CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
‘Juno, just bloody calm down!’ Dean Collins yelled at me. ‘We’re only doing our jobs!’
‘Fourteen hours you held that boy yesterday,’ I flung at him.
‘He was free to leave—’
‘Oh, come on!’ I yelled. ‘He was shattered.’ I took a deep breath. I hated this, feeling antagonistic towards Dean, towards the police. I felt unbalanced, as if a solid plank I had always relied on had suddenly become a seesaw. Dean was right, I needed to calm down. Old Nick’s was no place to be having a blazing row. It was likely to alarm the customers. Fortunately, at that moment, there weren’t any. ‘You could have let him go. You held him in the hope that you could break him—’
His voice dropped to a fierce whisper. ‘Look, the lad’s killed once – maybe accidentally,’ he admitted holding up a hand to fend off my protest. ‘He knew Bryant. He’d been on the end of some rough treatment from him. He was seen quarrelling with him – you were a witness to that yourself, you’ve admitted it. Now, Bryant’s found dead in the town where Luke Rowlands has recently come to live …’
I tried to interrupt.
‘With the same message attached to his body,’ he carried on, ‘that was found on the body of Jessie Mole, a body you and Rowlands discovered. Adding all that up, Juno, do you think we were wrong to bring him in for questioning?’
Put like that, no, I didn’t, but I wasn’t going to bloody admit it. ‘Different killer,’ I said.
Dean frowned. ‘What?’
‘Jessie Mole and Dave Bryant were not killed by the same person.’
‘Who told you that?’ He was visibly shocked.
‘No one told me. I worked it out. There was hardly any blood where Jessie died, despite the gash in her throat. Because when her throat was cut, she was already dead.’
‘Listen, Juno,’ he lowered his voice. Although the shop was empty, he glanced over his shoulder as if to assure himself no one was listening. ‘This is very important. You haven’t told anyone this, have you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Good. The only people who know this are the police, and it may help us catch the bastard who killed her.’
‘The men who killed Dave Bryant didn’t know it, did they?’ I retorted. ‘They only knew what they’d read in the paper, and that’s why they cut his throat, to make it look like a copycat killing.’
Dean nodded. He didn’t look comfortable with the conversation.
‘So, how did Jessie die?’
He hesitated, wrestling with his better judgement. ‘She drowned. Someone held her head under the water.’
‘There, on the ramp?’ It was horrifying to think she might have been murdered so close to the pub, struggling with her killer while people just a few feet away were drinking and enjoying themselves.
‘We don’t know.’
‘And he cut her throat, why? As a theatrical gesture?’
He nodded reluctantly. ‘We think this is a narcissist at work. Displaying her body like that, with the postcard attached.’
‘Well, that wasn’t Luke.’
‘And how do you know that?’ Dean asked gently. ‘Because he’s a friend and you like him?’
‘Yes.’
‘And haven’t you liked killers before?’
I crumpled, felt as if he’d punched me. ‘That,’ I told him steadily, when I had recovered breath to speak, ‘was below the belt.’
He nodded sadly. ‘It was and I apologise. But you get my point?’
I didn’t answer. ‘Those two men Luke drew for you,’ I went on, ‘I saw them, going into the Silent Whistle, when Bryant was inside.’
‘Seriously? In that case I want you to come to the station,’ Dean said, ‘see if you can pick them out from some photographs.’
‘And if I do, does that mean Luke’s off the hook?’
He rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. ‘Look, Juno, we know Bryant was a bad apple … there’s likely more than one person had a motive for killing him. It’ll be helpful if you can confirm the sighting of these two men, but it doesn’t mean Rowlands may not have been involved.’
I gave a frustrated sigh.
‘I’m sorry, Juno,’ he said simply.
‘Was there something you came in for?’ I asked. I’d flown at him the moment he’d come in the shop door. I still didn’t know what he’d wanted.
‘Well … yes.’ He became awkward suddenly, his gaze fixed on his shuffling feet. ‘I came in to ask you … Gemma wanted me to ask … well, me as well …’ he cleared his throat, ‘if, well, after what you did for us at Moorworthy House we didn’t want anyone else … if you’d consider—’ He held up a finger. ‘Now, you may want to think about this—’
‘For God’s sake, Dean!’ I cried, unable to stand it any longer. ‘What?’
He drew a deep breath. ‘Would you be godmother to little Alice?’ he asked in a rush. ‘We’re having her christened in April.’
I laughed, my anger melting away. ‘I’d be honoured,’ I told him.
His broad features creased into a smile. ‘Oh, that’s great!’ He eyed me a little uncertainly. ‘Are we friends again, then?’
‘Of course we are.’ I wasn’t sure if a hug was appropriate at this point, and clearly, neither was he. We sort of shuffled.
‘Well, that’s all I came in for,’ Dean said, as if he’d suddenly been relieved of a great burden. ‘I’d better go … Listen,’ he touched my elbow lightly. ‘As soon as I can tell you anything I will, I promise.’
I smiled. It was the best I could hope for.
So, I’m going to be a godmother, I thought, trying to turn my mind to a more cheerful subject. I haven’t got the remotest idea what a godmother does. I think it’s something to do with pumpkins and coaches, but whatever it is, I’m up for it.
Later I went to the police station. I sat down in a room with Dean and was given about two dozen photographs to look at. I picked out Handsome straight away, the dark-haired man who had held open the door for me. He didn’t look so handsome in the photograph. His expression was more murderous than polite. His companion, who’d been hanging back behind him, was more difficult to identify. I’d only got a partial view of him in the light through the pub door and his face had been enclosed in a hoodie, but there was something about the staring eyes of a thin-faced individual in one photo that made me point a finger and say, yes, I was pretty certain that was him.
‘And you’re a hundred per cent sure about this man?’ Dean asked, pointing at Handsome.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Excellent!’ He thumped the table with his fist in glee. ‘You’ve identified the same photographs as one of the bar staff.’ His face fell. ‘I haven’t just told you that, by the way,’ he added guiltily. He stood up. ‘Hold on there a minute, Juno.’
He left the room and returned a few minutes later, accompanied by Detective Inspector Ford.
He asked me to identify the photographs again. When I did, he actually smiled.
‘Who are these men?’ I asked.
‘Members of a criminal gang,’ he informed me. ‘Our colleagues in the Met are searching for them now.’
‘And they killed Dave Bryant?’
‘They were certainly involved with him in some way. The girl in the pub says she’d seen them with him there before. But as yet, we can’t place them in Ashburton on the night of the killing. We’re relying on forensics to come up with something there.’ He fixed me with his stare. ‘Listen, Juno, even if we find these two charmers are responsible for Bryant’s murder, that doesn’t mean that Rowlands wasn’t involved.’ He held up a hand as I opened my mouth to object. ‘He knew him from the prison, knew the stuff that Bryant was involved in—’
‘Yes, and he got beaten up when he talked about it!’ I protested.
‘That doesn’t make him innocent.’ He gave me a moment to digest this. ‘So, what I’m saying is, you keep quiet about all this. Don’t go talking to anyone, and above all, don
’t talk to Rowlands about it. I don’t want any arrest or future prosecution blown away because someone fed a suspect with information.’ He gave me a broad smile. ‘You’ve been very helpful to us in the past, Juno. I wouldn’t want to have to arrest you for perverting the course of justice,’ he went on as I gaped at him, ‘now would I?’
The discovery of Cutty Dyer’s second victim had a far greater effect on the town of Ashburton than the discovery of the first. People had reacted to Jessie’s death with a sense of shock, but a general acceptance that her killer was someone who knew her, someone with a motive, who was unlikely to kill again. But with this second killing, it seemed there was a maniac on the loose. It wasn’t just Sophie and Pat who were frightened. Kids were ordered to go straight home after school, to be in safely before dark, and above all, to stay away from the river. Shops started to close a little earlier to let staff get home. People were wary of being out alone after dark and the streets, never exactly throbbing during dark February evenings, became deserted. It was as if snow had fallen, sealing everyone inside the safety of their warm living rooms. Snow had fallen and muffled every footfall.
I hated it, hated the fear-spread rumour, because apart from the police and the killer, only I knew that Jessie had not been killed by the same person who had killed Bryant and that Cutty Dyer was unlikely to kill again. Or so I thought.
If the spectre of Cutty Dyer wasn’t off-putting enough, there was another good reason for staying away from the water’s edge: the worsening weather. The level of the Ashburn had risen alarmingly with all the rain and gushed between its banks gurgling and swirling in a muddy brown torrent, certainly capable of sweeping away any small child who fell into it.
One person who refused to venture out was Chloe Berkeley-Smythe, but as she rarely left her cottage anyway, this made little difference to her lifestyle. She was happy to send me out − in daylight only − to do her food shopping. Despite her assertion that she had more than enough clothes for her next cruise and never needed to buy another thing, she was rarely off the shopping channel and parcels and packages arrived for her nearly every day. But when I next came to her cottage, she was far more interested in showing me the photos stored on her tablet than packing for her next voyage.
‘All this talk about Cutty Dyer made me think,’ she told me, after insisting that I poured us both a sherry, ‘of the river festival they held here – oh, several years ago now. Do you remember it, Juno, dear? There was a procession through the town with all the children and they’d made these lovely figures.’ I watched her manicured fingernail skimming through one photo after another in a dizzyingly blurred line until it stopped at the one she wanted. ‘There! I think they spent weeks making them. Aren’t they lovely?’
I found myself staring at a picture of a procession on East Street headed by two larger-than-life figures: one dressed in shades of blue and green, with a narrow silver face, pointed ears and an elongated nose: a water sprite. The other figure was huge, with eyes the size of dinner plates, long fangs and strange, webbed hands and feet: Cutty Dyer. The procession was watched by cheering crowds, all back on the pavement, except for one figure standing out in the road, in everyone’s way, in her blue coat and ankle socks, waving at the procession.
I pointed her out to Chloe. ‘Look, there’s Jessie Mole.’
‘So there is!’ She took the tablet from me for a closer look.
‘Quite ironic really,’ I said, ‘in view of how she died.’
Chloe gave a shudder. ‘You know, I shall be glad to get away from Ashburton for a while, safe on the high seas, away from all this horror.’ She frowned at me. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come?’
‘Quite sure, thank you.’
‘There’s more to life than Ashburton, you know,’ she reproached me gently.
‘I know, but just at the moment, it’s got more than enough to keep me interested, thanks.’
‘Well, if you’re sure …’ Her glossy fingernail was busy again, skimming through photos. I decided it was time I got on with her packing, but she stopped me.
‘Look! Look!’ she cried in disgust. ‘It’s them!’
I found myself staring at a photo of Digby Jerkin and Amanda Waft. They were dressed for dinner on the cruise boat, Digby in a dinner jacket and Amanda in a long blue gown, champagne flutes in hand, standing next to Chloe, looking plump and sparkly in purple.
She sucked in her breath, her eyelids fluttering. ‘Just too exhausting, the pair of them! I wish I’d never shown them my photos now.’
‘They may not settle in Ashburton,’ I told her, ‘they’re looking all around the area.’
‘Let’s hope they find somewhere far away,’ she muttered.
‘Well, you’re going to be far away soon,’ I said, getting up, ‘and you won’t be ready in time if I don’t get on with your packing. In the meantime,’ I nodded in the direction of the tablet, ‘do you want me to put that thing on charge?’
‘Oh, yes, please, Juno, dear,’ she said, thrusting it to me as if it had suddenly become a hand grenade. ‘You know I’m not good at these things.’
I went to Druid Lodge next day in the hope that Luke would be working by the lake. The rain had stopped for once, although heavy drops pitted the smooth mirror of the water whenever the wind stirred dripping branches overhead. The path around the lake was clear to walk. Trees had been crown-lifted, weeds ripped out and thick shrubbery pruned back. Hellebores, long hidden, nodded their drooping flowers in clumps of speckled white and purple. Crocuses and daffodils planted years ago, and for so long kept secret in the undergrowth, sparkled along the edges of the path.
‘This looks lovely,’ I told Luke when I eventually found him, sawing his way through the pale branches of a fallen silver birch. He had let light into the little woodland glade. He stopped work to listen to me. I know the inspector had warned me not to speak but I could at least tell him that the police were following other leads.
But he shook his head, still certain that they were trying to set him up.
‘I keep thinking about what we were talking about the other day,’ he said, ‘about getting out of here, going on the moor, living up there by myself.’
‘If you disappear, Luke, that will only make the police think you have got something to hide.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ He resumed his sawing, his face set in stony lines. ‘They’ll never find me.’
When I left Luke, I called up at the house to see how Ricky was. I’d promised to give Morris some help with costumes, anyway. Their refusal to loan out clothes for the Spring Ball had a knock-on effect at Old Nick’s. We were selling vintage dresses like they were going out of fashion − if you’ll excuse the pun – even though most of them weren’t right for the roaring twenties at all.
‘Silly bitches!’ Ricky groaned when I told him about our customers. He was looking a lot better and sounding far more his usual vitriolic self.
‘There’s nothing easier than making a flapper dress,’ Morris said. ‘You just buy a slip and attach fringe or scarves to the hem. That’s it. It couldn’t be simpler. All you need then is a ribbon and a feather for your headdress.’
‘Well, that may be what Sophie and I have to do. She’s won tickets and asked me to go with her and I was wondering if …’
‘You’re not going in any bleedin’ slip!’ Ricky rasped at me, falling into a fit of coughing and sucking on his vaping machine.
‘No, no, no!’ Morris cried, patting my hand. ‘We’ve got lovely, lovely things you and Sophie can wear!’
‘I was hoping you’d say that.’ I gave him a little hug as we were both enveloped in a cloud of sickly smelling smoke. ‘Thank you!’
‘You’ll look dazzling!’ he promised. ‘Just leave it to us!’
This crucial point having been established, we left Ricky resting in an armchair and worked on packing up costumes for School for Scandal, which, I am glad to say, did not involve sending off any flapper dresses, but a lot of very large petticoa
ts and powdered wigs. We worked all day and I told Morris about Luke, that I was worried that he might do something stupid.
‘Well, he’s not very communicative even on a good day,’ Morris sighed. ‘But as long as he’s working here, we’ll try to keep an eye on him.’
At the end of the day I said goodbye to Ricky and checked, once more, that Sophie and I would be able to borrow costumes. ‘Yes, we said so!’ Ricky groaned at me. ‘How many more times?’
I ignored the groaning. ‘It’s just a pity we haven’t got two gorgeous men to go with.’
Ricky gave a sly grin. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that.’
I frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He means,’ Morris said coyly, giving my arm a little pat, ‘that we’ve got tickets too.’
Another person refusing to leave her house was Maisie, but her refusal had more to do with the rain than Cutty Dyer. She’d recovered from one chest infection and didn’t want to risk going out in the damp. The water in the tiny stream, which separated her garden gate from the road, and gave Brook Lane its name, had risen so much that it lapped the granite stepping stone, which gave access to her property. Jacko tried snarling and snapping at it when I took him for his walk, but it refused to subside.
‘I remember them floods before the war,’ Maisie told me, shaking her curls at the memory. ‘I was only a nipper at the time. Six feet deep the water was in North Street,’ she went on, pursing her lips, ‘it carried down these rocks from the moor, tore up all the roads. I remember Hamlyns the butchers … o’course, it’s not there any more …’
From Devon With Death Page 15