‘Superintendent Pollard?’ he said pleasantly. ‘Your aunt, Miss Isabel Dennis, asked me to give you this note. She knew I was coming along to the inquest, and thought it would be the simplest way of getting in touch with you.’
‘Very good of you, sir,’ Pollard replied, accepting an envelope. ‘I take it you’re a neighbour of hers?’
‘Yes, I live at Holston, too — Philip Cary. We seem to land up on the same committees, as well, including the governing body of St Julitta’s school over there. She’s a quite invaluable member: never misses a thing.’
Pollard laughed.
‘I well believe it,’ he said. ‘As a small boy I found her a bit overwhelming on occasions. I’m hoping to look in on her, but one simply can’t tell what will happen from hour to hour in this sort of job.’
‘Ghastly business,’ Philip Cary said with feeling. ‘I’m more sorry than I can say for Eddy Horner. It isn’t too good for the school, either. However, I mustn’t waste your time. Good hunting.’
He went off.
Pollard ripped open the envelope. Like all communications from his aunt, it was faultlessly typed, this time on a postcard with the printed heading: From Miss Isabel Dennis MBE, Cob Cottage, Holston, Stoneham S27 6FZ. Tel Winnage 3485.
24 August 1971
Bed and/or board of course available here for you and Inspector Toye, if this would be helpful at any time. In case this is relevant, I spoke to Wendy Shaw on the telephone at just before 8.00 pm last Friday evening, when she appeared perfectly normal.
Affectly, Aunt Is.
‘Well anyway, here’s definite proof that old Horner and his daughter are out of it,’ Pollard said, passing the missive to Toye. ‘Much better to clear the decks.’
Toye agreed sombrely, adding that it was very good of Miss Dennis to include him in the invitation, and he appreciated it.
‘She’s the goods, even if a bit of a tough. Well, this is where we make for Mrs Shaw’s, I suppose.’
On the road they discussed progress.
‘Let’s face it,’ Pollard said, ‘that bit of anorak — and I’m positive that’s what it is — doesn’t get us much further. Chugg is an expert witness and says that the body must almost certainly have gone into Beckon Cove. So what? Is there anything in this for us?’
‘Doesn’t it depend on where the murder took place?’ Toye asked.
‘Yea. If inside, or just outside the bungalow, or if further afield and the body was brought back in a car, the slope up to the drop to the Cove was the shortest haul to the sea. And on private property, too. The murderer presumably knew that Horner and Penny Townsend were out, and not due back until after eleven. It all focuses attention on the bungalow, doesn’t it?’
Toye shot past a small car towing a wobbly caravan.
‘All the same,’ he said, ‘wouldn’t most people think anything chucked into the Cove would stay there, just bobbing around? We did, until Chugg explained about the currents and tides. I reckon the murderer would have gone for the open sea, even if it did mean lugging the body along the headland. On a night like last Friday’s, you’d hardly be likely to run into anyone.’
‘Risky, though. I’m not saying your reasoning isn’t sound, but the chap mightn’t have had the physical strength to get the body that far. Or he might have panicked, and taken the shortest cut to getting rid of it. This implies, of course, that the murder was unpremeditated. Or he could have been a knowledgeable local up in the current and tides, or just a dim type of landlubber who thought that once he’d dumped the girl in the water, the sea would obligingly transport her to an unknown destination. Or any combination of these.’
‘True,’ Toye agreed, ‘and a mentally disturbed bloke, anyway.’
‘This line of thought is just leading us into a bog. Let’s consider practical steps. The important thing is to try to trace any person or car seen near Uncharted Seas between eight o’clock and eleven-forty on Friday night, and more particularly before ten-fifteen, when the phone call from Stoneham wasn’t answered. Bostock and I impressed this on Pike, and he’s getting going on the job at once, with a chap Bostock’s sending out from Winnage to help. Meanwhile, you and I get on to Wendy’s friends and acquaintances up here through her mother. Step on it as much as you can: I’d hoped to be at Mrs Shaw’s by now.’
Half an hour later they turned off the Winnage-Stoneham road for Cotterton, where the Shaws lived. It was a featureless village, in process of being further depersonalized by gradual absorption into Stoneham, four miles away. After enquiring at the post office they located Marina Road, which was flanked by pairs of semi-detached houses of the inter-war vintage. Number Eight was in need of a facelift, and its patch of front garden consisted of rough grass, ragged shrubs and a few nasturtiums. A car was drawn up at the gate, and as Toye parked behind it, a woman emerged from the front door and stood with her back to them, talking to someone inside.
‘…you don’t have to worry about those two anymore,’ Pollard caught. ‘Your cousin won’t stand for any nonsense, I could see that. Now…’ The speaker broke off abruptly and turned round at the sound of steps on the path.
‘Mrs Shaw isn’t —’ she began again.
Pollard produced his credentials and introduced himself. ‘I’m extremely sorry to have to bother Mrs Shaw at a moment like this,’ he told her, ‘but I’m afraid I must see her. I’m conducting the official enquiry into her daughter’s death. Are you a friend of hers?’
The woman, middle-aged and sensible-looking, hesitated momentarily. ‘I’ve known her for a long time, Mrs Boyd’s my name. I’m doing what I can to help. Shall I tell her you’re here?’
‘Please do,’ Pollard replied. He stepped into the house close on her heels.
‘…Scotland Yard … seems very kind … look in again later,’ he heard.
Intent as he was on his first impression of Mrs Shaw, he registered an exceptionally ugly room, in which the original colour scheme had faded to a depressing overall dun. There were no flowers or signs of relaxed enjoyment such as books or magazines, or a television set.
As he opened the interview with expressions of genuine sympathy, Mrs Shaw puzzled him. She sat twisting her hands, obviously in the grip of a strong emotion which he sensed instinctively was not entirely personal grief at her daughter’s appalling death. As he talked, he observed her carefully.
The adjective which leapt to his mind was uncared-for. He placed her in her middle-forties, making due allowance for the ageing effect of badly bobbed straight hair, a neglected complexion without a trace of make-up, and a shapeless skirt and jumper. Her mouth turned down obstinately at the corners. Her hazel eyes — her best feature — had an oddly absorbed look, as if necessary contacts with the external world were an interruption to her private life.
In response to his stock remark about co-operation in tracing Wendy’s killer, she seemed to make an effort to concentrate her attention on the immediate present.
‘Even if you do find the man, it won’t bring Wendy back,’ she said dully. ‘If only she’d taken that holiday job in Stoneham, instead of going to Cousin Eddy. It was the money, of course. That, and being under an obligation…’
Pollard intuitively seized on money as the operative word. In response to an adroit question, the all-too-familiar story of desertion and its financial implications came pouring out with an almost startling bitterness. He listened to a chronicle of hardship which struck him as barely credible in view of the welfare state, and the connection with Eddy Horner. I believe it’s been her way of hitting back at the humiliation of being deserted, and probably quite unconsciously at the sexual deprivation it’s involved, he thought. It helped to flaunt the financial insecurity the husband inflicted on her, and she’s gone on wallowing in it until she’s come to believe in it as a permanent fact of life…
‘I understand Mr Horner has helped with the children’s education?’ he shot at her.
In confirmation of his theory she gave him a look of angry resentment,
and ignored the implied question, continuing her tirade on the ever-increasing cost of living, and the problem of keeping the home going.
He decided to come to the main purpose of his visit.
‘Mrs Shaw,’ he said, ‘Wendy told Mr Horner, as you probably already know, that she had met a girl friend from home who was on holiday in Kittitoe, and had been seeing something of her. We’re anxious to get in touch with this girl. You see, Wendy might have told her about other contacts she’d made. I expect Wendy mentioned it in her letters to you. Can you give us the girl’s name and address?’
Once again, Mrs Shaw reacted angrily. ‘It’s rubbish,’ she said. ‘I don’t believe a word of it. There isn’t a girl round here who’d go about with Wendy on holiday. I hadn’t the money to give her for the clothes and stuff to put on her face they all have these days.’
‘Come now, Mrs Shaw,’ Pollard said patiently, ‘even if they weren’t close friends Wendy must have known local girls she went to school with. Stoneham High School, wasn’t it? Quite natural that if she met one of them down there they should have spent time together.’
‘You can’t know much about present-day teenagers,’ she said contemptuously. ‘Any girl like Wendy who comes from a home where every penny has to do the work of two is right out of things. Pounds a week these girls round here fritter away. Besides, holidays at Kittitoe wouldn’t be grand enough for the parents of most of them. It’s got to be the Costa Brava, or going on cruises. What we’ve got to live on doesn’t run to holidays at all.’
There was a brief pause during which steps were audible on the path, and something clattered through the letter box.
‘Well, if Wendy hadn’t any girl friends, what about boyfriends?’ Pollard asked.
This time, Mrs Shaw looked frightened.
‘Wendy wasn’t interested in boys,’ she said hastily. ‘Her home was what mattered to her, and helping me. She was only eleven when her father went off and left us, and she’s shared all the awful worry with me. We’ve been more like two sisters. She understood I couldn’t give her what other girls had. All she wanted was to get a decent job, and bring a bit of money in to make things easier. Nothing else would have made her go away to a training college.’
God help the unfortunate girl, if all this is true, Pollard thought. I suppose the training college may have opened her eyes a bit…
‘Where are your younger children, Mrs Shaw?’ he asked, suddenly visited by the idea of getting sidelights on Wendy’s social contacts in Cotterton through conversation with them.
An ugly red suffused Mrs Shaw’s face.
‘I’ve sent them away where they can’t be badgered by the police or the papers,’ she said. ‘And I’m not telling anyone — anyone — where they are.’
Her voice rose slightly. After looking at her thoughtfully, Pollard got to his feet.
‘I don’t think we need inflict ourselves on you any longer, then,’ he told her.
She made no reply, but followed the two men to the front door. Pollard picked up a parish magazine from the mat, and handed it to her. She almost snatched it from his hand.
‘You needn’t think we can afford to take in magazines,’ she said shrilly. ‘This one’s passed on.’
‘If I can help you, Mrs Shaw,’ he said, pausing on the step, ‘you have only to ring the Stoneham police station, or ask Mrs Boyd or another friend to ring for you.’
Her only reply was to slam the door after them, and turn the key.
‘God, what a psychological mess,’ he exclaimed, getting into the car and banging the door. ‘Martyrdom as a substitute for matrimony. It’s those three unfortunate kids one thinks of.’
‘Why did you let her off the hook, sir?’ Toye enquired. ‘Refusing information,’ he added indignantly.
‘I didn’t want to cope with a bout of hysterics, and we can easily find out from Mrs Boyd where the younger ones are. She’d obviously taken them there from what she was saying when we arrived. I rather think there’s been a breakout. Remember what she said about the cousin not standing any nonsense?’
‘That’s true. And she was somehow angry at the mention of them. Where to, sir?’
‘The Vicarage, I think. The Rev. Charles Vention can probably fill in a few gaps, if she’s involved with the church to the extent of having the parish mag passed on. I spotted his name on the outside of the thing. This session with Mrs Shaw has been quite useful, you know.’
‘Meaning that it bears out what Mrs Townsend said about Wendy being shy and a dead loss at a party?’
‘Yes, and inexperienced enough to get herself picked up by a wrong ’un. And the fact that she obviously hadn’t mentioned the alleged girl friend in her letters home rather suggests that something of this sort had happened. Any idea of her heading in the direction of matrimony would have sent her mother sky high: she’d certainly have had the sense to keep quiet about acquiring a boyfriend. Here we are, I think.’
Cotterton’s Victorian vicarage was set in a huge rambling garden. Although largely out of control, the latter was brilliantly colourful with patches of rampant dahlias. The front door bell was apparently out of order, but vigorous hammering brought a cheerful youngish woman in slacks from the back regions.
‘Good grief!’ she exclaimed at the sight of Pollard’s card. ‘None of our lot’s been up to anything really awful, I hope. Do come in. The kitchen, if you don’t mind. We always eat there, and are just finishing high tea. It’s the PCG tonight.’
A lavish use of bright colour, and a display of modern decorative posters had converted the cavernous kitchen into a welcoming lived-in room. The far end had been converted into a dining area, and as they came in, a man of about forty-five got up from the table, wiping his mouth. He had a thin alert face, and an unruly shock of hair.
‘If you’re Scotland Yard,’ he said, after his wife had carried out introductions, ‘something tells me you’re here in connection with this ghastly business of poor little Wendy Shaw.’
‘You’re quite right,’ Pollard replied. ‘We’ve just come from Mrs Shaw.’
‘Join us in a cup of coffee, won’t you, and tell us if there’s anything we can do?’
Pollard accepted a large steaming cup of coffee, and embarked on an account of his recent interview.
‘All one’s been able to do about Mrs Shaw,’ Charles Vention said reflectively when the narrative came to an end, ‘is to circumvent her as far as possible over the girls. She is, as you say, a psychological mess. It’s true there isn’t much money, but the family certainly isn’t on the breadline. The husband pays something in the way of maintenance, there are the Social Security allowances, and Mr Horner allows her a certain amount as well. In addition she now has a part-time job in a big store in Stoneham. I absolutely agree with your diagnosis. We think that she’s cultivated this struggling martyr role as a means of somehow asserting her identity, which she felt was threatened when she lost her status as a married woman. The way the human mind works is baffling beyond words, isn’t it? But of course it’s been disastrous for the children. It didn’t matter so much when they were younger. People were awfully good in asking them out, and giving them treats, and their age groups took them for granted, as the young do at that stage. But when they became teenagers, it began to be another story. If you haven’t the in-gear, and aren’t able to do your thing, well, I’m afraid you’re out. Wendy has retreated into a shell and become quite dumb, and even going away to college hasn’t seemed to do much for her. She remained hopelessly immature. Is this the sort of gen you want, by the way?’
‘Very much so. How was Mrs Shaw persuaded to let her go?’
‘It was a conspiracy between my husband and the headmistress of the High School,’ Mrs Vention told Pollard. ‘He persuaded her to write to Mr Horner, and of course, he was in a position to put pressure on Mrs Shaw.’
‘Wendy doesn’t seem to have told her mother about any contacts she made in Kittitoe. Does this surprise you?’
‘Not in t
he least,’ Charles Vention replied. ‘Mrs Shaw clung to Wendy even more than to the others. They were an essential part of her fantasy life, you see. She sees herself working like a slave to keep the family together, while they react with adoring gratitude, and everybody else is an also-ran. Wendy no doubt realized all this, and would certainly have been cagey about her first steps in the direction of a life of her own. Sonia’s going to be a very different proposition. She managed to slip out and contact a reporter yesterday, and sold him a school photograph of Wendy for a fiver. She then took the next bus into Stoneham, and blew the lot. She’s sixteen. Ann, the youngest, is thirteen, and they’ve both been packed off to some elderly relative.’
‘I see,’ said Pollard. ‘That explains the reaction when I asked to see them. I thought I might get something out of them about Wendy’s friends here. Mrs Shaw insisted that she hadn’t any, as it was impossible for them to keep up with the Joneses.’
‘There’s a certain amount of truth in that,’ Mrs Vention remarked, looking up from something she was writing. ‘But I can think of quite half a dozen girls who would have been decent to her if they’d run into her at Kittitoe. I’ve been jotting down their names and addresses for you. As far as I know, though, none of them has been on holiday down there, but you’ll be able to check on this, won’t you? Wendy was in the same year as our daughter Hilary, so we know the crowd pretty well. Wendy was tending to drop out of things, especially since she went off to college, but her contemporaries respected her, as well as being sorry for her. Hilary made a point of having her round here and so on.’
‘Sorry Hilary isn’t available,’ Charles Vention said. ‘She’s putting in six months on a kibbutz in Israel before going up to the university. Back in three weeks, thank goodness.’
‘Here she is.’
Mrs Vention handed Pollard a photograph of a girl absurdly like her father, her face full of vitality and intelligence.
‘Have you any family?’ she asked.
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