In the darkness of his cell, Terry Holland wrestled with a dilemma. Again and again he went over his interview with the duty solicitor, a thin-faced individual whose sparse grey hair matched his rumpled suit. His manner, as Terry gave a somewhat garbled account of his predicament, had been like that of a doctor listening to a patient describing his symptoms as, with pursed lips and a succession of raised eyebrows and curt nods, he sat scribbling in his notebook. From time to time he had interrupted with a question, scrutinising his client over the tops of his half-glasses as if trying to judge his state of health.
His assessment of the situation, when he finally got around to giving it, brought little solace to the beleaguered Terry. Despite its circumstantial nature, the evidence of the van was pretty damning and could well be accepted by a jury. Didn’t he have a better explanation than the one he had offered the police? As for the money, Charlie Foss, alias Hugo Bayliss, could hardly be expected to confirm Terry’s account of how he had come by it, but in the unlikely event that he did, the five grand – being indirectly part of the proceeds of a crime – would almost certainly be forfeit. The alternative explanation for the sudden acquisition of so much cash, the one the police obviously believed, was even less in Terry’s favour. If, after Lorraine Chant’s murder, a substantial sum was found to be missing… well, the inference was obvious, wasn’t it?
There remained the matter of the fingerprints on the necklace. The way in which they came to be there was, on the face of it, perfectly innocent, but it immediately gave rise to the question: what had brought Terry to The Laurels that afternoon? Would Mr and Mrs Bayliss confirm his story?
The net woven so ingeniously by his former partner in crime was slowly, inexorably tightening around Terry Holland. It was one of life’s ironies that, unknown to Terry, Charlie Foss was dead and would never know how successful his plan had been. As for his confused victim, tossing restlessly on the hard mattress, it seemed that he had only two choices: either to refuse to add to or alter his story, in the hope that the evidence of the necklace alone would be considered insufficient to bring a charge, or tell the truth about touching the necklace and kiss the money goodbye. With his record, the first alternative was decidedly dodgy. He could hardly bear to contemplate the second.
Rita Holland lay alone in her darkened bedroom. The brief period of rain had done little to relieve the stuffy atmosphere indoors, although she had opened the window as soon as it stopped and parted the curtains after putting out the light to admit as much as possible of the cool, still air. She stared up at the shadow of the window frame thrown on the ceiling by a street lamp outside the house and listened to the hum of traffic along Eastern Avenue. Sound and light. Son et Lumière… that was the name of the show she and Terry had taken Billy to see at some place by the river last August, only a couple of months or so after they had moved to Gloucester. Things had been tough then; they couldn’t afford the price of a ticket to get into the enclosure, but there had been a mound a short distance away and they’d watched from there. Billy had been ecstatic at the music, the bright figures against the floodlit walls of the ancient building where the show was being staged and the fantastic coloured lights reflected in the water. The three of them had been so happy, happy, happy. And now it was over.
Rita’s mind wandered through the intervening months up to the present time, reflecting on the way things had gradually improved. She had found a job, Billy had settled down at school and was doing well, and Terry had started getting recommendations which led to him picking up more and more work. Only a couple of weeks ago he’d talked about taking them down to Barry Island for a few days during the school holidays, said he’d met someone who would rent them a caravan cheap. She had at last come to believe he had kept his promise never to go back to the old ways or take up with the old crowd, to accept that this was the reason, the only reason,’ why he had insisted on coming to live in Gloucester. She knew different now.
There was no hope of sleep and she felt too exhausted and too drained to cry. She lay awake and open-eyed until the door opened softly and Billy crept into the room. She raised the thin covers and he slipped under them and nestled against her, the way he used to after a bad dream when he was a toddler, pillowing his head on her shoulder.
‘Mum,’ he whispered in a voice thickened by tears, ‘when will Dad be home?’
‘Soon, I hope,’ she whispered back, stroking his head.
It was not until she heard his soft, regular breathing and knew that he was asleep that her own tears began to fall.
Sukey went to bed reasonably satisfied with her day’s work. It always gave her a buzz when her efforts yielded a piece of evidence that would support and strengthen the case against an offender. She had been hoping to hear from Jim before turning in, but was not unduly surprised when he did not call.
She was not looking forward to tomorrow. It would not be the first time she had taken prints from a corpse, but the contact with cold, dead flesh always gave her a shudder. Still, it had to be done. Her thoughts turned to her meeting with Hugo Bayliss at the Bodywise Club. Even though she had played it cool, refused to respond to the overtly sexual signals he had sent out, she could not help but recognise his charm and admire his superb physique. There had been a magnetism about him which, she had no doubt, he would have played on for all he was worth once the two of them were alone. Maybe it was just as well she had never been put to the test.
Quite certainly, there had been a darker side to the man. His bullying manner towards young Rick was probably typical of the way he treated all his employees, and the bruises on his wife’s face pointed to a violent, possibly sadistic streak. Sukey wondered how much Mrs Bayliss had suffered at his hands and why, if he had regularly ill-treated her, she had stayed with him. Money probably had something to do with it. It was obvious from the house they lived in that there was plenty of that. Still, she couldn’t help feeling sorry for the poor woman. She was such a little thing, no match for Hugo if things got physical. She would probably have a better life without him although, with the illogical, perverse nature of so many victims of domestic violence, it was quite likely she had still been in love with him. His death must have been a terrible shock and it couldn’t have helped to know – or at any rate, suspect – that on the very day of his death he had planned an assignation with another woman.
Perhaps there was something Sukey could do to put the widow’s mind at rest on that point at least. She had the prints of the shots she had taken of the house and garden. They might not be of any interest in themselves, but they would bear out her story. Tomorrow morning she would drive over to Cheltenham and call in at The Laurels.
Having made this resolution, Sukey fell asleep.
Twenty-One
When Sukey arrived at The Laurels on Friday morning she was surprised to find an assortment of vehicles, including several private cars, already on the drive. Among them was a large white van bearing on its side a streamlined figure of a woman in a multi-coloured swimming costume diving into a pool surrounded by palm trees. Alongside was the legend ‘Bodywise Systems Ltd – Outdoor Water Installations and Fitness Equipment’.
Since there was no convenient space left for her to park, Sukey left the Astra in the street and walked towards the house. Halfway up the drive, she hesitated. Normally on such an errand she would have telephoned to make an appointment, but since she did not know the number it had not been possible. The other cars, a dark blue Ford Granada, a grey Cavalier and a bright red Metro, probably belonged to friends who had called to offer their condolences. It might be embarrassing for the widow if a strange woman were to appear on the doorstep, claiming that what might have seemed like an assignation had in fact been a strictly business arrangement, offering as proof nothing more than a few photographs. From some points of view, it might look like an attempt to extort money.
She was considering whether to abandon her mission when the wrought-iron gate leading to the garden swung open and a man emerged, got
into the Cavalier and drove away. There was something about him that seemed familiar and it took her only a few seconds to remember when and where she had seen him before… the previous morning at the County Police Headquarters in Cheltenham, talking to Inspector Mahony while she waited to give her statement. She remembered what Jim Castle had said about a possible malfunction of the sauna in which Hugo Bayliss had died. That would account for the presence of Bodywise Systems, who had probably sent one of their experts to examine it in the presence of a police officer. As if to confirm her theory, two men in overalls, one carrying a toolkit and the other an electric hand-lamp and a length of cable, appeared from the same direction as the detective. They stowed their gear in the back of the van, slammed the doors and climbed into the cab. Moments later they too drove off.
Deciding eventually that since she had taken the trouble to come this far she might as well carry out her intention, Sukey went up to the house and rang the bell. After a few seconds she heard shuffling footsteps and someone coughing; then the door was opened by a stout, red-faced woman with straggling white hair, leaning on a stick. A lighted cigarette dangled from her lips and she eyed Sukey up and down for a second or two, squinting through the smoke, before croaking, ‘Oo’re you?’
‘My name’s Mrs Reynolds,’ said Sukey, trying not to show surprise at the contrast between the woman’s slatternly appearance and that of the mistress of the house. ‘I’d like a word with Mrs Bayliss, if it’s convenient.’
The watery eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘What about?’ she demanded.
‘I have something I’d like to give her,’ Sukey replied.
The woman held out a hand and said, ‘Give it ’ere, I’ll see she gets it.’
‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather give it to her myself. There’s something I’d like to tell her.’ Sukey tried to keep her voice and manner pleasant, but she could feel her hackles rising in response to this hostile reception. ‘It’ll only take a moment.’
The woman took a drag on her cigarette before removing it from her mouth and calling over her shoulder, ‘Bren! Someone to see yer – a woman!’ She turned back to Sukey. ‘Oodja say y’are?’
‘Mrs Reynolds,’ Sukey replied and the name was repeated in a hoarse shout.
There was a pause before a female voice called back, ‘All right, Auntie, show her in.’ The door was grudgingly opened and Sukey stepped into the hall.
It felt creepy, being back in the house where only two days ago she had had the most hair-raising experience of her life. Under the sleeves of her loose cotton jacket she felt gooseflesh breaking out on her arms at the sight of the staircase down which she had fled with the helmeted figure in murderous pursuit. The shapeless old woman hobbling ahead of her, scattering ash on the carpet, was leading the way to the sitting room through which she had made her panic-stricken dash for freedom. Her pulse rate quickened at the thought of what might have happened had she not had the presence of mind to swerve and grab at the man’s ankle, catching him off balance and sending him flying helplessly into the pool. It could so easily have gone the other way; if she had been the one to land in the water it was unlikely that she would have come out alive. At this very moment her drowned body, like that of the man whose dubious invitation had brought her here, would be lying on a slab in the mortuary.
There were three people in the room. Mrs Bayliss was seated on a couch and lounging beside her was a man whom Sukey recognised from Jim Castle’s description as Hugo’s office manager, Steven Lovett. Almost deliberately, it seemed to her, he raised his right foot and placed it on his left thigh as she came through the door, as if to make it clear that he had no intention of doing her the courtesy of standing up.
In front of the patio window with his back to the room was a young man wearing joggers, trainers and a black sweatshirt on which the word ‘Instructor’ was printed in large blue letters. His momentary surprise when he turned round and saw Sukey changed to a slightly embarrassed grin as he greeted her by name.
‘Hi, Rick, fancy seeing you here,’ she said, instantly feeling a lot more relaxed at finding someone she knew, someone sympathetic who would vouch for her if necessary.
‘Me and the other instructors had a whip round for some flowers,’ he explained. ‘Just to say how sorry we are about… you know.’ Like many people, he seemed reluctant to mention death by name.
‘Wasn’t it sweet of them?’ said the widow. She picked up a large bouquet of carnations and irises that lay on a low table and sniffed delicately with a finely chiselled nose. She was immaculately groomed and made-up, and with her back to the light the bruises hardly showed. She glanced from Rick to Sukey and back again. ‘You know this lady?’
‘Sure, she’s one of our members,’ he replied. ‘Been working out at the club regular for a long time.’
‘It was at the Bodywise Club that I got chatting to your husband,’ Sukey told Mrs Bayliss. ‘I was so sorry to hear about his death.’ The neatly styled head gave a barely perceptible bob of acknowledgement. ‘I think I explained the day he… the day I came round here,’ Sukey continued. ‘He had he asked me about my job, and when he learned I was a photographer he asked me if I’d come and do a series of shots of your house and garden.’
There was a disbelieving cackle from behind her. ‘Oh yeah? ’Ow was ’e goin’ to pay yer – in kind?’
‘Auntie Gwen!’ Mrs Bayliss shot her a reproachful glance.
‘Well, you know what Charlie was like.’ The crone lit a fresh cigarette from the stub of the old one, which she crushed into an ashtray with nicotine-stained fingers. ‘Always lookin’ for the chance to get ’is ’ands into another woman’s knickers.’
Sukey felt her colour rise. ‘I assure you, Mrs Bayliss,’ she said, ‘there was absolutely nothing improper about my arrangement with your husband.’
‘No, no, I’m sure there wasn’t,’ said the widow, with a shake of the head at her offending relative. ‘Don’t take any notice of Auntie Gwen, she don’t… doesn’t mean it.’ She turned back to Sukey. ‘I remember you, of course, you arrived just as I was leaving on Wednesday to go to London.’ She turned to Lovett. ‘I mentioned it, didn’t I, Steven, when you came round that evening… when we found …’ She put a hand to her mouth and turned away, apparently overcome by emotion at the memory.
‘You did indeed.’ Lovett spoke for the first time. Sukey was conscious that he was scrutinising her closely through wire-framed glasses. ‘How did you know Mr Bayliss was dead?’ he asked. ‘There’s been nothing in the papers.’
For a moment, Sukey felt wrong-footed. It was true there had been no mention of the tragedy in Thursday’s Gazette and it was too early for today’s lunchtime edition. The last thing she wanted was to reveal her connection with the police. Thinking on her feet, she said, ‘I’ve got a friend in the ambulance service.’
‘I see.’ She had the feeling that Lovett was unconvinced. She remembered Jim Castle’s suggestion that there might be something between him and Mrs Bayliss and thought it could well be true. He certainly gave the impression of being thoroughly at home and it struck her that it was slightly unusual for an office manager to spend so much time with the widow of his late employer, especially now she had her aunt for company. Not that the old harridan seemed a particularly agreeable companion, but there was no accounting for taste. She decided to get the business over with and leave as soon as possible.
‘I’m aware that my visit on Wednesday morning took you by surprise,’ she began. ‘I was under the impression that you knew about it.’ There was another cackle from Auntie Gwen that turned into a fit of raucous coughing. Her niece hurried to her side and patted her between the shoulders until the spasm was over. When conversation was once more possible, Sukey pulled the packet of photographs from her pocket. ‘Perhaps I was taking a liberty,’ she went on, ‘but Mr Bayliss had given me what I took to be a genuine commission, and the gate to the garden was open so I went through and took the pictures anyway. I intended to give them to
him at the club next time I saw him – he used to come in on a Monday sometimes when I was doing my workout. I thought you might like to have them.’
After a moment’s hesitation, Mrs Bayliss took the envelope and put it on the table. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m sorry if I seemed rude the other day. I was in a hurry and—’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll go now.’ Sukey turned as she spoke, but found her way barred by Auntie Gwen.
‘Not so fast, young woman!’ she said aggressively. ‘Better check that envelope, Bren – see what’s really in it. I know your sort,’ she went on, thrusting her face close to Sukey’s and treating her to a whiff of tobacco-laden breath. ‘After money, that’s why you’re ’ere. My niece ain’t goin’ to part with none till we see what she’s getting for it.’
Sukey felt her temper rising. ‘I don’t recall asking for money, but since your aunt sees fit to raise the subject, your husband did offer me a fee,’ she informed Mrs Bayliss. ‘It was my intention to charge him fifty pounds for the job, but in the circumstances I decided not to mention it.’
‘Believe that an’ you’ll believe anything,’ sneered Auntie Gwen.
Sukey turned on her heel and pushed past her. ‘I’ll find my own way out,’ she said curtly to no one in particular. She had almost reached the front door when Mrs Bayliss caught up with her. She was holding a leather handbag which she was trying to open with one hand while clutching at Sukey’s arm with the other. She appeared genuinely distressed; her large eyes were swimming in tears.
‘Please, wait a moment,’ she said. ‘Don’t mind Auntie Gwen, she’s only looking out for me, always has done… and she never liked Charlie, you see.’
Death at Hazel House Page 20