‘Wild talk, George?’
‘I’m reserving judgement for the moment.’
‘Fair enough,’ Hunter said. George would have his reasons; whatever conclusion he came to would be sound.
‘All this wasn’t what you’d call a collective discussion — just a few words here and there, with this person or that, or a group sitting at another table. As near as possible I’ve used her own words. She was getting a lot of barracking; maybe because of that, she hit back. Next week — she said. You’ll see, I’ll show you buggers. Everything’ll be set up then, or arranged. There’ll be no backing out. I’ll get what’s due to me. Various suggestions about what that was. “I won’t have to listen to ignorant bastards like you any more. I’ll be in my proper station in life. He said it’s only what I deserved.’”
Garret said, ‘Proper station... Heroines in Victorian novels say things like that.’
‘No, it’s not likely to be her usual form of expression,’ George said stolidly.
Hunter said, ‘She got it from him?’
George nodded. ‘He exists, this man. Whoever, wherever, whyever. I think the house does, too, and she’s been there. It would have to be with him.’
‘I’m with you on that, George,’ Hunter said. ‘Well done.’
They waited in respectful silence for the few moments it took the DCS to turn the matter over in his mind. ‘Yes. Well done, very thorough. You’ve got to the heart of it — amongst her cronies. The type of woman she was — she just wouldn’t have the imagination to dream up something like this. Keep at it. What we need is a description of this man. Somebody must have seen her with him.’
*
The morning briefing was over by eleven; administrative items dealt with, personnel split into pairs — uniformed men working in plain clothes with an experienced detective constable or sergeant. After thought, Hunter decided it was worth following up Reggie Willoughby’s admittedly tenuous connection and assigned James Collier and Woman Detective Constable Annette Jones as the project team to work on Willoughby’s habits, inclinations, reputation and alibi — especially his alibi, which was not yet on Holmes. All his verifiable movements put him much too far away at the time of Beattie’s death — but someone had taken the trouble to accuse him, he’d put up a distracted performance at his initial interview — although blameless people were known to do that out of terror at being caught in the relentless cogs of the law. And, Hunter had to admit, he would consider anything that had the remotest chance of getting them farther forward.
By evening briefing the investigation had progressed although not exactly, as Hunter put it, at hyper-speed.
At the Chatfield end, DC Moore and PC Hubbard focussed on Beattie’s flat, talking to her neighbours, showing her photograph and finally — ascertaining without any doubt that it was hers and empty — breaking in. Dusting revealed her own prints and an assortment that could have been anyone’s. As for tangible evidence of an affair — a complete blank. Beattie had no telephone, therefore no personal list of numbers. If she had an address book or diary — and that was considered doubtful — one or both could have been in her handbag — still missing. She had not at any time been seen in the company of a man who was not known to the locality. She dressed herself up and went out...
To the Prince Albert. To bingo. To unknown destinations.
To her death.
It was the Bus Station at Chatfield that yielded something positive, confirming Hunter’s hunch about Beattie’s mode of transport.
‘The driver of the number 87 recognised Beattie as the woman he picked up at the Causeway stop on Thursday night,’ DC Moore reported.
‘And the number 87?’ Hunter queried.
‘Chatfield to Chester.’
‘Calling at Hambling?’
‘Yes, guv. He remembered it was Thursday because that was the day the really heavy spell of rain started — it was coming down in buckets so there weren’t many people about. She’d made the journey on at least two previous occasions — he thinks also on a Thursday. The first time, a fine evening early September, he noticed her because she was wearing a deep purple track suit, made him think of an over-ripe Victorian plum.’
A man with imagination. Track suit... I don’t see her as the aerobic type.’
‘It wasn’t meant to be functional. He said she was “dressed up” in it — high heels, shiny handbag. She didn’t go to Hambling bus station, though. Each time she got off two stops before, at the Peartree turning.’
‘There’s nothing there,’ Hunter said, thinking. Fields, a few scattered houses, farms, tracks plunging through woods.
‘No, well. The driver wondered where she was going to hike off to in her stilettos. So he kept an eye on her in his mirror as he started away. There’s an old-type brick bus shelter in the pull-off there. As far as he could tell she stayed in it.’
‘Waiting for someone to pick her up.’
‘Looks like it.’
Hunter got up to consult the map on the wall. ‘That small road at the Peartree turning, leading off from behind the bus shelter. It was the old Hambling road, before the by-pass was built. See, it winds through the outskirts, then turns west into the town proper. But, you see, turning east, there’s quite a spread of residential property. And there — just a little over a mile — Miller’s Bridge.’
The implications of this caused a surge of speculation:
‘The secluded car park, trees, high hawthorn hedges. It could have been their regular courting place — ’
‘Or one of several —
‘Or they might have been there just that once — ’
‘Or never — ’
‘That old road. What’s on it?’ Hunter turned to DC Hughes. ‘Gareth, you’re local. Tell us about it.’
‘There’s nothing on it to speak of. Not too far down, a derelict farm, but nothing else till you get — as you said — to the residential property — and that’s pretty sparse at first. That road’s hardly used now, except locals. But this man, Mr X, picking her up, he could drive from anywhere round here — in town or round the outskirts. If he was too early, and he waited near the bus shelter, it’s all got so overgrown that end of the road the bus driver wouldn’t see him from the by-pass.’
‘But she would — from the bus shelter.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Right. So we have to find if anyone else did. We can use the local rag — the Argus, isn’t it? They’ve been in on this from the start.’ PC Taylor of the Hambling force said, ‘They’ve phoned every day, bit cheesed off we’ve had nothing for them so far.’
‘Well, we’ll be back on the front page now it’s murder. Local radio — a press release. What we want — did anyone see a car on Thursday night, going up or down that road, parked, waiting, picking a woman up? Ron and Bert — I want you on the 87 bus next Thursday evening — talk to everyone, driver again, passengers, anyone who saw Beattie and might have spoken to her. And I want a road check next Thursday at the same time. O.K?’
DI Graham Hacket asked, ‘Are we assuming a scenario: adulterous husband — bit on the side. He makes promises he regrets, tries to pull out. She gets awkward, finishes up in the Chat.’
‘A married man puts Willoughby in the clear.’
It was a natural point to turn to Collier and WDC Annette Jones, who had been out on a sortie of discreet enquiries. They worked well together, their attractiveness and good manners a passport to every social level; they had not the slightest erotic interest in each other to impair their efficiency. Hunter harboured a secret, basic lust for Annette, best converted to the admission that she was one of his favourites. If challenged, far from denying this, he would have pointed out that few human creatures could help having as favourite a generously curved 5' 10" with raven hair and a smile of scrupulously controlled impudence.
‘Let’s start with his alibi. Where have you got with that?’ Hunter asked.
‘About as far as we can, but that doesn’t amount to much,�
� Collier said. ‘In brief, this was his statement. He left home 7.30-ish, drove to Midham (that’s about fifteen miles south) to visit his friend Robert Salter who has a market garden outside Midham. Salter wasn’t in; his old dad, who lives with him, was also out so there was no one to see Willoughby arrive or leave — but as he was leaving he heard a dog barking. Drove to the Feathers at Midham, where he and Salter are known, stayed about half an hour. Left about 8.30 and drove to the Queen’s Arms at Crale, about ten miles south. Stayed there about half an hour — saw some people he knew by sight. On the way back was held up in a traffic queue on the A51 because a lorry had overturned. Arrived at Salter’s about quarter to ten. Salter was in by then so they sat talking and drinking coffee and watching telly until about a quarter to twelve. Then he drove home.’
‘So. What about the time he left home?’
‘As he put it — immediately after dinner. His sister — Miss Helen Willoughby — can verify that. We haven’t seen her yet. When he arrived at Salter’s market garden at Midham — ’
‘That’s the chap who’s on one of those gardening programmes on TV, isn’t it? Not that I watch them. Yes. When he arrived.’
‘He said he heard a dog barking. There’s a young couple work for Salter, live in a bungalow on the property. The husband was making his rounds when his dog began to bark and run towards Salter’s cottage. When he got there a white Ford Mondeo was disappearing out of the drive. He couldn’t read the number but he thought the car was Willoughby’s, he’s used to seeing him about the place.’
‘And the pubs? The Feathers?’
‘Yes, the landlord had a word with him — knew him over the years from coming in with Salter — and as he’s something of a local celebrity everyone recognises him. Same thing at the Queens Arms at Crale.’
‘Mmm. He drove farther and farther south and every bugger saw him. What about this lorry overturning?’
‘That checks out with R.T.A. incidents for that day, we can practically tie it down to the minute. The road was blocked for quarter of an hour. Willoughby arrived just as it happened, so he’d be first away, that’d put him at Midham 9.45.’
‘Our eye-witness — Mr Bannon? — what time did he see Beattie?’
‘He saw her approaching Miller’s Bridge just before nine. As you said, guv, Willoughby was just too far away. Quarter to till quarter past nine he was at the Queens Arms, twenty-five miles away. The estimated time of death is 9.30. He just couldn’t have been at the scene to do her in, then get back to Salter’s by 9.45.’
‘You’re satisfied Salter is telling the truth?’
Annette said, ‘Oh, yes. We had a long interview with him, he was helpful, very concerned. He and Reggie have been friends for years, they were at Hambling Grammar together. Salter is very worried about the effect all this is having on Reggie, and he’s adamant he’s incapable of harming anyone. I’d say Salter’s a good friend. He was very open, nothing evasive or cagey, perfectly willing to talk about Reggie and the “nice gels” he took out from time to time. He did get a bit embarrassed trying not to say that a woman dressed up in all that plastic couldn’t possibly be Reggie’s type. I don’t know. Reggie might have his girlfriends and maybe boyfriends, too, but... ’ Annette hesitated. ‘I got the strong impression he’s one of those asexual beings.’
‘Like Bertie Wooster?’ Hunter asked, purely for the pleasure of watching her gulp back a yell of laughter. ‘I think it’s time I had a word with this perpetual juvenile of doubtful gender.’
Collier said, ‘I’m afraid you can’t at the moment, guv. He’s gone away, short holiday. Apparently there was unpleasantness in the town and at his office — at least, that was how he saw it. We spoke to his boss — he said people were really being quite decent but inclined to make jokes and Willoughby was getting into a nervous state. He turned in a sick note and has gone to stay with a relative in Cheltenham.’
‘Where else?’ Hunter sighed. ‘Oh, well, it’ll keep.’
A question from DC Powell. ‘Guv, you haven’t released her name yet.’
‘No. Right. According to Mrs Wellbed — who’s our only source of information on Beattie to date — there’s a cousin called Muriel who’s shacked up with a guy in Newcastle. We’ve had the Newcastle police on to it today but so far they’ve not traced her. She might have moved on. I’m giving it till tomorrow then I’ll give her name in our daily press release. Someone might come forward with more information. Right. Anything else?’
He looked at them all, then at his watch. ‘We don’t know how long this is going to run, we’ve got to pace ourselves, I don’t want anyone burning out. The most practical thing I can say at the moment is that the Frog and Nightgown’s been open for two and half hours and I’m dying of thirst. Who’s for or against?’
Six
A telephone message from Paula on Thursday was passed on to Liz. Unavailable to take the call, she caught its flying fragments. Urgent... must see you as soon as... vital...
Her first thought was for Helen. She phoned but there was no answer. Requesting Friday afternoon off, she skipped lunch and drove to Hambling, straight to Helen’s.
No one answered the front door. Quelling a flutter of alarm, she kept trying, then retreated from the porch to stand looking at the house.
It was impossible to get into Woodside unless someone opened the front door. The long double frontage, set back to the left with Helens garage built on, ended at a stout twelve foot fence to the adjoining property. To the right: a wrought iron gate in a high stone wall; Reggie’s garage flush against next door’s tall, impenetrable hedge.
During the day, when people were about, the iron gate was unlocked, the fact that it was now locked indicated there was no one at home — and yet, drifting from beyond the house came the acrid smell of woodsmoke. Old George, the jobbing gardener, would be in the far reaches of the back garden, not able to hear even if she called. Why he should want to lock himself in she couldn’t imagine.
Where was Helen? Had anything happened to her? Had Paula’s call substance after all? There was only one thing to do — attack from the rear.
Leaving her car in the drive, she walked quickly out of the front gate and trotted along the path through the spinneys and clearing that fronted the houses. Three houses along, she turned left down a footpath. Here, she was on the labyrinth of paths, bridleways and tracks that circled Hambling as far as her own house. They were bounded by walls, fences, dense hedges and massive old trees. Some of the paths were so narrow the trees met overhead, forming tunnels, fragrant with honeysuckle on summer evenings; in the snow, luminous, magic caverns.
Her trot quickened to a jog. Puddles, fallen leaves, hoofprints, bicycle tracks — she squelched through them, covering the ground rapidly until she reached the dense shrubs and tangled briars that guarded the end of Helen’s garden. There was a gap — so overgrown it was invisible to passers-by, but she knew it, plunged in. Thorns raked her clothes, wet leaves slapped her face. After a momentary struggle she was at a high, solid fence. There was a door in it — like the gap, camouflaged from the gaze of strangers, but Liz knew it was there and how to deal with it.
She hopped on to the base of a lopped tree, grasped a fence post and heaved herself up. Hanging by one arm she performed the shoulder-dislocating exercise of reaching over the top of the door with the other hand and drawing back the bolt. Letting herself down on to the tree stump again, she levered the upper half of the door back, squeezed her hand through and worked the lower bolt free.
There were more shrubs to be negotiated before she reached the vegetable garden; sprinting, she burst through an opening in the trellis to a cleared space. Helen — not old George — wielding a fork, energetically turned a bonfire. She took a step back, squeaked, 'Liz!'
‘Helen — ’ Liz, panting, put her hand out in a calming gesture.
‘What is it?’ Helen looked round wildly, holding the fork as a weapon.
‘I’m sorry, I — ’
‘Wha
t on earth are you doing?’
‘You didn’t answer the door. I smelt the bonfire... I thought... you see, Paula rang and... ’
A hiatus, as if they were two strangers colliding in a crowded street — then a confusion of apologies, explanations. Liz with twigs in her hair, Helen pulling herself together. After a while, they were laughing at the silliness of it.
Helen said, ‘You haven’t forgotten the old trick with the back gate that Reggie taught you. I hope you’ve shut it.’
‘Oh, God — ’ Liz hurtled back the way she had come. Returned. ‘Reggie — how is he? Only, you see, Paula’s message... Urgent. Vital. Well, I thought it might be to do with him.’
‘There’s nothing vital and she shouldn’t have bothered you. Really. He’s perfectly all right, still in Cheltenham. So you came rushing up here, bursting in... Liz, you’re a sight.’
‘And an ass. Look, let me help — you shouldn’t be doing this. Where’s old George.’
‘He has so many jobs to catch up on with other people, this is the first decent day since all that rain. No, really, I can manage. I’ve got myself organised.’
She had used newspaper to start the fire, a pile of it stood nearby with a can of petrol. The fire looked as if it had been burning reluctantly for some time. Garden rubbish mingled with household waste: bundles and boxes, their contents distorted and blackened. Shoes, straps and buckles half consumed, bundles of cloth, rolls of old wallpaper... clouds of eye-stinging smoke.
Liz said, ‘You shouldn’t be heaving all this stuff about.’
‘Well, so much was due to go to the tip, but as Reggie’s not been here to take it, and I couldn’t ask George, he does so resent anything beyond what he calls his parameters — so the only thing is to burn it.’
‘But struggling out here.’
‘Where else?’ Helen said rather shortly. In the house, she had long ago had every grate taken out, keeping the beautiful Edwardian surrounds as settings for gas fires that brought the comfort of flickering flames to every downstairs room — but left nowhere to burn anything.
Cruel as the Grave Page 4