Death Out of Season

by Meg Elizabeth Atkins

  ‘He did. And the bastard who could think to do that wouldn’t dispose of them anywhere near the scene where we might find them. He took her handbag, too, remember.’

  ‘To delay identification.’

  ‘And give him a head start. He could be anywhere now.’

  It was Annette’s turn to speak up. ‘She’s been in Clerehaven getting on for two years and she had masses of social contacts — but she doesn’t seem to have formed any relationships, not anything significant. I mean, we haven’t had any best friends — any friends really — coming forward to say they knew her better than anyone. At least not so far as we’ve been able to find out, I know you said it’s early days, guv, but surely someone would have spoken up by now. And Mary’s right — there’s no sign of any distraught boyfriend. A beautiful, well-heeled, unattached woman — and no man around.’

  ‘There could be a reason for that,’ PC Bale intervened. According to a very chatty lady, did this local history course with her, Mrs Turner was very bitter about her divorce, about men in general, come to that. Never wanted anything to do with them ever again.’

  ‘I’ve heard that before,’ Mary Clegg muttered.

  ‘Yes, a situation that could change, that’s not to say it did, but … ’ Hunter recounted his interview with Inez. When he had finished, DS James Collier said:

  ‘She sounds a bit giddy — I mean, she had a conversation with another woman and can’t even remember if she said she’d got a date or not.’

  ‘More exasperated than giddy, I’d say. And completely honest. She didn’t listen to Jaynie Turner because Jaynie Turner seldom said anything that wasn’t trivial or narcissistic, often spiteful.’

  ‘She didn’t like her,’ Mary Clegg said.

  ‘So you’d scarcely get an objective opinion,’ Collier said.

  ‘Do you ever?’ Hunter murmured, unheard as voices surged around him.

  ‘Maybe she was being deliberately cagey because the guy’s married — ’

  ‘That’d be why he won’t come forward — ’

  ‘ — attractive, all right, yes. But I got the impression there was nothing to her apart from boobs and glitter. Who’d want a relationship with a Barbie doll?’

  ‘Me, please … ’ A yearning undertone.

  ‘And talking about impressions, no one likes to speak out when there’s been a murder, but, honestly, I couldn’t find anyone who really liked her.’

  This provoked thought and general agreement which someone summed up: ‘But it wasn’t an active dislike, was it? Not hatred. She didn’t have enemies.’

  ‘She had one,’ Annette said quietly.

  ‘Right,’ Hunter called them to order. ‘So, here’s what we do. Lacking a significant other in Clerehaven, and with her address book gone missing, we’ll concentrate our enquiries here in Chatfield for the present. She’s lived here since she was a girl, her ex-husband and children are here, this is where, if anywhere, there’ll be long-standing friends she confided in. Let’s find out who they are and what they know. And, for lack of anything else to go on, we’d better see if we can turn up anything on the mysterious B.N.’

  *

  There was something to go on the following morning; slight enough but at last a response to appeals for information, in the person of Fred Armitage, who walked into Chatfield police station.

  What he had to report was fed straight through to the incident room where it was logged on to HOLMES and reported with some excitement direct to Hunter by Sergeant Hopper.

  Fred Armitage lived in a housing development northeast of Chatfield. He had been born and brought up in Hasley Bridge where his old mother still lived in Sebastopol Terrace — two streets on from Old Park House.

  ‘He visits her regularly when he’s home — he’s a long-distance lorry driver, that’s why he hasn’t come forward before. Last time he went to see her was 29th October — ’

  ‘The day Jaynie Turner went missing.’

  ‘Right. He always walked, had to pass the drive that goes down the side of Old Park House. Street lights don’t reach all the way down, as you know, but he just glanced, in passing, saw a car, pale colour, could have been blue. No, he didn’t notice the number, but then it’s doubtful he could have made it out from the road.’

  Forensic evidence confirmed, as near as possible, that that was when her body would have been placed in Old Park House. Further confirmation followed swiftly from the regular Blakey Estate patrol. Tucked out of sight in the derelict industrial area: the burnt-out shell of a BMW. Nobody on the estate was inclined to volunteer anything in the way of information, but persistent enquiries eventually established that it had appeared on the day following the night Fred Armitage had seen a car parked on the Old Park House drive. It yielded nothing in the way of evidence, not even a scrap of its original colour, but the chassis number was recoverable; a check on the Police National Computer proved the car to be registered in the name of Jane Alice Turner of 14 The Avenue, Clerehaven, Cheshire.

  On-going enquiries, centred on what had been, until comparatively recently, Jaynie Turner’s home ground, turned up three candidates for B.N. — all inappropriate. A mad nonagenarian aunt, a cousin in Detroit, another cousin retired from the grocery business and wheelchair-bound.

  ‘That’s it,’ Hunter said. ‘What about anything else? Boyfriends, enemies? Anyone?’

  No one — until Annette produced Jaynie Turner’s diary from the property room and approached Hunter with such diffidence he was prompted to ask, ‘What’s the matter with you? You look as if you’ve swallowed a budgie. Come on, spit it out, it can’t be that bad. Can it?’

  ‘It’s just that — I’ve been going through Jaynie’s diary … ’

  ‘Ah … ’ Hunter said cautiously, wondering what it could possibly have to tell them. Social engagements aside, all it had so far revealed was a woman so obsessed with her appearance she had little else to do beyond assiduously recording the attention she lavished on it. Combing through it for any possible lead, Hunter’s team had moved from amazement — What’s exfoliation? — to resignation: facials, pedicures, manicures, depilation, aromatherapy, massage … It was now widely held that anyone reading through it once more would go insane; some wit had christened it the maintenance manual.

  ‘Well, I could be wrong about this but — B.N. Maybe it isn’t N.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look, let me show you. At first glance, or even second, that’s what it looks like. But here — look, this entry … ’

  Hunter read it. ‘Ninhams — bathroom blinds.’

  ‘It’s one of these very posh shops, bespoke bathrooms, kitchens. I couldn’t help noticing it when I passed it yesterday and I thought I remembered something like it in here because the name’s so unusual, only it isn’t Ninhams — it’s Winhams. You see, it’s the way she sometimes forms capitals … ’

  Hunter looked. In carelessness, or haste, the first oblique slant of the W ran into the next, resulting in a thickening of the first downstroke of N. And that was not the only example. Painstakingly, Annette had searched out more.

  ‘So, you see, guv, it’s more likely we should be looking for B.W.’

  ‘Well done, Annette. I couldn’t have been told more tactfully that I’ve made something of a ballocks.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean — we all — ’

  ‘Shut up, there’s a good girl.’ Hunter sighed. ‘So, back to the drawing board’

  *

  Collier said to Annette, ‘How did he take it? Did he fall on you?’

  ‘Oh, God, if only.’ Annette spoke from the depths of her professed wildly despairing love for Hunter. ‘No, he saw it, of course. Agreed. Said well done.’

  ‘He didn’t have you over the desk in gratitude for pointing out his mistake?’

  ‘James, if you were straight you’d be bloody vulgar. It was our mistake, all of us. If it was. And we can’t be sure.’

  ‘Yeah. And we’ve still got to catch the bastard.’

  CHA
PTER TWELVE

  The patient retreading of covered ground brought nothing to light. Hunter decided it was time to spread the net wider: sub-teams of the murder enquiry team were set up, one — in Clerehaven — specifically tasked to work with the local force. By dint of studying her diary (her address book was still missing), talking to neighbours, making contact with friends and acquaintances, tracing her leisure and social activities, they put together a welter of background information. Unfortunately, nobody had anything to say about Jaynie that everyone else did not say.

  Another team followed up with personal calls, amongst them DC Evans and WPC Clegg who found themselves, in the course of their enquiries, at Evelina Barber’s Victorian house in High Town. In the exquisite drawing-room with its bay-windowed view of Clerehaven toppling charmingly down to the river, they sat overawed, terrified an abrupt movement would result in the breakage of something valuable.

  There were tiny china plates of savouries scattered on occasional tables; on a sideboard a silver tray set with glinting crystal — decanter, glasses. Evelina was expecting visitors but far too polite to make them feel they were creating a log-jam in her social watercourse. ‘Would you care for a sherry? No? How silly of me, you’re on duty, aren’t you? Coffee? No? I can’t really think there’s anything I can help with, but do ask.’

  ‘You knew Mrs Jaynie Turner.’

  ‘I did, yes. Poor woman, poor woman. We’re all so saddened by what has happened.’

  They asked general questions, conscientiously took down names that occurred so frequently it began to seem that everyone in Clerehaven interchanged socially with everyone else. When WPC Clegg asked, ‘Did she ever mention to you anyone with the initials B.W.?’, Evelina thought, a little nonplussed by the unlikeliness of the question, and shook her head. ‘No, not that I can recall.’

  ‘That’s not to say that she’d say, “I’m going to see B.W. tonight.” She’d use the Christian name and — or — the surname,’ DC Evans intoned slowly; he had already decided that Miss Barber lived in an atmosphere so rarefied the normal, everyday exchanges might need to be explained to her. ‘But you might have to think about it for a minute because you might not recognise the initials, as such, but you would … ’

  Oh, God. Mary Clegg knew it was impossible to stop him. It was like having a wardrobe fall very slowly on top of you.

  ‘Yes, I quite understand, officer,’ Evelina said gently, smiling her beautiful smile. ‘But I’m afraid the answer is still no.’

  ‘No,’ Evans repeated, making doubly sure. ‘Mrs Turner never mentioned anyone that you can recall. But what about you, Miss Barber, do you yourself know anyone of those initials?’

  Evelina thought again. ‘Well, I did, but it was a long while ago, and I couldn’t claim to have known him, he was not the kind of person who mixed, you know. At least, scarcely at all at first, and then not at all. It was just that he was there.’

  Mary Clegg sat forward. ‘Where, Miss Barber?’

  ‘At the Lynchets’. But it really was quite a while ago. And I doubt very much Mrs Turner would have known him, she’s only lived here — how long? Two years? Less?’

  Every movement deliberate, Evans produced his notebook. ‘Who might the Lynchets be?’

  ‘Just — people one knows. There’s only Nella left now. There used to be her brother, Alfred, and the old lady, their grandmother.’ And this B.W. Will you give us his name, please, Miss Barber.’

  ‘Benjamin Wright.’

  ‘And he was a member of the family?’

  ‘No, he and Alfred went to school together, I understand. He was their guest for a short while, not a relative.’

  ‘Would his home be in Clerehaven?’

  ‘He didn’t have a home in England, as I understand. He’d been living abroad for years, Rhodesia, and then it became Zimbabwe, and things were not as suitable, or something. So he came back here and, I suppose while he was deciding what to do, moved in with his old school friend.’

  ‘Where can we find these Lynchets?’

  ‘As I said, there’s only Nella now. Their house is further on from here. You see … ’ A graceful gesture to the window. ‘If you turn left at the end of The Crescent, then take the first right after that, you’ll come to their house. It’s called Ferns.’ They rose with purpose. ‘But I’m afraid you won’t have any luck if you’re thinking of going now, Nella’s in London all day. She won’t be back till tomorrow.’

  As she showed them out, Mary Clegg said, ‘Lynchet. Isn’t he the man who writes that soap on telly — about the Toddies? The shops here are full of stuff about them, aren’t they? You can’t help but notice. Not that I watch but my nieces are mad about them.’

  ‘Wrote. Didn’t I mention that Alfred died some years ago? Yes, he was the originator … ’ Nothing in Evelina’s voice indicated what she thought of the Toddies but the most delicate expression — something between distaste and resignation — passed across her refined features and was gone. They do, however, seem to be self-perpetuating. Nella has taken over the — er — enterprise. That’s where she’ll be today, seeing Alfred’s agent, or the TV company or someone. She is always so occupied, and it’s quite been the making of her, looking after Alfred’s affairs.’

  *

  On the Monday the inquest on Jane Alice Turner was held in Chatfield. When the Coroner had taken evidence of identification and was satisfied all necessary forensic samples had been collected, he adjourned the inquest pending criminal proceedings and released her body for burial.

  At the evening’s briefing Evans’ and Clegg’s report of their interview with Miss Evelina Barber caused an upsurge of interest at once quelled by DC Evans’ ponderous, ‘But Miss Barber is pretty sure Jaynie Turner couldn’t have known this Benjamin Wright. He’d left before she went to live in Clerehaven.’

  ‘Collapse of stout party,’ Hunter said.

  Evans turned the pages of his notebook. ‘I don’t recall anything about anyone collapsing — ’

  ‘Never mind, lad. But Miss Barber knew him.’

  ‘Not as such,’ Evans said.

  Hunter’s eyes narrowed. Mary Clegg intervened swiftly, ‘She said she couldn’t say that she knew him.’ In a devastatingly faithful mimicry she went on, in Evelina Barber’s perfect diction, ‘He didn’t mix. He was just there.’

  ‘Where’s there?’ Hunter asked, diverted by Mary Clegg’s unsuspected talent.

  She explained about the Lynchets. ‘But there was no point in going round, there won’t be anyone in until tomorrow. Do you want us to follow up, guv?’

  ‘Don’t waste your time till you can be sure of seeing this Miss Lynchet; and it does sound problematic — still, we’ll have to check. But you stick with the house-to-house tomorrow, now you’ve started the ball rolling we’ll probably find ourselves knee deep in B.W.s.’ He turned to Annette and Collier, who had also been in Clerehaven, but drawn a blank as far as B.W. was concerned. ‘You saw Mrs Bryant?’ They said yes, while he glanced at his notes. ‘And she didn’t come up with this Wright feller? She and Miss Barber and God knows who else are all part of Clerehaven café society, aren’t they? She’s been there long enough to have known him. And I know she’s friends with Nella Lynchet, she was talking about her when I was there on Saturday … ’ He looked up, sensed hesitation. ‘What?’

  Annette said, ‘She says she couldn’t say offhand … ’

  ‘But she’ll try and think. If she remembers she’ll let us know,’ Collier finished.

  Hunter studied them in turn. ‘And?’

  They exchanged glances. ‘She’s not telling the truth,’ Collier said.

  ‘Annette?’

  ‘I agree. The impression I had of her, when I met her first — and again today — is that she’s a very open person. But when we asked about B.W. — her manner changed.’ She looked at Collier for help.

  ‘It’s hard to say how, it was quite subtle, but definite. Guarded. And I agree with Annette, she’d come across to me before as very di
rect.’

  Hunter thought about Inez, her candid gaze, her readiness to talk. Either she was a consummate actress and had taken him in completely, or she had reason, suddenly, to be less than forthcoming. If these two, with their empathy and quick intelligence, had sensed something — there had to be something there. Interesting. ‘I agree, I’d have said she was completely straight.’

  ‘So, we could have imagined — ’ Annette began.

  ‘We didn’t. But it could be unrelated — or trivial,’ Collier said.

  ‘What we thought, guv, if you had a word with her. After all, when we spoke to her we didn’t have this Benjamin Wright’s name.’ Annette looked at him hopefully.

  ‘Very well. I’ll pencil her in,’ Hunter said impressively. The way things were going he had bugger all else to do.

  *

  It was later the next morning he found himself at Cremorne. This time he drove, parking at the opening of the carved gates, beneath the sign that said ‘Private’.

  He was just locking his car when Inez drove out in her Citroën AXGT, braking to a stop, letting her window down. ‘Looking for me? I’m sorry, I’ve got a class in half an hour. I’m cutting it a bit fine as it is.’

  ‘OK. It’ll wait.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be teaching the rest of today. Then I’m straight off to Lincoln, couple of days with friends. Is it important?’

  Conversation through a car window left subtle responses undetectable. ‘Not terribly, another time will do.’ He stepped back, registering — or imagining? — a flicker of relief. Could she have some reason to mislead Annette and Collier — and believe she had successfully done so? ‘It’s just — you said the other day, you’re friendly with Miss Lynchet, aren’t you?’

  The slightest hesitation? ‘Yes.’

  ‘Benjamin Wright, too?’

  The purr of an extravagantly powerful engine drowned his voice. A gleaming green Morgan came zipping through Cremorne; as Hunter flattened himself out of the way, the driver gestured an apology, waved to Inez, performed an expert turn into the road and disappeared.

  He cursed himself for his clumsiness; the diversion had provided enough time for Inez to adjust her reaction — whatever it had been — and for him to miss it.