you are leaving my house today.’ She was holding out to him a six-inch long piece of driftwood. Dave looked at it. He could see a key dangling from it on a loop of string that was hanging from a small hole drilled in one end. He took it. The word ‘Esplanade’ and the number ‘5’ had been burned artfully into the smooth, pale surface. ‘What’s this?’ he said.

  ‘It’s the key to your hotel room at The Esplanade in Lancing. You know it, don’t you?’ Holly’s voice was steady. Dave could tell she was angry, and that she meant business. He wasn’t going to be able to argue with her.

  ‘I’ve paid for two nights’, Holly continued. ‘After that, you’re on your own. You’ll find a bag with some clothes and your wash things in the room already. Let me know when you’ve found another place to rent and I’ll send the rest of your things along then.’

  ‘Holly!’ Dave’s strained voice contained both a groan and a plea. ‘The thing with Sandra… It doesn’t mean anything to me.’

  ‘It does to me’, she replied, turning away. ‘Goodbye, Dave.’

  That was it, but it took a long time for her anger to subside, and her mistrust of men lingered longer. She dated seldom after that episode. Michael, the man who took her to Westminster Abbey, had been an exception; but, because he was so mild-mannered, although admittedly safe and reliable, there was never any thrill or excitement. The relationship quite soon fizzled out.

  She had continued to see Jack and Brian from time to time over the following years. She and Jack occasionally worked together, as well as the three meeting up socially. Now, almost a decade later, they were on a job together again.

  The 5th

  Chapter

  After the awkwardness that morning, Holly spent the time driving east pondering that strangely intense conversation with Peter Narayan. The road took her through the Southwick Hill Tunnel, cleverly mined through ninety million year old chalk, up past the new golf course at West Hove, towards the Devil’s Dyke turn-off. She always thought Hindus worshipped hundreds of gods with animal heads and such like, but the Anglo-Indian said they only ultimately believed in a single Godhead, one Absolute that was called ‘Brahman’.

  ‘Every Hindu is taught’, he had told her in a friendlier, less preachy tone than before, walking her out to the car, ‘That we are all one with this Universal Being, which is a kind of Divine Spirit pervading everyone and everything. As such, seamlessly connected, every soul is equally part of your soul and my soul; which inevitably means that in hurting anyone at all, we are likewise hurting ourselves. Similarly, in loving and being kind to anyone, we are loving and being kind to ourselves… Is that not similar to what Christians are taught?’

  Holly thought it was Native Americans who worshipped a universal Great Spirit, not Hindus but, uncertain, she decided against revealing her ignorance and stayed silent. She realized now, driving along, that although her mother had made sure she was baptized, she did not know much about what Christians were taught beyond what her father had called ‘The Golden Rule’: to “do as you would be done by”. He had first told her this when she was little. It was his basic creed, and it had always been good enough for her. She thought about the Virgin and Child image on her wall. ‘How come that always settles whatever’s bothering me?’ she wondered… ‘It’s a mystery!’

  Putting an end to her ruminations, turning off Woodland Drive near her destination, Holly soon spotted Jack’s patrol car outside the luxury home they were about to visit. His lanky figure emerged from the vehicle as she was parking up. ‘I’ve just had a sermon from a Hindu pathologist’, she said, making a joke of it after they had shaken hands. ‘I hope he’s left you in a good mood’, replied Jack. ‘Are you ready for this? I’m not sure how they are going to take this news.’

  Fifteen months earlier, Jack had called Holly’s boss and asked permission for her specifically to help with an unusu
al missing person case. A rich property developer, Wayne McInnes, had recently gone to the John Street Police Station with his daughter, Hazel, to report his wife missing. Rita McInnes had disappeared six weeks earlier. When asked why he had not come in sooner, he said that she had gone off before, but had returned after about a month when she had run out of money. He had been sure she would do the same this time.

  The desk officer had asked him why, then, he had picked that particular day to come in. To which he replied that the day before had been Hazel’s fifteenth birthday, but Rita still hadn’t made contact, so Hazel had persuaded him to do something about it.

  ‘Apparently, he didn’t seem at all concerned’, Jack had said as they went together, late on the same day, to this beautiful mansion overlooking Hove Park. First, they had spent time with Wayne in his study, looking through a selection of photographs. The one they chose, kept and had copied for use throughout the enquiry, showed the missing wife to be an attractive natural blonde with luxuriant, beautifully coiffed hair and a smiling freckled face, a woman in her prime, wearing a simple, cornflower-blue summer frock.

  Sitting across from the self-assured businessman at his desk, Jack began leading the questions. Rita McInnes, according to her husband, had no friends and seldom left the house. She had been working part-time as a lettings agent since Hazel first went to school, but had given up the job almost a year earlier. When asked the name of the estate agents, McInnes, prompting himself, surprised them by saying, ‘Think tennis!’ After a slight pause, he gave a little chuckle and continued, ‘That’s how I remember things sometimes. Yes, tennis… Andy Murray! You see, it was called Murry Associates. Andrew Murry was her boss… but no ‘A’ in Murry for him.’