by Rebecca Tope
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
She had neglected to take her mobile with her to Galton’s, and when she went into the kitchen, it caught her eye. Picking it up, the little symbol told her there was a message, and she listened guiltily to Phil’s voice. Thea? Why aren’t you answering? I only got your message late last night. You left it on the wrong phone. What’s the matter? It’s all about those dogs again, apparently. Call me on this number – and he slowly dictated the digits.
‘What does he mean, the wrong phone?’ Thea muttered. Then she remembered that he had recently made a more concerted effort to keep work and home separate, explaining rather tediously that it was disruptive to let the two merge too closely. She had called the home number, a mobile he kept for personal matters – and which he only bothered to check every second or third day, it seemed.
‘Well, I don’t need you any more,’ she added in a louder mutter. ‘I can get along quite nicely as I am.’
But Phil Hollis must have felt otherwise, because within ten minutes his car was sweeping down into the Hawkhill yard. She stood in the doorway watching him getting out, still stiff and careful from the bad back. He was simultaneously dreadfully familiar and painfully distant. She found herself rehearsing how she should be with him, not frosty, but not too affectionate, either. It was horrible, and she felt slightly sick.
‘I didn’t come because of your phonecall,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s something else.’
The nausea was replaced by anxiety, something cold and even more unwelcome. ‘What is it?’ she demanded. It could only be to do with the murder of Sam Webster and the involvement of her sister. And Peter Clarke and Bruce and a shattered skull.
‘Come into the house,’ he ordered. ‘I haven’t got very much time.’
His urgency irritated her. ‘You’re lucky I’m here at all,’ she said. ‘I’ve been out for most of the day.’
‘Without your phone. Yes, I know,’ he said. He was doing his headmaster act, pulling rank, very much the grown-up. She had to fight to quell the mulish adolescent response that rose from the depths.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘We’re got Peter Clarke, the vicar chap, under arrest. When we had a closer look at the timing, it made it just feasible that he could have been in that layby at eight fifteen or so.’
‘Yes, I know,’ she said, coolly repeating his own words. ‘I’ve seen Ariadne. It’s old news, anyway – if you don’t charge him soon you’ll have to let him go.’
‘We won’t be charging him. There’s nothing concrete to put him in the frame. Though I don’t believe half of what he’s saying. He’s going to hurt that girl, that’s for sure.’
‘So – what’s so urgent?’
‘Emily. I assume you know she’s had some kind of breakdown. Her husband wouldn’t let our officer see her this morning. We need her to firm up the timings – there’s a gap that doesn’t make much sense. And we need you to say precisely when she left here on Saturday evening.’
‘Yes, I know all that as well. Ariadne wanted me to say the same thing. And I can’t – not precisely. I’ve already told you, I thought at the time it must be nearly nine. It was fairly dark, but of course it was raining. She went off in a rush, not wanting to get wet, and I shut the door behind her for the same reason. I didn’t watch her drive away. I didn’t look at a clock. But it can’t have been as late as I thought. I remember noticing when it was ten, and that was a lot more than an hour after she left.’
‘Did you put the telly or radio on?’
‘No. I tidied up a bit in the kitchen, and did some jigsaw and just sort of mooched about, thinking about Emily and Dad and the stuff she’d come to talk about. It didn’t really matter to me what time it was. I know it was half past eleven when she came back.’
‘And that’s odd, too. Why did she come back to you? Why not go home?’
‘She said she was too shaky to drive that far. And I suppose she wanted to tell me the whole story, face to face.’
‘She called for an ambulance at eight forty-three. If she left here at eight fifteen, say, and the accident was only a mile away, what was happening in that half hour?’
‘She got lost. And maybe she was too horrified at first to work her phone. And I didn’t say it was eight fifteen. I said I didn’t know what time it was.’
Her response was automatic, instinctive. It had little or nothing to do with any idea of protecting Emily, simply the provision of a neat and credible explanation for something muddled and irrational. The police preferred the former, as Thea had discovered.
‘Well, don’t go for me, but I still think there’s a chance she knew the attacker. It strikes me she could have had time to actually talk to Webster and the mystery man, and be more of a witness than she’s letting on.’
‘Phil, that’s quite wrong. Emily doesn’t know any crazed psychopaths, capable of so much violence. Do you think she’d just stand there and let it all happen? And why would she tell lies about it?’
‘To save her own skin. If she was up to something, and didn’t want you or her husband to know, she’d have to lie to the police as well as you – she’d have to stick to the same story with everybody.’
Thea shook her head emphatically. ‘It’s just not her,’ she said. ‘Emily’s too fastidious, too much in control, to get caught up in anything so chaotic. And I don’t believe she’d have been able to fool me when she came back afterwards, if she’d known who the dead man was. She’d have been far more upset. It wasn’t until Monday evening, according to Bruce, that she really went into a spin, when you told her it was Sam. She did a normal day’s work, and then fell apart.’
‘Chaotic,’ he repeated sceptically. ‘Didn’t it all get damned chaotic anyway?’
‘Yes, but not because of anything she did. She dealt with it pretty well, from the sound of it. She didn’t panic or run away pretending nothing had happened.’
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘But I’m still puzzled by that time lapse. I don’t suppose there’s any chance she knows Peter Clarke, is there?’
‘I’m sure she doesn’t. He’s been in Africa for years, after all. Oh, by the way – there’s something I should confess to you about him.’
‘Oh?’
‘I let slip to Ariadne that I’d met Webster. I expect it would have been better to keep quiet about that, wouldn’t it?’
It obviously wasn’t the confession Phil had been expecting to hear. He gave it some consideration, absently rubbing the damaged disc in his back as he ruminated. ‘I can’t see what difference that would make,’ he said at last. ‘Clarke probably knew that already, anyway.’ He rubbed harder. ‘All three of them were there at that hotel, or close by, at the same time. We know that much. Webster knew Emily, but his brother didn’t. Where does that get us?’ he finished with a groan.
‘Have you found the murder weapon?’ The change of subject seemed politic to her, a safer topic to discuss.
‘That’s another thing.’ He willingly followed her lead. ‘It’s not easy to work out what it could have been. Heavy rubber-soled boots would fit much of the damage, according to Pathology. But Emily talked about a stick of some sort. It must have been something unusually broad – like a cricket bat. And yet there’s nothing on the man’s body to suggest blows from a weapon. The only injuries are to the head.’
‘Nasty.’
‘Yes, and a bit weird, only kicking his head. Most people aim for the ribs at some point, as well.’
‘Surely not always. If the intention was to kill him, from the start, the head’s the best thing to concentrate on.’
‘Well, he did that all right. Stamped down with all his weight, or so it seems.’
‘I’m assuming you haven’t found heavy bloodstained boots in Peter’s house?’
‘Right.’
Thea suddenly thought of Henry Galton – a big weighty man, with rubber boots part of his daily apparel, inclined to great rages. But she shook away the thought. The killer was somebody she had never met, would never m
eet. A psychopath who had escaped back to his lair, leaving no useful clues.
‘Peter’s not really big enough, is he? I mean, you’d have to stamp down pretty hard to crack a skull.’
‘Once he was unconscious, and unresisting, it wouldn’t be so difficult. And if there was some sort of weapon, even quite a small person could have hit him hard enough to do the damage. It’s just—’ he sighed. ‘Just that it feels weird,’ he said again.
‘So, listen,’ she urged him, needing to change the subject even further. ‘Now you’re here I’ll have to tell you about the dogs. It is a police matter, if somebody shoots someone else’s animals, isn’t it? It must be.’
He nodded cautiously. ‘Normally that would be against the law, yes.’
‘Well, you remember I told you about a man called Mike Lister?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘The thing is, he lives just this side of Lower Slaughter and he’s got a breeding pair of Rhodesian ridgebacks—’
‘Nice,’ approved Phil. ‘Lovely creatures.’
‘Yes, well, I don’t think he’s very kind to them. They seem horribly cowed and miserable. Anyway, he was the one who saw me a few minutes after my dogs ran off. He told me Henry would shoot them if he caught them near his sheep.’
‘Henry?’ The jealous male that had always been buried quite deep in Phil’s breast stirred and flicked an enquiring tongue at this casual use of the man’s first name.
‘Yes, Henry,’ she repeated impatiently. ‘I’ve seen him a couple of times yesterday and today. Anyway, I saw Lister as well, this morning. I went to his house, and pretended the dogs had come home—’
‘My God, Thea, what on earth have you been playing at?’
‘Never mind, just listen. I tricked him into admitting the dogs had disappeared, and he said he’d seen them dead in a ditch. But he wouldn’t say exactly where, so now I’ve got to try and find them,’ she finished sadly.
‘So what does Henry think about all this?’
She ignored the tone. ‘He says Freddy and Basil definitely did kill his rams, but he didn’t shoot them, and Lister’s been in a feud with Cedric for decades and never misses a chance to do something horrible. So he took his chance and murdered the poor dogs.’
‘Who would have had to be put down anyway if they were worrying sheep.’
‘Not if it couldn’t be proved. You know,’ she added with a wretched expression, ‘I think this is why the Angells decided to get a house-sitter in the first place. They wanted somebody to keep their dogs safe. So I’ve totally failed them.’
‘Seems as if you have,’ he said unsympathetically. ‘But you also walked into a messy situation without knowing the facts. And it wasn’t altogether your fault that the dogs slipped their leads and ran off. You were actually trying to keep them under control, if I understand it right.’
‘Thanks,’ she muttered. ‘I did have one of them on a lead, yes. Cedric said that would be all right.’
‘Well, then. You didn’t disobey orders, after all.’
‘Strictly speaking, that’s true. I suppose I could manage to take that as a very small consolation.’
Nothing was said for a few moments, giving them both time to realise that they’d reverted to a former mode, where they could talk easily, their minds following similar tracks, any arguments readily resolved. Except that Phil’s manifestation of jealousy where Henry Galton was concerned seemed worthy of notice. In the circumstances, it appeared inappropriate, even irrelevant, and Thea was inclined to ignore it as an aberration. But she found it gave her a little glow of satisfaction that was equally inappropriate. Presumably, she told herself, a relationship never really ended as smoothly and instantly as this one had seemed to. There would be ragged edges, nostalgic moments, changes of heart and panicky feelings of abandonment. If Phil thought she had gone directly into the arms of another man, he could hardly fail to find this painful.
‘I’ll have to be off,’ he said. ‘Though I’d like to tell you about the Cirencester bloke, if I had time.’
‘The one who gave Peter his alibi?’
‘The very one. Plus eight or ten others to back it up. What a piece of work, though! You’d have thought I’d come to ask him to confess to the killing himself, he was so defensive.’
‘You went yourself? Wasn’t that a bit unusual?’
‘I do get out sometimes,’ he reproached her. ‘It’s called keeping in touch. Nobody’s above a bit of gentle interviewing.’
‘I bet the Chief Constable is,’ she argued.
‘OK, but that’s because he’s too busy with other things. I’m part of the team, and as such I lend a hand. Anyway, I’m only saying I didn’t take to that vicar.’
‘And what about Peter Clarke? Have you met him yet? Have you interviewed him?’
‘Not directly, but I’ve watched the tapes. He’s – complicated.’
‘You misjudged him,’ she accused. ‘Admit it. His daughter’s fine with his mother, and his relationship with his brother wasn’t the least bit sinister.’
‘We’ll see,’ was all Phil Hollis would reply to that.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘On our own again, then,’ Thea said to her spaniel, when Phil had gone. ‘Lock the doors,’ muttered Ignatius, who had seemed subdued all day. ‘Don’t you get poorly on me,’ Thea warned him. ‘I have no idea how to cope with a sick parrot.’
‘Frankly, my dear…’ the bird attempted, before fading into silence.
Thea had a long evening ahead, and felt torn between a hope that it could be spent in quiet idleness, and a desire to be kept in close touch with outside events. Nobody had offered to help her find Freddy and Basil, which was a constant worry. What if they weren’t dead at all, but locked up somewhere dark and stuffy with no water? That would be difficult, she told herself. They would bark and howl and someone would hear them. But would that someone react? It was normal enough to hear dogs barking, even all through the night, and do absolutely nothing about it. She, Thea, ought to be out there, combing the countryside with ears attuned for any such sounds.
She would make it a priority for the next morning, she decided. One way or another, she would find them. If necessary she’d bury their bodies. She had learnt from previous experience that it was part of a house-sitter’s remit to deal with pets who fell ill or died, and that included using a fair bit of initiative at times.
It would be nice if Ariadne would drop in, and at every small sound outside, she found herself wishing a knock on the door would follow. Hepzie picked up on this alertness and yapped sporadically at stirrings that only she could hear. It all made for a restless unsettling few hours.
When the mobile warbled, she snatched it with an urgency that surprised her. What was she expecting?
‘Thea?’ It was her mother. She suppressed a feeling of impatience, as if this might be blocking a more important call. She wasn’t sure she had any energy to spare for her parent, if the call made demands on her reserves of kindness and sympathy.
‘Hi, Mum. How are you?’
‘I’m all right.’ The voice was firm and businesslike. ‘I’m phoning about Emily. I’ve just been speaking to Bruce, and wondered whether you knew what was going on.’
‘In what way? What did Bruce say?’
‘He says she’s ill. Some sort of emotional thing. Was she like that at the weekend, and you kept it from me? Is it about Daddy, or what?’
‘I think it’s about everything. She was very upset about Daddy, and then this – accident – happened, and she was involved with the police and everything, and I suppose it’s all been a bit much for her.’
‘But Emily.’
Thea relaxed, finding herself glad to be sharing her mother’s worries, after all. ‘I know. She’s not usually the type to get overwhelmed, is she? We wouldn’t be half so surprised if it was Jocelyn.’
‘Thea, I know my daughters. I know Emily especially. If she’s in enough of a state to make Bruce sound as he did, then there is som
ething very badly wrong. Did the police bully her? Did they accuse her of anything? You know how fair-minded she always is. She hates anything to be unjust. Nobody will tell me what exactly happened. That’s why I’m ringing you. I want you to tell me the whole story.’
Seeing no reason to prevaricate any longer, Thea did just that: the rainy night, the shouting and kicking, the smashed skull and police questions. ‘She had no idea it was anybody she knew until the next day,’ she finished. ‘And that’s when she got really upset, according to Bruce. She phoned me and sounded a bit hysterical, but nothing too bad. It all seems to have got worse from then on.’
‘But the poor girl – fancy seeing something so horrible. Such awful violence! And if she couldn’t help the police, she’d feel badly about that.’
‘She’s not helping them at all at the moment, apparently. Bruce has told them she’s too ill to be interviewed again. They’ve got somebody under arrest, and it’s really all down to Emily to establish whether his alibi is credible. It’s the timing, mainly. And I suppose she might remember a bit more about what the man looked like.’
‘She must be terrified. What if the murderer thinks she saw his face, and could identify him? She might be in danger – he might track her down and attack her.’ Mrs Johnstone’s voice rose in alarm. ‘Good God, Thea – no wonder she’s in such a state.’
‘I have thought of that, of course. It might explain why she won’t go out. But somehow it sounds more complicated than that.’
‘Oh, rubbish! Well, I’m going over there first thing tomorrow, and I’m staying with her until this is all sorted out. If the murderer is the sort of madman you describe, surely they’ll soon catch him.’
‘We’ll have to hope so,’ said Thea, feeling oddly reassured by her mother’s brisk attitude.
She found she was in no hurry to wake up and start the day on Friday. The sun still hadn’t broken through the thick August clouds, and although not raining, it looked uninviting outside her window. The prospect of roaming the local lanes, peering into brambly ditches for the bodies of two dogs did not appeal in the slightest. She had little idea of where to start, and the image of what she might find was more repellent every time she revisited it.