Later, they lay side by side with linked hands listening to the early evening sounds coming through the window. Children were playing hopscotch in the lane, and a threatening yowl proclaimed that Pirate was warning off intruders.
‘You want to talk about it?’ Hannah asked. She was used to providing a sounding-board for Webb to bounce off his ideas and theories.
He sighed. ‘It’s very early days. We’ve had one shock, though. The PM revealed Mrs Walker had never borne children.’
Hannah turned her head towards him. ‘That can’t be true!’
‘No doubt about it, so Stapleton says.’
‘But—the family line, and all that!’
‘Ah, here’s another surprise. None of them knows they’re adopted.’
‘Wow!’ Hannah said softly.
‘Quite so.’
‘Are you going to tell them?’
‘I don’t relish the prospect. I’m seeing their solicitor tomorrow—I’ll be in Shillingham for a press conference. If there’s provision in the Will for telling them, fair enough—though I’d like to sit in on it. If not, I’ll have to think again.’
‘But it’s unforgivable, not to have told them herself.’
‘I know. There’s compensation, though, because the old girl had a hereditary disease. At least they’ll be spared that.’ He lifted his hand, still holding hers, to check the watch on his wrist. Hannah, glancing at it too, unhooked her fingers and slid off the bed.
‘I was forgetting your time’s limited. I’ll get supper.’
They ate in the corner of the living-room which held a small dining-table and built-in cushioned seating. Above their heads, the mullioned window was open, its chinz curtains softly blowing. A scent of stocks drifted in from the garden.
‘Sorry to return to a sordid subject,’ Webb remarked, helping himself to a second slice of pie, ‘but you mentioned having a chat with Mrs Tenby.’
‘Only as she ran me home.’
‘You got the impression, though, that she wasn’t too enamoured of the Walkers?’
Hannah thought back. ‘I think it was on her son’s behalf.’
Webb looked up. ‘Ah. That’s what I was wondering about.’
‘Apparently he used to go out with Fay, and then, suddenly, the family warned him off.’
‘The family did? Not Fay herself?’
‘No, according to Pamela, Fay still seemed quite keen.’
‘But what reason did they give?’
‘None, as far as I could gather.’
‘They were together at the party, I’m told, though her parents took steps to separate them. Did you meet the son?’
Hannah shook her head.
‘He called at the Old Rectory this afternoon. I’d like to know why.’
‘He couldn’t have known what had happened.’
Webb smiled. ‘Shouldn’t rather than couldn’t. I’m going round to see him when I leave here.’
He eased himself out of the bench seat, and as she also stood, pulled her gently into his arms. ‘Thanks, love, for regenerating me. I was in need of it.’
‘My pleasure,’ she said.
CHAPTER 8
After leaving Hannah, Webb collected Jackson from the Horse and Groom, where he’d been having a meal with Bob Dawson.
‘Find a telephone directory, Ken, and look up the address of the Tenbys. Husband’s name’s Derek, according to the guest list.’
‘Blackberry Lane, Guy,’ Jackson told him, minutes later.
‘The landlord says it’s just round the corner. House called The Thatches.’
Husband and wife had been sitting on the terrace with their after-dinner coffee, while the boy desultorily hit a tennis ball against the garage.
‘The police want to speak to us, Derek,’ Pamela Tenby announced, leading them out to the back garden. There was an undercurrent of excitement in her voice. With her nearest and dearest safely to hand, no personal disaster was foreshadowed and she could enjoy a prickle of vicarious unease.
Tenby stood up and held out his hand. ‘Sit down, gentlemen. Can I offer you some coffee?’
‘That would be very welcome, thank you, sir.’
‘I might tell you there’ve been all sorts of wild stories flying around,’ his wife added. ‘Of course, in a village everything’s magnified out of all proportion.’ She settled herself expectantly in her chair. ‘So —I presume it’s the Walkers you’ve come about? Your men stopped Clive visiting them today. Most mysterious!’ She smiled at Webb as though inviting him to advise her of some minor traffic offence. He had the feeling she wouldn’t have been too distressed to see the Walkers taken down a peg.
Her son had moved across while his mother was speaking and propped himself against the terrace wall. He was a pleasant-looking youth, with a fresh, slightly freckled complexion. His mother’s auburn hair was in his case deepened to chestnut, and his eyes, a clear hazel, met Webb’s, though with a hint of defiance.
Webb spoke to him directly. ‘I understand you tried to visit the Old Rectory this morning?’
His mother leant forward eagerly. ‘What is it, Chief Inspector? Do put us out of our misery! Has there been a break-in or something.’
‘If Clive could answer my question?’
Mrs Tenby subsided and Clive’s chin lifted slightly. ‘Yes, I went there.’
‘And refused to tell my colleagues why you’d called?’ The boy flushed. ‘I didn’t see any reason to. It was private.’
‘Sonny, if the police ask you something, that’s reason enough to answer.’
There was a tight pause, then Clive’s eyes dropped. ‘Sorry. It was just that the first man got my back up rather.’
‘PC Stanley?’
‘I think that was his name.’
Webb smiled slightly. ‘Well, in the hope that I haven’t got your back up, will you tell me why you went there?’
Clive glanced quickly at his parents, then back to Webb. ‘I wanted to speak to Mrs Walker.’
‘Which one?’
‘Either of them.’ He’d said that before, Webb recalled from his statement.
‘What about?’ And, as the boy hesitated, he added gently, ‘It’s important that we know, Clive.’
‘I can’t see why, but it was about Fay. I wanted to know what they had against me.’
‘Why should you think they had anything against you?’ He was aware that he had the parents’ full attention.
‘Because they suddenly stopped me seeing her, and refused to say why.’
‘When was this?’
‘At the end of the Easter term.’
‘Who spoke to you?’
‘Her father.’
‘What did he say, exactly?’
‘Just that Fay didn’t want to see me anymore. I asked why she didn’t tell me herself, and he said she was too upset. So I said if she was upset, perhaps she didn’t want to break it off. We’d been out the week before, and everything was fine then.’ Clive frowned, remembering. ‘Then he said something rather odd. He said, “You’re both very young, Clive, Which is why I’m making allowances.” I must have looked blank, because he added, “I think you know what I’m talking about.” ‘
‘And did you?’
‘No! I’ve thought and thought, but I’ve still no idea what he was getting at.’
Webb looked at Pamela Tenby. ‘Had you heard that last bit before?’
She shook her head.
‘Does it suggest anything to you?’
She flushed, looking more like her son. ‘It sounds as though Neville thought they’d been—carrying on together.’ Webb turned back to Clive. ‘And had you?’
His face flamed. ‘No, sir!’ And then: ‘She is all right? Nothing’s happened to her?’
‘Nothing’s happened to Fay. But if all this took place at Easter, why did you wait till now to go and speak to them?’
‘Well, I was pretty peeved by their attitude. I did try to see Fay, though. Several times I waited outside her school, b
ut I always missed her. I thought she must be avoiding me, so I gave up. But when I saw her at the party I realised I still felt the same, and she seemed glad to see me, too. So I decided to tackle them and find out what was wrong.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘It sounds simple enough, but I was in a real sweat—I nearly turned back a couple of times. It was different yesterday, because I was all psyched up and—’
‘Yesterday?’
Clive glanced at Webb in surprise. ‘That’s right, yesterday afternoon.’
‘You went to the Old Rectory yesterday afternoon?’
‘Well, not quite. I was half way up the hill when a car overtook me and turned into the gateway. I didn’t want to face them in front of strangers, so I came home and tried again this morning. And I still didn’t make it,’ he added, his voice becoming indignant, ‘because your men wouldn’t let me in.’
‘You say a car turned into the gate. What time was this?’
‘Around four, I suppose. Perhaps a bit earlier.’
Webb realised he was leaning forward, his hands gripped together, and forced himself to sit back. ‘What kind of car was it? A taxi?’
‘No, a Peugeot 205. A red one.’
‘You didn’t recognise it?’
Clive shook his head. ‘I’d never seen it before, that’s why I thought they had visitors.’
‘Did you see who was driving?’
‘No, I hadn’t paid any attention till it turned in the gate.’ He paused, thinking back. ‘I’m pretty sure there was only the driver in it. But what is all this? What’s so special about the car?’
Webb caught Jackson’s eye, then his gaze returned to Clive. They’d arranged. beforehand that Ken would keep his eyes on the parents when Webb broke the news, while he himself watched the boy.
‘It’s important, Clive, because at almost exactly that time yesterday, Mrs Dorothy Walker was brutally murdered at the house.’
There was a stunned silence. All three were staring at him.
Then Derek Tenby said hoarsely, ‘Is this some kind of joke?’
‘I wish it were.’
‘Dorothy’s been murdered?’ his wife whispered.
‘That’s right.’
‘God, I never thought for a moment it was anything serious. How absolutely ghastly.’
Clive’s high colour had faded to pasty white. ‘If I hadn’t seen the car, I’d have gone in,’ he said shakily.
His mother was trying to collect herself. ‘Do you know who did it?’
‘No. That’s why I’m so interested in that car.’ Webb stood up. ‘If any of you think of anything else, please call at the church hall.’ He paused, but they were still sitting in a state of shock. ‘We’ll let ourselves out,’ he said.
Dick Ridley was a different case altogether. It was dusk by the time Webb and Jackson arrived at his cottage, and he stood peering out at them from the gloomy interior. He’d obviously been drinking.
‘Chief Inspector Webb and Sergeant Jackson, Shilling-ham CID. Can we have a word?’
The man’s face quivered and he made to shut the door. Jackson swiftly interposed a well-polished shoe.
‘We won’t keep you long,’ Webb said smoothly, moving forward, and the man fell back before him.
‘Who is it, Dick?’ someone called from the back of the house.
Webb raised his voice. ‘Police, ma’am. We’d be glad if you could spare a minute.’
A thin young woman appeared, drying her hands on a tea-towel. ‘Is it about Mrs Walker? We just heard on the news. I can’t believe it—we only saw her the other day!’
Webb continued down the passage towards her and she gestured him into the kitchen. The only light came from the grimy uncurtained window, which looked over a small, unkempt garden.
‘I believe you were both at the fete on Saturday.’
The woman put a hand to her mouth, staring at him with frightened eyes. Ridley had shambled into the room after them, and was propping himself against the mantel.
He said truculently, ‘Nothing wrong with that, is there? Open to the public.’
‘I also believe,’ Webb continued levelly, ‘that you were overheard to threaten the Walker family, and Mrs Dorothy Walker in particular.’
‘Oh, Dick!’ moaned his wife. ‘I said you should watch that tongue of yours!’ She turned beseechingly to Webb. ‘He needn’t mean nothing, sir. He was upset about his dad, and it made him talk careless. But there was no harm in it, really there wasn’t.’
Ignoring her, Webb addressed her husband. ‘I understand from your employer you weren’t at work yesterday?’
He heard the woman’s faint gasp, but Ridley stared at him with rheumy eyes and said nothing.
‘He wasn’t well,’ she whispered behind him. ‘I—kept him in bed all day.’
Webb turned and looked down at her. ‘Mrs Ridley, according to several statements we’ve taken, your husband was in the Swan public house yesterday lunch-time, and stayed until closing time.’
Ridley rounded on his wife. ‘Stupid cow! What d’you go and say that for? Make ‘em think we’ve something to hide!’
‘Let’s start again, Mr Ridley. You don’t like the Walkers, do you?’
‘What if I don’t? It doesn’t mean I go round murdering ‘em.’
‘You blame them for your father’s death?’
The red-rimmed eyes filled. ‘Bloody right I do. Think they’re God Almighty, the lot of ‘em. All as bad as each other—the old woman, her sons and their wives. You should have seen them, strutting round that garden of theirs like ruddy peacocks! Know what they’re called in the village? “The Six Proud Walkers”, like the old song. Well, now there’s only five of ‘em, and that’s five too many!’
‘Oh, Dick!’ said his wife despairingly.
‘The pub closed at two-thirty. Where did you go then?’
‘I can’t remember, can I? Fair plastered, I was.’
‘According to the barman, you were still ranting about the Walkers when he shut the door on you. Suppose you took it into your head to confront them? Complain about being thrown out of the fete?’
The man stared at him and uneasy memory stirred. Suddenly, fear spreading over his face, he started to babble.
‘I never laid a finger on her, sir! Never, and that’s God’s truth!’
‘But you did go up there?’
‘Never went near the place! As God’s my witness!’
Webb said heavily, ‘We have earthly witnesses, Mr Ridley, who saw you in the neighbourhood of Church Lane soon after three-thirty. That’s the opposite direction from your home. Where were you going?’
The man shook his head. ‘I don’t know, I can’t remember! But I swear I could never hurt a fly! Cath’ll tell you! All mouth, she calls me, but it’s only talk, governor, honest to God! Only talk!’
And there, for the moment, they left it.
‘Nice to breathe some fresh air!’ Webb commented as they came out on to the darkening High Street. ‘Right, Ken, we’ll pop back to the hall and then we’ll call it a day. And let’s hope tomorrow’s a better one.’
***
The press conference was crowded, with people standing at the back. The Walkers were internationally known, and several foreign papers were represented.
‘So at the moment you’re treating it as a housebreaking that went wrong?’ That was Bill Hardy of the Broadshire Evening News.
‘We’re keeping our options open,’ Webb replied. ‘Nothing appears to be missing, but Mrs Walker’s return might have interrupted an intruder. So that’s all I can give you for the moment, gentlemen. There’ll be another conference at the same time tomorrow.’
As he shouldered his way out of the room, fending off further questions, the station sergeant approached him.
‘Guy, there’s a chap downstairs waiting to see you. A cab-driver. Says he drove the deceased home on Wednesday.’
The man waiting in the interview-room turned from the window as Webb entered.
‘I only heard the n
ews this morning, mate,’ he began, before Webb could speak. ‘Telly’s on the blink, so we missed it last night. Gave me an awful turn, I can tell you.’
‘If we could start with your name, sir?’
The man was Ernest Plover, of 4, Wellington Street. A doctor’s receptionist had phoned, ordering a cab to collect a patient from Kimberley Road and take her to Honeyford. The call was received at three-o-five and he’d picked up the fare, an elderly lady, at three-o-ten.
‘I was worried about her,’ he confided. ‘She seemed to have a lot on her mind. Found myself wondering what kind of news the doctor’d given her.’
‘Did you have any conversation with her?’
‘No. I made one or two comments—the weather and suchlike, but she didn’t seem to hear, so I shut up. I kept glancing in the mirror, but she was always staring out of the window.’
‘Did you drive her right up to the front door?’
‘That’s right, sir. She had trouble getting out of the cab, and it took her a while to work out the fare. I waited to make sure she got into the house safe, like. She snipped the latch up. I remember thinking, “Good—she’s expecting someone; she won’t be alone for long.”’
‘Any idea of the time you left her?’
‘As luck would have it, yes—spot on three-thirty. I can be sure of that, because as I was driving out of the gate, a call came through on the radio, and the time’s always given.’
‘You didn’t see anyone else around—in the garden, perhaps, or approaching the gate?
‘Not a soul, mate.’
‘Well, thank you, Mr Plover, you’ve tied up several loose ends for us. If you remember anything else, please get in touch again.’
‘So,’ Webb reported to Jackson over a quick cup of coffee, ‘we now know for certain she was alive at three-thirty and dead at five past four. At least it confirms what we’ve been working on.’
Jackson nodded. ‘And as you’d expect on a Wednesday afternoon, most of the male population was at work. Except for a few unemployed and schoolkids, that is.’
‘And Dick Ridley,’ Webb reminded him.
‘And Dick Ridley,’ Jackson agreed. ‘The cab-driver seems in the clear, since he answered his radio at three-thirty and presumably went straight to his next fare.’
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