Off the Record by Dolores Gordon-Smith Read Free Book Online Page B

Otterbourne committed suicide. I can see why my stepfather approached Gerard Carrington. He’s a scientist at the University of London and, in many ways, a much better bet than his father. He’s not as brilliant as the Professor, perhaps, but he’s a much more reasonable type. He’s the ideal man – perhaps the only man – to bring the new machine to a point where it’s ready for production.’
    ‘Couldn’t that be why your stepfather’s so pleased?’ suggested Jack. ‘I mean, I don’t know much about science and so on, but to get someone to step into the breach like that must have been a huge weight off his mind.’
    Ferguson glanced up. ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? However, Gerard Carrington is nobody’s fool and he’s arguing the toss about the contract. I expected my stepfather to be furious, but he isn’t. He’s completely and utterly smug. Somehow, in some way, things have worked out for him. He’s as pleased as punch. I can’t get to the bottom of it, but I’m sure there’s something funny going on.’
    Jack looked at Ferguson thoughtfully. He was alive with anxiety. ‘What’s eating you? There’s more to this than a suspicion that your stepfather has brought off a smart piece of business.’
    Ferguson took a deep breath. ‘It’s the Stoke Horam suicides, Haldean. Two men died in very peculiar circumstances.’ There were white lines etched round his mouth and his eyes were narrow with tension. ‘My stepfather’s ruthless. And he’s very happy.’ His meaning was obvious.
    ‘Do you think he’s responsible?’ asked Jack, quietly.
    ‘I don’t know!’ exploded Ferguson. He made a chopping motion with his hand as if to physically fend off the suggestion. ‘Charles Otterbourne and Professor Carrington committed suicide. The coroner said so.’ He stopped, catching his breath. ‘I know,’ he added wearily. ‘Anything else sounds ridiculous.’ He met Jack’s eyes squarely. ‘I said I didn’t like him. I admit that, but I know what he’s capable of. I don’t know what he did or how he engineered it, but I’m sure the full truth hasn’t come to light. I don’t know what to do. Everything seems so cut and dried but it’s wrong .’
    ‘Why don’t you go to the police?’
    ‘And tell them what?’ demanded Ferguson. ‘I haven’t got any evidence. I’d be laughed at or, worse than that, be accused of having my own axe to grind.’
    Jack finished his cigarette in silence. ‘What if I have a word with my friend, Bill Rackham? He’s a Scotland Yard man. He’ll be discreet, I know.’
    Ferguson looked relieved. ‘I’d be very grateful. I might be barking up the wrong tree. If my stepfather’s innocent, I’ll be glad to hear it. It’s just that I can’t get it out of my mind that he might not be.’
    ‘The Charles Otterbourne case?’ said Inspector William Rackham thoughtfully.
    Jack had abandoned his plans both for the pub and the park to follow up his promise to Ferguson. They were in Rackham’s rooms off Russell Square, the upper floor of an inconvenient but beautifully proportioned Georgian building. The sash windows stood open, the last of the evening sun gilding the well-worn carpet and comfortable chairs.
    ‘Help yourself to whisky, Jack,’ Rackham said, gesturing to the decanter on the sideboard, ‘or there’s beer, if you’d rather.’ He moved a heap of newspapers off the sofa and sat down. ‘It’s certainly a puzzle about Dunbar. I don’t know why he should be so happy.’
    Jack took the cork out of a bottle of Bass and, pouring out a glass, sat down in the opposite chair. He and Bill Rackham, a big, untidy ginger-haired Northerner, were good friends, and Jack trusted his judgement. ‘So you don’t think there’s anything in it?’
    ‘I don’t know what there can be,’ said Bill. ‘I’d have said Dunbar was very much a loser from the affair. I went into the Otterbourne case fairly closely at the time as I had a hunch – incorrectly as