A Choice of Victims

by J F Straker

  He was not among those invited back to the Manor, but even had he been invited he would not have gone. It was time to collect Sybil and the baby. He shook hands with the Doyles and walked briskly down the wreath-lined churchyard path to the Green and the incident room. From there, after a short conference with the officer in charge, he set out for Limpsted and the hospital.

  Detective Chief Superintendent Greenway was in the irritable mood that had plagued him since the start of his convalescence. He sat in the enclosed sunroom, the floor around him littered with papers and magazines—he seldom read a book—and stared gloomily at Driver.

  ‘You seem to be leaving a lot to George Hasted,’ he said. ‘Taking a breather, are you?’

  Driver knew better than to let that rile him. ‘Mrs Doyle’s murder isn’t the only major crime on the books,’ he said. ‘You know that, sir. But George has a good team and I do what I can. He also happens to live in West Deering. That’s useful. He knows the people.’

  ‘You don’t want me to ask the ACC for help?’

  ‘No, sir. Not yet, anyway.’

  Greenway shifted uneasily in his chair. He was more than tired of it. ‘Do you go along with Hasted’s suggestion that the woman may have been killed in mistake for another?’

  ‘It’s feasible,’ Driver said cautiously. ‘Deserves consideration.’

  ‘Consideration my foot!’ Greenway snapped. ‘If George is right and chummy is local, you’re fishing in a fairly small pond and it shouldn’t be beyond your expertise to catch something.’

  Driver nodded noncommittally, not bothering to point out that even in a small pond it was not easy to catch one particular fish, and even harder if your hook was not baited. Smart answers did not go down well with the chief.

  ‘I’ll have to be getting along, sir,’ he said. ‘Any idea when you’re likely to be back?’

  ‘Around the end of next week, according to Hamilton, my doctor. But don’t count on it. He said that last week.’

  ‘I hope he’s right this time.’

  ‘So do I. All right, Driver, off you go. Oh! I almost forgot. Edna has one of her female protégées coming to dinner tonight. Pretty girl. Janice Something-or-other. She was hoping you’d be free to make a fourth.’

  ‘That’s kind of her,’ Driver said. ‘But I’m afraid I can’t make it. I already have an engagement for this evening and it’s too late now to cancel it. I’m sorry.’

  Greenway grunted. ‘Police business?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Hm! Not like you to put business before pleasure.’

  Not true, Driver thought as he drove away. And the chief knew it was not true. But then his ‘sort of’ had also been nudging the truth. The business he envisaged would, he hoped, have very little to do with police work. A pity about Janice Something-or-other. If she really was pretty—and the chief was a fair judge—maybe he could fit her in some other time.

  *

  Eileen Rycroft had prepared a casserole for their evening meal, with a gooseberry fool to follow, but she tactfully declined their invitation to stay and share it. She did, however, accept a glass of champagne to celebrate Sybil’s return, and put Jason to bed while Sybil attended to Martin James. Glad as he was for his wife to be back, it occurred to Hasted that the extra work and disruption entailed by the baby suggested that life at home might never be quite the same again. Or was ‘never’ too strong a word—even though Sybil had hinted that she still hankered after a girl?

  As they ate he listened with as much concentration as he could muster to Sybil’s further revelations of life in the maternity ward: how this baby had jaundice and that baby a cleft palate, how this nurse was a sweetie and that nurse a martinet, how this woman’s husband had not visited her once and that woman’s husband had spent a night in a police cell after celebrating the birth of his son too liberally. But he had heard much of it before and his mind was on other matters, and presently, alerted by his lack of comment, she said, ‘Well, that’s enough of me. What’s new on the crime front?’

  He accepted the opening with alacrity. ‘There’s a possibility that Mrs Doyle was unlucky,’ he said. ‘She—’

  ‘Unlucky?’ Sybil laughed. ‘That’s an understatement if ever I heard one.’

  ‘I mean unlucky in the sense that she wasn’t the intended victim. That she was killed in mistake for Cheryl Mason.’

  ‘Really? But that’s crazy! And why Cheryl Mason?’

  Hasted explained. ‘Trouble is, of course, we can’t be sure. Which means we have to look two ways.’ He got up to remove the dishes. ‘Who, I wonder, might be interested in the early demise of Cheryl Mason?’

  ‘That’s easy,’ she said. ‘The Marstons.’

  ‘Marston?’ He frowned. ‘The Doyle’s ex-gardener? The one she sacked for being drunk?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘And how do the Marstons connect with Cheryl Mason?’

  ‘Kate Marston is old Mr Philipson’s niece. She’s also his only surviving relative, according to Monica Ebbutt.’ Forestalling his next query, she added, ‘Monica is the Marstons’ eldest daughter.’

  Light dawned. ‘And the Marstons would be worried that Cheryl Mason is after the old boy’s money, which otherwise would come to them. Is that it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hm! Tell me more about the Marstons.’

  They lived in the Rye, she said, along with three of their five children, the youngest of whom was only a few months old. Tom, the eldest son, was in the army; the two other boys, both in their teens, were unemployed. ‘Kate Marston’s a member of the Mothers’ Union; that’s how I came to meet her. I don’t know the rest of the family. Except Monica, of course. She’s a nice girl. We’re both on the committee for the Young Wives’ Guild.’

  ‘You and your committees!’ he said, smiling. ‘What’s her husband do?’

  ‘He’s a salesman. Groceries, I think. They have a bungalow in the Rye.’

  ‘Any of the family involved in Meals on Wheels?’

  ‘Monica is. Why?’

  He told her why. ‘Come to think of it, Marston’s a candidate no matter who he believed the woman to be. He would see Cheryl Mason as a threat to his wife’s inheritance and Mrs Doyle as the ogress who gave him the sack.’

  ‘Isn’t the sack too weak a motive for murder?’ she asked.

  ‘According to the annals of crime no motive is too weak. And Marston’s been unemployed since, hasn’t he? That would rankle. Given that he was drunk at the time...’ He nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, the Marstons are definitely worth a visit.’

  *

  Sipping a Martini, Felicity Scott sat in the living room of Driver’s flat and scrutinized the pictures adorning the walls. Apart from a huge Van Dongen that seemed to dominate the room, none, she thought, would have been given hanging space in the gallery where she worked. Most depicted sea and sail by artists unknown to her. Not that she could be considered an authority. Not after only fourteen months in the trade.

  ‘How’s the Martini coming?’ Driver called from the kitchen.

  ‘Nicely, thanks. How’s the food coming? I’m starving.’

  ‘Won’t be long now.’

  It had been her idea that they should eat at the flat. On the two occasions they had dined out together he had been critical of the food or the wines or the service, implying a culinary knowledge that had impressed her even though she had suspected that much of it was superficial. So she had challenged him. ‘If you’re such an expert on food,’ she had said, ‘how about a practical demonstration on its preparation? Or isn’t your skill equal to your knowledge?’ He had replied with appropriate modesty that it was not in his nature to boast, but that he reckoned he could dish up as appetizing a meal as most chefs. ‘Prove it,’ she had said. ‘I’ll be down in West Deering this weekend; there are things I need, and the parents like me to keep an eye on the place while they’re away. So how about feeding me Friday evening?’ He had hesitated before accepting the challenge. Then—‘You�
�re on,’ he had said. ‘Seven-thirty for eight, and don’t be late. Don’t be early either.’ ‘Why not early?’ she had asked. ‘Cooking is an art demanding the chef’s full attention,’ he had told her, ‘and I rate you as being very much a distraction.’

  She finished the Martini. ‘Sure I can’t help?’ she called.

  ‘No need. It’s practically on its way.’

  Her attention shifted from the walls to the room as a whole. It was a long room, with a dining area adjoining the kitchen at the far end. The solid oak furniture was good reproduction, the refectory table already laid for two. The armchairs and the settee were of leather, the Wilton carpeting thick. There were few ornaments, the most striking of which was a wooden model of a square-rigged sailing ship, its sails neatly furled. There was a small television set, and a music centre from which came the sound of a piano medley, its volume muted.

  Driver emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray. Felicity stood up and joined him at the table. ‘Smells good,’ she said, wrinkling her nose as she sniffed the subtle aroma emanating from the two Royal Worcester dishes. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Seafood ramekins,’ he told her. ‘Mind if we stick to champagne? I don’t really go for this white/red switch.’

  ‘Champagne will do nicely,’ she assured him.

  She approved the ramekins. Delicious, she said. So was the duck, served with peas and baby carrots and a brandy sauce, and garnished with cherries and orange slices. Her appetite mirrored her praise, and he felt a glow of satisfaction as he watched her eat. No need to tell her that the food had been prepared and cooked by a professional chef, engaged at considerable expense, who had left the flat only minutes before her arrival. It was not really cheating. He had not claimed culinary skill, only that he could dish up an appetizing meal. Which was precisely what he had done. And at least the finishing touches had been his.

  She told him about her job. It was only a small gallery, she said, but she loved the work. The owner was charming, a fat, ebullient little man who treated her as a daughter, and she had met so many interesting people. ‘Your father was in the other day,’ she said. ‘I told him I’d met you.’

  ‘Did he buy anything?’

  ‘No.’ She looked across at the Van Dongen. ‘What made you buy that?’

  ‘I didn’t. An aunt left it to me in her will. She knew I liked seascapes.’

  ‘So I see.’

  ‘I’ve got a boat down at Chichester,’ he said. ‘How about coming out with me one weekend?’

  ‘No thanks,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m the world’s worst sailor. I’m even sick on the river.’ She took a final mouthful of duck and looked at him with grudging admiration. ‘I’ve got to hand it to you, James. I thought you were a phoney. Now—well, I apologize. That was quite a meal.’

  ‘We’re not through yet,’ he said, getting up. ‘Mop up the champagne while you’re waiting.’

  It was time, she thought, that she began to consider him seriously. This was only the fourth evening they had spent together, but she realized that already he was becoming important to her. He was good-looking in a very masculine way, he was amusing and assured, he was well-bred and well-groomed. And according to his father he was a brave copper as well as a good one. In addition to two commendations he also held the Queen’s Police Medal for gallantry.

  He returned with two tall glasses. ‘Zabaglione!’ she exclaimed. ‘Now, that’s perfect. A lovely way to finish such a meal. Am I likely to be invited again?’

  ‘Anytime,’ he assured her. ‘You’ve become my favourite guest.’

  They were drinking coffee and liqueurs on the settee when she said, ‘What made you join the police? You’re obviously keen on the sea. Why not the navy?’

  ‘Sailing is just a hobby,’ he said. ‘I love it, but I wouldn’t want it full-time. And police work is tremendously satisfying. I get a real kick out of it.’

  ‘Are you good at it? Your father thinks you are.’

  ‘He would. Let’s say I’ve been reasonably successful.’

  ‘Are you going to succeed in your search for Mrs Doyle’s murderer?’

  ‘I hope so. But that’s not me, that’s a team effort.’ He sipped brandy. ‘You know the family. How do you rate her husband?’

  ‘I rather fancied him once,’ she said. ‘He’s quite good-looking. But it didn’t last long. He’s shallow and egotistic. Terribly selfish. Why? Do you think he killed her?’

  He laughed. ‘I don’t answer questions like that. Not from a layman. Or laywoman, rather.’

  ‘Laywoman? Is that what I am?’ Recognizing the double entendre, she added quickly, ‘Don’t answer that!’

  ‘I don’t think my answer would have embarrassed you,’ he said.

  She was very beautiful, he thought, and eminently desirable. Slim and elegant, with long shapely legs and small breasts and almost as tall as himself. Her light summer frock was patterned in pastel shades of blue and green, in subtle contrast to the rich auburn of her hair. He wondered how his father had reacted to her. The old boy had a keen eye for female beauty.

  ‘What are Doyle’s interests?’ he asked. ‘Any idea?’

  ‘Himself, first and foremost. Otherwise—well, perhaps “sybarite” describes him best. He’s not interested in sport, although he plays tennis occasionally. He could have been a useful player if he’d ever taken it seriously. So could Andrew. He hits the ball tremendously hard. But all Andrew thinks about is cars, the faster the better.’

  ‘Do you like him?’

  ‘Andrew?’ She shrugged. ‘He’s all right, I suppose. Not my type, though. Too morose. But Patricia adores him. She even persuaded the parents to invite him on holiday with them in Greece. Andrew turned it down.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ She twisted on the settee to face him. ‘I hope you didn’t invite me here just to pump me about the Doyles. I don’t like being used. Not like that, anyway.’

  ‘Ah!’ He took her hand. ‘In what way, then?’

  ‘Well, for a start, you might try kissing me.’

  ‘I had it in mind,’ he said.

  He put his arms round her and drew her close. Under the light material her body was warm and pliant, seeming to mould itself against him. Her lips too were warm; warm and soft and eager. As they parted from the kiss she looked at him and smiled, then dropped her head to his shoulder and snuggled close.

  ‘How did that grab you?’ he asked.

  ‘Not bad,’ she said. ‘Better than talking shop.’

  ‘Is that all? No violins? No waves breaking on the shore?’

  ‘Not that I noticed.’

  ‘Really? Well, let’s see if we can’t do better.’

  The kiss was longer and more passionate than before. Her arms crept around his neck, her body moved sinuously against him. Excitement filled him. But when his hand moved to her breast and sought to explore further she drew away.

  ‘No?’ he queried, his voice thick.

  ‘Not exactly,’ she said. ‘But what you obviously have in mind is more suited to the bedroom. You do have a bedroom, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, unable to believe what the question seemed to promise.

  ‘Good.’ She stood up. ‘Then let’s go use it, darling, shall we?’

  *

  As he bathed and shaved the next morning his mind roamed back over the night. Neither of them was a virgin, and their combined expertise in sexual activity had made it a memorable experience. Both had uttered words of love in their more passionate moments, but in the prosaic light of morning he wondered how much love had been involved. More on his part, he suspected, than on hers. He found that slightly disturbing.

  Wearing his dressing gown over her nudity, she was making coffee when he joined her in the kitchen. He looked at her admiringly. ‘Incredible!’ he said, and kissed her. ‘You look as beautiful this morning as you did last night. I wouldn’t have thought that possible.’

  ‘Compliments!’ she scoffed.
r />   ‘You don’t like compliments?’

  ‘Of course I like them. I don’t believe them, that’s all. What’s for breakfast?’

  Both were hungry. They ate bacon and sausages and fried eggs, with toast and marmalade to follow. He would be busy during the day, Driver said, but why did they not get together again that evening? She had a date, she said, she would be returning to London as soon as she had collected the things she needed from home. He did not enquire about the date. Nor did he feel jealous. Just disappointment, tempered by the knowledge that he could not have arranged another such dinner in the time available.

  *

  ‘What, again?’ Frances smiled a welcome as she opened the front door. ‘You’re ruining my reputation, Mr Hasted. People will start to talk.’

  Hasted laughed. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Holden. It’s just that—well, like it or not, you seem to have quite a few of the answers I need. Or I hope you have.’

  ‘It’s likely to become a habit, then, is it?’ Frances led the way into the sitting room. ‘In that case I suggest we drop the Mr and Mrs and stick to Christian names. All right?’

  ‘It’s fine by me,’ he said.

  ‘Good. Now, what is it this time?’

  ‘I need to talk to the children.’ Through the open window he could see Natalie and Victor playing with the dogs on the lawn. Andrew was there too, and Blondie. Victor was throwing a ball for the dogs to fetch, but the cairns’ short little legs were no match for the longer ones of the retriever, and although they chased after it hell for leather, giving tongue as they went, it was always Blondie who reached it first. ‘They were out walking, weren’t they, on the day Mrs Doyle was killed? What time did they get back?’