Dunn nodded.
‘I see, Mr Fortescue.’ All those inquiries about a mini near the dead woman’s house were now, very likely, a waste of time. He’d have gone there in his Rover.
Dunn asked George next if he knew a Mrs Felicity Cartwright who lived at Number Seven, Priory Street, Fletcham. After that the interview became a nightmare.
George denied all knowledge of where Priory Street was, but it made no difference.
‘You didn’t need to know the name of the street, nor even the lady’s name, did you?’ Dunn said. ‘She’d have let you in, as likely as not, a well-spoken man like you with a tale of wanting to sell her double glazing or life insurance. What is your job, Mr Fortescue?’
‘I am in insurance,’ said George. But his position was lofty; he did not pound on doors.
It was some time before he understood that this Mrs Cartwright, whoever she was, had been murdered, and the police thought he was involved because he was in Fletcham when she was killed. At one point he was asked what clothes he was wearing on Wednesday evening, and they all trooped upstairs to inspect his wardrobe. The policemen put his suit and his shoes into separate plastic bags which the younger one fetched from the car; they fished in the linen basket for his soiled shirt and socks and put them in bags too.
When they left to return to Fletcham, they took him with them, saying they wanted a statement from him and to ask him some more questions. They would not let him put on his raincoat and tweed hat, putting them into more plastic bags. He was allowed to collect an anorak out of the cloakroom to wear instead, but the detective constable went with him, even there, and stood outside with the door ajar.
Valerie saw one of the more sensational newspaper reports of the attack on Felicity Cartwright. She felt sick as she read it. The woman must have known the same terror as herself, but had not survived. She’d fought, of course, as Valerie would have done, but for the threat to the children.
Could it have been the same man? It was forty miles away and, if so, was just as Detective Constable Cooley had prophesied, in another area altogether. Pity for the dead woman mingled with relief in her mind.
Cooley came round that evening after the children were in bed, passing, on the road, his colleagues from Fletcham bearing George Fortescue off for questioning. He rang her bell and gave a cheerful rat-tat on the door, then started to whistle, hoping by these signals to impress on her as she came to the door that it was a friend.
After careful inquiry, and first peering round the door as the chain held it, she let him in.
‘Don’t make so much noise, you’ll wake the children,’ she said, almost laughing.
He grinned at her. That was better.
‘Villains don’t make a shindig,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to scare you, coming round at this time of night.’ It was just after eight o’clock. ‘We’ll have to have a code knock. Then you’ll know when it’s me.’
‘Well, as you’re here, come in by the fire,’ said Valerie, her tone more welcoming than her choice of words.
She’d been sewing, turning up a hem on a skirt for Melissa made from an adult one bought at a jumble sale. The room was faintly smoky, from a log that had fallen forward while she went to the door, and she pushed it back with a long poker.
‘Tea?’ she asked. ‘Coffee? I’m afraid I haven’t got any beer.’
‘Tea’d be lovely, I hoped you’d suggest it,’ said Cooley, and he followed her out to the kitchen. While she put the kettle on, he bent over a colouring book Timmy had left on the table, a page half done, picked up a crayon and began blocking in a soldier’s scarlet tunic. ‘I like colouring,’ he said.
‘Have you got any children?’ Valerie asked.
‘No, love. I’m not married,’ said Cooley, colouring on. ‘Thought I was going to be, once, but it came to nothing. Not easy, in this job, you see.’
‘Where do you live, then?’ Valerie asked.
‘In digs. Good ones, with an inspector’s widow as my landlady,’ said Cooley. ‘Comfortable.’
‘Does she give you a meal?’
‘Not now I’m CID,’ said Cooley. ‘Used to when things were more predictable. She does on Sundays sometimes.’
‘Like something now?’ Valerie asked. ‘What have you had?’
‘Fish and chips in the nick,’ said Cooley.
‘There’s cake,’ said Valerie. ‘Chocolate cake.’
‘Yes, please,’ said Cooley, and his face lit up when he saw the light, yielding sponge, the butter filling oozing out. ‘Did you make it?’
‘Yes.’
He was just like Timmy, eating it greedily up without waiting for his tea. Valerie was smiling as she poured water into the teapot.
Cooley accepted a second slice of cake to take with him to the fireside, and asked Valerie if she wouldn’t have one too.
‘Please do, Valerie.’ he said. ‘I won’t feel so greedy, then.’
Valerie still wasn’t eating much. She had lost ten pounds. Perhaps she could manage a small slice of cake. She cut one, and added it to the tray.
Cooley picked it up and carried it in for her. Then he stoked up the fire rather more effectively than she had done, and settled himself comfortably into the one armchair, leaving the sofa for her. He sat back, waiting for his tea.
It was some time before they talked about the attack in Fletcham, but it was in both their minds.
‘Could it be the same man?’ Valerie asked at last. ‘The one who came here?’
‘Who’s to say, at this stage?’ said Cooley. ‘They’ll find evidence, there.’ He did not spell it out; there’d been no bath for the victim. ‘They’ll get him,’ he said confidently. Maybe they would. ‘A long way from here, too, Fletcham is, Valerie.’
‘He may do it again, though.’
‘Yes. If we don’t catch him first.’
‘That woman was on her own too. Like me.’
‘Yes.’
‘He’d be looking for that. Someone alone, I mean.’
‘Maybe. Well, yes. But a lot of women are alone at times, aren’t they? Vulnerable.’
Nothing was too severe a punishment for a man who terrorised women like this, Cooley thought. It was a dreadful thing that a young – or indeed, any – woman could not walk through the streets of Crowbury or Fletcham without risking assault. A knife was common to the two attacks. He contemplated asking her if she could remember any more details, but decided not to risk upsetting her.
‘You’re looking better, Val,’ he said.
‘I’m not pregnant,’ said Valerie. ‘Thank God.’
‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ said Cooley.
While his colleagues at Tellingford were being informed, as a matter of courtesy, that George Fortescue of Crowbury was on the way to Fletcham for questioning in connection with the murder of Mrs Felicity Cartwright, Cooley settled down to spend half an hour chatting with Valerie. Why not?
15
Much too early on Saturday morning, Dorothea Wyatt’s telephone was ringing. Her caller was Daniel Fortescue. In her usual waking fuddled state, Dorothea strove to understand his message.
‘Do you know where my father is, Mrs Wyatt?’ he was asking. ‘I can’t get any answer from the house.’
‘Oh, can’t you?’
‘I tried several times last night, and I’ve tried this morning, but I can’t raise him,’ said the boy. ‘I asked the exchange to check the line and they seem certain it’s ringing properly.’
They’re often wrong,’ said Dorothea. ‘Sometimes it sounds as if it’s making the ringing noise, but you can’t hear it in the house.’
‘I know,’ said Daniel.
There was a small silence. He wanted action from her, Dorothea realised.
‘It’s a bit embarrassing, Mrs Wyatt,’ Daniel ploughed on at last. ‘My father came over here on Wednesday, and he was rather upset. I just wondered if he was all right, as I haven’t heard from him since then. Have you seen him lately?’
Dorothea hadn’t.
&nb
sp; ‘Is he playing golf, Daniel?’ she suggested. ‘He starts early, when he plays, doesn’t he? And he goes up most weekends.’
‘I know,’ said Daniel. ‘I thought of that and I rang the club, to ask if his car was there. I had an awful job persuading someone to go and look. It isn’t.’
By now, Dorothea was sitting up and her head was clearing. An inescapable duty was being thrust upon her.
‘What’s worrying you, Daniel?’
‘Well – it seems silly, but I’m afraid he may have had an accident,’ said Daniel. In his mind was a vision of his father lying on the bedroom floor, having swallowed dozens of sleeping pills. He might have access to them; people who really wanted them seemed to get them all right and Daniel had no means of knowing if his father, in his bereft state, had applied to the doctor for a prescription. He would have to add some explanation. ‘You see, Mrs Wyatt, I lured my mother and father over here together, the other evening, hoping that if they met things might be patched up. It was a total failure.’
‘Oh dear!’ Dorothea saw that she could avoid her task no longer. ‘You want me to go round and see if he’s all right,’ she stated.
‘Oh, would you, Mrs Wyatt?’
Dorothea muffled a groan.
‘Of course I will, Daniel,’ she said.
‘I can come over, but it would be quicker, you see, if anything’s wrong,’ said Daniel.
‘I do see,’ said Dorothea. ‘Sensible of you to ring me, Daniel. It will take me a little while, though. I’m not properly dressed. Give me half an hour and then ring again. Or can I ring you?’
‘Oh yes – there’s a phone at my digs,’ said Daniel. ‘I’m using it now. I’ll stay nearby till you call.’
‘And, if I don’t, you ring me back,’ said Dorothea. ‘Just in case there is a fault on the line.’
‘Right. Thank you very much, Mrs Wyatt,’ said Daniel. He gave her the number. ‘Goodbye for now, then.’
She replaced the receiver and swung her legs over the side of the bed, grimacing. But once she stood up and began pulling on slacks and sweater, she felt better. She had something urgent to do, nuisance though it was.
She didn’t wait to make coffee. George was sure to be at home, doing something in the garden or the garage where he couldn’t hear the telephone; with all that keep-fit lark of his, he’d certainly be an early riser at the weekend. She’d take coffee off him and make him ring his anxious son.
She opened the garage, got out her car, and drove round to Orchard House.
There was no answer when she rang the bell. She tried several times, and walked all round the house, but there was no sign of anyone being at home. A bottle of milk stood on the step and the newspaper was thrust through the letterbox. George’s Rover was in the garage; she saw it through the window. She walked all round again and tried the back door and the French window, but they were locked. She could see the entire garden from the patio, laid by George’s own hand outside the sitting-room window, but he was not there. She looked in the shed, to make certain.
There were several simple explanations. He might be out shopping in the village, on foot. He could be jogging. A friend could have taken him to the golf club.
She went home, made herself some coffee, and then telephoned Daniel.
‘He never jogs in the morning,’ said Daniel when she put forward this theory.
‘There has to be a first time for everything,’ said Dorothea. But what about the milk and the newspaper? Could both have arrived after he left on his run? She felt she must put this point to Daniel, who grew more alarmed.
‘I wonder if I should ring the police?’ he said.
‘Oh no, Daniel. George won’t thank you if you make a fuss and he’s innocently at the butcher’s. Though I did glance round the village as I came back,’ she acknowledged.
‘I’d better come over,’ Daniel decided. ‘I’ve got a key.’ If anyone had to find his father’s corpse, he was the proper person.
‘I’ve got a better idea,’ said Dorothea. ‘It will take you at least an hour to get here, Daniel. Mrs Pearson must have a key, or know where one is kept. She lets herself in when your father’s gone to the office. I’ll go and tell her you’ve rung up and ask her for it. Then I’ll ring you back.’
Fulsome thanks came down the line. How wearing all this emotion was, thought Dorothea. Her excursion would give time for George to return from the harmless expedition he was doubtless on, unless a friend had taken him to the golf club, which seemed the most likely answer.
He could be ill. Harry had died, on the bedroom floor, of a sudden heart attack. But not George too, surely? And he was younger, by some years, than Harry had been. All that healthy jogging would take care of George’s arteries, wouldn’t it? Or was the damage done already? Leo had thought the jogging itself might be dangerous. He could be right.
She had another cup of coffee and a piece of toast, then drove to Mrs Pearson’s council bungalow and explained her mission. Mrs Pearson, trustee of the key, insisted on accompanying her back; two heads were better than one, she said, not liking to admit that it would not be right to surrender the key, even to Mrs Wyatt, without authority from her employer. Besides, she was curious.
George was not lying dead anywhere in the house. His bed, the large double bed he’d shared with Angela, was neatly made, the coverlet taut.
The two women looked at one another.
‘Golf?’ said Dorothea.
‘He keeps his things in the cloakroom,’ said Mrs Pearson, bustling off.
George’s golf clubs were in their place in a corner of the cloakroom, the trolley, folded, by their side.
Dorothea took Mrs Pearson home. Then she rang Daniel. They agreed that he should tell the police that his father could not be traced, though it seemed rather a drastic step to take.
Mrs Pearson, meanwhile, told her husband and neighbours that Mr Fortescue had disappeared.
Fibres of a dark, purplish wool, almost black, had been found under Felicity Cartwright’s fingernails, but no skin particles so she might not have marked the face of her assailant.
Sitting in the interview room at Fletcham police station as the night wore on and various officers came in and out to talk to him, or left him alone with a silent, uniformed constable, George’s nightmare continued. At one stage, when he complained that he had eaten nothing for hours, they brought him a cup of tea and a cheese sandwich. On and on they went, asking him about a house they kept calling Number Seven, Priory Road. How had he got in? Where was the knife?
‘You were in Fletcham on Wednesday evening?’
‘Yes.’
‘You left the Ristorante Sorrento at between eight-five and eight-ten p.m.?’
‘I left. I didn’t look at the time.’
‘You were addressed by P.C. Rowe at eight-ten in the market square.’
‘I talked to a policeman, yes.’
‘And afterwards? What did you do then? You said you went back to the restaurant but there are witnesses to say that you did not. Where were you?’
On and on it went, with the imputation that he had been to Priory Road, wherever that was, and killed some woman – the same questions, the same answers, for what seemed hours.
For a long time George did not mention his walk round the abbey grounds. It would sound so foolish. When at last he did, the policeman who was talking to him at the time thought he was making it up. He went on to relate how he had called at a pub after that, but he had not been on the usual road home as he’d driven around a bit, so he could not say where it was.
This was when you called your solicitor, whose advice would be to say nothing. George could not drag his golfing companion Bill Kyle all the way over to Fletcham because the police had gone mad. In the end, truth would prevail.
They jumped on his story about the abbey and the visit to the pub. He’d been disturbed, upset; he admitted that, didn’t he? After the row with his wife?
George allowed that he was distressed.
&n
bsp; If he’d gone to a pub, he’d remember which one, declared Detective Inspector Maude, who had returned to interrogate him. He’d in fact gone to the house in Priory Road and killed Mrs Cartwright.
It was Detective Sergeant Dunn who remembered that the police in Tellingford had reported an alleged rape at Tellingford, two weeks before the murder. Right on George Fortescue’s home patch, that was. And a knife had been used.
A knife was common to both assaults.
Where was it now?
The radio news was on during breakfast. Nancy and Ronald heard that a man was helping the police at Fletcham with their inquiries into the death of Felicity Cartwright.
‘Well, so that’s that,’ said Nancy, putting a kipper on Ronald’s plate. He liked a nice kipper, juicy and bursting away from its thready skeleton, not one of your packets of frozen fillets. ‘Though I daresay she was no better than she should be.’
‘No. Yes.’ Ronald did not know what to reply. He picked up his knife and fork and began to dissect the kipper. What could be happening in Fletcham?
Later, he helped Lynn into the van with a hand on her elbow. She could feel his grip even through her coat.
Before polishing the brasses, she helped him set out some porcelain that Nancy had finished repairing.
‘She is clever, Auntie Nancy, doing this so well,’ said Lynn.
‘You should learn from her,’ said Ronald. ‘It’s a useful skill. You can make a living, doing this. You’ve got nice, delicate hands, you’d be good at it.’ He held her hand for a moment, and gave it a squeeze.
‘Oh, Uncle Ron!’ Lynn giggled. ‘I wouldn’t be patient enough,’ she said.
He didn’t go out that morning. Calls to dealers could wait. He still felt a bit edgy.
While Lynn was having her lunch in the cellar, and he was minding the shop above, she stood her hot mug of coffee on the desk, then realised it might leave a ring. She got up and fetched the telephone directory to put underneath it. Somehow or other, she was clumsy, and knocked over the mug that stood on the desk, filled with pencils and pens. The pens and pencils spilled out, and so did a small brass key.
Hand of Death Page 13