Cruel as the Grave

by Meg Elizabeth Atkins

  *

  Hunter read through the file — the report of the murder, the resume of the crime, statements — trawling for something that might have become relevant in the light of what he had lately learned.

  ‘It’s not much,’ he said to Collier. ‘But it’s something, it alters the perspective. You know Annette went to the Railway with Miss Farrell last Thursday. It’s all right, you didn’t have to tell me, it was in her own time. As a matter of fact, it’s surprising how well those girls have done digging up the past. Feminine intuition.’ Did that sound condescending? Sexist? Could you be sexist with a homosexual? Such a thought would never have occurred to him before but he was quietly in something of a stew about this whole business. ‘Did Annette tell you Liz’s theory?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t be so fucking neutral.’

  ‘Sorry, guv. Annette thinks there could be something in it. I agree with her.’ He could hardly say it answered all sorts of questions they hadn’t even thought to ask. He had a suspicion that was exactly how Hunter felt.

  ‘Well, if that’s the case, then this man — this dangerous man from the past — has to be someone known to, close to, or connected with, the Willoughbys. The last thing he needs to know is what Liz’s up to. When’s Annette due back from leave?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Good. There are one or two things I need to sort out in my mind. You know that at the moment I’ll involve as few people as possible in this. You don’t have to agree.’

  Collier looked shocked. ‘Of course I will. So will Annette.’

  They sat in the companionable quiet of one of Hunter s favourite Frog and Nightgown pubs. He said, ‘Tell it not in Gath, publish it not in the streets of Askelon,’ and took a reflective pull of his pint.

  Annette sent a distress signal to Collier, who indicated similar incomprehension. They sipped their drinks and waited.

  It was only fair to them that Hunter explain. ‘I haven’t got any fresh evidence, until I do you know I can’t show my hand, make use of any official resources. So anything you do will be off the record.’ The cautionary tone made no noticeable impression on their eagerness. They had talked it over between themselves; come to the conclusion he would not put his reputation out on a limb unless he was getting close to the point where he could go to the DCS and ask for the investigation to be re-opened.

  Hunter said, ‘I had a chat with George Withers yesterday. He can’t add anything new but he does corroborate what you and Liz learned about Beattie’s mother. Object lesson. He couldn’t know it was in any way relevant because it never surfaced in our enquiries. Why didn’t it?’

  ‘Because we didn’t ask the right questions,’ Annette said apologetically.

  ‘Correct. We don’t ask. People don’t tell us things. Ergo, we can’t detect a fart in a paper bag.’

  ‘Did he remember anything about it?’ Collier asked.

  ‘Yes, he did, he remembers all the talk about the time it happened — it was the local sensation.’

  ‘Had you moved away from there by then?’ Annette asked.

  ‘No, I was still there, just about. I’m buggered if I can remember a thing. Either I wasn’t listening or not interested; it’s just disappeared inside my memory bank. Now, I’ll tell you how I think we should approach this. Until we establish where Beattie was that night between leaving the bus shelter and being seen at Miller’s Bridge, we have no room to move.’

  Collier looked puzzled. Hunter waited. He said hesitantly, ‘Guv... Wouldn’t it be more to the point to find out where she was going?’

  ‘She was going to Liz’s.’

  Two astonished faces. The rapid progress of understanding. Collier said, ‘You knew she was keeping something back. That was it.’

  ‘Part of it.’ Hunter explained, in detail but wasting no words, and — sensing for an instant some baffled hurt in Annette — emphasised, ‘She genuinely didn’t believe it was Beattie that Reggie was seeing at her house. She didn’t come across the bracelet until the day after she’d been to the Railway with you. She came straight to me with it.’

  Collier asked if it had been tested for fingerprints.

  ‘Not yet, we’ll be lucky if we can get anything off it with such small surfaces. If we do, I’ve no doubt they’ll be Beattie’s. But that isn’t going to help until I’ve put the rest of the picture together.’ He told them about his call on Melanie Beadnall. ‘I wanted Paula’s version of this so I went across the square straight away. It’d help to get a good look at those photos or whatever it was on the stand that took Beattie’s interest. However, Mrs Pilling wasn’t in. We’ll go and see her in the morning, Annette, but, before that, Collier, I want you to do some checking up.’

  Collier listened, nodded, unsurprised; he had been following the course of Hunter’s mind.

  ‘Now, Annette, you and I are going to call on Mrs Pilling in the morning, but before that, this is what I want you to do... ’

  This time, when he had finished, the reaction could not have been more different. Annette stared him without speaking.

  ‘And when I say discreet, I mean as in egg-shells. Walking on.’

  ‘I don’t believe... ’ Annette began, then stopped. She saw from his face that she would have to. ‘Bloody hell,’ she said dazedly.

  *

  On the Friday evening Liz had not been home more than a few minutes before Helen rang. ‘Darling, I know we arranged you were to come round, do you mind terribly if I put you off? I’ve had an invitation... ’ She mentioned friends, known slightly to Liz.

  ‘I’m so pleased you feel like going out, of course I don’t mind.’

  But there was something — disturbing. An edginess. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Um, you seem rather... Helen, has anything happened?’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about, what could have happened?’ — the delicately modulated voice snapping out the words. Liz stood silent. What dreadful thing had she done to make Helen — snap. Then, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Liz, I’m in rather a rush and — and — I have to admit, I have been worrying. Thinking over what we said last Saturday.’

  ‘I really didn’t mean to upset you, Helen.’

  ‘I know you didn’t. But it has rather been playing on my mind. I want the gossip to die down, I want to feel I can go about amongst people without being pointed out, whispered about.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re mistaken about that... ’ Liz could genuinely offer encouragement and sympathy, but she had to find a way to salve her conscience. She dare not say anything about sending Hunter round to see Melanie. It occurred to her that she was building up a great deal of deceit; it couldn’t go on indefinitely; one day she was going to have a lot of explaining to do to Helen.

  The change of plan prompted Liz to phone friends in the dramatic society. It turned out there were urgent production matters to go over, which could not have been more convenient as the serious talking would be done in the local bistro and she would not have to bother making supper.

  Just as she was about to go out, Wilfred telephoned. ‘Look, Liz, don’t say anything to Helen about this, I don’t want her getting upset. She might not, but you never know.’

  ‘What is it, Wilfred?’

  ‘If only I knew, dear girl. I’ve just had a visit from one of our local CID men. Nice chap, I know him slightly, drink at the same watering holes. He was very polite, even seemed a little embarrassed.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About wanting to know where I was the night that woman drowned.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘He said it was for purposes of elimination and quite unofficial. He was just helping out the lads at Chatfield... ’

  He said more; Liz, not listening, felt blighted. When he had finished, she said in a small voice, ‘Wilfred, I’m so sorry, I think this could be my fault.’

  ‘Shopped me, have you?’

  ‘Wilfred, don’t joke. I feel aw
ful. I’m putting my foot in it all over the place.’

  ‘Just as a matter of vulgar curiosity, what have you done?’

  ‘It’s too complicated to explain now. I’ve been finding out some things that put a different construction on what happened with Reggie and — that woman. Things to do with the past. Helen has no idea — you know how much stress she’s been under, she just wants it all forgotten, everything to get back to normal.’

  ‘You can see her point.’

  ‘Of course I can. But on the other hand, I can’t bear the thought of poor, inoffensive Reggie being blamed for something he didn’t do, something so dreadful. I’m just so sorry, Wilfred, that you’ve become involved — I never thought for one minute... Er, everything’s all right, isn’t it?’

  ‘You mean about my alibi? Somewhat embarrassing.’

  ‘Oh, dear, you mean... ’

  ‘Yes. A lady.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘Of course. Husband away on business trip.’

  ‘What have I done,’ Liz whispered.

  ‘It’s not the end of the world. I’m told she’ll be assured of absolute discretion — as I was — so I think she’ll verify what I said. If not, I’m in the soup. I can’t phone her till tomorrow to find out. I would just like to know, though, Liz, what it is you’ve been up to.’

  ‘Of course, I owe you an explanation. I’ll write to you.’

  ‘Write be damned. Why don’t I come over and see you?’

  ‘You know you can’t, you have to see Helen and me.’

  He sighed. ‘But can we manage to have a private chat?’

  ‘We’ll have to, I’m getting into deep water over this. I don’t think that was the right thing to say. Oh, bugger. Look, I’ll speak to Helen about you coming for a visit and one of us will phone you over the weekend. And Wilfred, I really am sorry.’

  Twenty-One

  Saturday morning Hunter and Annette sat in his car in Victoria Square while the rain bounced off: the roof and streamed down the windows. They went over the enquiries Annette had carried out earlier that morning. She said, ‘You’ve not heard from James yet?’

  ‘No, shouldn’t be long, though. Right, let’s have a go at this one.’ They sprinted from the car, skipping over bricks in Paula’s front garden and cramming themselves into the cluttered porch. They couldn’t hear the bell inside the house so Hunter knocked while Annette turned back to study the Square, well-kept and pleasing even on such a day; then her gaze moved slowly over Paula’s garden.

  ‘She must drive the neighbours insane.’

  ‘They get up petitions, according to Liz. Doesn’t make the slightest difference, Paula has the moral superiority — it’s all for good causes, the shirtless in Buenos Aires or the eyeless in Gaza or some damn thing. Bloody woman isn’t in.’

  ‘No.’ They had given her long enough. They tried again, though, finding their way round the side entrance and gazing unbelievingly into the conservatory. As they retraced their steps back on to the pavement, a woman with umbrella, boots and Jack Russell terrier was emerging from the next gate. It was hardly the weather to stand about chatting but as she was obviously the no-nonsense kind who wouldn’t let a little rain put her off, Hunter thought it was worth a try. ‘Do you know if Mrs Pilling’s away?’

  ‘Oh, no, she went out earlier on. You called the other day, didn’t you? I thought I recognised you. You’re a policeman, aren't you? I saw you on TV about finding that woman’s body at Miller’s Bridge.’ She studied Hunter with an entirely frank and unobjectionable interest.

  ‘I don’t seem to have much luck, missing Mrs Pilling again.’

  ‘Luck hasn’t a great deal to do with it. You didn’t miss her before. She was in, she just didn’t open the door to you.’ She said this in a matter-of-fact way, inured to Paula’s eccentricities.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Hunter asked.

  ‘Quite sure. I happened to go upstairs just after I saw you leave here — I can see all the way across the back gardens, there’s an alleyway, it used to be for horses and carriages, now it’s garages. I saw her go out of her back and take her car out. I assume she wanted to avoid you, not that it’s any of my business, it’s best to let her get on with whatever it is she’s doing.’ She looked eloquently at the tip that was Paula’s front garden. ‘One way and another, Mrs Pilling leaves much to be desired as a neighbour.’

  ‘But she really has gone out this morning?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Check up for yourself if you want. There's no need to go to the end of the Square and round, go along the side here. That is,’ she sighed, ‘if you can get through.’

  They went back, past the conservatory, took a path where they were crowded to single file by dripping bushes; through a straggled place that had once been a garden. In the alleyway the buildings that had once been coach houses and stables were now garages. Paula’s was empty, the doors standing open.

  ‘Oh, well,’ Hunter said. ‘Let’s get on.’

  They sat for a while in his car, discussing strategy; it was essential Annette understand what was in his mind, so they could work step by step. As they were ready to go Hunter’s mobile phone rang — the call he had been expecting from Collier. The conversation was short and unsatisfactory ‘... so we’ve drawn a blank on both of them. I’m desperate enough to try daft Uncle William in Cheltenham. No, only joking,’ Hunter said with utmost gloom...

  They sat silently in the car for a few moments, thinking. Hunter said, ‘Robert Salter’s father is clean as a whistle, not so much as a parking offence, ever, a long and blameless life. And a watertight alibi — as you know.’

  ‘Mmm. I have to admit I took to him when I interviewed him, a sort of sparky, tough little man, really straight.’

  ‘Liz calls him the Running Elf.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s his hobby. Athletics. Runs in over-sixties marathons.’

  ‘Mens sana in corpore sano...’

  ‘Pro bono publico, as well, I shouldn’t wonder. Then there’s Wilfred. I understand women find him delicious.’

  Annette looked casual. Liz couldn’t have told him about their girl talk at the funeral? No, she wouldn’t...

  ‘ — hope they feel the same way about me when I’m his age. Fortunately Collier has a pal down in that part of Hampshire so he could set things going last night on an informal basis. And with kid gloves. Because his business reputation is unspotted, likewise domestic — if priapic: retired, widower etc. And it would seem his alibi stands up for that night — ’

  ‘And they’re the only ones we know of in the right age range.’

  ‘Yes.’ Hunter made a sound of exasperation. ‘There’s something staring me in the face, I wish to Christ I knew what it was.’

  *

  For the second time they stood in the porch at Woodside. Annette felt tense and a little sick — which was absurd; this was just part of an on-going investigation, just like any other. Only it didn’t feel like any other. She glanced sideways at Hunter; his absorbed look told her nothing. Then he turned his head, his expression changed: a communicative look, a half-smile. He nodded towards the closed door, said softly, ‘I’m ready for my close-up now, Mr de Mille.’

  Annette gulped, at once felt better. If only because of the reversion to the habit of wondering what the bloody hell he was saying to himself inside his head, and why. She recognised it, of course, whispered, ‘Gloria Swanson. Sunset Boulevard.’

  ‘Ah, I forgot you were an aficionado.’

  Annette thought again. And understood why Helen opened the door, looked at them without speaking. She was carefully dressed and made up; her face was strange to Annette — proud and haunted. She stepped aside, invited them in with a courteous gesture, led them to the sitting room where the lowering morning had filtered in through rain-streaked glass; a shadowiness tinged with violet. It was disturbing, as disturbing as Helen’s silence — a woman so schooled in social conformity, who would have at her command an entire vocabulary of automatic
murmurs: Good morning, please come in, do sit down, how may I help...

  But Helen said nothing; sat down, gracefully erect; the rigidity of her arms, her clasped hands, the only indication of tension. Hunter moved a chair slightly so that he could sir facing her. She regarded him with polite, if remote, interest. Annette remained standing. Mobility had its advantages.

  Hunter said easily. ‘Would you be good enough to help us, Miss Willoughby, by recollecting the night Beattie Booth drowned. Just a few details?’ He paused. She inclined her head. ‘Thank you. You and your brother went out at roughly the same time — I believe that’s what you said?’ He waited. Well-mannered but uncomprehending, she nodded. ‘Yes. And you spent the evening with a friend — a regular Thursday evening sick visit — returning home quite late — elevenish? You’d gone to bed by the time your brother returned, roughly midnight.’

  She spoke then — her sweet, precise articulation. ‘I can’t be sure of the exact times, but, yes, that would be approximately correct.’

  ‘Your friend is Miss Martha Riggs, yes? She lives on the Knutsford road — those Victorian houses overlooking the Green. Pleasant backwater, that... It’d be about, what? Ten minutes by car, I should think... ’ He took his time, fishing out his pocket book, turning pages. ‘Miss Riggs is a frail old lady, I gather, sometimes rather confused. It would be very difficult for her to recall dates and times.’

  ‘I am sure — ’ Helen made a perfectly judged forward movement (in another age it would have been a bow), charmingly and earnestly teaching him manners. ‘ — I am sure you would not be so inconsiderate as to question her.’