with his toe.
‘He says here he found three hundred and twenty milligrammes of cyclobarbitone in the stomach and other organs. What’s cyclobarbitone?’
‘It’s an intermediate-acting barbiturate—that means it has about eight hours’ duration of effect—a hypnotic drug, a sleeping pill if you like. The proprietary brand name would be Phanodorm, I expect. Two hundred milligrammes is the dose. But three hundred and twenty wouldn’t kill him. It sounds as if he took two tablets of two hundred each.’
‘It didn’t kill him, though, did it? He died of stab wounds.’
Wexford looked up to see the doctor looking at him. They were both thinking the same thing. They were both thinking about Colin Budd and Brian Wheatley.
‘What actually killed him was a wound that pierced the carotid.’
‘Did it now? The blood must have spouted like a fountain.’ ‘There were seven other wounds in the neck and chest and back. A lot of stuff here’s about fixed and mobile underlying tissues.’ Wexford handed the pages across the desk, retaining one. ‘I’m more interested in the estimate he makes of the proportions of the knife. A large kitchen knife with a dagger point, it would seem to have been.’
‘I see he suggests death occurred six to eight weeks ago. What d’you reckon? He took two sleeping pills and someone did him in while he was away in the land of nod?
If it happened as you seem to think soon after he left his house at six that evening, why would he take sleeping pills at that hour?’
‘He might have taken them,’ said Wexford thoughtfully, ‘in mistake for something else. Hypertension pills, for instance. He had high blood pressure.’
While the doctor was reading Wexford picked up the phone and asked the telephonist to get him Wheatley’s number. Wheatley had said he worked in London on only three days a week so there was a chance he might be at home now. He was.
‘I didn’t think you showed much interest,’ he said in an injured way.
That one Wexford wasn’t going to answer. It was true anyway. They hadn’t shown all that much interest in a man getting his hand scratched by a girl hitchhiker. Things had taken on a different aspect since then.
‘You gave me a detailed description of the girl who attacked you, Mr Wheatley. The fact that you’re a good observer makes me think you may have observed more. Will you think about that, please, and try and remember everything that happened? Principally, give us some more information about what the girl looked like, her voice and so on. We’d like to come and see you.’
Mollified, Wheatley said he’d give it some thought and tell them everything he could remember and how about some time that evening?
The doctor said, ‘It couldn’t have happened inside a car, you know, Reg. There’d have been too much blood.’
‘Perhaps in the open air?’
‘And tied his neck up in a Marks and Spencer’s floral printed teatowel?’
‘It doesn’t say that there!’
‘I happened to notice it when the poor devil was resurrected. We’ve got one like it at home.’
The phone rang. The telephonist said, ‘Mr Wexford, there’s a Mrs Williams here wanting to talk to someone about Mr Rodney Williams.’
Joy, he thought. Well.
‘Mrs Joy Williams?’
‘Mrs Wendy Williams.’
‘Have someone bring her up here, will you?’
The sister-in-law? The wife of the brother in Bath? When you don’t know what to do next, Raymond Chandler advised writers of his sort of fiction, have a man come in with a gun. In a real-life murder case, thought Wexford, what better surprise visitor than the mysterious Wife of Bath?
He looked up as Burden re-entered the room. Burden had been going through the clothes found on Williams’s body: navy blue briefs—very different from the white underwear in the cupboard in Alverbury Road—brown socks, fawn cavalry-twill slacks, blue, brown and cream striped shirt, dark blue St Laurent sweater. The back pocket of the slacks had
‘He says here he found three hundred and twenty milligrammes of cyclobarbitone in the stomach and other organs. What’s cyclobarbitone?’
‘It’s an intermediate-acting barbiturate—that means it has about eight hours’ duration of effect—a hypnotic drug, a sleeping pill if you like. The proprietary brand name would be Phanodorm, I expect. Two hundred milligrammes is the dose. But three hundred and twenty wouldn’t kill him. It sounds as if he took two tablets of two hundred each.’
‘It didn’t kill him, though, did it? He died of stab wounds.’
Wexford looked up to see the doctor looking at him. They were both thinking the same thing. They were both thinking about Colin Budd and Brian Wheatley.
‘What actually killed him was a wound that pierced the carotid.’
‘Did it now? The blood must have spouted like a fountain.’ ‘There were seven other wounds in the neck and chest and back. A lot of stuff here’s about fixed and mobile underlying tissues.’ Wexford handed the pages across the desk, retaining one. ‘I’m more interested in the estimate he makes of the proportions of the knife. A large kitchen knife with a dagger point, it would seem to have been.’
‘I see he suggests death occurred six to eight weeks ago. What d’you reckon? He took two sleeping pills and someone did him in while he was away in the land of nod?
If it happened as you seem to think soon after he left his house at six that evening, why would he take sleeping pills at that hour?’
‘He might have taken them,’ said Wexford thoughtfully, ‘in mistake for something else. Hypertension pills, for instance. He had high blood pressure.’
While the doctor was reading Wexford picked up the phone and asked the telephonist to get him Wheatley’s number. Wheatley had said he worked in London on only three days a week so there was a chance he might be at home now. He was.
‘I didn’t think you showed much interest,’ he said in an injured way.
That one Wexford wasn’t going to answer. It was true anyway. They hadn’t shown all that much interest in a man getting his hand scratched by a girl hitchhiker. Things had taken on a different aspect since then.
‘You gave me a detailed description of the girl who attacked you, Mr Wheatley. The fact that you’re a good observer makes me think you may have observed more. Will you think about that, please, and try and remember everything that happened? Principally, give us some more information about what the girl looked like, her voice and so on. We’d like to come and see you.’
Mollified, Wheatley said he’d give it some thought and tell them everything he could remember and how about some time that evening?
The doctor said, ‘It couldn’t have happened inside a car, you know, Reg. There’d have been too much blood.’
‘Perhaps in the open air?’
‘And tied his neck up in a Marks and Spencer’s floral printed teatowel?’
‘It doesn’t say that there!’
‘I happened to notice it when the poor devil was resurrected. We’ve got one like it at home.’
The phone rang. The telephonist said, ‘Mr Wexford, there’s a Mrs Williams here wanting to talk to someone about Mr Rodney Williams.’
Joy, he thought. Well.
‘Mrs Joy Williams?’
‘Mrs Wendy Williams.’
‘Have someone bring her up here, will you?’
The sister-in-law? The wife of the brother in Bath? When you don’t know what to do next, Raymond Chandler advised writers of his sort of fiction, have a man come in with a gun. In a real-life murder case, thought Wexford, what better surprise visitor than the mysterious Wife of Bath?
He looked up as Burden re-entered the room. Burden had been going through the clothes found on Williams’s body: navy blue briefs—very different from the white underwear in the cupboard in Alverbury Road—brown socks, fawn cavalry-twill slacks, blue, brown and cream striped shirt, dark blue St Laurent sweater. The back pocket of the slacks had
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