Six Proud Walkers

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Six Proud Walkers Page 7

by Anthea Fraser


  Unable to bear the suspense, Gavin burst out, ‘Well? I thought you wanted to speak to me?’

  ‘Oh we do, Mr Walker, we do. First, may I offer our sympathy on your grandmother’s death.’

  Gavin flushed and looked away. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I suppose your parents broke the news when you came home?’

  He nodded.

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Oh—quite late. About one, I think. I’d been to a disco.’

  ‘It must have been a considerable shock.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Webb hitched himself on to the desk, folding his arms and looking down at the uncomfortable boy. ‘Especially since you’d been expected there for tea?’

  Again the flush, deeper this time, staining face and neck with hot scarlet. ‘I decided not to go.’

  Webb said mildly, ‘Wasn’t that rather rude?’

  ‘I didn’t want another lecture,’ Gavin said in a low voice. ‘About taking a year off?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I understand you quarrelled with her at your party?’ Another nod. ‘I’d like to hear about it, please, in your own words.’

  Stumblingly, Gavin complied. His account tallied closely with Lydia’s. As he finished, Webb said, his eyes on the boy’s face, ‘It may interest you to know we found another cheque in her handbag. Made out to you, for a considerable sum.’

  Gavin said in a whisper, ‘Oh God,’ and his knuckles whitened on his lap.

  ‘To come back to yesterday, then. Wouldn’t it have been kinder to phone and let her know you weren’t going?’ Gavin spread his hands.

  ‘As it was,’ Webb continued deliberately, ‘she left the door open for you, which would have made it easy for her killer.’ The boy flinched, and he went on, ‘You can picture her, can’t you, waiting for you in the drawing-room? She’d hear a footstep in the hall, and think it was you.’

  ‘He could have got in through the windows,’ Gavin burst out. ‘It wasn’t my fault!’

  Webb bent forward. ‘How do you know they were open?’

  For a moment the boy stared at him, and there was panic in his eyes. Then he said stumblingly, ‘My mother said so. She ran out to call for help.’

  ‘You’re quite sure you weren’t there yourself, Mr Walker? You didn’t decide to go and plead your case, and when she wouldn’t change her mind, lose your temper? Wasn’t that what happened?’

  ‘No! I swear it wasn’t! Anyway, if you found a cheque, she had changed her mind.’

  ‘But you didn’t know that, did you? She hadn’t produced it. Perhaps she made one last attempt to dissuade you, and your temper snapped.’

  Miserably the boy shook his head, avoiding Webb’s eyes.

  ‘I get the feeling you know more than you’re telling us. It isn’t wise to hold things back, you know, especially in a murder case.’ Silence. ‘Very well, we’ll move on. I need to know exactly where you were yesterday afternoon, and at what times.’

  Slowly, with a lot of prompting, they got his story. He’d been at a friend’s house—‘Who?’— Kevin Daniels—‘Address?’— and had at that time intended to keep the appointment. But as the afternoon wore on he changed his mind, and when he left Kevin, went instead straight to Shillingham.

  ‘By bus?’ Webb interrupted again.

  ‘No, my parents gave me a car for my birthday. I went in that.’

  ‘Where did you park?’

  ‘On a metre in Westgate.’

  Damn! No checking at the multi-storey, then.

  ‘I went to a record shop and browsed for a bit. Then I had a pizza and met my friends at the Jolly Waggoner.’

  Times were duly noted down in Jackson’s pocket-book. Gavin ended his account with his parents waiting up for him to break the news.

  ‘And that’s all you want to tell us?’

  ‘Yes.’ Defiantly, he met Webb’s eyes.

  ‘Very well. Would you please ask your aunt if we could have a word?’

  ‘You mean I can go?’

  Tor the moment, yes.’

  Lydia came quickly into the room, her lovely face gaunt. ‘You’ve managed to contact my husband?’

  ‘Not yet, Mrs Walker. I believe he’s due back at the factory at midday.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I just thought—’

  ‘In the meantime, I’d be grateful for a list of the guests at the birthday party, and also as many names as you can remember of people who attended the fete.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘You don’t think one of our friends killed her?’

  It was an echo of Hannah’s incredulity.

  ‘It’s a process of elimination,’ he soothed her. Lord knew, he’d little else to go on. ‘By the way, where’s your maid? Is she here too?’

  ‘No, she’s with her sister in Fallowfield. Poor Phyllis, she was terribly upset.’

  ‘Have you the sister’s address?’

  Lydia looked distraught. ‘I’m afraid not—we just sent her off in a taxi. I have the phone number, though, in my diary.’ And she hurried out of the room to fetch it.

  Ten minutes later, Webb and Jackson were on their way back to Honeyford. ‘We’ll look in at the Incident Room,’ Webb said, ‘then it’ll be time to set out for the factory. I must be there when Neville Walker arrives. Except for the boy, I saw the others’ initial reaction, and I intend to see his, too. Then, on the way back, we’ll drop in on the maid at Fallowfield.’

  Jackson made no comment. It would be a difficult day—interviewing people stunned by bereavement always was—but at least he was spared attending the post-mortem. He was more than thankful for that.

  ***

  For the second time in two days, Clive Tenby turned his bicycle into Church Lane and started to pedal up its slope, rehearsing in his mind what he would say to the Walkers. It had taken all his courage to make this second attempt; yesterday, in the first flush of his decision, he had the words pat and felt confident of a successful outcome. But half way up the hill, a car had overtaken him and to his frustration he’d watched it turn into the Old Rectory.

  He could hardly barge in if other people were there. Half relieved and half disappointed, he’d turned and cycled back down again.

  So intent was he this morning on marshalling his arguments, that it wasn’t until he reached the gateway of the Old Rectory that he saw the police constable standing there and, on the opposite pavement, a small knot of people staring across. Frowning, he slid off his bike and approached on foot.

  ‘Yes, sonny?’

  ‘I’ve come to see Mrs Walker.’

  The man eyed him with interest. ‘Have you now? And who would you be?’

  Clive frowned, resenting the patronising attitude. ‘A friend of the family.’

  ‘Which particular friend?’

  ‘Clive Tenby.’ His voice was sulky.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, Clive Tenby, but the Walkers aren’t receiving visitors today.’

  Clive stared at him. ‘What do you mean? Has something happened?’ He made to go in the gateway and the man moved across, blocking his way.

  ‘Look, what is this? What are you doing here, anyway?’

  ‘I’ll ask the questions, sonny. Which Mrs Walker were you wanting to see?’

  ‘Either of them—or both.’

  ‘What about?’

  Clive said angrily, ‘It’s private. Why can’t I go in?’

  ‘I think you’d better go to the church hall,’ the man said.

  While Clive watched, bewildered, he took out his pocket radio and a voice crackled in response.

  ‘Stanley here, sir. Young gentleman calling on Mrs Walker. Like me to send him over?’ The voice crackled an assent. Constable Stanley jerked his head at the building alongside the vicarage. ‘Over you go, sonny. Someone’ll see you there.’

  Clive turned to look at the hail, noting for the first time an unusual number of cars parked there, including several police Pandas. He turned quickly back to Stanley.

  ‘Has something serio
us happened? God, Fay! What is it? What’s going on?’

  The man’s face softened at his obvious anxiety. ‘Not a relative, are you?’

  Clive shook his head, even more worried.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, lad, I can’t answer your questions. Try them over there.’

  Thoroughly alarmed by now, Clive swung up on his bike and cycled quickly across the road to the church hall.

  ***

  Webb hadn’t known what to expect of the factory. It proved to be not one building but several, grouped together on the fringe of an industrial estate just outside Ashmartin. Giant letters proclaimed the name Walker & Fairfax, followed by the world-famous logo. The gate was operated by a man in a glass kiosk, who leant forward as Webb opened the car window and identified himself.

  ‘Oh yes, sir—about poor Mrs Dorothy. I can’t believe it, sir. None of us can. You’ll want reception. The white building on the far left.’

  Webb nodded. ‘Mr Neville Walker not back yet?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I’d be grateful if you didn’t say anything till I’ve spoken to him.’

  The man nodded, relieved to be spared from breaking the news. The bar was lifted, and Jackson drove into the yard. Several people were about, moving from one building to another or loading crates on to lorries. They had the dazed look of the man at the gate. This was very much a family business, Webb reflected, and they were all affected by the news.

  Jackson drew up at the white building, and Webb got out of the car. ‘Keep within sight of the gate, Ken, and bring him straight in to me. I don’t want anyone blurting anything out.’

  ‘What does he look like?’

  Webb hesitated. ‘Ask the man on the gate to tip you the wink,’ he advised, and went up the steps into the building.

  The reception hall was floored in marble. There was a fountain playing in the middle of it, and gigantic plants massed along the walls. Designed to impress wealthy visitors, no doubt. He went over to the desk. The girl there had obviously been crying. ‘Mrs Walker’s secretary, please.’ He held out his warrant card.

  The girl gulped, nodded, and spoke into a telephone. Minutes later, the gates of a lift opened and a tall, slim woman came towards him. She’d have been in her forties, he reckoned, and her dark hair had threads of grey. She was dry-eyed, but from her pallor he guessed her control was precarious.

  Webb introduced himself and she nodded silently. ‘Is there somewhere down here where we can talk? I’m waiting for Mr Neville Walker.’

  ‘Yes, there’s an empty room here.’ She pushed open a door and he went inside. He noted that the windows overlooked the entrance, and he could see Ken waiting by the gate.

  He turned back to her. ‘Could I have your name, please, ma’am?’

  ‘Eunice Holt.’ There was no ring on her finger.

  ‘Right, Miss Holt, I’m sorry if this is distressing for you, but I need some answers.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘To begin with, when did you last see Mrs Walker?’

  A spasm crossed her face, but her voice remained steady. ‘Before lunch yesterday. She said she’d an afternoon appointment, and wouldn’t be back.’

  ‘Have you any idea what the appointment was?’

  ‘No; I believe it was a private one.’

  ‘The note in her engagement diary said, “B. 2.30.” Does that mean anything to you?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘And her manner during the morning was the same as usual?’

  The woman hesitated. ‘She seemed a little tense. She hasn’t really been herself for a week or two.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘She hasn’t had her usual energy, and small problems upset her. It was as though she had something on her mind.’

  ‘But she didn’t confide in you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you been working for Mrs Walker long?’

  ‘Since leaving college—nearly twenty years.’ And at that, her voice did break. She turned it into a cough and sat calmly awaiting his next question.

  ‘Were you aware of any hostility towards her?’

  ‘Towards Mrs Walker? Good gracious no. All the staff adored her.’

  ‘I believe there was some trouble recently, though. A man sacked for dishonesty?’

  ‘Oh, you mean Joe Ridley. Yes, that was unfortunate.’

  ‘Was the decision Mrs Walker’s?’

  She shrugged. It’s company policy. We must be able to trust our staff implicitly.’

  ‘Did Mrs Walker mention an incident at the fete last Saturday?’

  She looked surprised. ‘No.’

  ‘Ridley’s son made a scene—threatened Mrs Walker and the rest of them.’

  She frowned. ‘How very unpleasant.’

  Her reaction interested Webb. ‘Just that?’

  She met his eyes, and he saw understanding come. ‘You think he might have followed it through? Oh no, not Dick Ridley.’

  A car drove past the window, and turning quickly, Webb saw Jackson hurrying after it. Neville Walker had arrived. Webb stood up. ‘Thank you for your help, Miss Holt. I’ll contact you again if necessary, but now I must see Mr Walker.’

  She bit her lip, nodded, and left the room. Minutes later, the door rocked back on its hinges and Neville Walker stood there, Jackson behind him.

  ‘Mr Webb? This man tells me you’re the police. I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’m afraid, Mr Walker, I’ve some bad news for you. Concerning your mother.’

  ‘My mother?’ Walker stared at him, then looked quickly to left and right as though searching for her. ‘Why, where is she? What’s happened?’

  Jackson took his elbow and led him to a chair. Automatically, Walker sat.

  Webb said gently, ‘She’s dead, Mr Walker.’

  ‘Dead?’ He repeated the word flatly. Then he said, ‘Oh God, was it her heart? I kept telling her she should ease off a bit.’

  ‘It wasn’t her heart. I’m sorry to have to tell you she was killed deliberately.’

  Walker stared at him blankly. He moistened his lips, then he said carefully, ‘Are you trying to tell me she was murdered?’

  Webb nodded.

  ‘But when? How?’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon. The weapon was almost certainly a poker.’

  Walker closed his eyes for a moment. Then he said tonelessly, ‘What happens next?’

  ‘Your family’s staying with your brother while investigations continue. As soon as—’

  The door burst open and Howard and Robin Walker came hurrying in.

  Howard went to his brother and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Nev, I’m sorry. I intended to tell you myself. I didn’t know the police were here till Eunice told me.’

  Neville said dully, ‘It is true, then?’

  ‘Yes, it’s true. We’d no way of reaching you.’

  ‘I was in Stratford.’ He paused, and added, ‘The Francombe business.’

  This was the first time Webb had seen the three brothers together, and he looked from one to another. Although they’d similar colouring, there was no outstanding resemblance. Neville, the eldest, was of the broadest build. Howard was taller and paler, though with the same light-brown hair and hazel eyes behind horn-rimmed spectacles. And Robin, the youngest, was undoubtedly the best-looking, with an underlying virility which, Webb felt sure, no woman could fail to be aware of.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Gentlemen, I appreciate your concern, but I’m in the middle of an interview.’

  The two younger men hesitated, and Neville gave them a brief nod.

  ‘Very well,’ Robin said, ‘we’ll be upstairs, Nev, when you’ve finished.’

  They left the room and there was a short pause. Walker wiped his hand across his face. ‘All right,’ he said abruptly, ‘let’s get this over, shall we?’

  ‘As your brother mentioned, Mr Walker, we’d no way of reaching you. Isn’t it unusual not to leave a contact number?’

  W
alker shrugged. ‘There was nothing urgent in the pipeline, and I didn’t want interruptions. It was a very delicate meeting.’

  ‘Even your wife didn’t know your whereabouts.’

  ‘If she’d asked, of course I’d have told her, but she doesn’t usually bother if it’s only one night.’

  ‘So where were you?’

  ‘At the Hamlet Hotel in Stratford.’ He moved impatiently. ‘Look, surely all this is irrelevant now? Tell me about my mother.’

  ‘We’ve established that she had an appointment yesterday afternoon, but no one seems to know where. I wonder if you do?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea. Perhaps her secretary—’

  ‘No, it wasn’t a business one. Does the letter “B” mean anything to you?’

  ‘Well, there’s Barbara Mallow, the vicar’s wife, but she’s more my wife’s friend than my mother’s. I can’t think—oh, wait a minute, though. Bruce Springfield. That’s probably more likely.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘A neurological consultant who’s an old friend of my mother’s.’

  ‘Ah!’

  Walker raised an eyebrow. ‘You think her health was troubling her?’

  ‘Mr Walker, I should be the one to ask that.’

  ‘Yes yes, of course. But when you see someone every day, you don’t notice gradual changes in them.’

  ‘Miss Holt said she’d been a little tense lately.’

  ‘That could be true. Well, it’s easily checked. Bruce has his consulting rooms in Kimberley Road.’

  ‘Right, we’ll follow that up. Had your mother any enemies, would you say?’

  ‘Not enemies, that’s too strong. The usual petty envies from time to time.’

  ‘How seriously did you take that incident at the fete?’

  ‘You mean Ridley? Not seriously at all. He’s aggressive when drunk, but it’s all talk.’

  But there’d been another incident at the fete, which Webb had engineered himself. ‘Those flowers we looked at: do you think they could have any bearing on what’s happened?’

  For a moment, he thought Walker hadn’t heard him. Then he said slowly, ‘What the devil do you mean by that?’

  ‘Could they have triggered something off, do you suppose?’

  Walker put a hand to his throat and convulsively loosened his tie. But when he spoke, his voice was firm. ‘That’s ridiculous. I told you, my daughter planted them; and though I grant the word she chose was unfortunate, it was nothing more than that. Anyway, they’ve been dug up now.’

 

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