Pretty Maids All In A Row

by Anthea Fraser

  'She was in her room,' Guy said. 'Lying fully dressed across her bed, face down. She was soaking wet and covered in mud, just like—' He broke off.

  'Just like what?'

  Guy raised his haggard face. 'I was going to say, just like Matthew Selby. He'd arrived twenty minutes earlier, also wet and muddy.'

  'He didn't come with his wife?'

  'No. He'd told us he'd be late, so the Palmers brought her.'

  'And how did Mr Selby explain his condition?' 'He said he'd had a puncture, on the way back from Oxford. My God, you don't think—?' 'Go on with your account, please.'

  'Well, she was shaking. I thought she was crying, but she wasn't. When I went round the bed, I saw her eyes were open, just staring straight ahead. And this convulsive trembling, making her teeth chatter. I think I knew, then. It's what we've been dreading for the last fortnight.' 'What did she tell you?'

  'She caught the usual bus home after drama. Holly Beck, who normally travels with her, was off with 'flu and there was no one she knew on the bus. She was almost the last to get off, at Green Lane.'

  'How far is that from your house?'

  'A couple of hundred yards. It was raining hard, and she hadn't an umbrella. She was pulling up the hood of her mac, when, as she put it, something got in the way. At the same time she felt a prick on her neck, and this voice said in her ear, "One for the little girl who lives down the lane." God!' Guy exploded, clenching his hands. 'If I ever catch up with the bastard—'

  Kathy reached out, closing her hand over his. After a moment he went on expressionlessly, 'He took her to the pub garden—The Packhorse. Every now and then, as the door swung open, she could hear voices and laughter, but she had that goddamned woollen thing over her head, and couldn't see a thing. Then he—he made her say nursery rhymes. She was crying so much she could hardly speak, but he wouldn't let her stop. Her mind went blank, she said, and he kept prompting her. God, I can't believe this. Is it really happening?'

  He drew a deep breath, and added more calmly, 'I'm sorry, Chief Inspector.'

  'How exactly did he prompt her, Mr Markham?'

  'He said, "Start with Ride a cock horse," and when she came to an end, he asked for Polly Flinders. But he was hurting her, for Christ sake! God, it's bad enough when he attacks women, but a young girl—' He stopped again and dashed his hand across his eyes. Beside him, Kathy had started to weep softly.

  Webb went across to his cupboard, took out a bottle of brandy and two glasses. There were times when his job sickened him. God grant that the girl hadn't conceived, like Carrie Speight. He handed her parents a glass each.

  'Don't worry about driving home, we'll take you back in a police car. If time hadn't been so vital, we'd have sent one to collect you. Now, is there any chance she recognized the voice?'

  Guy shook his head. 'He spoke in whispers, apparently.' 'And when it was over?'

  'He tipped her on to her face, threatened her if she tried to look at him, and untied her hands. Then he pulled off the helmet and left her lying there.' He paused. 'Now that we're here, Chief Inspector, there's something else. God knows I don't like pointing the finger, but now Angie's involved—'

  'Yes?'

  'It was something she said yesterday, when we were having supper. We were discussing tonight's dinner party, and young Charlie Palmer's name came up. Angie suddenly said she'd seen him on the day of the murder. At Freda's house.'

  'What?'

  'That was my reaction.' A tap on the door interrupted him and Sally Pierce came in with Angie. The girl was quite composed. Kathy got up quickly and went to her, putting an arm round her. Webb rose to his feet.

  'All right, Miss Markham? Come and sit down for a moment, will you.' He smiled at the girl, leading her to a chair, and even in her distress, Kathy was surprised how it transformed his face. He's quite attractive, she thought in surprise.

  'Your father was saying you saw young Palmer at Mrs Cowley's.'

  Angie sent Markham a look of reproach. 'It was in the morning.'

  'Even so, we need to know of anyone who called. How did you happen to see him?'

  'I was cycling past on the way to the tennis club, about eleven, I suppose. I just glanced up the path and he was standing at the door.' 'He didn't see you?'

  'I don't think so. I didn't call to him because I had a court booked and I was late.' She hesitated. 'I'm sorry if I should have told you, but since Auntie Freda was alive at lunch-time, I didn't think it was important.'

  'Was she talking to him?'

  'No, the door was closed. She might not even have been home.'

  'In which case,' Webb said quietly, 'he could have called back later.'

  Her eyes widened and he said more gently still, 'Miss Markham, I don't want to upset you, but could it have been Charlie Palmer who attacked you tonight?'

  She caught her breath. 'Charlie wouldn't—I mean—' She paused, steadied herself. 'I don't think so. He seemed —older, somehow.'

  'Thank you. There's no need to keep you any longer. A car is waiting downstairs and an officer will follow behind in your own car. Thank you all for your help.1

  When, eventually, the ghastly evening was over and the Palmers were preparing for bed, Annette said suddenly, 'You don't think Matthew Selby had anything to do with it, do you?'

  Charles paused in the act of unbuttoning his shirt. 'The thought had crossed my mind.'

  'But surely he wouldn't risk it, when he was on the way there himself?'

  'I shouldn't think so, since he'd know Angie would arrive soon after in the same condition. No doubt the police will check the timings.'

  'And the puncture story.' Annette brushed her pale, fluffy hair thoughtfully. 'I shouldn't like to be in the Selbys' shoes. Before they came, this was a quiet, peaceful village, and look at it now.'

  Charles reached for his pyjamas. 'Remember Kathy saying there'd be no talk of rape or murder this evening? How's that for irony?'

  Annette shivered. 'For the first time in my life, I'm glad I haven't a daughter.'

  Down on the lower road, the Selbys were also discussing the evening.

  'I'll remember that meal for the rest of my life,' Jessica said, 'every mouthful of it. It was like being on stage and having to finish the act, though the producer and the audience had gone home.'

  'The Mary Celeste in reverse.' Matthew gave a brief laugh. 'You know, if I were trying, I don't think I could arouse friend Webb's suspicions more than I am doing. He'll be round first thing, mark my words, examining my tyres with more than cursory interest.'

  'Darling—'

  'What?'

  'Nothing. Just try not to antagonize him.'

  He leant over, kissed her, and switched out the light. ' 'Night, my sweet. Tomorrow is another day, thank God.'

  But Jessica lay staring at the ceiling, remembering his odd moment of tension when Angie arrived home. Had anyone else noticed it? And what had occasioned it? A flashback to the embarrassment of his original meeting with her? Or was he merely waiting to greet his hosts' daughter? It was a question that would have to go unanswered. After Sunday, any further probing could damage their marriage irreparably.

  With a small sigh, she settled herself to sleep.

  'I've got that info you wanted, Guv,' Jackson said. 'Young Palmer goes to Greystones College, in Oxbury.'

  'Thanks, Ken. We'll be waiting outside about four; he's likely to talk more freely away from home.' Webb pushed his drawer shut and got to his feet. 'Well, back we go to

  Westridge. We should take lodgings there.' 'To look at Selby's car?'

  'Got it in one. That rain last night'll have done nothing for Dick Hodges. He's out at The Packhorse now.'

  They stopped at the pub on their way through the village, but nothing of note had been found. Nor were they any more unfortunate at Hinckley's. Selby met them at the door with a sour smile.

  'I was expecting you, Chief Inspector. I thought you'd want to see the wheel before I took it to the garage.'

  'Good
of you.'

  As he might have known, there was no doubt about the puncture. It was proving a decidedly unfruitful day, and by the time they drew up at Greystones College, he had had enough of it. Nevertheless, as the first pupils began to come out of the gates in their blue and white striped blazers, he resignedly got out of the car and stood waiting with Jackson.

  'There he is!' he said suddenly. 'Bring him over, Ken.'

  Charles Palmer junior looked uncannily like his father, the same dark crinkly hair, florid colouring and bold black eyes. Webb watched while Jackson discreetly detached him from his friends, then went to meet them.

  "Afternoon, sir,' he said blandly, suppressing a smile as Charlie's apprehension visibly lessened at the form of address. 'Like a word, if we may. We won't keep you long. Let's take a stroll by the river.'

  Charlie shot him a questioning look, but fell into step meekly enough between the detectives.

  'Now, Mr Palmer,' Webb began, as they followed the path leading down to the water, 'you knew Mrs Cowley, I believe?'

  Charlie's pink tongue flicked out and moistened his lips. 'Yes.'

  'How well?'

  'Only casually. She lived at the other end of the village.' Webb changed his tactics abruptly. 'Get on well with your dad, do you?'

  Taken off guard, Charlie flushed a dark red. 'All right,' he said gruffly.

  'That's not what I heard.' A shot in the dark, that. He hadn't heard anything.

  There was a pause. 'Well, he gets on my back sometimes. I reckon all fathers do.'

  'You don't see eye to eye about things?'

  'Not always.'

  'About Mrs Cowley, for instance?' Another blind stab, but again it struck home. The boy's high colour ebbed away, leaving his face blotchy.

  'I don't know what you mean.'

  'Mr Palmer, you were seen calling at Hinckley's Cottage on the day Mrs Cowley died.'

  The boy stopped abruptly, and the policemen with him. Beside them, the river Kittle slurped against its banks with a gentle slapping sound.

  'We understand,' Webb continued, 'that she had one or two gentlemen friends. I take it you weren't among them?'

  His irony was wasted on Charlie He said in a high voice, 'I told you, I hardly knew her.' 'Then why did you call on her?'

  A moorhen had come into sight, paddling gently down the centre of the water. 'I'm waiting, Mr Palmer.'

  The boy said in a rush, 'To tell her to keep her hands off my father.'

  'Ah.' Over his bowed head, Webb's eyes met Jackson's. 'And did you?'

  He nodded miserably. 'What did she say?'

  'Told me not to meddle in things that don't concern me.' He raised his head defiantly. 'But it does concern me. I love my mum, and—' He broke off, then said slowly, 'You don't think I killed her, do you?'

  'No, I don't think that. But you should have volunteered this information, you know. You could have been the last person to see her.'

  'But she had lunch with Mr Selby at The Orange Tree. Everyone knows that.'

  'Does your father know you went to see her?'

  'No.'

  'Does he realize you know of his association with her?' 'Yes. He was phoning her one afternoon. He didn't know I was home.'

  'How did he react?'

  'He tried blustering, but I told him I wasn't a kid. Anyone who phoned Mrs Cowley was after the same thing. So then he tried the. man-to-man scene, about no one being hurt by it. He made me sick!’

  Webb stared after the moorhen. 'What time did you arrive at Hinckley's?'

  'Mid-morning sometime.'

  'And left?'

  'I was only there five minutes. I could have saved my breath.'

  Webb sighed. 'Was your father at home that evening?'

  'Yes. He did his best to talk me round, but I wouldn't speak to him. I haven't spoken to him properly since.'

  A bus rumbled along the road at the top of the path. 'Should you have been on that?' Charlie nodded. 'We'll give you a lift back.'

  They drove in silence out of the little town and on to the main road to Heatherton. As they reached the turn-off for Westridge, the boy said suddenly, 'I suppose Mum is tired a lot of the time.'

  'Quite,' said Webb.

  It was with relief that the three of them parted company at the Green Lane bus stop. Webb watched the boy walk towards his home. 'Poor little devil,' he said. 'Well, Ken, I reckon we'll call it a day. Better luck tomorrow, maybe.'

  CHAPTER 12

  Webb had just arrived home when Hannah called. They'd not seen each other in the last twelve days. She had decided, in view of Susan's proximity, to leave the first move to him, and he had not made it. He'd had little time for personal problems, and in any case was too unsettled by his ambiguous reaction to Susan voluntarily to seek out either of them.

  During the summer, he'd feared Hannah might meet someone in Europe who'd take his place. Uncomfortably, he accepted she had the same feelings now, but mixed with his guilt was resentment. Damn it, he hadn't wanted this to happen. Hannah offered all that he needed, physically, mentally and spiritually, though this last was not a word he was comfortable with. Yet he was susceptible to Susan as to no one else, and until he'd worked her out of his system, by whatever means, her shadow fell across them.

  All this jumbled in his mind as he faced Hannah, inhibiting him from doing what he most wanted, which was to take her in his arms.

  She said quietly, 'You look tired.'

  'I am, yes.' He stood aside. 'Come in.'

  'I don't want to add to your problems, but I have to speak to you.'

  Oh God, he thought involuntarily, not about Susan!

  Having seated herself in her usual chair, Hannah looked up at him. 'David, I don't know whether you realize, but Angie Markham is one of my pupils.'

  'My God,' he said flatly. 'No, I didn't.' He poured her a drink and handed it to her.

  'Is she all right?'

  'You know what happened?' She nodded. 'Well, in the accepted phrase, she's as well as can be expected. I'm not qualified to hold forth on psychological damage, but she has a loving family to support her.'

  'Her mother phoned this morning. I just couldn't believe it.' Hannah looked down at her tightly laced hands. 'You mentioned a rape last time I saw you. Are they both connected with the murder?'

  'Almost definitely.'

  'Then,' she said with bitterness, 'perhaps Angie's lucky; at least she's still alive.' She looked up at him, her tawny hair falling back from her face and exposing her wide brow. 'Why do you suppose he murdered one woman and only raped the other two?'

  The other four, Webb thought, but he didn't correct her. 'I don't know. Nor do we know if he raped the murder victim; it was too late to tell.'

  She shivered, reached for her drink and took a sip. 'Have you any leads?'

  'Nothing significant yet.'

  'Then there could be more attacks.'

  He didn't reply. Hannah finished her drink quickly and rose to her feet. 'I mustn't take up your time. Thanks for the drink.'

  He said impulsively, 'Hannah—' and stopped. She met his eyes squarely. 'Susan?' Miserably, he nodded. 'You've seen her again?' 'We had a drink together.'

  Any other woman would have persisted: was he still in love with his ex-wife? What about herself? Hannah merely nodded gravely and moved towards the door. He put a hand on her arm.

  'Give me time, love. I don't know where the hell I am at the moment.'

  'Of course, I'm not—I just wanted to ask about Angie.'

  Hannah returned thoughtfully to her own flat. The previous evening, she and Gwen had had one of their rare personal exchanges, and she reflected ruefully that her friend had been right.

  Gwen Rutherford, Head Mistress of Ashbourne School for Girls, was a tall woman, gauche in her movements, whose soft hair persistently escaped the confines of its French pleat and whose brown eyes were diffident and apologetic. Yet it was unwise, on this account, to underrate her, for behind that gentle exterior dwelt an iron-willed intellec
tual, who had long since determined the goals to aim for, and whom nothing would deter from achieving them.

  She and Hannah had been friends for years; yet there was in each of them a reserve which precluded the intimate discussions in which other women indulged. All Gwen knew of David was his first name and the fact that he was divorced. She had no inkling that he was the tall, loose-limbed police officer to whom, over two years ago, she had herself introduced Hannah, during an outbreak of anonymous letters at the school.

  None the less, awareness of Hannah's abstraction had, the night before, overcome her reticence and, when the drama students had gone and they were sitting over coffee, she said gently, 'Something's wrong, Hannah. Anything I can help with?'

  Hannah glanced at her in surprise and shook her head.

  'It can be useful, sometimes, to talk things over, but of course I've no wish to pry.'

  Hannah stirred her coffee in silence. Then, reaching a decision, she said, 'You know David's been married?'

  'I think you mentioned it.'

  'His wife's come back.'

  'To him?'

  'To Shillingham. But he's seen her.'

  'And you're jealous?' Gwen's smile took the sting out of the query.

  'I think I must be. Isn't that awful?'

  'I'd say it was natural. But would you marry him yourself, if he asked you?'

  'He won't. Even before this, he wouldn't have.' 'But if he did?'

  Hannah shook her head slowly. 'Why not?'

  'I'm a career woman, Gwen. You know that.'

  'But your careers don't conflict at the moment. Why should they be an obstacle to marriage?'

  'It's not only that. We don't—stifle each other by being there all the time, and we're free to—' She broke off with a rueful grimace at her friend's expression.

  '—to see other people. Which is just what David's doing."

  'I know it's selfish. I don't want to marry him, but nor do I want anyone else to.'