Death Out of Season

by Meg Elizabeth Atkins

  Grandmother couldn’t drive … ’ He paused for a moment, added blandly, ‘Nella can, though.’

  ‘Where was she when he was killed?’

  ‘That’s something we need to find out.’ Hunter waited, allowing Garrett to mull this over for a while before adding. ‘So could Benjamin.’

  ‘He, I might remind you, had buggered off beforehand.’

  ‘He was always buggering off.’ Hunter did not feel it necessary to enlarge on what Inez had told him. ‘They could have known how to contact him — enlist his help — ’

  ‘To run down his best friend?’ Garrett sounded incredulous.

  ‘Listen, we’re dealing with a uniquely weird bunch here. And might it not depend what was on offer? Benjamin was down and out by all accounts, a no-hoper.’

  Garrett put his head in his hands momentarily; but Hunter knew his man: he was still listening, they were still trading. Garrett said patiently, ‘Has it occurred to you that maybe Alfred Lynchet was killed by a hit and run driver?’

  ‘Conveniently.’

  ‘Mmm … If you’re after a review of the Tracy Lyons murder, HQ CID should do it.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m asking for, not yet. You know certain aspects of evidence could affect the present investigation.’

  ‘Well, yes … ’

  ‘And if it works, there’ll be a bonus: two detected murders for the price of one.’

  A momentary gleam in Garrett’s eye.

  ‘Look, what I suggest, we’ll do some checking, then I’ll go back and see Queenie again. Anyone else goes she might change her story completely, I wouldn’t put it past her.’

  ‘To put it plainly, Sheldon, you want a bit of rope.’

  ‘That’ll do nicely, sir.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  In the Wise Owl bookshop, Inez set down two bags of shopping and browsed — a peaceful pastime shattered by the commanding voice of Nella berating some unfortunate assistant.

  There sprang at once into Inez’s mind: Something She Had Not Done.

  It concerned Hatchcliffe Hall, a pocket-sized, exquisite eighteenth-century house. Inez had bemusedly found herself on some committee as co-ordinator of cultural events; as she couldn’t remember volunteering, she could only think she must have been drunk at the time. She did her best. The latest venture was an evening’s entertainment by a performance poet. In her official capacity, Inez had interviewed him: a gentle, middle-aged man as fine as worn silver, dressed like a medieval alchemist, he played the lute, sang and recited. She was entranced by him.

  Nella was presenting the evening and, ever more common now, had left all the donkey work to someone else. She needed details: his career, achievements, where — in her own words — she could interface with him. What she did not hesitate to point out was that her importance equalled his and she must be seen to be doing a professional job. Inez was supposed to supply her with the details; Nella had already mentioned the matter in conversation, left a message on Inez’s answerphone. It had slipped Inez’s mind; she felt miserably guilty and had no possible excuse.

  Assaulted by Nella’s irate and commanding tones (surely she was getting louder?) she gave in to panic and ran for it, dodged round the nearest book stack, turned towards Railways and Mythology and ran straight into two small children. They went down in a heap: books, bodies, shopping. ‘I’m so sorry, kids. Are you all right?’

  From underneath somewhere a small, squashed voice said, ‘My arm. You’re heavy.’

  Their mother hovered, ‘Quentin, don’t be rude.’

  ‘No, he’s not, it’s all my fault, I’m an elephant.’

  Nella pounced, the tangle of bodies might not have existed, her attention was so entirely on her own concerns. ‘Inez, I left a message for you … Really, people shouldn’t have answering machines if they don’t utilise them. I’m in such demand I’d be lost without mine, but I do use it correctly — ’

  ‘Yes, no, I’m sorry … ’ Inez, crouching, apologised comprehensively to Nella, mother and children, who were politely helping her collect her shopping. They handed her the box of fudge she had bought to cheer up Mrs Hanks after a nasty cold — ‘No, here, you have it, my apology for barging into you — Yes, all right, Nella — ’

  ‘Look here, Inez, it’s all very well for you, but I have to find time in a crowded schedule — ’

  ‘Fudge. How kind. Quentin, Jeremy, say thank you. But really, you needn’t — ’

  ‘Please, I feel so clumsy. They’ve not made a scrap of fuss. I would, if I fell on me.’

  This delighted the boys, who were led away giggling, clutching the fudge, enacting how they could fall on themselves.

  Nella bore down unrelentingly. ‘I haven’t time to see to these things myself, but I am at least aware of my obligations as Alfred’s representative, that’s why I take these engagements on. But I shan’t be available after Wednesday, I have to go to London to a very important meeting with my agent … ’ She continued to account for herself, at length.

  Inez noted ironically that Alfred’s agent had now become Nella’s. Could it be that her fixation was turning into something more serious? She had certainly been different lately, edgy and arrogant, determined to impress ever more stridently upon anyone who would listen the importance of her status, the unassailability of Alfred’s reputation.

  *

  At the evening briefing in the incident room at Chatfield subdivisional headquarters, Annette and Collier reported, economically and rather defensively, their interview with Nella. She had been uncooperative and at times downright rude. Very insistent she be given any information regarding her brother’s death.

  (A puzzled murmur swelled, travelled round the room. Hunter said, ‘Hang on, fellers. In a minute.’)

  But that, Collier observed ruefully, was because she was a bit unhinged when it came to her sacred trust in managing Alfred’s fame.

  ‘I know, I’ve heard her,’ Hunter said. ‘What did she have to say about Queenie?’

  ‘She claimed not to remember that far back, might have been a cleaning woman Grandmother was interviewing. She wanted to know what we thought we were doing expecting her to concern herself with long ago domestic matters.’

  ‘When we should be out catching criminals,’ someone intoned. Annette and Collier nodded, tight-lipped. Their bruises might not be too evident, but they were there, all the same.

  DC Paul Evans asked ponderously about Alfred, ‘Would this be the Mr Lynchet, brother of Miss Lynchet, who died some time ago — Mr Lynchet did, I mean. I’ve heard some talk of him as inventing those Toddies, but I don’t see the relevance — ’

  You will, Oscar, you will, mingled with cries of Put a sock in it, Paul ‘Oscar who?’ Paul asked Mary Clegg; she was the only one with the patience to answer his questions. This time she shoved a stout elbow in his ribs to silence him while someone asked clearly, ‘What’s going on, guv?’

  ‘Nothing yet, but there is the possibility of a new turn. A link between the Tracy Lyons murder at Old Park House in August 1985 and this one.’ Into a concentrated silence he gave a rapid overview of Queenie’s involvement. ‘This has undoubtedly given us something to explore, but that’s just what we’re going to do at this stage, because, bear in mind, we’ve no hard evidence. So, we’ll take it steady and get started on some backtracking.’

  He assigned new tasks: ascertain if Queenie was at her sister’s in Blackpool the night Tracy was murdered; find out if Alfred Lynchet would still be at his job in local government when Queenie claimed to have called at Ferns. He kept to himself for the present the question mark in his mind: where was Nella the evening her brother was killed?

  Two men on his present team had worked on the Tracy Lyons murder; he sounded them out. One had nothing to contribute beyond what was in the file. The other, DC Dawes, had called on Grandmother Lynchet when Alfred had finally been traced as a possible suspect. Hunter asked him about his interview with the old matriarch.

  As if it wasn’t bad e
nough getting there and finding the bloke was already a goner … She’d have frightened the life out of me anyway, guv … I never want to go through anything like that again.’ Hunter asked if he thought the old lady could have suspected Alfred’s activities with prostitutes. DC Dawes thought heavily for a few moments. He was conscientious and one hundred per cent reliable, but he was never what anyone could call perceptive. ‘Honestly, guv, all I remember about that was she reminded me of those cranky old aristocrats in old British films. Hardly gave me a chance to get a word out, and more concerned we were badgering her when she was in mourning. Threatened to write to the Chief Constable. Yes. Friends on the police authority and God knows where else … ’

  It was late when they dispersed. Annette and Collier were waiting, purposefully; they had a score to settle. ‘OK. Frog and Nightgown,’ Hunter said but he was called away to the phone as they set out.

  They were waiting for him, his pint ready. He took a pull, murmured, ‘Medusa, wasn’t it? Anyone who looked at her turned to stone.’

  ‘Yes, but you didn’t warn us to take a mirror,’ Annette said accusingly.

  ‘What … ?’ Collier said, looking from one to the other.

  ‘Nothing. Just that two can play at non sequiturs.’

  Hunter laughed out loud. ‘Come on, you’ve survived. I didn’t want you to be on your guard.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have mattered, she’d have probably eaten the sodding thing anyway,’ Annette muttered.

  ‘I’ve lost my place,’ Collier said.

  ‘It’s a Greek myth. Annette will tell you later,’ Hunter said.

  ‘Honestly, guv, when we were talking in the One-eyed Rat, with Inez and Dora — we’d got a picture of someone pathetic, vulnerable — ’

  ‘I think she is, that’s why she’s on the attack.’

  ‘She was that all right, shot us down in flames straight off — “There is no point in coming here to question me about Benjamin Wright. I said all there is to say when one of your men called.” One of your men,’ Annette whispered. ‘It took a minute before I realised she meant you, guv.’

  Collier said, ‘So we did the oops, er, we-seem-to-have-slipped-up routine.’

  ‘Which, of course, would gratify her no end.’

  ‘She was just about to order us off her doorstep, so we did a sort of bumbling making up for lost ground and said we’d like to ask her a few questions about her brother’s accident. That got us into the house, at least. Anything to do with him seems to arouse all her protective instincts.’

  ‘Or self-protective,’ Hunter murmured. ‘What have you got in mind, guv?’ Annette asked.

  ‘All she is, what she is, everything she is, depends on him, on his honky-tonk fame.’ ‘That’s why she makes it out to be something so special,’ Collier said thoughtfully. ‘She’d despise anyone else for creating that load of codswallop — ’

  ‘You mean, anything that threatens him, threatens her.’

  ‘She’s the only one left, isn’t she? If anything surfaced about Alfred now, how would she cope with it?’

  ‘You mean she might know — or suspect — there was something fishy, that’s what makes her so defensive.’

  ‘Defensive, is that what you call it?’ Annette said. ‘She’s a Lynchet, I think she’d just ignore anything she couldn’t accept. Wave it out of the way and carry on regardless.’

  They were thoughtful for a while, then Hunter asked, ‘Was she telling the truth about Queenie?’

  ‘It’s hard to say. She was obviously put off her stride when we asked, but that could be because she was concentrating on Alfred — and, as you said, as far as he’s concerned she’s got tunnel vision. I had an odd feeling … ’ She looked at Collier.

  ‘Yes, so did I. But maybe it’s the house, it gave me the creeps.’

  ‘Me, too,’ Annette said feelingly. ‘Do you think there’s anything else you can get out of Queenie?’

  ‘Not now,’ Hunter said. ‘That phone call I had to take … It was the hospice, I’d asked them to keep me informed. Queenie, they tell me, passed away peacefully. It’s about the only peaceful thing she’s ever done.’

  ‘Well, there we are,’ Collier said inadequately.

  ‘What now, guv?’ Annette asked.

  ‘Garrett doesn’t want to commit himself to running with this. He’ll give us some leeway, but — it’s steady as you go, chaps. And after all,’ he smiled at them, ‘it was you two got us where we are now.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Shrugged into his British warm against the harsh day, Hunter trudged down the driveway of Ferns contemplating the lonely, mad-looking house at the end of it. In the cavernous porch he rang the doorbell, waited.

  She had not expected to see him; after a fleeting, curiously hunted look, her face closed. There was a catch of breathlessness in her voice before it steadied. ‘I have to warn you, officer, I shall be contacting my solicitor about this continued harassment.’

  ‘Harassment? Miss Lynchet, I’m afraid I’m at a loss — ’

  ‘If you tell me you don’t know two of your inferiors called yesterday, my opinion of your incompetence will be even lower.’

  ‘Inferiors,’ he repeated slowly, frowning in concentration. ‘No, I don’t know any of those. I understood two CID — ’

  ‘I am not here to bandy words with you.’

  ‘No, indeed, we’re both busy people. If I may come in.’

  ‘No, you may not.’

  ‘As you wish. Then I must ask you to accompany me to the police station — ’

  She gasped. ‘What?’ Stared, received no enlightenment, said angrily, ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘To answer some questions.’

  ‘Oh … ’ She flung away, marching ahead of him into the drawing-room.

  Sunlight bitter as lemons found its way in through the windows, outlining the dark, bulky furniture, glazing the surface of crowded Victorian paintings. She stood, hands clasped: tense, ready. As a boy on a roaring council estate he had seen women like that, women in worn clothes and aprons, ready for battle. Given an implement to hand — a broom, a shovel — it was odds on that sooner or later they’d hit out. He doubted Nella would so far forget herself, but he measured the distance to the poker, out of habit.

  He sat down, uninvited, said, ‘Thank you,’ politely; took his time patting his pockets for his notebook, drew it out. She made an exasperated sound, sat down in a ponderous armchair positioned sideways to him — a ploy that failed. Her chair was too heavy for her to move; he was better placed in one of the high-backed, carved chairs. He manoeuvred it easily and sat, notebook ready, looking into her face.

  She had become very correct. ‘I understood from your — subordinates — that you have fresh information about the accident that caused my brother’s death.’

  ‘Ah, no, that wasn’t what they said. They hoped you would be able to answer some questions because it is just possible a new avenue could be opening up which might throw some light on the event.’

  ‘That,’ she said acidly, ‘is just the sort of meaningless jargon they came out with.’

  ‘Excuse me. They asked you … what?’

  ‘Well … ’ She thought for a moment. ‘They asked … had anyone strange been seen about at the time — that’s certainly for your people to find out. I can’t go round knocking on doors, can I?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  She gave him a sharp look, continued. ‘They asked had Alfred seemed upset beforehand. No. Had he received any strange telephone calls? No … ’

  He recognised the smokescreen behind which her responses were assessed and unasked questions lurked. She was quite right: meaningless jargon.

  ‘It was impossible to make out a word of sense. If that’s the way you conduct your enquiries I’m not surprised the detection rate is so abysmal. I suppose it’s too much to expect you’ve come to tell me you have at last found out who was responsible for Alfred’s death.’

  ‘No, Miss — ’
/>   ‘Of course not.’

  And can you tell me where you were the evening it occurred?’

  ‘What?’ She stared at him, too astonished to say anything else.

  ‘You will, of course, remember … To receive such upsetting news … ’

  She looked around the room, seeking reassurance in the familiar. ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Not that evening. Er … when it happened. It was the next day. I was away at the time.’

  ‘You were? I see.’ He began to write, slowly, in his notebook. ‘And if you wouldn’t mind telling me where you were, and when you went away.’

  She was reluctant to tell him anything at all — he found it difficult to decide whether this was from bloody-mindedness or because she had something to hide. She was ill at ease, shifting under his gaze, glancing frequently at her watch, but, eventually, he drew the facts out.

  Shortly before Alfred’s death Nella went to visit an elderly relative, a Lynchet cousin, in Southwold. Asked if there was any particular reason for the visit, Nella sharply asked in turn why there had to be a reason. Blandly, Hunter observed that Southwold was a very pleasant place for a seaside holiday, then waited, pencil poised, while she fussed on endlessly about the relative not being at all well and Grandmother saying it would — or rather, she corrected herself, she thought it would be a kindness to spend a little time with her …

  Which went a long way to explaining Nella’s attitude. A grown woman would scarcely want to admit to a stranger that she’d been ordered away, with no say in the matter at all — because that was undoubtedly what had happened.

  ‘And then, my grandmother telephoned me the day after the accident.’

  ‘The day after.’

  ‘She was far too upset at the time, she couldn’t be expected … once she had coped with the shock … then she had the distressing task of telling me … I travelled home that day.’

  He half listened until she had talked herself into silence, then noted the name and address of the relative.

  ‘I really can’t imagine, Mr Hunter, how my presence or absence can do anything to facilitate your enquiries into Alfred’s death.’