The Electrician's Code Page 8

  “Well, I can’t say for sure but his sister seems to think it was because Mr. Tipring and his father didn’t get on. What I’m interested in most is his art. Have you seen his art?”

  “I’ve not seen any, but they must have be amazing. Mr. Tipring spoke of them like they were people and called them by name, like my Susan or my Caroline. Maybe they were names of his old fancies.”

  “Are the art pieces worth money?”

  “I don’t know because, as far as I’m aware, he never sold any of them. I asked him when he made the Will, what would happen if he did choose to sell some; his answer was a very firm ‘I won’t sell them, not while I’m alive.’ But, I do know that he did give some away. I’m not sure to whom but he said he made some others.”

  “So now that he’s dead, what did he plan to do with them?”

  Nick reached into the top drawer of his desk, pulled out eye drops, and dripped two drops into each eye. Chemical tears streamed down his cheeks as he grabbed a tissue from a box by his desk. “Sorry,” he said, “I hope to get my new glasses today. I can be so clumsy. Forgive me.”

  “Oh don’t worry about it,” Theo replied.

  “The art,” he looked down at the folder and was quiet for a few moments while he read.

  Theo watched as his eyes scanned the pages, only inches from them. He sniffled and wiped more liquid from his eyes.

  “Would you like me to read the file,” Theo suggested.

  “Oh, no. At the point of his death, he would like all his art auctioned off. All proceeds will go to the,” he read further, “Action for Amputee Foundation. I don’t know much about that foundation but I assume it’s to support those who are missing limbs. Children, the like.”

  “Yes, I suppose. Is that where all his money is going? What about his nurses?”

  “His nurses? I believe he left them a little allowance; it was not much, just a few thousand pounds each. I don’t have the exact figure, it is a percentage, a small percentage, of the total profits after all his outstanding debts, or costs, have been paid out. Which I assume will depend on what he makes on his art at the auction. I know when he had the Will drawn up, the nurse with him, I don’t think she believed she would be in the Will at all. Just doing her job. I doubt if most nurses believe they will be in the Will, especially ones that are paid by only pension and severance. Do you?”

  “It really is difficult to say, I guess we are most interested in finding out who would have a motive, and in most homicide cases, money is often a motive. So, if someone, anyone had something to gain by Mr. Tipring’s death, we were hoping you could provide that information.”

  “I don’t know much about motive but I don’t think money is a motive. Not in this case. I’m sorry.”

  “And the earrings? What about the earrings? Did he want to sell those?”

  “The earrings?” asked Theo.

  “Yes, remember the earrings we saw on the man’s chest of drawers?” Dorland said.

  Again, Nick continued reading the fine print. “Yes, the jewelry, he has asked that they be buried with him. He wanted to be buried, not cremated. He even gave me photos of each earring.” He pulled from the back of the file some enlarged sheets of photographic paper. “He brought those in himself, gave them to me for the file. I guess that way we would know what was to be buried from what wasn’t. Do these look like the pieces of jewelry to you?”

  He held the pictures up.

  “It’is difficult to tell. I only had a quick glance at the earrings at the house, I really couldn’t say. What about you, Dorland?”

  “No, sorry, I also did not study the jewelry that well, and as a man, it’s difficult to tell the difference.”

  “Did he ever tell you why the earrings were so important?”

  “I assumed they were family heirlooms. Perhaps they belonged to his mother or sister—sentimental value.”

  Theo thought about this. “I doubt they’re from his family. As far as I know, he didn’t get on with his family and so any jewelry wouldn’t hold sentimental value.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Theo turned to the solicitor and asked, “And there’s nothing else, nothing in the Will that we will find interesting? What of the house and his belongings?”

  “The house also goes to charity, and a percentage of the amount received will be split among the nurses. It is all really simple with only three requests, one, that his art be auctioned off, two, that he be buried with his jewelry and three, the rest of the money be given to charity.”

  “Among who? Did he name the nurses?”

  “Yes, one of the nurses was a Ms. Megan Perkins. She was recently added, only a month ago. Mr. Tipring had rung to add her and to take another nurse off his list.”

  “Really? Who was taken off the list?”

  “Um, a Mrs. Hathaway, Heather Hathaway.”

  “Did Mr. Tipring say why he took her off the list?”

  “No, all he said was that he was taking her off and adding Ms. Perkins, he didn’t sound angry about it, just matter of fact.”

  “Who was the other nurse?”

  “A Ms. White, Camilla White, I believe that she was the one that Mr. Tipring brought in with him when he first had the Will drafted.”

  “Do you know where Ms. White lives?”

  “I have her address, but I don’t know if it’s still correct.”

  “I would be extremely grateful if you write out the names of those nurses and their addresses, if you have them.”

  Nick complied.

  “And if you’re done with the earrings, I will need to get them from you,” Nick said.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When Theo and Dorland went to the address the solicitor had on file for Heather Hathaway’s flat. The landlord informed them she had left London for a week’s holiday in France and would not return, he believed, until the next day. And that meant their main suspect apparently had an airtight alibi.

  Instead, they searched for the whereabouts of Ms. Camilla White. The phone number the solicitor had given them had been disconnected, and having decided that White was too common a name to try in the phone directory they decided to visit the last known address.

  It was no surprise Ms. White didn’t live there anymore. The owner of said flat, Mrs. Mead, was however the owner of a new coffee shop on the ground floor and felt hospitable enough to invite them for tea and scones. Dorland rubbed his stomach in anticipation.

  “Who are you looking for again?” the old woman asked. She poured hot water from the tap into a large teapot and sat it on the counter in front of them.

  “A Ms. or Mrs. White. Do you know her?”

  She placed loose tea into a metal strainer and dumped the hot water from the pot. After placing the strainer into the pot, she refilled the pot with boiling water. When she realized the men were watching her every step, she said, “Tea has to be done right. I know Ms. White. I’ve met her on many occasions. She likes my tea and every time she pops round, she comes in.”

  “So you know her new address?” Dorland asked as he placed a large morsel of scone in his mouth.

  “Yes. Ms. White—well, that’s not her name anymore, it’s now Mrs. Henderson—would come for her mail, any mail that wasn’t forwarded to her new address—mostly catalogues and rubbish, really. She gave me her new number and address, but it has been about a year and a half since she’s come in.”

  “Well, it would be very helpful if you could give it to us.”

  She sat back and eyed them suspiciously. “Ms. White . . . er, Henderson, is not in any trouble is she?”

  “Oh no, nothing like that,” said Dorland, reaching for another scone. “We need information about a previous employer.”

  That seemed to appease Mrs. Mead and she went on to tell them about the history of tea and her family’s important contribution to the tea-making process.

  Mrs. Henderson lived near the outskirts of London. The nurse had done well for herself; the three-story house in Golder’s Green, H
ampstead was very different from the small flat she had previously in East London. Vines grew up the front of the house partially blocking the view from the front hall window and another vine had wound itself around the garden arbor across the front path.

  The door to the large house was opened by an older woman who, though dressed smartly, was what Theo suspected was her housekeeper. However, Theo asked, “Mrs. Henderson?”

  “She is in the garden. Can I tell her who’s calling?”

  Theo had his warrant card ready. The housekeeper escorted them through the beautiful back reception room with antique fireplace to the gardens with manicured lawns and trimmed trees. A woman sat stretched on a lounge chair reading an antique furniture magazine. It took her a few moments to notice them.

  “Sit.” The woman said to them, motioning at two chairs that were about twenty feet from where she sat.

  Dorland dragged two heavy metal chairs across the grass. Theo took his notebook out and sat down.

  “We’re the police, Mrs. Henderson. We’re here about a man you used to work for, a Mr. Tipring.”

  “Oh, I thought you were here about the books. I’ve decided to sell my late husband’s books. They cover all sorts of subjects, mostly geophysics and other environmental subjects. Although, they may be useful in a police library. They are, well some of them are, up-to-date and current. So what do you wish to ask me about Mr. Tipring?”

  “He was murdered yesterday and we were hoping you could answer a few questions.” Theo watched the attitude of Mrs. Henderson go from eager to solemn in an instant and continued, “You obviously have not heard. He was murdered outside his home yesterday. We are contacting all the nurses who used to work with him. You did work for him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you aware that he has included you in his Last Will and Testament?”

  It took a few moments for Mrs. Henderson to reply, she sat there silent and stunned, when finally she spoke it came out in almost a whisper, like she was speaking to herself, “I always thought he would die of old age or boredom, but murdered? Are you sure? How?”

  “He was stabbed outside his home,” said Theo.

  “Who would stab him? He only had one leg.”

  “Yes, there are a lot of questions. Were you aware you were left some money as part of his Will?”

  “I think I knew. Yes, yes, I was aware, but it is not much is it? A few hundred pounds, that is not much to get all excited about, is it?”

  “It may actually be close to a thousand pounds when everything is settled,” remarked Theo.

  Mrs. Henderson just stared at Theo, letting his words sink in.

  “Still, a thousand or so, really not worth anything is it. What can one buy with that? Can’t even buy a settee with that nowadays.”

  “You are trying to sell books or something, not quite sure. It seems to me that you may be in need of funds at the moment,” said Theo, aware that his remark may be somewhat offensive.

  “Anyway,” Dorland stepped in, “have you seen Mr. Tipring lately?”

  “No. Not for many years.”

  “Where were you yesterday morning around seven?”

  “Whatever you are trying to imply you can take back this moment or I will make sure your superiors know about this sort of . . . questioning. You can’t come in here and accuse me of something. You don’t even know me.”

  With that, she stormed off into her house, leaving the two detectives sitting in the yard.

  “What was that about?” Dorland asked. “Seems a bit touchy if you ask me. Guilty conscience perhaps?”

  “Let’s not assume that.” Theo led his partner around the side of the house and they made their way toward their car. “For a moment, she looked genuinely surprised and grieved. Everyone handles grief differently. Perhaps it’s a sensitivity toward money than anything else. Many who have quickly inherited power and money haven’t had enough time for their humility to catch up. She probably doesn’t think she deserves the money she has so she has to work harder at convincing us she does.”

  “You think she married Mr. Henderson, for his money?” Dorland asked.

  “No, I would like to think that she married him because she loved him but money is a hard thing to handle properly. I know of Mr. Henderson, he’s a scientist who has made a great deal of money on pharmaceuticals.”

  “I wonder how the two of them met?”

  “Mrs. Henderson was a nurse; she could have worked in a clinic or known the man for a long time. Who really knows? We will have to confirm what she says but I suspect that our Mrs. Henderson had nothing to do with the death.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Exactly at eight, Sophia arrived at the Connell Road address. She could see Theo’s Jeep sitting in front of the house. As she approached, Theo opened the door to his vehicle and stepped out. He looked exactly the same. She didn’t know why she thought he would look different, older maybe. She felt she had aged many years in the last few months. In fact, she had started to notice gray hairs growing in. All of a sudden she began to feel conspicuous.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said, putting out his hand.

  She accepted it, feeling flustered as soon as she did. “I-I don’t know if I can help, but I’ll try.”

  “Even if you can’t, at least I tried another angle.” He patted down his pockets and reached inside his right trouser pocket. “I have the key so we can go in.”

  “I hear you’re investigating the Maddock Tipring murder,” she said.

  “Yes. How did you know?” He held up his hand. “Never mind, I know. It only happened yesterday but we don’t have a single suspect. It’s like the killer just randomly picked our victim and stabbed him in the chest.”

  He led her to the front gate and pointed over the fence. “That’s where he was stabbed. He was fetching the paper. The knife was found in the bushes there.” He pointed to his left.

  “Did he do that often?”

  “What, fetch the paper? Yeah, every day apparently.”

  Sophia looked up and down the street. It was pretty deserted. Only two cars had passed since they had arrived. His house sat in the middle of the block. “I guess the bushes could hide someone short from his view, however, whoever stabbed him would stand out on the street. Did no one notice anyone walking?”

  “There were many people who noticed many things but nothing we could go on. A white woman. A black man. A young woman running. A teenager wearing a school uniform. All the statements were vague and led nowhere. No one could give a proper description. No one saw Mr. Tipring get stabbed.”

  “The murderer could have arrived in a car and left the same way.”

  “Either way, it’s still nothing we can follow up on. CCTV in this area has not been helpful. Come, I’ll take you inside.”

  The house was quiet and dark and Theo had difficulty finding the light switch but when he found it, the house lit up throughout. Sophia took her time going through each of the rooms before saying anything.

  “He’s very neat. What was he wearing when he died?”

  “His pajamas and a bathrobe,” he said and then stopped. Theo reached into his jacket and pulled out a photograph. “We did find this in his robe pocket.”

  “Why run backwards you’ll vomit,” she read. “What does it mean?”

  “It’s an electrician’s code,” replied Theo.

  “Oh, I see why you rang me. Was Mr. Tipring an electrician?”

  “Yes.”

  “So then, the code could mean nothing at all.”

  “We suspected that,” he said quietly.

  “You were hoping I would come in and enlighten you about it, hand you the name of the killer based on that alone?”

  “No, nothing like that,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “I hadn’t really any expectations.”

  “Was he still working as an electrician?”

  “No, he was retired.”

  “Was he a clean person?”

  “He’s very clean. Look at
the state of his house: not cluttered and clean.”

  “How did a one-legged man clean his house so well?”

  “Oh, he had a nurse.”

  Exactly. “So then, how were his clothes? Were they clean?”

  He squinted at her. “Yes. They were clean as far as I could tell. Why?”

  “Well, it’s an odd thing for an electrician, one who does not work in that field anymore, to have that mnemonic in his pocket.”

  “Maybe he’s sentimental. He does keep things for sentimental value.”

  “Oh, like what?”

  “He had a box of earrings. We don’t know what value they held for him, but they were important enough that he wanted the box buried with him.”

  “That seems a bit odd, doesn’t it?”

  “Everything about the case is a bit odd.”

  He led her to the drawing room. “Have you seen anything like it? I really don’t see the purpose of the room.”

  She went over to the chair and sat down. She could feel the springs in the cushion. The victim must have sat there a lot. “Turn on that light will you, the one near the fireplace.”

  Theo flicked the switch. Spotlights above the tiled art lit up. Sophia turned on the lamp and looked at the table. She opened the small drawer. Inside was a blank pad of paper and a pencil. She ran her hand over the top of it. She could feel the indentations the pencil made from the previous page. She took the pencil and rubbed the top of it.

  Only a few words could be made out: girl, Rosie, brush. They weren’t even in a line, it was as if he wanted to remember a word and wrote it down.

  “I wonder if he was fond of crosswords.”

  “I’m not sure we found any crosswords but he could be. He did collect the paper every morning. He could have done the one inside each day.”

  Theo went to the kitchen and came back with a chair. “So what do you think of the art? Worth sitting and looking at all day?”