Murder At Midnight Read online

  ”Boyd’s fatal automobile accident last year, left him in an awkward position. Although ruled to be an accident by the official enquiry, the possibility nevertheless remained, that he could have been deliberately run off the road. As Boyd has no relatives or family, there was no one to entrust the letter to. So eventually, Lester decided to read it for himself and either destroy it afterwards, or pass it along to the appropriate quarter.”

  “And?” Harrington demanded.

  “It is an indictment against Philip Mitford for the murder of Lisa Craig.”

  “Mitford?” Harrington repeated the name sharply. His florid complexion blanched dramatically. “I just can’t believe it. My God the man has always contributed more than generously to the police ball and orphan’s fund.”

  “Well, it was something of a shock to me too,” Slater admitted. “But it seems that Lisa found out about the contamination of the Romney Towers site. She confided this to Boyd, who urged her to say nothing about it. Hence the public argument on the night she died.”

  Harrington remained silent, his face like a thundercloud.

  “Always with his eye on the main chance, Boyd saw a considerable financial advantage to himself. So he reported Lisa’s dangerous knowledge to Mitford, and from that moment on her fate was sealed.”

  “I can’t believe this,” muttered Harrington.

  “Boyd telephoned Mitford from a pay phone, several blocks from the Peach Tree Inn. He told him that he could not persuade Lisa to keep silent about the Romney, and that she had boarded the Number 42 Wycliffe on her journey home.

  Boyd claimed he was horrified when Mitford killed Lisa. He thought he only meant to reason with her, offer her a raise in salary.” Slater couldn’t help but enjoy the effect this was having on Harrington. “Mitford was waiting for her when she got off the bus,” he continued. “He stalked her from a safe distance as she visited Alec Webb’s house, only to find all the lights out and nobody there. Then he grabbed her from behind as she walked past Roanoke Park. The murder weapon was Mitford’s silver-topped ebony cane.

  So we can be reasonably sure it was Mitford who ran Boyd off the road and sent his car careening onto the cliffs below. But whether he attacked Meg Bryant is unclear. Because that happened after the time the letter was written.”

  Harrington toyed with an elastic band, a determined thrust to his jaw. “I don’t believe any of it,” he stated unequivocally. “Who is going to take the word of a blackmailer like Boyd, against an upstanding citizen like Mitford?”

  “Well I wouldn’t dismiss it so quickly, Sir,” advised Slater.

  “Oh you wouldn’t, would you?” mocked the Chief. “I’m surprised that given your lacklustre performance on this case, that you would have the gall to offer an opinion at all!”

  Slater ignored the remark, and stuck to his guns. “We cannot simply ignore a letter such as this,” he insisted. “Boyd must have felt at risk or he wouldn’t have written it, and then left it with an attorney.”

  “Did you ever stop to consider that he was just a spiteful son-of-a-bitch who wanted to get back at Mitford?”

  “But I don’t see how leaving a letter like that, only to be opened in the event of his suspicious death, would do it?”

  “That is why you are a lieutenant, and I am Chief of Police,” Harrington retorted. “Boyd may have intended to do a bunk. His blackmail victims were probably getting too much to handle. Then he would be classified as missing and presumed dead, and his attorney would pass on the letter to us.”

  Slater’s dark eyes were sceptical.

  “Just think about it Neil,” Harrington’s manner suddenly become conciliatory. “We have the Craig case all nicely solved and closed. Can you imagine the newspaper headlines and public outrage if this gets out?”

  “But what if Victor Kenny is innocent, Sir?”

  “Kenny belongs in a mental asylum either way. It is out of our hands.”

  “This letter offers vital new evidence in the Craig case,” Slater expounded. “We cannot suppress it just because it is inconvenient, and might prove embarrassing.”

  “Oh get off your high horse,” Harrington snapped. “You can see a promotion in this, and you’re running with it. So quit trying to lay all that altruistic bullshit on me.”

  “We have to pull Mitford in,” Slater was adamant. If Harrington refused, he would go over his head to the Police Board.

  Sensing this the Chief acquiesced. “Alright, but I’ll handle it myself. Mitford is the wealthiest man in the city. Maybe even the province. We have to be damned careful how we handle this.”

  “He has no more rights than any other citizen,” Slater retorted angrily.

  “Oh grow up, Neil. You know as well as I do, that money has its privileges.”

  * * * *

  “Come in, Tom,” Mitford greeted the Chief of Police warmly. They met socially on a regular basis at fundraisers and other events. “I was just about to have a drink, will you join me?”

  It was a chilly night and a log fire blazed in the living room of the Shaughnessy mansion. If Mitford was apprehensive about this sudden visit––Harrington had telephoned to make an appointment that morning––he did not show it. He suspected it had something to do with the Romney.

  Since the Morning Herald article exposing the toxic waste on the site, he had been flooded with crank calls, and all manner of unpleasantness. One caller threatened to bury him alive in the grounds of the building. He cursed Scott silently for writing the scurrilous piece that triggered all the fuss. He had no sense of honour or family values, or he would never have done so.

  “I’m sorry to intrude on you like this,” Harrington apologised, relaxing in a winged armchair close to the fire. “But a letter has come into our possession, which…er…makes some very serious allegations against you.”

  “Really?” Mitford responded with a raised brow. “Well I’ve been battered so much recently as you know, I can’t say that I’m all that surprised.”

  A maid knocked, and then came in carrying a tray of refreshments. When she left, Harrington handed Mitford the letter. “It was written by Garrick Boyd,” he explained. “And left with a solicitor.”

  “Boyd?” Mitford repeated the name with extreme distaste. After reading the contents of the letter he appeared bereft of speech. “…I…well how does one begin to respond to such a pack of wicked lies?” he finally asked. “Boyd has had it in for me, ever since I fired him. He made no secret of the fact that he hated me.”

  “That’s exactly what I suspected, Philip,” said Harrington, reaching for another sandwich.

  Mitford refilled their glasses and threw another log on the fire. “But to say that I murdered that poor unfortunate girl…well it’s so preposterous, it’s not even worthy of a denial.”

  * * * *

  “It’s not good enough, Sir,” declared Slater. Harrington had been avoiding him for days, and now this. He had merely shown Mitford the letter and taken his word for it that none of it was true.

  “Watch your step, or you’ll find yourself back in uniform,” he warned.

  “Mitford should be brought in for questioning,” insisted Slater. “He needs to be thoroughly investigated.”

  “Look, who is the bloody Chief here, you or I?”

  Slater was exasperated, and knew that he was checkmated. If he went over Harrington’s head to the Police Board, he would never get another promotion. And if he leaked the contents of the letter to the media, he would end up demoted or dismissed from the force. Twenty-five years service destroyed either way.

  He suspected that there was more behind Harrington’s reluctance to proceed against Mitford than mistrust of Boyd’s motives, and disbelief of the accusations he made in the letter. Even his determination to keep the lid tightly closed on the troublesome Craig case––they had Lisa’s killer locked up––thereby satisfying public opinion and the Mayor’s Office, did not quite explain it away.

  There had to be a more personal reason for
this mulish stand against ruffling Mitford’s feathers? And he was to find out what it was in a most unusual way.

  Slater’s midnight visits to Charlotte, the accommodating actress, had stopped quite abruptly. He went there as usual one night and found her gone. She had taken off without as much as a goodbye phone call. A neighbour said she had landed a small part in a Broadway show. Well that’s that, he thought. He would miss Charlotte; she’d always been so wet and willing. But what the hell, easy come, easy go. Then added with a laugh, no pun intended.

  He found himself back on the same dating line, where he met Charlotte, looking for a replacement. That’s when he connected with Jaye. Petite, with a thick mop of tousled brown hair, she worked from home, editing for a publisher. She was receptive to Slater when he needed her the most.

  “I’ll have to toss you out before dawn,” she whispered, still breathless from their lovemaking. “I have a big job ahead tomorrow.” She had been assigned as editor for a book of memoirs. “Pretty dull stuff, really,” she added. “Written by a cop.”

  “Oh really?” Slater buttoned up his shirt. “If I ever write mine, I can assure you they won’t be dull.”

  “Perhaps you know him, Neil? His name is Tom Harrington.”

  “Good God, that’s my boss,” he exclaimed.

  “It’s a small world,” Jaye laughed. “If he says anything nasty about you, I’ll edit it out.”

  But Slater wasn’t concerned about that. It was the fact that Philip Mitford owned the publishing company, which Jaye worked, for that really interested him.

  Chapter Eight

  “Philip Mitford owns hundreds of businesses,” Harrington fumed. “How dare you imply that I was influenced by the fact that one of them is publishing my book.”

  “Nevertheless, it is a personal connection, Sir, which means that it is inappropriate for you to be handling the matter of Boyd’s letter.” Slater knew he was right, but that he was also going way out on a limb.

  “Get out of my office,” Harrington yelled. “Or I’ll have you charged with insubordination.”

  “Then this matter may have to be settled by the Police Board,” Slater retorted.

  “That sounds suspiciously like a threat,” the Chief raged. “If you go anywhere near the Board, trying to stir up trouble, I’ll have you thrown out on your ear as a disloyal and disrespectful officer.”

  Slater mulled over the injustice of it all, while nursing a drink in the Purple Onion. He hated to see Mitford literally getting away with murder, for he was now convinced that the allegations in Boyd’s letter were true. It all fit so perfectly. And this left poor Victor Kenny locked up in an asylum for a crime he did not commit.

  It was about a week later that he received a call from the robbery division. They had a suspect, named Vinny Watts, who claimed to have knowledge of the Craig case. He had been apprehended at the scene of a break-in, and hoped to bargain his way out of jail.

  “I saw the killer,” claimed Vinny. Middle-aged with grey hair scrunched back in a ponytail, he had eyes like saucers. “At least, I saw her walk by the park with a man.”

  Vinny had been plying his trade in one of the houses opposite Roanoke Park. “It was a put-up job,” he explained. “I was hired by the home owner, who was scamming the insurance company.”

  As he left the scene––his car was parked a couple of blocks away––Lisa Craig caught him by surprise. “Here it was, the worst possible night imaginable, and the last thing I expected to see was a broad wandering about by herself.” Vinny paused for effect and lit a cigarette. “She was a looker too, I can tell ya.”

  “Spare us the dramatics,” said Slater. He wondered if Vinny was just spinning them a line. The weary looking constable standing by the door seemed to endorse that opinion. “Get right to it.”

  “There was a man following her,” Vinny obliged, “and Lisa was nervous. As well she should be. What with all the rapists and other criminal types around.”

  “You should know,” retorted Slater.

  “Well I might break into houses now and then,” admitted Vinny. “But I’m a quality crook. I’d never hurt anybody.”

  “What happened then?” Slater prompted. His eyelids were growing heavy from lack of sleep.

  “Lisa turned around. Just a quick glance over her shoulder really, and then…well it was the oddest thing.”

  According to Vinny, she had definitely known her pursuer. “You could see her relax, like in relief as if to say. “Oh it’s you, thank God.”

  “Then what happened?” pressed Slater. He was starting to come awake, as he saw the potential of Vinny’s testimony.

  “Well they just walked together past the park. He must have dragged her into it later on, I suppose?”

  “Could you identify this man, if you saw him again?”

  “Not likely,” admitted Vinny. “ It was the broad I was concentrating on.”

  “Would you be willing to undergo hypnosis? It can often bring out important details that your conscious mind has forgotten.”

  Vinny shrugged noncommittally. “Let me speak to my mouthpiece first. I think I may have already blabbed too much, with no firm deal on the table.”

  “What do you think, Sir?” asked the Constable, after Vinny had been taken back to his cell.

  “I’m not sure,” Slater admitted. “But it’s certainly worth doing a bit of checking up on. So let’s get at it.”

  The records showed that there had been a break-in on the night of Lisa’s murder, at one of the houses opposite the park. The owners of the property, at 712 Roanoke Drive, claimed that a half-a-million dollars worth of electronic equipment, and several works of art had been stolen. Their insurance company subsequently reimbursed them.

  Slater passed the information along to the Fraud Squad.

  The important thing, from his perspective, was that part of Vinny’s story had checked out. So there was an excellent chance that the rest of it was true as well. That he had actually seen Philip Mitford following Lisa, and then walking with her past Roanoke Park. Now if only he would agree to hypnosis, and be able to provide a description of the wealthy realtor…but perhaps he was asking for too much?

  Vinny enjoyed the attention; relieved the charges against him had been dropped. Slater was giving him the star witness treatment and he lapped it up.

  “In your mind’s eye, Vinny, when you see the figures of Lisa and the man who was following her, are they around the same height?”

  “Gawd, you know that’s an interesting question. I never thought of it before. You know in these terms?”

  “Just take your time over it, while I get us more coffee.”

  Vinny closed his eyes and remained deep in thought until Slater returned.

  “The man was quite a bit taller,” he recalled. “I can still see them walking past that dark fuckin park. I wish I could remember more.”

  “You very well might, under hypnosis.”

  The session had been arranged for the following afternoon, but meantime, the fact that the man was considerably taller than Lisa fitted in with Mitford’s description, for he would be around six feet tall, while Lisa was five feet, six.

  Slater was on pins and needles waiting for the hypnotist’s report. Would Vinny remember any other detail that might prove of value?

  When it finally arrived he scanned it impatiently. There had been nothing further recalled about either the man or girl, or anything else about the surroundings on the night of question.

  “Damn,” he swore.

  Then he noticed a footnote at the bottom of the page. The subject, it stated, did have an impression that the man walked oddly. (Perhaps he was lame or had a limp?) However, this was not conclusive. He may also have been carrying a walking stick. Although this could be simply a matter of association in the subject’s mind.

  “By God that’s it. I’ve got him,” Slater enthused. “God bless you, Vinny.”

  * * * *

  “Philip Mitford, I’m arresting you on sus
picion of the murder of Lisa Craig.” Then a constable read him his rights.

  “You’re making a terrible mistake,” Violet accused. It was early on a dark wet morning, and the couple had still been at breakfast when the police arrived.

  “Call my solicitor,” Mitford stammered. He was clearly stunned, the look of shocked disbelief on his face almost comical.

  “Take him down to the station and book him,” Slater instructed. The constable handcuffed him.

  “Handcuffs?” Violet exclaimed. “My God, you’re treating my husband like a common criminal.”

  “This has all been a terrible mistake,” Mitford rasped. It sounded as if he was losing his voice. I want to see Chief Harrington.”

  “I am in charge of this investigation,” snapped Slater. “Don’t expect special favours from on high.” He knew with what he had on Harrington re his book writing adventure, and improper handling of Boyd’s letter, he was likely to keep very quiet about this. The last thing he would want is the Police Board to find out.

  “This little outrage is going to cost you your badge,” Mitford warned. Colour returned to his cheeks, as the initial shock wore off. “And a personal lawsuit for punitive damages.”

  * * * *

  Scott was almost as shocked as Mitford and Violet when he heard the news. Mitford arrested for Lisa’s murder? He could hardly believe it. Then as details of Boyd’s letter were leaked to the press, it all began to make sense. The contaminated Romney site, being the toxic lynchpin that held everything else together.

  He was furious at Mitford. Incensed that he should have treated a girl as beautiful as Lisa with such callous brutality. But then, wasn’t it to be expected, for he was nothing but a money grubbing huckster? How could one so mercantile be expected to appreciate a perfect work of art, the eternal feminine with red hair and a green cloak?

  He raged at the injustice of it, through countless bouts of drinking that left him disoriented and ill.

  Violet blamed him for this A-bomb that had crashed into her world. If he hadn’t poked around at the Romney, it would never have happened.