Deadly Pattern

by Douglas Clark

  The Sundowner was fairly full. They stood together—a ring of five big men—away from the bar. Green said: ‘Visiting relatives this afternoon?’

  Masters said: ‘That’s right. We’ll split into pairs. I want you, Garner, to act as guide and chauffeur. And please get a list of the telephone numbers of the houses so we can make contact that way if needs be, otherwise, with only one car, some of us could be stranded for a long time.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Garner put his beer mug on a small table. ‘Well, thanks. I’ll be off now if it’s all right with the sergeant.’

  Brant followed him up the stairs.

  Masters said: ‘We’ve read the local reports, but I want us all to forget them. They’re superficial.’

  ‘They struck me like the minutes of a meeting of the old boy network,’ said Green. ‘They’re all old pals round here, so they can’t be objective. When you know a chap socially you can’t question him close enough to bash the acne out of him, can you?’

  ‘Substitute “exact the truth” for what you’ve just said and I’ll agree.’

  ‘We’re slipping, aren’t we, chief?’ Hill said. ‘Been here nearly twenty-four hours and not one suspect.’

  ‘You remember the case we finished two days ago? We ignored the weapon there, because we’d no lead on it. But we managed to arrive by taking a roundabout route. I may be wrong, but here I feel the murderer himself is not as important as his motive. That’s what I want to get at.’

  ‘I know his motive. He’s crackers. Really, seriously mad,’ said Green.

  ‘Maybe. And mental illness alone may drive a man to murder. But what causes his mental illness? That’s my point. I think some powerful emotion motivated a sick man to the point where he could bear to commit five murders. Ritualistically and cunningly. And we’ve got to dig out the reason for that emotion, otherwise we’ve had it. We’re not going to solve this one with fingerprints and breaking an alibi. It’s going to mean some hard slogging and, unless I’m mistaken, some hefty digging into the past.’

  Hill said: ‘And I bet I know who’s got to do most of the digging. Have we time for one more, before Sarn’t Brant gets back?’ Masters declined. ‘We’ll go for lunch. He’ll be with us before we’re served.’

  When they were having their coffee, Masters said: ‘It’s no use setting out with any preconceived ideas of what you’re going to hear. Obviously we want everything we can get that relates to the time each woman disappeared, but I particularly want to know whether we can establish any form of relationship between them or any common factor which links them. It doesn’t matter what it is. But most of all I want to find a common, human contact, because I can see no material reason for these murders, whereas human—probably mental—conflict could account for them. Find out. If we can establish a common denominator our job’s going to be a lot easier than it would be if these five women were all picked at random. But you don’t need me to tell you that. Patterns in crimes help solve them. And in this particular crime there are so many patterns that I’m positive there must be a design in the selection of victims. Let’s find out what it is. We may not get it today, or for a number of days. But gather the pieces, just the same.’

  ‘What about the husbands? Are we concentrating on them to begin with?’ said Brant.

  ‘You’re concentrating on everybody and everything. But chiefly consider that here are five women all of whom have lived in this area for the past forty years. I want a common factor—human if possible. Our job is to find that common factor, and to do it we have to know when it was in existence. So, as I said last night, we have to dig deep. Five women and forty years to play with. It’s a big job.’

  Green said: ‘We’ll not get round five of them today at that rate.’

  ‘Never mind. Just do one today. As long as you get a notebook full of facts and names that can be checked with other reports to see if the lines cross. Take it steady. We’ll start with the two Finstoft women—Frances Burton and Joanna Osborn—the alpha and omega in the disappearing act and numbers three and two to reappear, respectively. Hill and I’ll take Burton. You and Brant tackle Osborn. They both had two children. Anything else you’d like to know?’

  ‘Disappearance dates.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Burton disappeared on the tenth, reported on the twelfth. Osborn disappeared on the twenty-eighth. And I’ll stress this again—get a list of all their friends, past and present. At least one human contact must be there, and we want to know who it is.’

  *

  Saturday afternoon always had a special feeling about it for Masters. Subconsciously he believed there were certain things you could do on certain days at certain times, and certain things you could not do on certain days at certain times. He believed that after lunch on Saturdays the time for investigation and questioning stopped until Monday morning. As they drove through the streets, the sun now a little stronger and the wind a little weaker, he looked out at the women and men walking together, the family parties hurrying to bus stops, and the holiday air given by people who had shed working clothes in favour of their week-end best. It didn’t seem right to him to be going to work at this time. He’d have preferred to be off duty. He was dour, because of it. The others sensed this, and there was no conversation in the car.

  Garner directed them first to Rowan Tree Avenue. Away from the front of the town, tucked away to escape the worst of the north-easterly winds, the road held a mixture of detached and semi-detached houses of the better class, mostly pre-war. Each had its low fence, double gate and garage. All were well painted, with gardens which, though not yet cleared up after the winter, still bore signs of that house-proud care that tends to rob all such plots of any aspect of individuality while still leaving them as oases of colour in the midst of drabness. Even the cars, drawn up in front of each house had a sameness that depressed Masters. He would have preferred to see a few old crocks and students’ bangers littered about, just to break the monotony. He had visions of Sunday mornings when, he supposed, all the men would come out with identical plastic buckets containing identical car cleanser to wash and clean these identical cars with identical sponges. He thought the men might even wear identical trousers and sweaters. He was certain they would make identical remarks to each other about the weather.

  Green and Brant got down at the Osborns’ house. Masters said: ‘Whoever finishes first rings the other. I’ll keep the car with me.’

  Green nodded. Even he, the prophet of egalitarianism, seemed depressed by the equivalence of Rowan Tree Avenue, and the prospect of working on a Saturday afternoon when, as often as possible, he was accustomed to watching either Chelsea or Fulham—whichever was playing at home.

  Garner pulled away, leaving Green standing on the pavement. As they turned the corner Masters looked back and saw him unfastening the gate. He wondered how Osborn and Green would get on together.

  The Lincoln Road was the main highway leading south out of Finstoft. Here the houses were very much the same as in Rowan Tree Avenue, but the buses and cars speeding along gave it life, and behind the houses on the Burtons’ side was a low hill with trees. Behind those on the other side, lower standing, was a playing field with glimpses of soccer strips to be seen between the buildings. Masters supposed that the Burtons must be just that little bit worse off financially than the Osborns, otherwise they might not have chosen to live on this strip of ribbon development so close to a noisy playground where the peace could be disturbed by referees’ shrill whistles and spectators’ shouts.

  Masters and Hill went up the flagged path to the front door. Their ring was answered by a girl whom Masters thought looked about twenty; but knowing how deceptive appearances can be, he mentally catalogued her as eighteen. She was attractive. She wore slim navy-blue jeans and a paler blue, tight sweater which made her appear provocatively elegant. Her girlish—not yet quite mature—bosom stood out proud, voluptuous in its sheer precociousness. Her hair was fair, the sort that darkens gradually with time, and waved into cur
ls too tight for Masters’ taste. He preferred hair to bounce from exuberance in young girls. But the effect was not wasted on Hill. Masters would have wagered that in seconds after she had opened the door Hill would have been able to give a long description of her—full of unnecessary details.

  Masters introduced himself.

  ‘You’ll want to see Dad?’

  ‘If Mr Burton is in. And you too, please, Miss . . .’

  ‘I’m Beryl. We’re all at home. Dad, Robert and me. Robert’s my brother.’

  Masters and Hill followed her through, past the foot of the stairs, to the dining-room. The square table had been pushed back against the wall opposite the fire. This left room for two armchairs. Sitting in one was a man of about forty-five. Where the room was brown all over—brown carpet, brown curtains to the french window, brown upholstery on the easy chairs and the dining chairs—Ralph Burton was grey all over. His hair, and there was still plenty of it, had reached the stage where it was ready to whiten. His face had an ashen look: a proud face, deeply lined to give the appearance of heavy jowls even though there was little spare flesh. Grey eyes with brows not quite as dark as they’d once been. A long, spare body in a grey sweater and grey slacks with a pair of putty-coloured desert boots. He stood up as Masters entered. In the opposite chair was sprawled a sixteen-year-old lad who, at a word from his father got to his feet and switched off the television set.

  Beryl said: ‘Dad. This is . . . did you say Detective Chief Inspector? . . . Masters, from Scotland Yard, and Sergeant Hill.’

  Burton offered his hand courteously. Masters hated hand-shakes. This time he didn’t mind so much as he felt the recognition signal of a finger curl in his palm.

  Burton said: ‘So they’ve brought in the biggest of the big guns, have they?’ The voice was low pitched and pleasantly modulated. Despite the grief etched on the face there was the light of humour in the eyes.

  Masters said: ‘The medium-sized ones, at any rate, sir.’

  ‘You’re not unknown, even to us up here in Finstoft. In fact, this morning’s paper carries an account of your successful investigation in Rooksby.’

  ‘They have to print something, don’t they?’ Masters said deprecatingly.

  Burton said: ‘And now you’ve come here. I must say I don’t envy you your job. I’ve thought and thought about what’s gone on here these past few weeks and I can’t for the life of me see any solution—feasible or fantastic.’

  ‘Well, perhaps a fresh mind might help. And that’s why I’m here. I find gathering the threads of a case so much easier if I start afresh from the beginning and don’t have to rely too much on previous reports. So if I could discuss the whole matter with you?’

  ‘Of course. Beryl, slip into the sitting-room and switch on the heater, please.’ He turned to Masters. ‘We’ll be much better in there.’

  ‘I’d prefer to stay here if you don’t mind, sir. Your son and daughter may be able to help us if you don’t mind them sitting in.’

  ‘Of course not. Robert’s only sixteen, of course . . .’

  ‘There’ll be no grisly details, Mr Burton. Basically I’m not interested in your wife’s disappearance and death at the moment, but in her life.’

  ‘I think I understand. Where will you sit?’

  ‘I’d like your son to sit at the table with Sergeant Hill. I’ll take his chair, you take yours, and I suggest Miss Burton sits on that pouffe. Beside you. That’s right.’ Masters sat in the chair and stretched his legs. He said, trying to put them at their ease: ‘D’you mind a pipe?’

  With their permission he started to rub a fill of Warlock Flake. As he did it he said: ‘Now just to get the record of recent events straight, I will run over the events of the tenth of January. You, Mr Burton, went to a Masonic Lodge meeting that evening, I believe?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What time did you leave here?’

  ‘About four o’clock. It was an installation, you see.’

  ‘I think I can guess what that means, although I know very little about your corporate activities. How did you go? By car?’

  ‘Taxi. We don’t drink to excess, but we do have a few, so I shared a taxi both ways with Colin Mace—he lives five doors along from here.’

  ‘He’s a member of the same Lodge?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And besides your mutual interest in Masonic affairs are your two families friendly?’

  ‘Very. At least Frances and Mrs Mace were. But the Maces have no children, so our two weren’t involved in the friendship.’

  ‘Long standing?’

  ‘Connie Mace and Frances were at school together, and have been fairly close ever since.’

  ‘Was it coincidence they found themselves living so close to each other after marriage?’

  ‘I don’t understand the question.’

  ‘They were friends at school and—as you put it—fairly close thereafter. As close friends did they arrange to live near each other, or was it coincidence that their two husbands bought almost adjoining properties.’

  ‘Oh, I see. No. I’ve given you the wrong impression. For a few years, after leaving school, they didn’t see much of each other. Then Frances and I married and moved in here. About a year later Colin and Connie bought their house, and the girls reassumed their old friendship. But it was quite by chance that their house fell empty when it did.’

  ‘Thank you. Please don’t think I’m being pedantic, but accuracy here will help. I’m sure of that.’

  ‘I thought we were speaking generally. Sorry.’

  ‘Generally, perhaps, but not loosely. But to get on. Did anything extraordinary happen at the installation?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Did you leave the Lodge for any purpose during the evening?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What’s the name and address of your Tyler?’

  Beryl giggled. She said: ‘You do ask funny questions. Dad gets his suits at . . .’

  Burton said: ‘Quiet, Beryl.’ He looked over to Masters. ‘I thought you didn’t know much about our activities.’

  ‘I don’t. But I happen to know what a door-keeper’s called, even if your daughter thinks I’ve got a cockney accent.’

  She blushed. ‘Oh, I am sorry. I thought you meant . . .’

  Her father said: ‘Never mind, Beryl.’ He turned to Masters again. ‘His name’s Wilson. There’s a small hotel attached to the Temple. He runs the hotel—the Freemason’s Arms in Cobbald Street.’

  ‘Thank you. Now what time did you get back here that night?’ Burton paused before replying. Masters had demonstrated that he expected accuracy and was prepared to get an independent check on all answers. Burton was taking care. He said: ‘I can’t say to the minute. But we broke up at eleven, and as we’d ordered the taxi for then, Colin and I hurried out. Say five past. And it takes about seven minutes to get here. We both got out at Colin’s, and I walked the little bit to our gate. So I’d say I actually got in at a quarter past eleven.’

  ‘Good. Which taxi firm did you use?’

  Hill made a note of the hire firm. Masters said: ‘You came in, expecting to find your wife here?’

  ‘Yes. She’d not said she was going out.’

  ‘Was the house in good order?’

  ‘Just as I would expect to find it. A light in the hall. One in here. The fire going and some of the children’s belongings strewn about.’

  ‘But no Mrs Burton?’

  ‘No sign of Frances at all.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I called her. Then when she didn’t answer I went upstairs to see if she’d gone to bed or was having a bath.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I thought she’d slipped along to keep Connie company during the evening, expecting me to call in there when we came back.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I hadn’t called in, so I thought she’d probably be gassing to Colin, and be ready to come if I fetched her. So I went along there.
Connie hadn’t seen her that day.’

  ‘I see. Now what about Beryl and Robert? Where were they?’

  ‘It was the party season. They were here when I left at four o’clock, but I knew they would be going out later and not coming in until possibly one o’clock.’

  Masters said to Beryl. ‘Were you out with your brother?’

  ‘I wasn’t out with him. We were at the same party.’

  Robert said: ‘She was with that long-haired Hampden chap. A fine boy friend he turned out to be. Wouldn’t even see her home. I had to do it. And I had to wait while he kissed her before we could start back.’

  ‘So you arrived together. At what time?’

  ‘Nearly half past one. We walked.’

  ‘Thank you. Now back to you, Mr Burton. You found an empty house, and your wife wasn’t with Mrs Mace. What did you do?’

  ‘I came back here, half expecting to find her here by then. I thought she must have gone to see some other friends and had lost count of the time.’

  ‘But she wasn’t here.’

  ‘No. I looked round in case she’d left a note. She hadn’t, so I rang her mother to see if she’d gone there for the evening. No luck.’

  ‘Did you ring anywhere else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It was getting late. I didn’t want to wake all our friends in the district.’ Privately Masters thought that Burton’s real reason was the fact that he didn’t want to give his friends the idea his wife had walked out on him.

  Masters relit his pipe. ‘What next, Mr Burton?’

  ‘I’m afraid I went to bed.’ It was a reply that even had Masters surprised for a minute. He said: ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Well, as I told you, I’d had a few drinks and I was tired. I’d no idea where Frances had gone, so I didn’t see what I could do.’

  ‘Did it occur to you to ring the police?’

  ‘Have you any idea what trouble it would have caused if I had rung the police, and Frances had arrived home ten minutes later?’

  Masters said that as he’d never had the pleasure of knowing Mrs Burton, he was unable to imagine what her reactions would have been. But Burton’s reply had confirmed Bullimore’s description of the area and its people. Apparently Frances Burton would have given her husband no credit for considering her safety above everything else. She would only have been concerned about the loss of face occasioned by referring her absence to the police. He said: ‘You went to bed and slept?’