An Unfinished Murder

by An Unfinished Murder (retail) (epub)

  Markby decided it was up to him to start the conversation. ‘Has Inspector Barker been to see you and your wife? He showed you the bracelet?’

  Hellington didn’t reply directly except for a bob of the head. Markby took that to mean yes.

  ‘My wife died five years ago.’ Hellington’s voice was low-pitched and slightly hoarse, as if he had a cold or sore throat. ‘She never got over our loss of Rebecca, you see. She was never the same woman again. For a long time we hoped – she hoped – that Becky, as we called her at home, would just walk in the door. She got the idea in her head that Becky had lost her memory… and that it might come back, and she’d remember who she was and where she lived.’

  ‘Did you also believe that?’ Markby asked gently.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Hellington shook his head. ‘No… for a while, of course, but not after the first six months or so. But if believing it helped Brenda, my wife, get through each day, then I went along with it. She kept Becky’s – Rebecca’s – bedroom just as it was. She wouldn’t change anything in the house or the garden, because if it was different when Rebecca came home, she might not recognise it. She might think we’d moved. Eventually, Brenda wouldn’t leave the house, because Rebecca might come when the place was empty and go away again. If all this makes it sound as if my wife had gone off her rocker, then I suppose, yes, she had, in a way. But she was all right in everything else. It was just anything to do with Rebecca. For Brenda, time stopped when Becky vanished the way she did.’

  ‘I do understand,’ said Markby sympathetically.

  ‘Yesterday evening, when Inspector Barker came to the house and produced that bracelet, to tell you the truth, Markby, I was glad Brenda wasn’t there. As soon as I set eyes on it, I knew that Rebecca really is dead.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Markby spoke carefully, ‘when your daughter first went missing, did you go down to Gloucestershire and discuss things with the investigating team there, even make any enquiries yourself?’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Hellington’s voice and manner gained some energy for the first time in their encounter. His voice grew firmer. ‘I asked all her friends, and fellow students. I met a young man who was her boyfriend. I spoke at length with the police officers in charge of the search for her. There was an Inspector Parry in overall charge of her case. I must say I got the impression that he wasn’t holding out much hope. He didn’t actually say she was dead, you understand. But I think he suspected from the first that they were looking for… for a body. The other man I spoke to at length was a Sergeant Carter. I thought he was much more optimistic to start with. Later on, I felt he’d lost hope, too. And they have other cases to deal with, don’t they, the police? They can’t spend all their time on one enquiry, especially if they draw a blank everywhere.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Markby admitted wryly. ‘But that doesn’t mean the case is closed. It stays on file, and if anything new turns up, they’ll reopen it.’

  He had not added that Inspector Parry and his team had soon realised this would turn out to be a murder case, and that the files on unsolved murders are never closed but remain unfinished business until the killer is named. Even so, he realised as soon as his last words had left his mouth that he should have phrased it differently.

  Hellington leaned forward and asked eagerly, ‘And now – now Rebecca’s bracelet has been found – the enquiry will be opened again?’

  ‘Inspector Barker is the person who will keep you up to date on any new developments,’ Markby said, feeling that he was chickening out. ‘But, you know, we did make every effort to find a trace of her here, at this end, when I was at Bamford. We had absolutely no luck. None of her friends here had seen her or heard from her. We had posters showing her photo around the town, if you remember, and in the local press. Besides, it was on the television news at the time. If anyone had seen her, or even thought they might have seen her, they’d have come forward. Bamford is – or it was then – a fairly small place. A piece of news like that would be very much discussed in the local pubs and so on.’ He knew he was sounding more and more apologetic, even defensive.

  ‘But she was here, wasn’t she?’ said Hellington simply. ‘She must have been alive when she came here. Someone here killed her and buried her in those woods.’

  ‘Well, not necess—’ Markby began.

  Hellington leaned forward again. ‘All right. Let’s say someone killed her miles away, near where she was studying. They’d then have brought her here to bury her. That sounds very far-fetched to me. Doesn’t it sound unlikely to you? How would anyone down there know the layout of Bamford? Know about that spot of woodland?’ He rubbed his balding skull. ‘But the whole thing is unbelievable. I do understand why Brenda couldn’t believe it. One reads of things in the newspapers or sees the news on the telly – but it’s just as they say, isn’t it? That you never believe it will happen to you?’

  Hellington settled back in his chair again. ‘Inspector Barker told me all about the two children finding the bracelet twenty years ago. If only they’d told someone in authority then. Something might have been done, don’t you think? It would have been a lead to follow?’ His tone had become a mix of wistful and resentful. ‘She was here,’ he repeated. ‘She was here. Brenda was right. Becky had come home.’ His eyes filled with tears and he turned his head aside.

  Markby also looked away and waited until Hellington had regained his composure. ‘The two children were something of a special case themselves,’ he explained. ‘They were wary of authority and came from a background where the police weren’t seen as friends. They were scared, too, of getting into trouble. The boy was just nine years old and the little girl only eight.’ And now that little girl is twenty-eight and in prison, he thought.

  Hellington had set aside his mug, half drunk, and was rising to his feet. ‘I should go. Thank you for seeing me, Mr Markby. I realise you’re retired now, as I am, and there isn’t anything further you can do. I do hope you don’t think I’m blaming you for not finding Rebecca twenty years ago. I know how hard everyone tried, both here and in the West Country.’

  This, thought Markby, is worse than if the poor chap shouted curses at me and accused me of slack police work. ‘I suppose,’ he heard himself say, lamely, ‘there’s no doubt it’s Rebecca’s bracelet? I know it spells out her name, but…’

  ‘Oh, it’s hers,’ Hellington said. ‘We had it made for her as a present when she gained her place at college. We were careful to have it spell out her full name, because she wanted to be called Rebecca now, not Becky. More grown-up. We were very proud of her. I am still very proud of her. I try not to hate the person who took her from us. But I would like to stand in front of him and ask him, why? If he had a reason, you see – whatever it was – it would be preferable to his having no motivation. It wouldn’t all be so pointless.’

  When his visitor had left, Markby went back to the sitting room and sat contemplating Hellington’s abandoned coffee mug. ‘Trevor Barker is right,’ he murmured aloud. ‘I do want another crack at it.’

  It was not a purely selfish desire. The sight of Hellington’s distress had fuelled the resolve in Markby. The man deserved proper closure after what had happened. It had destroyed his family and his wife’s sanity, and had condemned the man himself to live a half-life, filled with shadows.

  Chapter 5

  If anyone had asked Ian Carter point-blank whether he wanted to make another attempt at solving the mystery of Rebecca Hellington’s disappearance, his instinct would have been to reply, ‘No, not without some reliable forensic evidence.’

  That would have been the first answer, the result of years as a police officer.

  He might have continued, if pressed, ‘In any case, I’ve got enough work on my desk at the moment, things happening now, wanting urgent answers. If anything does come of it, it won’t involve me. The girl had done what she’d said she was planning to do. She went home and, somehow, died in that part of the world. It was her dad’s birthday. Of cou
rse, she’d gone home. She never got there, fair enough. But she’d started out. It’s not down to me that no one found any trace of her here. It was down to Markby and his team, at Bamford, if they couldn’t find her there!’

  The realisation that he was sounding more and more defensive would probably have made him stop there. When in a hole, stop digging!

  Having neatly lined up the logical sequence, and abandoned the argument, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was that phone call from Markby. He couldn’t put it out of his head. Ian was left with the annoying feeling that perhaps he hadn’t done enough, way back then. Besides, since becoming the father of a daughter himself, he better appreciated the agony of Rebecca’s family, left in limbo for so long. But, to try and pick up the pieces of a stalled investigation, for crying out loud!

  ‘You’re scowling,’ Jess told him. ‘Don’t you like this place?’

  The pub was called the Wayfarer’s Return and had acquired a good name for food in the short time it had been open. Calling it a pub was a misnomer. It had become a restaurant. Prior to that, the one-time pub had been empty and semi-derelict for years. The considerable amount of money spent to bring it back to commercial life appeared to be paying off. It was early in the evening, but the main area was filling up nicely.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said to Jess. ‘I didn’t mean to look grumpy. It’s nothing to do with this place. I’ve been meaning to come here for weeks. I’ve heard good things.’

  ‘The menu is extensive,’ said Jess, perusing the open card folder. ‘I bet they didn’t serve Balinese green bean salad in this pub before the makeover!’ She then disconcerted him by asking, bluntly, ‘Are you out of sorts because Alan Markby phoned this morning?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ian honestly. He briefly summarised that morning’s conversation with Markby.

  ‘The children found her – or found a body – and didn’t tell a soul?’ Jess said doubtfully. ‘Didn’t tell anyone for twenty years? That’s hard to believe.’

  ‘Markby believes it. But why did he have to bother me with it? He must know how many cases I’ve worked on since then. He can’t expect me to remember details of them all!’

  But I do remember that one, he thought. Markby and I both, we remember. Why? Because we felt cheated, that’s it! We felt we should have been able to find the girl, alive or dead, and someone stopped us. That’s why he phoned me this morning. He knows exactly how I felt back then – and still feel now.

  He sighed and pulled a wry smile. ‘I apologise. I really am rotten company. We won’t mention the business again. Let’s eat.’

  So they ate and made conversation about a dozen other things but, inevitably, with the desserts came a long silence. Both seemed absorbed in their own thoughts. In Ian’s case he knew it was the Rebecca Hellington case. He didn’t know what it was in Jess’s case. But she had struck him as being a little absent-minded during the meal. He wondered about that scribbled letter he’d spotted on her table in the canteen, before she whisked it away. She hadn’t wanted him to see it and wouldn’t welcome any questions about it. Now, as he covertly watched her face, he saw her make an effort to pull herself back from whatever thoughts he wasn’t meant to share.

  ‘This is silly,’ she said briskly. ‘We can’t both sit here in silence. Of course you want to talk about Alan Markby. Did you actually meet him, twenty years ago, or was your contact with him only over the phone?’

  ‘I met him twice. He seemed to think I was trying to push an investigation in his direction that had nothing to do with his force. He kept reminding me she’d disappeared in my part of the world. I kept telling him she’d told friends she was going home, so might well have done so. We parted on rather cool terms. Well,’ concluded Carter, with a demonic smile of triumph, ‘it wasn’t on my patch she was found, in the end, was it?’

  ‘She hasn’t actually been found now, has she?’ Jess pointed out mildly. ‘Two kids saw a dead body twenty years ago and one of them nicked a bracelet. The body’s vanished and all they’ve got at Bamford is the bracelet.’

  There was silence again. Carter was concentrating on his dessert and Jess let her gaze drift across the room. Though the place was now crowded, one free table remained in a corner, hopeful customers kept at bay by a white card declaring this spot ‘reserved’. But a man and woman had arrived and were being led to the table by a waiter who swept the card away in a grand manner. Indeed, his whole general demeanour suggested these were regular and highly valued clients. All this made Jess keen to study the newcomers. In their forties, she judged. The man must have been very attractive when younger and had preserved his looks with care, so that he could still be classed as good-looking. Nevertheless, in Jess’s view, there was a certain pretension in his style, hair too carefully styled, casual clothing too expensive. His female companion was about the same age, tall and slender, well dressed and equally high maintenance. She put a hand up to her well-coiffed hair as she sat down, and Jess noted the knuckle-duster of an engagement ring and broad gold wedding band. She made Jess feel like a scruff.

  She had betrayed herself, somehow. ‘What’s up?’ asked Carter. ‘Something wrong with the food?’

  ‘No, the food is fine. But I’m beginning to feel underdressed. I was watching the new couple, over there, in the corner. They could afford to eat anywhere, by the looks of it. It does say something for the Wayfarer’s Return that they’ve chosen to come here.’

  He was following the line of her gaze, and she was surprised by the sudden look of incredulity on his face. ‘What is it?’ she asked sharply.

  He ran the tip of his tongue over dry lips. ‘That,’ he muttered hoarsely, ‘that guy over there with the playboy looks – the one you mean – is Peter Malone, Rebecca Hellington’s boyfriend.’

  ‘What?’ Jess was so taken aback that she slopped coffee into the saucer. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Or I’ll eat my boots. I interviewed him several times. OK, he was a lot younger then, twenty or so, and now he’s forty-something, he’s put on weight and has lost the trumpet.’

  ‘Trumpet?’ Jess asked, startled.

  Ian reddened and said, sheepishly, ‘Back then, he looked like one of those angels you see in Italian frescoes. Now he doesn’t. But that’s definitely Malone.’

  ‘Spooky,’ said Jess, after a pause. ‘That must be his wife, then. Do you remember her?’

  Ian shook his head and dragged his gaze away from the couple at the far table. ‘Fate is conspiring against me, Jess. It must be! In twenty years I’ve not mentioned anyone or anything to do with that damn case. Now, in less than twenty-four hours, Alan Markby is bending my ear about it and Peter Malone walks into this pub. This is going to end up back on my desk, after all these years, and despite the change in location.’

  Jess, seeking to reassure him, said, ‘Don’t panic. It’s a freaky coincidence, that’s all. If we hadn’t been talking about the case, and I hadn’t been people-watching, neither of us would have paid that couple any attention. If that is Malone—’

  ‘I’m not hallucinating!’ he muttered.

  ‘OK, you’re not. That’s your old interviewee, Malone. His being here is a coincidence. He’s done all right for himself, by the looks of it.’

  ‘Yes, he bally has.’

  After a moment, Jess asked, ‘You must have interviewed other people than Malone? What about the girl’s friends?’

  ‘I talked to girls who lived in the hall of residence where she lived, and also to students on her course. She wasn’t a girl who had a lot of friends, or that was the impression I got. She was shy, that was the general agreement. She wasn’t disliked, but the others found her reserved – hard work, socially. They tried and then gave up on her. The story Malone later told me about how they’d met – that she’d gone to a party and hadn’t liked it – seemed more and more to make sense. She wasn’t a party person.’

  ‘So, she hadn’t talked to any of them about her plans for the weekend she disappeared?’

  ‘A
couple of them said she had mentioned going home for the weekend – to Bamford, that would be. But she’d been vague, and they couldn’t tell me her precise travel plans, if she had any. She did, apparently, sometimes talk about having plans, without giving any details, and then they’d hear no more. They thought that she either didn’t want to tell them her business, or she was going somewhere with Peter Malone. She talked about Malone, sometimes, as a boyfriend. The girls got the impression she was very keen on him. He was known by sight around the hall of residence when he came to pick up Rebecca or bring her home. One or two of the girls thought him fanciable; but Rebecca was on her guard, and she’d whisk him in and out of the place before any of them could get chatting to him!’ He sighed. ‘I don’t think Sophie ever thought that way about me. I sometimes wonder why Sophie married me at all.’

  ‘Now you’re getting maudlin – and don’t, please, get all gloomy and introverted when you’re having dinner with me in a nice place like this!’

  He grinned. ‘Sorry. It’s just… having the whole wretched affair suddenly come to life again. Suppose they find a body?’

  ‘Ian,’ said Jess, reaching out to pat his hand, resting her arm on the tabletop. ‘Take it easy. It’s chance, right? Neither you nor Alan Markby could find Rebecca twenty years ago, and no one has found her now. They probably won’t even search the woodland, beyond a cursory look around. The budget won’t stretch to it. It would cost enough to send the bean counters berserk. Don’t forget, all there is to go on – any evidence that there was anything there in the first place – is the claim of a couple of children, from twenty years ago.’