‘But, Dad, don’t you know how ghastly it is to have to do it all the time?’
Masters understood. He was a bachelor, accountable to no one for his actions. He could imagine Mrs Burton, happy enough, perhaps, with her family, but just longing to do something, go out, on her own sometime, without explanations to husband and children. It seemed to him that Beryl may have—in her immature way—put her finger on a reason for her mother’s going out that evening. He said: ‘Cast your mind back. What happened exactly that evening? Robert, you were here, on holiday. Beryl, you came in from work, for your tea. Right?’
Beryl nodded. Robert said: ‘We just had crumpets and spready cheese with toasted scones and Christmas cake. Mum said she wouldn’t cook as Dad wouldn’t be home for a hot meal and we’d be having supper out.’
‘Good. Then what?’
Beryl said: ‘I had a bath.’
‘You didn’t help to wash up?’
She looked across at Robert who shook his head.
‘No.’
‘Do you usually help?’
‘Always.’
‘Even on party nights?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why not this night?’
‘I don’t know. Mum told me to get my bath so that Bobby could get his in good time.’
Masters turned to Robert. ‘What did you do at washing-up time?’
‘Mum told me to clean my shoes and put the ironing-board up for her to press Beryl’s stole.’
‘Good. That’s clear. Now obviously your mother didn’t let you off the washing up because you were going to a party. That wasn’t her usual habit, and there could be no reason for her doing so on this particular night unless she either felt that as you’d only had nursery tea there was not much washing up to do or—and this is pure speculation—she wanted you to be away well on time for reasons of her own.’
‘I offered to dry for her but she chased me off,’ said Robert. ‘All she kept saying was: “Now come along, Bobby, you mustn’t keep Beryl waiting.” I remember telling her that that Hampden bloke was calling for Beryl, but she said: “Never mind that, just do as I say and hurry up!”’
Masters looked across at Burton. ‘As I said a moment ago, sir, this comes within the realm of speculation, but from your children’s accounts I would guess that Mrs Burton had a pre-arranged engagement for that evening. About eight o’clock, I should say, judging from her anxiety to hustle them.’
‘If she had, I knew nothing of it.’
‘Nor who could have given her an invitation?’
‘No.’
‘Then I must try to find out. Would you—all three of you—please make me a list of everybody your wife knew in the district?’
‘Just in the district?’
‘I think so. At any rate for the moment. But may I suggest that while Beryl and Robert are dealing with up-to-date contacts which they will know well enough, you cast your mind back. Go back as far as the time you first met your wife and write down those of her friends you can remember her mentioning, and your own friends—male and female—at that time.’
‘That’s a tall order—twenty years and more.’
‘Not as tall as you might think. Most families have a snapshot album. Have you?’
Beryl said: ‘There’s a dress-box full of photos on top of the spare-room wardrobe.’
‘Excellent. They’ll help your father recall the old days and old faces. Beryl, will you and Robert fetch the photos, paper and pencils, please.’
As soon as the children were out of the room, Masters said to Burton: ‘Now, sir. Your relationship with your wife. Was it good?’
‘As far as I could tell, it was excellent. I mean, we cohabited normally, we did most things together, we got along and agreed on most things. As for other men in Frances’ life—well, I don’t think there were any, otherwise I’d be suspecting somebody of her murder.’
‘Would you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You didn’t report your wife’s disappearance until after she had been away for two nights. Why was that?’
‘I thought she would come back.’
‘Are you sure you didn’t report her missing out of a misplaced sense of pride? You didn’t want people to look on you as a man whose wife had walked out on him?’
‘No.’
‘Or that you won’t confess to knowing your wife had a lover because it would make you appear a cuckold?’
Burton appeared genuinely outraged and distressed. It satisfied Masters. He had hoped to get a reaction. This, he thought, was the genuine article. He was prepared to believe Burton had no knowledge of any other man in his wife’s life.
‘Right, Mr Burton. Then why the delay in reporting her missing?’
‘I just don’t know.’ Burton spread his hands. ‘I wish to God I’d done it straight away, but . . .’
‘One always clings to hopes?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘Were you cross with your wife for leaving you?’
‘At first. It was only later that I got seriously worried. Then I rang the police.’
‘Thank you, Mr Burton. I think I can understand your state of mind, even if I deplore your procrastination.’ He got up and stared through the french windows at the bare flower beds. The spikes of some bulbs were showing through strongly. But little else. He felt even more depressed.
The children came back. Beryl said: ‘It was covered in dust. Nobody’s done anything to that room since Mum went.’ She put the dress-box on the table and lifted the lid. A jumble of snaps and more formal photographs lay haphazard in the bottom tray.
After Burton had looked at each photograph, he set it aside for Masters. Hill joined the Chief Inspector and looked over his shoulder. Burton worked through conscientiously, jotting down names occasionally, but a cardboard tube containing a panoramic photograph he put on one side without examination. Masters said: ‘Not this one?’
‘Hardly. It’s a photograph of the whole school when Frances was a girl. There’s about three hundred people on it. I can’t go through that lot and remember the names.’
‘Perhaps not.’ Masters drew the long photograph from the tube. To keep it opened out, he had to hold one end, Hill the other. The caption read: ‘Finstoft Grammar School for Girls 1945’. Three hundred of them, as Burton had said, arranged in tiers along one side of the school quad. On the front row, in chairs, mistresses in gowns, many in spectacles, with—by now—severely old-fashioned hair-do’s. Hill seemed amused. He pointed out the inevitable oddities—the fat, the roguish, the squinting, and then he said: ‘Aye, aye. They even did it in those days, did they?’
‘Did what?’
‘See this lass, chief?’ He pointed to a girl with a smirking face at his end of the photograph. ‘Look at the one at your end.’
Masters looked carefully. ‘The same girl.’
‘That’s right. The camera traverses slowly from left to right to get the whole lot in. If it didn’t, they’d have to plant it so far away that the faces would be indistinguishable in the photograph. Somebody pretty nippy like this girl looks to have been, could be standing at the starting end, then when the lens had passed her she could dodge along behind the back row and reach the other end before the camera. That’s what this girl did. Great fun, being on one photograph twice. But I bet she got it in the neck when the thing was developed and the headmistress saw it.’
Burton looked up. ‘What’s that?’
‘Some girl up to the old dodge of appearing twice on the same panorama,’ said Masters.
‘Oh, yes. Mary Starkey. I’d better put her down. I never knew her, but I’ve heard Frances speak about her when she’s been showing the kids these photographs in the past.’
Beryl said: ‘Mum always said she was the naughtiest girl in the school. She was in Mum’s form and used to whistle at boys from the cloakroom window.’
‘She looks a bit of a tearaway, here,’ Hill observed.
Masters rolled up the photograph.
He picked up a snap of Connie Mace and examined it carefully. Hill, riffling through, came up with a photograph of three girls in black bathing costumes and white rubber caps. They were one-piece swimsuits, with little legs and wide straps over the shoulders. The three young faces—and even the immature bodies—looked self-conscious. Hill looked at it for a moment and said: ‘Here she is again. That Starkey girl, isn’t it?’
Burton glanced at it. ‘Oh yes. It was taken at the bathing pool. That’s Frances in the middle. Mary Starkey on her left and Robina Judge on her right.’
There was silence as they all returned to work. Robert said: ‘Shall we put in the milkman?’ Masters nodded and said: ‘Try to put in everybody, but say who they are in brackets if you can.’
When the lists were finished, Masters gathered them up. Burton said: ‘By God, you’re thorough. The locals didn’t go to all this trouble.’
‘Aren’t you thorough in your profession or business, Mr Burton?’ Masters inquired.
‘Of course.’
‘This is my profession, remember. By the way, what do you do?’
‘Me? I’m a fish merchant on Hawksfleet docks.’
‘Fish merchant?’
‘Wholesale.’
‘I see.’
‘I buy on the market and supply customers all over the country. It’s a good life. Cold and wet sometimes, but active.’
Masters thanked Burton and asked if Hill could use the telephone to call Green. Burton said: ‘By all means. But won’t you stay for a cup of tea? Beryl will soon make us one.’
‘I’d like that.’ Masters turned to Hill: ‘Tell Inspector Green we’ll be with him in half an hour, and if Mr Burton doesn’t object, fetch in P.C. Garner for a cup of tea.’
*
Inspector Green and Sergeant Brant knocked on the door of ‘Thrums’. It was opened by a young man in his early twenties. Green eyed him closely. The youth was obviously extremely careful of his appearance. His grey trousers were well creased; the brown and fawn check sports jacket spotlessly clean; the pale blue shirt and club tie immaculate; the ginger hair carefully parted and brushed. But Green didn’t like the face. Too podgy by half, with too little colour, too many freckles, and eyes that were too small for the vast expanse of flesh. Green thought he looked supercilious, and this, for Green, was more than enough to arouse instant dislike. In Green’s view, Masters was supercilious, and this had done nothing to endear him to the type.
‘I’d like to see Mr Osborn, please,’ said Green.
‘Who would?’
Swallowing hard, Green said: ‘That’s right. You can’t be too careful with callers these days.’ Then raising his voice to give it an edge of menace: ‘I’m from Scotland Yard. The name is Green. Inspector Green.’
‘Wait. I’ll ask Dad if he’ll see you.’ He disappeared.
Brant said airily: ‘Nice chap. Nobody likes him.’
It was Osborn himself who came next to the door. ‘I’m Frank Osborn. My son tells me you want to see me.’
‘That’s the idea. Now, sir, if you would allow us in . . .’
Osborn opened the door and stepped aside. He was putting on flesh too early. A gross man. Heavily dark in the beard area. Flesh puffed up round small eyes. Coarse red mouth. A figure that gave his waistcoat a bow front and trousers that had to be cut too large round the seat for their length. His hair, still black, was oiled into place and waved vertically at the sides. Green thought to himself that it was funny how often really dark parents produced ginger kids. A freak of nature he’d met more than once.
The house gave an appearance of wealth. The hall was big and square with oak block flooring and white, long-haired rugs; the staircase wide, painted cream and carpeted in Turkey red. The doors were heavy, with polished copper knobs and finger plates. Almost automatically Green found himself treading gingerly as he followed Osborn into a sitting-room with an Indian carpet and suite in matching chintz. Osborn said to his son who was standing with his back to the fire: ‘You can go, Berry.’
‘If you don’t mind, I would like your son to stay,’ Green said.
‘And I wouldn’t.’
‘Have it your way.’ He turned to Brant. ‘Take young Mr Osborn to the station and question him there.’
‘Don’t play the heavy with me, Inspector,’ said Osborn.
‘I’m investigating a murder, Mr Osborn. Not one murder. Five. Now let me put you right about a few things. I’ve no need to come the heavy with anyone, because I can get a free hand in a case as important as this from everybody from the Home Secretary downwards. If I as much as whisper that anybody—by as much as a flicker of an eyelid—is trying to obstruct me in the execution of my duty, I’ll get a warrant for arrest on reasonable suspicion without having to ask for it. Now I don’t want to go that far, because it’d be a waste of my time. That’s why I’ve come to see you here in your house, rather than call you into the local station. But don’t try to twist my arm, Mr Osborn. I’ve seen too many like you crawling out of the woodwork to be very impressed.’
‘So that’s the way you want to play it. Well, let me tell you, Inspector . . .’
‘No. Let me tell you. I’ll play it any way you like. But I came here to get some information and I’m going to get it. Now.’
‘I don’t like the way you’re going about it.’
‘And I don’t like the way you’ve received me. So now we’ve both said what we think, shall we sit down?’
Green sat on the settee, sharing it with Brant who had his notebook ready. The Osborns, father and son, sat in wing chairs flanking the fireplace. Osborn lit a cigar without offering them round. Green said: ‘Besides Mr Bertram here, you have a daughter, Mr Osborn.’
‘Julia. She isn’t in. She’s out shopping.’
‘Pity. I shall want to see her.’
‘She’ll be back.’ It was a sneer.
‘Right. Mrs Osborn disappeared on the twenty-eighth of January. That was a Tuesday. Evening. Now, let’s see where everybody was at the time.’
‘We’ve already given this to the local police.’
‘So you have. I’ve read it. It was your firm’s annual party. You were there.’ He looked hard at Osborn. ‘A pretty bald sort of statement. Takes up two lines of a notebook. By the time I’ve finished it’ll fill the Sunday Times. So start talking.’
‘I’m chairman of my own firm,’ Osborn began.
‘Which is?’
‘A fish curing company on the Hawksfleet docks—Frank Osborn and Son. We freeze fish, too, in over-the-counter packs.’
‘You give your employees an annual party?’
‘Yes.’
‘What does it cost?’
Berry said: ‘We don’t give the party. The firm has a social club to which everybody contributes. The employees run their own party and we chip in to make up the cost. This year we gave a hundred and fifty pounds. Two pounds for every employee.’
‘Generous of you. Where was this party held?’
‘Where it’s always held. At the Hawksfleet Town Hall.’
‘You went?’
‘Of course. I’m the chairman, aren’t I? The workers expect to see their bosses there.’
To the left-inclined Green this was typical of all that he hated in capitalism. However, he kept his voice even. ‘It was a mixed party?’
‘Of course it was mixed. We employ both sexes.’
‘Seventy-five men and women, evenly mixed.’
‘A hundred and fifty,’ said Berry. ‘They were each allowed one partner. That’s why we gave two quid a head.’
‘I see.’ Green turned to Osborn. ‘Then in that case, as you were getting matey with the workers, and sharing their party, why didn’t Mrs Osborn go with you?’
‘My wife was ill.’
‘What with?’
‘Headache.’
‘Let’s make it quite clear that I can’t accept that explanation.’
‘And why not?’
‘Because you know as well as I do
that any headache in the world can be cured inside half an hour with today’s drugs. And as the boss’s wife, Mrs Osborn must have known that her presence at this party was a bit of vital P.R. work which no wise boss would forgo for the price of a packet of pills. So now, why didn’t Mrs Osborn go to the party?’
‘She was ill, I tell you.’
‘Too seriously to attend the party?’
‘Yes.’
‘But not seriously enough to call in a doctor?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did you ask her?’
‘No.’
‘So your wife was too ill to go with you on what any normal boss would consider a duty engagement, and yet you didn’t try to find out what the trouble was that was losing you valuable P.R. with your workers.’
‘It was an indefinite illness.’
‘Starting when?’
‘I don’t know. Women get these things.’
‘Had she complained of it before?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘So your wife may have had a long-standing illness which you didn’t seek advice about.’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘The truth, I hope. And trying to find the relationship you enjoyed with your wife. Now, when did this illness come on?’
Berry said: ‘She started complaining on the Sunday.’
‘Thank you. What did you do about it?’
‘Nothing. I met her in the hall. She’d been on the phone. I was just going out. She looked a bit white, so I asked her if she felt all right. She said she did, but she was a bit headachy and I wasn’t to worry. So I went.’
‘Could the phone call have upset her?’
‘I dunno. I don’t know who it was from.’
‘Right. Any signs of this headache earlier?’
‘No. Not that I know of.’
‘You, Mr Osborn?’
‘No.’
‘Then in that case, can you tell me when she called off the party?’ asked Green.
‘Oh, sometime that Tuesday evening.’
‘You can’t remember exactly when?’
‘No. How could I?’
‘By remembering what steps you took to see she was all right, to cure her, to persuade her to accompany you.’
‘I can’t remember.’
Masters and Green Series Box Set Page 44