Kitabı oku: «The Vivero Letter», sayfa 2

III

As I drove into Totnes I looked at my watch and saw with astonishment that it was not yet nine o’clock. The day that ordinary people live was only just beginning, but I felt I’d lived a lifetime in the past three hours. I hadn’t really started to think properly, but somewhere deep inside me I felt the first stirring of rage tentatively growing beneath the grief. That a man could be shot to death in his own home with such a barbarous weapon was a monstrous, almost inconceivable, perversion of normal life. In the quiet Devon countryside a veil had been briefly twitched aside to reveal another world, a more primitive world in which sudden death was a shocking commonplace. I felt outraged that such a world should intrude on me and mine.

My meeting with Elizabeth was difficult. When I told her she became suddenly still and motionless with a frozen face. At first, I thought she was that type of Englishwoman to whom the exhibition of any emotion is the utmost in bad taste, but after five minutes she broke down in a paroxysm of tears and was led away by her mother. I felt very sorry for her. Both she and Bob were late starters in the Marriage Stakes and now the race had been scratched. I didn’t know her very well but enough to know that she would have made Bob a fine wife.

Mr Mount, of course, took it more calmly, death being part of the stock-in-trade, as it were, of a solicitor. But he was perturbed about the manner of death. Sudden death was no stranger to him, and if Bob had broken his neck chasing a fox that would have been in the tradition and acceptable. This was different; this was the first murder in Totnes within living memory.

And so he was shaken but recovered himself rapidly, buttressing his cracking world with the firm assurance of the law. ‘There is, of course, a will,’ he said. ‘Your brother was having talks with me about the new will. You may – or may not – know that on marriage all previous wills are automatically voided, so there had to be a new will. However, we had not got to the point of signing, and so the previous existing will is the document we have to consider.’

His face creased into a thin, legal smile. ‘I don’t think there is any point in beating about the bush, Jemmy. Apart from one or two small bequests to members of the farm staff and personal friends, you are the sole beneficiary. Hay Tree Farm is yours now – or it will be on probate. There will, of course, be death duties, but farm land gets forty-five per cent relief on valuation.’ He made a note. ‘I must see your brother’s bank manager for details of his accounts.’

‘I can give you most of that,’ I said. ‘I was Bob’s accountant. In fact, I have all the information here. I was working on a suggested scheme for the farm – that’s why I came down this weekend.’

‘That will be very helpful,’ said Mount. He pondered. ‘I would say that the farm, on valuation, will prove to be worth something like £125,000. That is not counting live and dead stock, of course.’

My head jerked up. ‘My God! So much?’

He gave me an amused look. ‘When a farm has been in the same family for as long as yours the cash value of the land tends to be ignored – it ceases to be regarded as invested capital. Land values have greatly appreciated in recent years, Jemmy; and you have 500 acres of prime land on red soil. At auction it would fetch not less than £250 an acre. When you add the stock, taking into account the admirable dairy herd Bob built up and the amount of modernization he has done, then I would say that the valuation for the purposes of probate will be not much less than £170,000.’

I accepted this incredible thing he was telling me. Mount was a country solicitor and knew as much about local farm values as any hard-eyed unillusioned farmer looking over his neighbour’s fields. He said, ‘If you sold it you would have a sizeable fortune, Jemmy.’

I shook my head. ‘I couldn’t sell it.’

He nodded understandingly. ‘No,’ he said reflectively. ‘I don’t suppose you could. It would be as though the Queen were to sell Buckingham Palace to a property developer. But what do you intend to do? Run it yourself?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said a little desperately. ‘I haven’t thought about it’

‘There’ll be time to think about it,’ he said consolingly. ‘One way would be to appoint a land agent. But your brother had a high opinion of Jack Edgecombe. You might do worse than make him farm manager; he can run the farming side, of which you know nothing – and you can operate the business side, of which he knows nothing. I don’t think it would be necessary to interrupt your present career.’

‘I’ll think about that,’ I said.

‘Tell me,’ said Mount. ‘You said you had a scheme for the farm. Could I ask what it is?’

I said, ‘The Government experimental farms have been using computers to work out maximum utilization of farm resources. Well, I have access to a computer and I put in all the data on Hay Tree Farm and programmed it to produce optimum profit.’

Mount smiled tolerantly. ‘Your farm has been well worked for four hundred years. I doubt if you could find a better way of working it than the ways that are traditional in this area.’

I had come across this attitude many times before and I thought I knew how to handle it. ‘Traditional ways are good ways, but nobody would say they are perfect. If you take all the variables involved in even a smallish farm – the right mix of arable and pasture, what animals to keep, how many animals and when to keep them, what feedstuffs to plant and what to buy – if you take all those variables and put them in permutation and combination you come up with a matrix of several million choices.

‘Traditional ways have evolved to a pretty high level and it isn’t worth a farmer’s while to improve them. He’d have to be a smart mathematician and it would probably take him fifty years of calculation. But a computer can do it in fifteen minutes. In the case of Hay Tree Farm the difference between the traditional good way and the best way is fifteen per cent net increase on profits.’

‘You surprise me,’ said Mount interestedly. ‘We will have to talk about this – but at a more appropriate time.’

It was a subject on which I could have talked for hours but, as he said, the time wasn’t appropriate. I said, ‘Did Bob ever talk to you about that tray?’

‘Indeed he did,’ said Mount. ‘He brought it here, to this office, straight from the museum, and we discussed the insurance. It is a very valuable piece.’

‘How valuable?’

‘Now that is hard to say. We weighed it and, if the gold is pure, the intrinsic value will be about £2,500. But mere is also the artistic value to take into account – it’s very beautiful – and the antiquarian value. Do you know anything of its history?’

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘It’s just been something that’s been around the house ever since I can remember.’

‘It will have to be valued as part of the estate,’ said Mount. ‘Sotheby’s might be best, I think.’ He made another note. ‘We will have to go very deeply into your brother’s affairs. I hope there will be enough … er … loose money … available to pay the death duties. It would be a pity to have to sell off a part of the farm. Would you have any objection to selling the tray if it proved necessary?’

‘No objection at all – if it helps to keep the farm in one piece.’ I thought I would probably sell it anyway, it had too much blood on it for my liking. It would be an uncomfortable thing to have around.

‘Well, I don’t think there’s more we can do now,’ said Mount. ‘I’ll set the legal processes in motion – you can leave all that to me.’ He stood up. ‘I’m the executor of the estate, Jemmy, and executors have wide latitude, especially if they know the ins and outs of the law. You’ll need ready money to run the farm – to pay the men, for example – and that can be drawn from the estate.’ He grimaced. ‘Technically speaking, I’m supposed to run the farm until probate, but I can appoint an expert to do it, and there’s nothing to prevent me choosing you, so I think we’ll let it go at that, shall we? Or would you rather I employed a land agent until probate?’

‘Give me a couple of days,’ I said. ‘I want to think this over. For one thing, I’d like to talk to Jack Edgecombe.’

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But don’t leave it much later than that.’

Before leaving Mount’s office I telephoned the farm as I had promised Dave Goosan and was told that Detective-Superintendent Smith would be pleased if I would call at Totnes police station at three o’clock that afternoon. I said that I would and then went out into the street, feeling a little lost and wondering what to do next. Something was nagging at me and I couldn’t pin it down, but suddenly I realized what it was.

I was hungry!

I looked at my watch and discovered it was nearly twelve o’clock. I had had no breakfast and only a very light snack the night before so it wasn’t really surprising. Yet although I was hungry I didn’t feel like facing a set meal, so I climbed into the car and headed towards the Cott where I could get a sandwich.

The saloon bar was almost empty with just an elderly man and woman sitting quietly in one corner. I went to the bar and said to Paula, ‘I’ll have a pint, please.’

She looked up. ‘Oh, Mr Wheale, I’m so sorry to hear of what happened.’

It hadn’t taken long for the news to get around, but that was only to be expected in a small town like Totnes. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s a bad business.’

She turned away to draw the beer, and Nigel came in from the other bar. He said, ‘Sorry to hear about your brother, Jemmy.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Look, Nigel; I just want a beer and some sandwiches. I don’t feel much like talking just now.’

He nodded, and said, ‘I’ll serve you in a private room if you like.’

‘No, that doesn’t matter; I’ll have it here.’

He phoned the order through to the kitchen, then spoke to Paula who went into the other bar. I took a pull of beer and was aware of Nigel coming to the counter again. ‘I know you don’t want to talk,’ he said. ‘But there’s something you ought to know.’

‘What is it?’

He hesitated. ‘Is it true that the dead man – the burglar – up at the farm was an American?’

‘There’s no certainty yet, but it’s a probability,’ I said.

He pursed his lips. ‘I don’t know if this is relevant, but Harry Hannaford told me a couple of days ago that an American had made Bob an offer for that tray – you know, the one they found was so valuable.’

‘Where did this happen?’

Nigel flipped his hand. ‘In here! I wasn’t here at the time, but Harry said he heard the whole thing. He was having a drink with Bob at the time.’

I said, ‘Do you know this American?’

‘I don’t think so. We get a lot of Yanks here – you run a place as old as the Cott and you’re on the culture circuit. But we didn’t have any Americans staying here just then. We have one here now, though; he arrived yesterday.’

‘Oh! What kind of an American?’

Nigel smiled. ‘Oldish – about sixty, I’d say. Name of Fallon. He must have a lot of money, too, judging by the telephone bill he’s run up. But I wouldn’t say he’s a suspicious character.’

‘Getting back to Hannaford and the other Yank,’ I said. ‘Can you tell me anything more?’

‘There’s nothing more to tell. Just that the Yank wanted to buy the tray – that’s all Harry said.’ He looked up at the clock. ‘He’ll be in soon, as like as not, for his midday pint. He usually comes in about now. Do you know him?’

‘I can’t place him.’

‘All right,’ said Nigel. ‘When he comes in I’ll tip you the wink.’

The sandwiches arrived and I took them to a corner table near the fireplace. When I sat down I felt suddenly tired, which wasn’t surprising considering I’d been up all night and subject to a hell of a lot of tension. I ate the sandwiches slowly and drank some more beer. I was only now coming out of the shock that had hit me when I found Bob, and it was beginning to really hurt.

The pub started to fill up and I saw one or two faces I knew, but no one bothered me, although I intercepted some curious glances from eyes that were quickly averted. But there’s a basic decency among countrymen which forbade them overt curiosity. Presently I saw Nigel talking to a big man in tweeds, then he crossed to me and said, ‘Hannaford’s here. Want to talk to him?’

I looked around the crowded bar. ‘I’d rather it wasn’t here. Have you a room I can use?’

‘Take my office,’ said Nigel promptly. ‘I’ll send Harry in after you.’

‘You can send a couple of pints, too,’ I said, and left the bar by the back door.

Hannaford joined me in a few minutes. ‘Main sorry to hear about Bob,’ he said in a deep voice. ‘Many’s the laugh we’ve had here. He was a good man.’

‘Yes, Mr Hannaford; he was.’ It was easy to see the relationship between Hannaford and Bob. When a man is a regular caller at a pub he strikes up an easy and casual acquaintanceship in those four walls. More often than not it goes no further than that and there may be no meeting outside the pub. But for all that there need be no shallowness to it – it’s just uncomplicated and friendly.

I said, ‘Nigel tells me there was an American wanting to buy the tray from Bob.’

‘That there was – and more’n one. Bob had two offers to my knowledge, both from Americans.’

‘Did he? Do you know anything about these men, Mr Hannaford?’

Hannaford pulled his ear. ‘Mr Gatt was a real nice gentleman – not at all pushy like a lot of these Yanks. A middle-aged man he was, and well dressed. Very keen to buy that tray from Bob was Mr Gatt.’

‘Did he offer a price – a definite price?’

‘Not straight out he didn’t. Your brother said it was no use him offering any price at all until he’d had the tray valued, and Mr Gatt said he’d give Bob the valuation price – whatever it was. But Bob laughed and said he might not sell it at all, that it was a family heirloom. Mr Gatt looked mighty put out when he heard that.’

‘What about the other man?’

‘The young chap? I didn’t relish him much, he acted too high and mighty for me. He made no offer – not in my hearing – but he was disappointed when Bob said he wasn’t set on selling, and he spoke pretty sharpish to Bob until his wife shut him up.’

‘His wife!’

Hannaford smiled. ‘Well, I wouldn’t swear to that – he showed me no marriage lines – but I reckon it was his wife or, maybe his sister, perhaps.’

‘Did he give a name?’

‘That he did. Now, what was it? Hall? No, that’s not it. Steadman? Nooo. Wait a minute and I’ll get it.’ His big red face contorted with the effort of remembering and suddenly smoothed out. ‘Halstead – that was it. Halstead was the name. He gave your brother his card – I remember that. He said he’d get in touch again when the tray was valued. Bob said he was wasting his time and that’s when he lost his temper.’

I said, ‘Anything else you remember about it?’

Hannaford shook his head. That’s about all there was to it. Oh, Mr Gatt did say he was a collector of pieces like that. One of these rich American millionaires, I expect.’

I thought that rich Americans seemed to be thick on the ground around the Cott. ‘When did this happen?’ I asked.

Hannaford rubbed his jaw. ‘Let me see – it was after they printed about it in the Western Morning News; two days after, to my best recollection. That’ud make it five days ago, so it was Tuesday.’

I said, ‘Thank you, Mr Hannaford. The police might be interested in this, you know.’

‘I’ll tell them all I’ve told you,’ he said earnestly, and put his hand on my sleeve. ‘When’s the funeral to be? I’d like to be there to pay my respects.’

I hadn’t thought of that; too much had happened in too short a time. I said, ‘I don’t know when it will be. There’ll have to be an inquest first.’

‘Of course,’ said Hannaford. ‘Best thing to do would be to tell Nigel as soon as you’re sure, and he’ll let me know. And others, too. Bob Wheale was well liked around here.’

‘I’ll do that.’

We went back into the bar and Nigel caught my eye. I put my tankard on the bar counter and he nodded across the room. ‘That’s the Yank who is staying here now. Fallon.’

I turned and saw a preternaturally thin man sitting near to the fire holding a whisky glass. He was about sixty years of age, his head was gaunt and fleshless and his skin tanned to the colour of well worn leather. As I watched he seemed to shiver and he drew his chair closer to the fire.

I turned back to Nigel, who said, ‘He told me he spends a lot of time in Mexico. He doesn’t like the English climate – he thinks it’s too cold.’

IV

I spent that night alone at Hay Tree Farm. Perhaps I should have stayed at the Cott and saved myself a lot of misery, but I didn’t. Instead I wandered through the silent rooms, peopled with the shadowy figures of memories, and grew more and more depressed.

I was the last of the Wheales – there was no one else. No uncles or aunts or cousins, no sisters or brothers – just me. This echoing, empty house, creaking with the centuries, had witnessed a vast procession down the years – a pageant of Wheales – Elizabethan, Jacobean, Restoration, Regency, Victorian, Edwardian. The little patch of England around the house had been sweated over by Wheales for more than four centuries in good times and bad, and now it all sharpened down to a single point – me. Me – a grey little man in a grey little job.

It wasn’t fair!

I found myself standing in Bob’s room. The bed was still dishevelled where I had whipped away the blankets to cover him and I straightened it almost automatically, smoothing down the counterpane. His dressing-table was untidy, as it always had been, and stuck in the crack up one side of the mirror was his collection of unframed photographs – one of our parents, one of me, one of Stalwart, the big brute of a horse that was his favourite mount, and a nice picture of Elizabeth. I pulled that one down to get a better look and something fluttered to the top of the dressing-table.

I picked it up. It was Halstead’s card which Hannaford had spoken of. I looked at it listlessly. Paul Halstead. Avenida Quintillana 1534. Mexico City.

The telephone rang, startlingly loud, and I picked it up to hear the dry voice of Mr Mount. ‘Hello, Jeremy,’ he said. ‘I just thought I’d tell you that you have no need to worry about the funeral arrangements. I’ll take care of all that for you.’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said, and then choked up.

‘Your father and I were very good friends,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think I’ve ever told you that if he hadn’t married your mother, then I might have done so.’ He rang off and the phone went dead.

I slept that night in my own room, the room I had always had ever since I was a boy. And I cried myself to sleep as I had not done since I was a boy.

TWO

It was only at the inquest that I found out the name of the dead man. It was Victor Niscemi, and he was an American national.

The proceedings didn’t take long. First, there was a formal evidence of identification, then I told the story of how I had found the body of Niscemi and my brother dying in the farmhouse kitchen. Dave Goosan then stepped up and gave the police evidence, and the gold tray and the shotguns were offered as exhibits.

The coroner wrapped it up very quickly and the verdict on Niscemi was that he had been killed in self defence by Robert Blake Wheale. The verdict on Bob was that he had been murdered by Victor Niscemi and a person or persons unknown.

I saw Dave Goosan in the narrow cobbled street outside the Guildhall where the inquest had taken place. He jerked his head at two thick-set men who were walking away. ‘From Scotland Yard,’ he said. ‘This is in their bailiwick now. They come in on anything that might be international.’

‘You mean, because Niscemi was an American.’

‘That’s right. I’ll tell you something else, Jemmy. He had form on the other side of the Atlantic. Petty thieving and robbery with violence. Not much.’

‘Enough to do for Bob,’ I said viciously.

Dave sighed in exasperated agreement. ‘To tell you the truth, there’s a bit of a mystery about this. Niscemi was never much of a success as a thief; he never had any money. Sort of working class, if you know what I mean. He certainly never had the money to take a trip over here – not unless he’d pulled off something bigger than usual for him. And nobody can see why he came to England. He’d be like a fish out of water, just the same as a Bermondsey burglar would be in New York. Still, it’s being followed up.’

‘What did Smith find out about Halstead and Gatt, the Yanks I turned up?’

Dave looked me in the eye. ‘I can’t tell you that, Jemmy. I can’t discuss police work with you even if you are Bob’s brother. The super would have my scalp.’ He tapped me on the chest. ‘Don’t forget that you were a suspect once, lad.’ The startlement must have shown on my face. ‘Well, dammit; who has benefited most by Bob’s death? All that stuff about the tray might have been a lot of flummery. I knew it wasn’t you, but to the super you were just another warm body wandering about the scene of the crime.’

I let out a deep breath. ‘I trust I’m not still on his list of suspects,’ I said ironically.

‘Don’t give it another thought, although I’m not saying the super wont. He’s the most unbelieving bastard I’ve ever come across. If he fell across a body himself he’d keep himself on his own list.’ Dave pulled on his ear. ‘I’ll give you this much; it seems that Halstead is in the clear. He was in London and he’s got an alibi for when he needs it.’ He grinned. ‘He was picked up for questioning in the Reading Room of the British Museum. Those London coppers must be a tactful lot.’

‘Who is he? What is he?’

‘He says he’s an archeologist,’ said Dave, and looked over my shoulder with mild consternation. ‘Oh, Christ; here come those bloody reporters. Look, you nip into the church – they won’t have the brazen nerve to follow you in there. I’ll fight a rear-guard action while you leave by the side door in the vestry.’

I left him quickly and slipped into the churchyard. As I entered the church I heard the excited yelping as of hounds surrounding a stag at bay.

The funeral took place the day after the inquest. A lot of people turned up, most of whom I knew but a lot I didn’t. All the people from Hay Tree Farm were there, including Madge and Jack Edgecombe who had come back from Jersey. The service was short, but even so I was glad when it was over and I could get away from all those sympathetic people. I had a word with Jack Edgecombe before I left. ‘I’ll see you up at the farm; there are things we must discuss.’

I drove to the farm with a feeling of depression. So that was that! Bob was buried, and so, presumably, was Niscemi, unless the police still had his body tucked away somewhere in cold storage. But for the loose end of Niscemi’s hypothetical accomplice everything was neatly wrapped up and the world could get on with the world’s futile business as usual.

I thought of the farm and what there was to do and of how I would handle Jack, who might show a countryman’s conservative resistance to my new-fangled ideas. Thus occupied I swung automatically into the farmyard and nearly slammed into the back of a big Mercedes that was parked in front of the house.

I got out of the car and, as I did so, so did the driver of the Mercedes, uncoiling his lean length like a strip of brown rawhide. It was Fallon, the American Nigel had pointed out at the Cott. He said, ‘Mr Wheale?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I know I shouldn’t intrude at this moment,’ he said. ‘But I’m pressed for time. My name is Fallon.’

He held out his hand and I found myself clutching skeletally thin fingers. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Fallon?’

‘If you could spare me a few minutes – it’s not easy to explain quickly.’ His voice was not excessively American.

I hesitated, then said, ‘You’d better come inside.’

He leaned into his car and produced a briefcase. I took him into Bob’s – my – study and waved him to a chair, then sat down facing him, saying nothing.

He coughed nervously, apparently not knowing where to begin, and I didn’t help him. He coughed again, then said, ‘I am aware that this may be a sore point, Mr Wheale, but I wonder if I could see the gold tray you have in your possession.’

‘I’m afraid that is quite impossible,’ I said flatly.

Alarm showed in his eyes. ‘You haven’t sold it?’

‘It’s still in the hands of the police.’

‘Oh!’ He relaxed and flicked open the catch of the brief-case. ‘That’s a pity. But I wonder if you could identify these photographs.’

He passed across a sheaf of eight by ten photographs which I fanned out. They were glossy and sharp as a needle, evidently the work of a competent commercial photographer. They were pictures of the tray taken from every conceivable angle; some were of the tray as a whole and there was a series of close-up detail shots showing the delicate vine leaf tracery of the rim.

‘You might find these more helpful,’ said Fallon, and passed me another heap of eight by tens. These were in colour, not quite as sharp as the black and whites but perhaps making a better display of the tray as it really was.

I looked up. ‘Where did you get these?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘The police might think so,’ I said tightly. ‘This tray has figured in a murder, and they might want to know how you came by these excellent photographs of my tray.’

‘Not your tray,’ he said gently. ‘My tray.’

‘That be damned for a tale,’ I said hotly. ‘This tray has been used in this house for a hundred and fifty years that I am aware of. I don’t see how the devil you can claim ownership.’

He waved his hand. ‘We are talking at cross purposes. Those photographs are of a tray at present in my possession which is now securely locked in a vault. I came here to find out if your tray resembled mine at all. I think you have answered my unspoken question quite adequately.’

I looked at the photographs again, feeling a bit of a fool. This certainly looked like the tray I had seen so often, although whether it was an exact replica would be hard to say. I had seen the tray briefly the previous Saturday morning when Dave Goosan had shown it to me, but when had I seen it before that? It must have been around when I had previously visited Bob, but I had never noticed it. In fact, I had never examined it since I was a boy.

Fallon asked, ‘Is it really like your tray?’

I explained my difficulty and he nodded understandingly, and said, ‘Would you consider selling me your tray, Mr Wheale? I will give you a fair price.’

‘It isn’t mine to sell.’

‘Oh? I would have thought you would inherit it.’

‘I did. But it’s in a sort of legal limbo. It won’t be mine until my brother’s will is probated.’ I didn’t tell Fallon that Mount had suggested selling the damned thing; I wanted to keep him on a string and find out what he was really after. I never forgot for one minute that Bob had died because of that tray.

‘I see.’ He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. ‘I suppose the police will release it into your possession.’

‘I don’t see why they shouldn’t.’

He smiled. ‘Mr Wheale, will you allow me to examine the tray – to photograph it? It need never leave the house: I have a very good camera at my disposal.’

I grinned at him. ‘I don’t see why I should.’

The smile was wiped away from his face as though it had never been. After a long moment it returned in the form of a sardonic quirk of the corner of his mouth. ‘I see you are … suspicious of me.’

I laughed. ‘You’re dead right. Wouldn’t you be in my place?’

‘I rather think I would,’ he said. ‘I’ve been stupid.’ I once saw a crack chess player make an obviously wrong move which even a tyro should have avoided. The expression on his face was comical in its surprise and was duplicated on Fallon’s face at that moment. He gave the impression of a man mentally kicking himself up the backside.

I heard a car draw up outside, so I got up and opened the casement. Jack and Madge were just getting out of their mini. I shouted, ‘Give me a few more minutes, Jack; I’m a bit tied up.’

He waved and walked away, but Madge came over to the window. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘That seems a good idea. What about you, Mr Fallon – would you like some tea?’

‘That would be very nice,’ he said.

‘Then that’s it, Madge. Tea for two in here, please.’ She went away and I turned back to Fallon. ‘I think it would be a good idea if you told me what you are really getting at.’

He said worriedly, ‘I assure you I have absolutely no knowledge of the events leading to your brother’s death. My attention was drawn to the tray by an article and a photograph in the Western Morning News which was late in getting to me. I came to Totnes immediately, arriving rather late on Friday evening …’

‘… and you booked in at the Cott Inn.’

He looked faintly surprised. ‘Yes, I did. I intended going to see your brother on the Saturday morning but then I heard of the … of what had happened …’

‘And so you didn’t go. Very tactful of you, Mr Fallon. I suppose you realize you’ll have to tell this story to the police.’

‘I don’t see why.’

‘Don’t you? Then I’ll tell you. Don’t you know that the man who killed my brother was an American called Victor Niscemi?’