by J F Straker
She had gone only a short way when the silence was broken by the sound of dead wood snapping underfoot. She turned and looked back. The sound had seemed to come from behind and to her right, but she could see no movement between the trees and she went on, quickening her pace. Now there were other sounds—heavy footsteps on hard ground, the rustle of movement through the undergrowth—and glancing fearfully over her shoulder she saw a dark figure moving menacingly towards her some twenty yards away. There was a moment of utter panic. Then she screamed and, still screaming, broke into a stumbling run.
*
Philipson sat on the edge of the bed and put on his trousers. He had overdone it, he knew that. There was a tight band of pain across his chest and the all too familiar tingling in his arms; the air in the room was so close that he had difficulty in breathing. He eased himself off the bed and moved slowly across the room to draw back the curtains and open the window. And it was as he leaned out to suck in air that he heard the scream. He knew at once that it was Cheryl. For a brief moment he stood gripping the sill, shocked into immobility. Then he turned and made for the door. He never reached it. The band across his chest tightened, closing his lungs to air. There was a loud thumping in his head and a mist crept over his eyes. Gasping for breath, he opened his mouth to cry out. Then the light failed completely, and he fell.
Chapter Eight
Trade at the Post Office Stores was seldom brisk, but in general it was briskest on Mondays and Saturdays. On Mondays people came in for essential items that needed replenishing after the weekend and on Saturdays for whatever they had forgotten to purchase in the Limpsted supermarkets during the week. By nine-thirty that Monday morning there were several customers in the shop, and Hasted’s request for a little of Ed Mason’s time was not well received. Could it not wait until the shop closed for lunch? Mason asked. No, Hasted said, it could not. But fifteen minutes or so was all he needed. Mrs Barnes could cope, could she not?
‘She gets flustered if there are people waiting to be served,’ Mason said, leading the way into the room at the back. ‘And I don’t let her handle the post office side. However...’ He shut the door. ‘What is it this time, Mr Hasted?’
‘Last week you told me that on the day Mrs Doyle was killed you spent some time sitting in your car near the Falcon, watching for your wife,’ Hasted reminded him. Mason nodded. ‘Between what times? Can you remember?’
‘Between a quarter to one and half-past,’ Mason said promptly. ‘But she didn’t come.’
‘So you said. But you were watching the entrance to the ride, presumably.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you see anyone else leave the village via the ride?’
‘Yes. Andrew Doyle, for one. And a man named Marston. Used to be Mrs Doyle’s gardener.’
Promising, Hasted thought. ‘Anyone else?’
‘Not as I remember.’
‘Did Andrew and Marston both come from the Falcon?’
‘Yes.’ Mason gave a thin smile. ‘Young Andrew looked as though he’d had too much to drink. Very unsteady, he was.’
‘Any idea what time they left the pub?’
‘Roughly. Andrew came out about five minutes after I got there. Ten to one, say. Marston was a few minutes later.’
‘So Andrew would have been a couple of hundred yards or so down the ride when Marston entered it. Could Marston have seen him?’
‘I wouldn’t think so. The ride isn’t straight. And it was raining heavily. Visibility was poor.’
‘Did you watch them till they were out of sight?’
‘No. They didn’t interest me.’ Mason allowed curiosity to get the better of impatience. ‘What’s this all about, Mr Hasted?’
‘Just answer the questions, please,’ Hasted said. ‘Did you see Marston return?’
‘Yes. About twenty past, I think.’
‘You seem surprisingly pat on times,’ Hasted said.
‘Well, I would be, wouldn’t I? I kept looking at my watch, wondering what had happened to Cheryl.’
Hasted nodded. ‘How about the Holden children? They came home through the woods. Did you see them?’
‘That’s right. They had the dogs with them. Only that was earlier. Just after one o’clock.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘Well, there was Bassett,’ Mason said.
‘Tony Bassett?’
Mason nodded. ‘You know him, do you? Yes, I suppose you would, you being a policeman. He came down the ride just before I left.’
‘Had you seen him go into the woods?’
‘No. Must have been before I got there.’
In which case, Hasted decided, he was unlikely to have been, as Marston had suggested, the man the Holden children had seen. Despite his denial, Marston was still the best bet for that. Besides, it seemed most unlikely that Bassett had any connection with either Elizabeth Doyle or Cheryl Mason.
Driver was in the mobile incident room. Nothing seemed to be moving, Driver complained. Nothing new on Bates, nothing new on Doyle, nothing new on anyone. ‘And Elphick seems to have reached an impasse on the Scott job,’ he told Hasted. ‘He’s got this gut feeling about Bassett. The evidence says Bassett wasn’t responsible, but Elphick won’t accept it. You come up with anything, George?’
Hasted told him about Marston. ‘The timing looks a bit tight, though. Half an hour in which to get to where the Morris was parked, kill Mrs Doyle and stuff her into the boot, take the car up to the lane and then return to the Falcon. I haven’t covered the distance on the ground, but from the map I’d say he would have had to move at a pretty smart trot throughout.’
‘Could the times be wrong?’
‘Not about when he left the Falcon. Mason and Grover agree on that, give or take a minute. I suppose Mason could be a few minutes out on the time he returned. But even another five minutes would still keep it tight.’
‘Maybe he’s a fast mover.’
‘Maybe. It would certainly explain why Bright and Willis saw no one near the Morris. Marston would have been haring back through the woods. But that’s hardly enough, is it?’
‘Hardly.’
‘Well, anyway, I’ll have another word with him.’ Hasted looked at his watch. ‘Before he makes for the pub, if possible.’
They were crossing the Green to where Driver’s Rover was parked when Driver said, ‘You’ve heard about Philipson, I suppose?’
‘Claud Philipson? No. What about him?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Good Lord!’ Hasted was shocked. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Last night, apparently, although it wasn’t discovered until this morning. A Mrs Webster, who says she “does” for him, found him lying on the bedroom floor.’
‘How did he die?’
‘A massive heart attack, according to the MO. He had probably been resting—he was wearing nothing up top—and was making for the phone when he collapsed.’
Hasted watched the Rover move smoothly up the road. It was turning left by the church when from behind him Cheryl Mason said, ‘May I have a word with you, please, Mr Hasted?’
‘Of course,’ Hasted said. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I—’ She hesitated. ‘A man tried to attack me yesterday. I wasn’t going to bother you—I mean nothing actually happened—but Andrew—you know, Andrew Doyle—he said I should.’
‘Quite right.’ Was this proof of the alternate theory? Hasted wondered. Having got the wrong victim at his first attempt, had the killer decided to try again? But how the devil did Andrew come into it? ‘I take it he didn’t succeed.’
‘No. Andrew scared him off.’
‘So what happened exactly?’
She told him what had happened. ‘I screamed and started to run—only I couldn’t run very fast because the track’s that rough I kept stumbling—and then Andrew appeared. With his dog. He’d been walking home along the ride and had heard me screaming. I was so relieved to see him I sort of threw myself at him.’ She shook her
head. ‘I was a bit incoherent, I suppose, and by the time I’d managed to explain what had happened the man had vanished.’
‘Did you get a good look at him?’ Hasted asked. ‘Could you describe him?’
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘I just caught a quick glimpse over my shoulder and then I ran. He was wearing something dark—overalls, I think, or a boiler suit—with a sort of mask over his face.’ She grimaced at the memory. ‘It was the noise he made that frightened me most, I think.’
‘Noise? What sort of noise?’
‘Oh, you know! Forcing his way through the undergrowth, beating at things—with a stick, I suppose—stamping his feet as he ran. It was really scary.’
‘Did Andrew see him?’
Andrew had got just a brief glimpse of the man’s back as he disappeared among the trees, Cheryl said. He had wanted to go after the man, but she was too scared of being left, and they had walked back to the Falcon and she had driven him and Blondie home. ‘You can’t imagine how glad I was to see him,’ she said. ‘Apart from just being there, he’s so big and—well, solid.’
‘He is that,’ Hasted agreed. ‘Anything else you can tell me?’
‘Well, there’s this.’ She took an envelope from her handbag. ‘My husband said he found it on the mat Sunday before yesterday, when he came down in the morning. It must have been put through the letter box during the night, I suppose.’
Hasted extracted the single sheet of cheap lined notepaper. On it, written in crudely formed capitals were the words, ‘KEEP AWAY FROM C.P. IF YOU WANT TO STAY HEALTHY. I’LL BE WATCHING.’
‘Charming!’ Hasted said. ‘Any idea who wrote it?’ She shook her head. ‘Not even a vague suspicion?’
‘Not really,’ she said, after some hesitation.
He replaced the note in the envelope. ‘You say your husband “said” he found it on the mat. Are you suggesting he might have put it there himself?’
She shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’
‘Why would he do that? I assume C.P. refers to Claud Philipson.’
‘He doesn’t like me visiting him,’ she said. ‘He thinks people get a wrong impression. But that’s nonsense, isn’t it? He’s just a lonely old man who needs cheering up.’
Her use of the present tense told him she had not yet learned of Philipson’s death; for once the village grapevine seemed to have lacked its customary efficiency. Recalling Mason’s version of the association, he wondered how she would react to the news when he told her. As he supposed he must.
‘Could your husband have been the man you saw last night?’ he asked.
‘Well, he could have been, couldn’t he? You know—trying to scare me off. Except that he always spends Sunday evenings with his mother.’
‘Was he with her yesterday evening?’
‘I don’t know, do I?’
‘Was he home when you got back?’
‘No.’
‘If it was your husband, presumably he wrote this himself,’ Hasted tapped the envelope against the palm of his other hand. ‘But if he didn’t, could he have known the contents?’
‘I don’t see how. It was sealed when I got it.’
‘You haven’t shown it to him?’
‘Oh, no!’
What a marriage! Hasted thought. ‘Well, you obviously didn’t take it seriously,’ he said, ‘or you wouldn’t have visited Philipson yesterday. Why was that, Mrs Mason?’
‘It was so—well, so melodramatic. That’s the word, isn’t it? I didn’t expect anyone actually to attack me. I thought it was just words. You know? That’s why I didn’t show it to the police.’
‘A pity,’ he said. ‘What time did you leave Mr Philipson yesterday?’
‘Just after seven.’
‘And how was he then?’
The question seemed to surprise her. Embarrass her too, Hasted thought. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘A bit tired, perhaps. Why?’
As sympathetically as he could, he told her. He expected her to be shocked, and obviously she was. But there was something else too. Anger? Fear? He could not be sure. Whatever it was, it looked out of place on the face of someone who had just learned of the death of a friend. If not tears, there should at least have been sorrow.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
God! she thought when he had left her. What a bloody disaster! Just a few more days and Philly would have altered his will and I wouldn’t have cared what happened to him or to anyone. Now the money will go to some damned charity, and all I have to look forward to are years and years of Ed and his wretched shop. Christ! I’d as soon be dead!
Sick with rage and disgust at how Fate had cheated her, she kicked furiously at a tuft of grass and exclaimed in pain as her foot connected with a concealed stone.
*
‘All right!’ Marston said. ‘So I forgot to mention I’d been in the woods. But what’s the difference? I didn’t kill the bitch.’
‘The difference,’ Hasted said, ‘is that a man only lies to the police when he has something to hide. Something that could land him in real trouble if it came to their notice.’ He massaged his heavy chin. ‘What’s your something, Mr Marston?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh, come off it, man!’ Hasted said curtly. ‘Stop playing games. You were in the woods for a good half-hour with the rain pelting down, when you could have been knocking them back in the pub. I want to know why.’
Marston scowled. ‘None of your bloody business.’
‘No? Then I’ll damned well make it my business.’ Hasted stood up. So did Burbidge. ‘On your feet, Marston. We’re taking you in for questioning on suspicion of being involved in the murder of Elizabeth Doyle. And I must warn you—’
‘No!’ Kate cried. ‘Oh, no!’ She turned to her husband. ‘Tell them, Bob. Please! You know what’ll happen when they get you down there. One way or another they’ll make you talk.’ Her voice rose. ‘Tell them, you fool! Why not? You done nothing wrong.’
Although he resented the implication of police brutality, Hasted welcomed the woman’s interruption. He did not want to have to implement his bluff. And it had been bluff. There was no real evidence to connect the man with the killing; only motive (although if Marston had hated the woman enough to kill her, would he have waited nearly a year before doing so?) and, given some elasticity in the time factor, opportunity. Yet he had definitely been up to something. Hasted wanted to know what.
‘Well?’ he demanded.
‘All right,’ Marston growled. ‘All right, damn you, I’ll tell you.’
It was a long, rambling account, peppered with obscenities and full of repetition. The gist was much as Hasted might have expected. The Marstons had resented Cheryl Mason’s attempts to win Claud Philipson’s affection and so perhaps induce him to make a will in her favour to the exclusion of Kate, his only living relative. The Meals on Wheels list had shown Cheryl’s name against that Friday, and knowing she would be at the old man’s cottage around one o’clock, Marston had decided to give her a fright. He had hidden among the trees at the edge of the clearing and waited for her to leave. ‘Only it weren’t her,’ Marston said. ‘It was the Doyle woman. I saw her face when she stopped in the porch to put that hood thing over her head.’ He shrugged. ‘So I come home.’
‘You didn’t seize the opportunity to revenge yourself on Mrs Doyle?’ Hasted asked.
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘How did you intend to frighten Mrs Mason?’
‘I don’t know. I hadn’t thought.’
‘Chase her, perhaps? Harry her?’
‘Maybe.’
‘As you did yesterday evening?’ Hasted suggested.
‘Eh?’ Marston’s red face took on an even ruddier hue. ‘What do you mean, yesterday evening?’
‘I mean that yesterday evening a man tried to attack Mrs Mason as she left Philipson’s cottage at around seven o’clock. And if Andrew Doyle hadn’t intervened h
e would probably have succeeded. I’m suggesting the man was you.’
‘It bloody wasn’t!’ Marston gripped the sides of his chair and half rose. ‘That’s a bloody lie, that is. I never—’
‘It wasn’t him, sir,’ Kate said quickly. ‘It couldn’t have been him. He was here, looking after the baby while me and the boys was at church. Monica—my daughter—she took us. You can ask her if you don’t believe me.’
‘I don’t doubt you were at church, Mrs Marston,’ Hasted said. ‘But that doesn’t prove your husband was at home while you were away.’
‘But it does,’ she protested. ‘He’d never leave the baby. Never. And he was here when we got back.’
‘What time was that?’
‘About seven. A few minutes earlier, p’raps. But it certainly weren’t later.’
Hasted was puzzled. All the evidence—the threatening letter, Marston’s avowed intention to frighten Cheryl Mason away from the old man, his abortive attempt to do so the previous Sunday—pointed to Marston. And yet...
He took the threatening note from its envelope and held it for Marston for see. ‘Now you’ll tell me you didn’t write this,’ he said.
Marston stared at the note. ‘I didn’t,’ he said.
Hasted knew he was lying. ‘Ever heard of fingerprints?’ he said. ‘Ever heard of handwriting experts? If you wrote this, Marston, lying won’t help you. We can prove it beyond any possible doubt.’ He replaced the note in the envelope. ‘Now. Did you write it?’
Marston shrugged. ‘It was a joke.’
‘The hell it was!’ Hasted paused. ‘You’ve heard about Philipson, I suppose?’
‘Yes,’ Kate said. ‘Tilly Webster told us.’
There was neither sorrow nor satisfaction in her tone. Hasted could understand the lack of sorrow—according to Sybil there had been no love lost between the Marstons and the old man—but from what he had learned of their financial position he would have expected at least a hint of suppressed excitement. Or did they believe—perhaps even know—that Philipson had made his girlfriend his sole beneficiary?
‘What do you reckon, sir?’ Burbidge asked as they crossed the road to Hasted’s Cortina. ‘About yesterday evening, I mean. Do you believe them?’