Deadly Pattern

by Douglas Clark

  ‘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.’

  ‘You did none of those things?’

  ‘I may have done.’

  ‘Which suggests you didn’t. Perhaps you weren’t too keen that she should accompany you.’

  ‘You’ve just now said I would have been keen because of her P.R. value. Remember?’

  ‘But you negatived that, Mr Osborn. And as you can’t remember urging her to join you I’ll assume you didn’t. In which case I want to know why.’

  ‘By God, I’ll . . .’

  ‘What?’

  Osborn didn’t reply. Green changed the subject. ‘What was Mrs Osborn wearing when she went out?’

  Berry said: ‘Julia found out what was missing. A top coat and one of those furry caps. A white one, with gloves to match and a purse.’

  ‘So it seems she dressed and went of her own free will.’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘A sick woman, too ill to accompany her husband, but not too ill to take herself off somewhere else on a cold January night. Doesn’t make sense, does it?’

  ‘Nothing makes blasted sense,’ said Osborn.

  ‘It does to me. I’m definitely of the opinion Mrs Osborn was not ill. If she had been—for more than two days—she’d have called the doctor. I believe she had no wish to accompany you, Mr Osborn. For one of two reasons. Because she had another engagement she didn’t want to tell you about, or because you didn’t particularly want her with you. And as you got quite threatening a moment ago, I’ll guess at the latter. Tell me why she wouldn’t go with you.’

  ‘Go to hell.’

  ‘No doubt I will—eventually. But if you won’t tell me, I’ll have to make the obvious assumption and follow that up.’

  ‘What assumption?’

  ‘That you’ve another woman in tow.’

  ‘You’re raving.’

  ‘It shouldn’t take me more than ten minutes among your work people on Monday morning to see whether I’m right or wrong. You’ve seen for yourself how tenacious I can be and what wonderful assumptions I can arrive at from the answers I’m given.’

  ‘Better tell him, Dad,’ said Berry.

  ‘Tell him, you bloody fool? Tell him what?’

  ‘About Lindy Vicary.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Miss Lindy Vicary? Or Mrs?’

  Osborn threw his cigar stub into the fire. ‘He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, the young fool. Lindy Vicary’s my secretary. A single girl.’

  ‘Did she take a partner to the party?’

  Berry glanced at Green and shook his head.

  ‘I see. So you were free, Mr Osborn, and Miss Vicary was free. Very convenient. Did your wife know of the affair?’

  ‘What affair?’

  ‘Between you and Miss Vicary.’

  ‘There is no affair.’

  ‘I’m sorry. In a case like this I can’t take your word for it.’

  Berry said: ‘Look, Dad. You’ll be getting yourself in deep. I’m sick and fed up of the remarks I hear on the docks about you knocking off Lindy on the side. Everybody knows. The husbands of all Mother’s friends know. Don’t you think they’ll have had a good laugh over it at home? Don’t you think some pussy’ll have made it her business to tell Mother—and enjoyed doing it? Well? Don’t you? And who d’you think’s going to keep quiet about the fact that you were missing from the party for over an hour that night? When they wanted you to present the dance prizes you couldn’t be found—until somebody had the bright idea of going to the car park and dragging you off Lindy who, according to rumour—and I believe it—was more than half undressed in the back of your Jag.’ Osborn glowered at his son, gritting his teeth, his cheeks red with anger.

  ‘There you are, then, Mr Osborn,’ said Green. ‘If you’d told me first off about this bit of frippet I’d have understood straight away and we’d have saved ourselves a bit of time. Now, how long were you with this woman?’

  Osborn was sulky. ‘All the time.’

  ‘That, at least, I can believe. And you see where that gets you, for the moment at any rate. It clears you of murdering your wife.’

  ‘What? Good God, man, you don’t think I killed Joanna?’

  ‘We’re suspicious of everybody, Mr Osborn. And most women who’re murdered are killed by either a husband or lover.’

  ‘It’s ridiculous. If I’d killed Joanna, it would mean I’d killed three or four other women.’

  ‘That’s right. So let’s try and eliminate them, too, shall we? D’you keep a diary?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pity. Now these dates—Friday, January the tenth—remember it?’

&nbs
p; ‘No.’

  ‘Wednesday the fifteenth.’

  ‘No.’

  Berry said: ‘I do. Dad and I were in London.’

  ‘Doing what, Mr Berry?’

  ‘The White Fish Industry meeting. Curing Division. Dad goes as the firm’s chairman. I go as secretary. We went down on Tuesday by the midday train and came back on Friday afternoon. On the Wednesday evening we attended the president’s cocktail party.’

  ‘Fair enough. No more questions about that. But there’s something I want you both to do for me.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Try to think if Mrs Osborn was in any way connected with Mrs Burton, Mrs Severn, Mrs Pogson or Mrs Baker.’

  ‘She knew them all, slightly. They were all reported missing before she was, and she said so.’

  ‘But none of them was a close friend of hers?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Right, then I’ll have to ask you to write down who her friends and acquaintances were. Mr Berry, you make a list of her recent contacts. Mr Osborn, you think back right to the time when you first knew your wife and jot down every name you can remember. Any old photographs you’ve got might help.’

  Osborn took out a gold propelling pencil. He was now more co-operative. He said: ‘Berry, get that old album of your mother’s . . .’ The telephone rang in the hall. ‘And answer that.’

  Berry poked his head round the door. He said to Green: ‘It’s a Sergeant Hill, for you.’

  Chapter Four

  In the car on the way back to the Estuary, nobody spoke anything more than brief intermittent sentences. It was dark, and Finstoft had again settled down, after its afternoon of activity, to a night of suspended animation. The shops had closed their doors, but the internal lighting gave them snatches of 3–D pictures as the car drove past. It was as cheerless as a theatre after the comedy has finished and all but the pilot lights have been extinguished. But in this case, not even the atmosphere of laughter remained.

  ‘One quick drink when we get in,’ said Masters. ‘Then P.C. Garner can go, and the rest of us will confer in my room before dinner. I hope that will leave us free for an hour or so later.’

  Green said: ‘Seems the best plan. I didn’t even get a cup of tea out of the Osborns. Mean as muck, they were. And twice as nasty.’

  The Sundowner was almost empty as they trooped down the stairs. Sitting on the same stool as the night before was Derek Tintern. He was arguing with Shirl about the change she had given him. He said: ‘I gave you a pound note. No. Ten shillings?’

  Shirl said emphatically: ‘It was a pound, ducky. I’m not out to do you.’

  ‘A pound, yes. You say you’re not out to do me. But you are doing me. A double gin is . . . what is a double gin? Anyhow, I think you’ve charged me for a tonic.’

  ‘Feel for the bedpost, love. Double gin’s five an’ four. If you’d got a tonic an’ all, it’d have been six an’ four. Now look at your change.’ She counted as he held it out on his palm. ‘Two an’ six, four an’ six, an’ tuppence is four an’ eight. Four an’ eight an’ five an’ four is ten bob. An’ ten makes a pound.’

  Tintern looked morose and kept the money in his hand, without leaving a tip in the ashtray. Masters noticed he appeared to be wearing the same shirt as the night before, but now, on the right collar front was an ink smudge. He thought Tintern must be one of those who put a clean shirt on each evening, and then wear it again the following day. It meant Tintern hadn’t yet been upstairs to wash and change. Masters felt Sherlock Holmesish about his deduction.

  Shirl moved down the counter towards them. Brant said: ‘Having a bit of trouble?’

  ‘With him? No. He often does it. I’ve never understood why he can’t add up the change for a pound right, when after dinner he can play bridge like a champion an’ never miscount a point. He’s good at it, you know. All the old bags who play think he’s marvellous.’

  ‘There’s nowt as queer as fowk,’ said Brant. ‘Four pints of draught Worthington, please, Shirl. No! Five. I was forgetting P.C. Garner.’

  Two or three more people clattered down the stairs. Shirl said: ‘Looks like we’ll be filling up a bit more tonight than we have done this last week. It’s you people who’ve done it.’

  ‘What? Five of us? That’s not many in a bar on a Saturday night. Fifty, yes!’ exclaimed Green.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean yourselves, love. I meant the bit in the paper tonight. Given ’em a bit of confidence to go out in the dark again, I suppose.’

  Hill said: ‘So we’ve hit the headlines in the local rag, have we? Got a copy we can have a look at?’

  She leaned slightly forward, without looking down, to feel for the paper under the bar. Green said to Brant in a whisper: ‘Just look at that. I can see her belly button.’

  The Hawksfleet Evening Courier had majored on the presence of the team from Scotland Yard. Old cases had been dredged up and presented in potted versions. Even photographs from months before had been reprinted. There was nothing new, but Masters, his egotism almost showing, said: ‘I’d like a copy of this.’

  ‘Keep it, love. It’ll go well in your album.’

  Green sniggered. ‘Press-cuttings book, please. Bound in soft leather with gilt edges. Of vital historic importance in the annals of crime.’

  Shirl said: ‘An’ why not? I’d let him invite me up to show it to me any time.’ With a coquettish flick of the head she moved away to serve more customers.

  Masters said good humouredly: ‘A friend at last,’ and glanced after her. Hill, looking the same way, said: ‘That chap’s still not satisfied with his change. Look, he’s got it on the bar, counting it.’ Masters looked. Tintern, moving the coins about, like chessmen, with one long, bony forefinger. Green said: ‘He looks like my missus counting up to see if she can afford a new pair of nylons after she’s paid the milkman on a Saturday.’ He put down his tankard. ‘Well, if that’s it, I’ve had it.’

  *

  In Masters’s room, Green made his report. He told very fully of his interview with Osborn and the discovery of the Vicary skeleton in the cupboard.

  ‘Did you see the daughter?’ Masters asked.

  ‘No. She hadn’t returned when we came away.’

  ‘Did they express any worry about her not being back? After all, it’s less than a month since her mother disappeared.’

  ‘That shower? They haven’t a thought for anybody but themselves, except perhaps the old man for his bit of capurtle, and Berry boy for his own image on the docks.’

  ‘What about that phone call on Sunday? You say her son said she looked white and ill after it. Could it have been blackmail?’ Hill asked.

  ‘Now don’t start bringing the black into it. We’ve got enough on our plates already,’ said Green.

  Hill said: ‘I know. But from what you learned, and we learned, this afternoon, these women went out of their own free will, but without telling anybody. To me that sounds as if the black was being put on. Who’d lure them out like that better than a blackmailer? And when you mentioned that phone call making her ill . . .’

  ‘There’s a point there,’ Masters agreed. ‘It’s as well you brought it up, but I don’t think we’ll consider it for several reasons. First, as Inspector Green said, it would complicate things. Second—and this is a more practical reason—is any blackmailer likely to have a hold over five women, all of the same age and type and all living in the same district? The person who gets blackmailed is usually a man—like Osborn—who doesn’t want his wife to know he’s been unfaithful. And the third point is this. A blackmailer rarely kills off the goose that lays the golden eggs; and for our man to kill off five laying geese seems so unlikely to me that I’m going to discount it from the beginning.’

  ‘Put like that, it does seem to rule out blackmail. But what’s the explanation of that phone call that upset her?’

  ‘It could have been anything,’ said Green.

  ‘At a guess I’d say her son put his fing
er on it when he said some pussy would tell her about her husband’s affair with this Lindy woman,’ Masters said. ‘What about an anonymous call, say? Mightn’t that upset her? Make her refuse to go with him to the party where she knew the other woman would be, with everybody present knowing just what the score was? I reckon it would. Any woman with a hide thinner than a battle-cruiser’s would shrink from entering those particular waters.’

  Green said: ‘That sounds fair enough. And that Joanna dame—from the pictures I saw—was quite a thin-skinned dish. But the skin was all beauty. She’d got those big, round eyes like half-sucked acid drops, and I can tell you that in a low-cut evening gown she wasn’t one of your tennis-ball-in-sock types. She couldn’t half chuck a chest.’

  Masters filled his pipe. ‘Our Mrs Burton seemed to have faded a bit. She wasn’t bad as a girl, but I got the impression that she was the sort who, once she’d got a husband and family, let herself go. The sort that liked playing houses. The born housewife—in its less glamorous sense. And talking of photographs, what about the list of names?’

  ‘Thirty-two,’ said Green. ‘It didn’t strike me that Osborn and Son were very knowledgeable about—or interested in—Joanna’s pals.’

  ‘They couldn’t have been. We got over a hundred names,’ said Hill.

  ‘Clever boy.’

  ‘We were lucky,’ said Masters. ‘We had the whole family there, and it may be that Mrs Burton was more gregarious than Mrs Osborn. But even so, I can’t believe that a woman can live for forty odd years in the same area without being acquainted with more than thirty-two people. I think you’d better see the daughter when you can, and get her to contribute her mite.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. She can’t go shopping on Sundays. And it’ll even up the jobs. Between us we’ve got three more families to see. You do one of those and Julia. I’ll do the other two.’ He turned to Hill and Brant. ‘I’d like you two to compare lists. Sort out anybody who figures on both.’

  *

  Saturday night was obviously the night the residents of Finstoft—or at least those who could afford it—dined out. Masters and his party had some difficulty in finding a table. They were left standing by the dining-room door while the head waiter beat the bounds of the room, tails agitated, right hand held high ready to snap finger and thumb should the need arise. To the surprise of the others, Masters didn’t appear to be as put out because his table hadn’t been reserved as they had expected him to be. The reason was apparent after about twenty seconds. As they stood waiting, first one pair of eyes, then another, turned towards them. A surreptitious nudge here, and a quiet word there spread the news. People sitting with backs to them turned. Masters, towering above his three big consorts, in his freshly valeted new suit, was enjoying himself. He had the confidence of knowing that he looked well, and that his reputation was something of a byword even here in Finstoft. He was indulging himself, and giving the diners a good view for their money.