The Murders of Mrs. Austin and Mrs. Beale

by Jill McGown

  He watched as the uniformed man set up a cassette recorder, obviously unused to its intricacies.

  Lloyd sighed. ‘Let me do it,’ he said, impatiently, and efficiently got it into operation. He picked up the microphone, and rattled off the date and all the other details of the interview about to take place.

  ‘We now record all interviews, Mr Pearce, as you can see. Now the sergeant tells me that you want to confess to two murders.’

  He pulled two chairs from the wall and set them at the table, but only Inspector Hill sat down. Lloyd walked about the room, looking with interest at everything but Gordon.

  ‘So go ahead,’ he said. ‘The constable here will write down what you say. You have been cautioned, I understand.’

  Gordon looked at the constable. ‘Er … yes,’ he said.

  ‘He will read it back to you, and then you can sign it as a true account, or alter it as you wish. Or, of course, you can write it out yourself. The inspector will almost certainly write it all down too, so we should have a very accurate record by the time we’ve finished, shouldn’t we?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gordon.

  ‘Right.’ Lloyd wandered to the window, and stood on tiptoe to look down at something outside. ‘ Off you go, Mr Pearce.’

  Gordon wasn’t sure what he had expected. Not this, at any rate. Questions. Questions that he had to answer. ‘ I thought you were going to interview me,’ he said.

  Lloyd whirled round from the window. ‘It’s not a chat show, Mr Pearce. I thought you were going to make a statement about murdering two women.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Oh, do get on with it, Mr Pearce,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘The inspector has a post-mortem to go to.’

  Gordon swallowed. ‘ I don’t know where to start,’ he said.

  ‘How about with the first one? Who did you murder first, Mr Pearce?’

  Gordon’s eyes widened. The inspector sat with a thick notebook open at a clean page. The constable had a statement form, pen poised above it. The chief inspector was now standing behind his empty chair, his fingers lightly tapping the back, waiting for an answer.

  ‘I’ve asked you a question,’ he said. ‘That was what you wanted me to do, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Rosemary Beale,’ said Gordon firmly.

  ‘Ah – not mine, then,’ said Lloyd. And left the room.

  Gordon twisted round to watch the door close, and slowly turned back to Inspector Hill.

  ‘When?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’ Gordon could feel his palms grow sweaty.

  ‘When did you kill Mrs Beale?’

  ‘When I went home,’ he said. ‘I killed her, and then I went back to the Austins, and …’ He couldn’t say it.

  Inspector Hill frowned. ‘What time was that, Mr Pearce?’

  ‘After I’d been to the factory,’ he said.

  ‘So you went to the factory, started the fire, left, killed Mrs Beale, then left there and killed Mrs Austin?’

  Gordon nodded.

  She wrote it all down. ‘What time did you get home, after all that?’ she asked, still writing.

  ‘Quarter to twelve,’ he said, without hesitation.

  She looked up. ‘Your wife says you came home at eleven fifteen.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘At least, that’s her latest estimate,’ she added. ‘Is she still lying, Mr Pearce?’

  ‘Only to protect me.’

  The door opened and Lloyd reappeared with four paper cups in a holder. He didn’t offer them round; he put them down in a line on the window-sill. ‘They have to cool,’ he said.

  ‘You left Mr Austin at ten o’clock,’ the inspector said pleasantly. ‘And by quarter to midnight you had tried to burn down the factory and murdered two women?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Quite impressive,’ she said. ‘What time did you arrive at the factory?’

  ‘About five past ten,’ said Gordon.

  ‘And leave?’

  ‘Twenty to eleven.’

  He saw the tiny glance that passed between the inspector and the chief inspector.

  The inspector looked at her notes, leafing back through the book. ‘And you told your wife what you had done, did you?’ she asked.

  Gordon shook his head.

  ‘So why did she lie?’

  ‘She … she guessed. About the fire.’

  Lloyd looked startled. ‘ Guessed?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gordon.

  ‘She said, “Good evening, Gordon, I’ll bet you’ve been setting fire to the factory, haven’t you?’’ Is that right?’

  Gordon looked away.

  ‘Guessed, Mr Pearce?’ said the inspector with a look that reminded Gordon of his mother when he was little.

  ‘Yes! Not like that, but she—’ He broke off. ‘Why don’t you believe me?’ he asked.

  ‘Coffee,’ said Lloyd, and the constable went and fetched the cups.

  ‘I got them all without sugar,’ said Lloyd, leaning back dangerously on his chair and sweeping packets of sugar off the window sill ‘Filched these from the canteen,’ he said, letting them fall on to the table.

  ‘All right,’ said Inspector Hill. ‘Let’s get down to the important part, Mr Pearce. How did you kill Mrs Beale?’

  Gordon almost sighed with relief. That was more like it. That was what he’d rehearsed for hours in the library, under the guise of reading the papers. ‘I strangled her,’ he said. ‘With the telephone cord.’

  ‘Why was she ringing the Austins?’

  Oh, God. ‘What?’ Gordon asked dully.

  ‘She was on the phone to the Austins. Why?’

  ‘I don’t know! I wasn’t there when she made the call.’

  The inspector wrote that down. He could read it, upside down. Wasn’t there when she made the call.

  ‘She was already on the phone when you got there?’

  ‘Yes.’ Gordon waited for her to speak, but she didn’t, so he expanded. ‘She let me in, and went back to the phone,’ he said.

  ‘Ah.’ She wrote that down too. ‘And you strangled her.’

  ‘Yes.’ Gordon bit his lip, watching her pen move.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I was upset.’

  She looked up. ‘Do you always strangle people when you’re upset?’ she asked.

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘Did you go with the intention of strangling her?’

  Gordon ran a hand over his hair. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But I did.’

  But I did, she wrote. ‘What was your intention?’

  ‘To talk to her. But I … I didn’t.’

  ‘No. Then what did you do?’

  ‘I went back to the Austins’.’

  ‘No – I mean, before you left Mrs Beale.’

  Gordon looked at the constable, who was also labouring over his version of this statement. He couldn’t read it; it was too far away. ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  ‘You just left her there.’

  ‘Yes.’ She drew a line under what she had written, and looked at the

  chief inspector.

  He smiled at Gordon. ‘My turn, now, Mr Pearce,’ he said. ‘This

  might be more difficult.’

  Gordon frowned slightly.

  ‘How did you kill Mrs Austin?’ Lloyd asked.

  ‘I hit her.’

  ‘With what?’ asked Lloyd.

  He had to be right. He had to be. The papers hadn’t said. They

  just said a heavy implement. It had to be, though, or why would

  the inspector have asked about them? And why would Jonathan?

  And why would Pauline have lied? He had repeated that lie to

  Jonathan, but he had decided in the library that the truth would

  be better. Take a leaf out of Pauline’s book. As much of the truth

  as possible.

  ‘Well, Mr Pearce?’

  He looked into frankly disbelieving blue eyes. ‘The ashtray,’ he

  said.

  ‘What ashtray?’


  ‘The ashtray I took with me.’

  The inspector looked up from her notes then. ‘ Where from?’ she

  asked.

  Now. Decision time. Go along with Pauline’s lie? No. The truth.

  Tell them the truth. His mouth was dry; he could hardly breathe.

  He had to make a decision.

  ‘Not from anywhere,’ he said. ‘I had it with me all along. I

  bought them in an auction.’

  Lloyd sat forward, almost as though he was going to tell him a

  secret. ‘How many times did you hit her, Mr Pearce?’ he asked.

  He didn’t want to think about that. Bludgeoned, the papers had

  said. Oh, dear God. Lennie. It was all his fault. He couldn’t think

  about it.

  ‘Once? More than once? Over and over again?’

  Gordon stared at him. ‘I … I don’t know!’ he said.

  ‘We do,’ said Lloyd.

  Bludgeoned. ‘I just kept hitting her,’ Gordon muttered.

  Lloyd sat back again, and regarded him. ‘ Mr Pearce,’ he said, ‘why don’t we stop this nonsense?’

  ‘Please,’ said Gordon. ‘I did it. I – I …’ He looked away. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘ I’ve wasted your time.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Lloyd. ‘Not if you tell me what you do know. Tell me about the ashtray, Mr Pearce.’

  ‘It – it was a joke,’ Gordon said, helplessly.

  They looked at one another again then, but neither of them spoke. They just waited for an explanation.

  ‘Pauline and I got them at an auction,’ he said. ‘We go to auctions – just for fun, really. Local ones. You know. And I saw this big ashtray – I thought we should get it for the lobby. People smoke, you see. And they … well, I bid for it, and I got it. But when I went to collect it, the lot was two ashtrays. I hadn’t realised.’

  The inspector was writing it down. His stupid joke.

  ‘I said to Pauline I’d give one to Jonathan. It was a joke – it was so big, and he smokes such a lot. Everyone was always trying to get him to stop, especially—’ Oh, God. Poor Lennie. He swallowed. ‘Well anyway, I left it in the car to give to him, and I took it in with me when I went to see him on Monday.’

  ‘You gave it to him?’ Lloyd asked.

  ‘No. I just left it in the hallway, for him to find. It was so big, you see – it was for him to put his cigarettes in before he went into the sitting-room, so that he wouldn’t get into trouble for smoking. It was a joke, it was just—’ He broke off, and gathered himself together again. ‘Then he told me I was out – the board wanted me out. That – that woman …’

  They didn’t help him out; they just waited.

  ‘I left. And I saw it in the hallway, and I picked it up – I didn’t want … I didn’t want him to have it But then I was outside his door with this bloody thing in my hand, I felt silly. So I just put it down again.’

  ‘Outside his front door?’

  Gordon nodded. ‘It was a joke, it was just a stupid joke!’ he repeated, his voice breaking on the final word. He could hardly speak for the tears. ‘If I hadn’t taken it, she wouldn’t be dead,’ he said.

  ‘No, Mr Pearce,’ said Lloyd, his voice quiet, and angry. ‘She would still have been dead. He wanted her dead. By whatever means.’

  Gordon looked up slowly. ‘He?’

  Lloyd nodded.

  ‘Who? Austin?’

  ‘We don’t know that yet, Mr Pearce.’ He thought for a moment. ‘The ashtray was inside the house when Mrs Austin left?’

  Gordon nodded again.

  ‘She was irritated by Mr Austin’s attitude, I believe.’

  Gordon smiled, involuntarily. ‘ She was livid,’ he said. ‘I hadn’t seen her that angry since she was about five.’

  ‘Angry enough to take off her ring and throw it into the ashtray?’

  Gordon frowned. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That would be just the sort of thing she would do.’

  ‘And then you picked it up again, and left it just outside the door?’

  Gordon sighed his confirmation.

  ‘Where?’ asked the inspector.

  Gordon shook his head. ‘I just put it down,’ he said. ‘By the wall. I didn’t want anyone tripping over it.’ Tripping over it. My God. He’d thought it might be dangerous.

  ‘So someone leaving the flat might not have noticed it?’

  Gordon thought. He had put it down carefully. Quietly. He had felt so foolish about the whole thing. ‘They wouldn’t,’ he said. ‘They’d see it when they came in, but not leaving.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Pearce,’ she said.

  ‘Sneakers.’

  Mickey frowned. ‘In Stansfield?’ he said. ‘ I thought I knew all the pubs in Stansfield.’

  ‘It used to be the Red Lion. They’ve done it up.’

  ‘Oh, in the old village.’ Ah well, it had been three years. They were always rubbing Stansfield out and starting again. ‘And you’re certain it was Mrs Austin?’

  ‘Oh, yes. There was a crowd of us. We all saw her.’

  ‘And you all work at Austin-Pearce?’

  ‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘I saw you there after the fire,’ she said.

  Mickey smiled back. ‘This man she was with – can you give me a description?’ he asked.

  ‘He was a lot older than her,’ she said. ‘But he wore jeans – you know the sort.’ Her gaze was fixed on the corner of the ceiling, which seemed to help her powers of recall. ‘Dark,’ was all she came up with, however.

  ‘Tall, short, fat, thin?’

  ‘Taller than her – and she was quite tall, wasn’t she? Not fat, but not thin either.’

  ‘Average build? Bigger, smaller?’

  Between them they arrived at a description, which fitted Tasker.

  ‘Do you think you would recognise him if you saw him again?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘Everyone would,’ she said. ‘We were all having a laugh about it. You should have seen them. They didn’t care.’

  He did see them. ‘Did she seem … alarmed, at all, by him?’ he asked. ‘Was she trying to get away from him? Was he annoying her?’

  ‘No! Just the opposite.’

  She signed her statement; Mickey was showing her out when the girl at the desk spoke to him.

  ‘Mr Austin to see you, Mickey,’ she said, nodding across at the waiting area.

  Mickey nodded. At least they wouldn’t be in an hotel room, he thought. He almost asked her to be present, then decided that he couldn’t stand the laughter. Anyway, even if he was right, that didn’t mean that that was why he was here. He wanted a cigarette. Three years since he’d given up, and he wanted a cigarette.

  ‘Yes, Mr Austin,’ he said as he showed him into an interview room, trying to copy Lloyd’s bright and breezy manner. It didn’t really suit him, he decided. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked.

  ‘I … er … I’ve been trying to do what you said,’ said Austin.

  Mickey racked his brains, but nothing fell into place. He sat down. ‘Sorry about the smell of paint,’ he said. ‘Sorry, Mr Austin – trying to do what, exactly?’

  ‘Remember what Leonora told me about this man,’ said Austin.

  ‘Oh – yes. We think we know who he is,’ said Mickey. ‘We should have him quite soon now.’

  ‘Well, perhaps I shouldn’t have …’

  ‘Oh, no – not at all, that’s fine. We need all the information we can get. What have you remembered?’

  ‘She said that she had told him she would tell his boss if he didn’t stop bothering her,’ said Austin. ‘I don’t know if that helps at all.’

  Mickey thought about that. Did it help? Yes, it did. If Tasker said he hadn’t been bothering her, which he would. It fitted. She knew Beale, and Beale employed Tasker; he certainly wouldn’t have taken kindly to Tasker upsetting her. He smiled. ‘Everything helps, Mr Austin,’ he said.

  Austin clearly hadn’t finished. Mickey began to feel uneasy again.
No, sorry, Mr Austin, I’m washing my hair. God – did women feel like this all the time?

  ‘I think you might have the wrong idea.’

  Mickey frowned a little. ‘The wrong idea about what, Mr Austin?’ he asked.

  ‘About …’ Austin searched his pockets, and took out cigarettes, automatically pushing the packet across to Mickey. ‘About … about Mrs Beale’s murder and my wife’s murder being linked.’

  Mickey sat back a little. Now he knew what Judy meant. He could hear it too. A disconcerting air of certainty, of knowing what had happened. ‘You don’t think they are?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘I …’ Austin shook his head. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Why not? She was on the phone to your number when she died.’

  ‘I know. I just don’t think that …’ Austin looked haunted.

  ‘Was she ringing you, Mr Austin?’

  He shook his head. ‘ Or – if she was, I wasn’t there,’ he said.

  ‘Why would she ring you at that time of night?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ Austin rose. ‘But my wife was killed by someone who … who went mad. You’re looking for someone who wanted Mrs Beale dead, and you’re wrong. You think someone had a reason to kill Leonora. But he had no reason. He had lost his reason. He didn’t reason! He just hacked away at everything until he got her. Over and over and over, until he got her. Look what he did! Go to my flat and look at what he did!’

  Lloyd had said that Austin had given Judy the willies; she wasn’t the only one. There was such certainty.

  ‘Were you there, Mr Austin?’ he asked quietly.

  The chilling question hung in the air, and Austin blinked at him. ‘What?’ he whispered, then shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No. You think I … I didn’t have to be there to know,’ he said.

  ‘All right, Mr Austin,’ Mickey said, relieved. ‘Don’t worry. We’re sure he’s still in Stansfield. We will get him.’

  Austin wiped perspiration from his upper lip. ‘I don’t want anyone else to die like that,’ he said.

  Mickey stood up. ‘ No one else will, Mr Austin,’ he said, extending his hand.

  Austin shook it. ‘It’s the one that went to prison,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it? They say she was with him at some pub.’

  She was, thought Mickey. Which means that she wasn’t at her studio at all, and Austin’s claim that his wife’s car wasn’t at the garage seemed doubtful again. It was all very odd.