‘No.’ Her tone had become grave. She was listening to him, she was considering the matter. ‘No, I mean it. He thinks Mark killed his mother.’
‘And the other women, too?’
She stared at him, appalled. ‘I suppose he must, I don’t expect you to believe this, but when I walked into that house I forgot about the other killings. I just thought about all the arguments Mark has been having with his mother. If Luke suspects Mark of this, he must be thinking of the other killings, too . . . and it’s my fault!’
‘Poppycock. Sheer unadulterated rubbish,’ David said, irritably. ‘So you put your foot in it. Unfortunate, I agree. But your guilt is making you oversensitive, and you’re probably taking things all wrong. I shouldn’t have sent you over there, it was a mistake. I should have gone myself.’
She seemed to see him again, to have come back from a journey. ‘Why didn’t you?’
‘I . . . don’t know.’ He stood up and walked to the window, his hands in his pockets. ‘I suppose the situation seemed clear enough and I wanted to stay free to answer any other calls that might come in. Mrs Clack had a mild stroke this morning . . . I half expected another. Then there’s the Saunders baby who’s putting up a good fight against bronchitis, but you know how cold that place is, even in summer . . . ’ He turned back. ‘Mostly, I just thought you’d want to go. To be near your love in his hour of travail.’
‘He’s not my “love”,’ Jennifer snapped.
David raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh? I was under the impression you’d become the Lily White Maid to his Lochinvar from out of the west.’ He paused. ‘That doesn’t sound right.’
‘It isn’t. And neither is your assumption about Mark and me.’
‘I meant – oh, never mind.’ He scowled at her. ‘Wasn’t he dangling a wedding ring before your dazzled eyes at lunch today?’
‘No, he was not. He merely said his mother’s opposition to his plans had been done away with . . . ’
‘They certainly have now,’ David observed. ‘Is that why Abbott is so suspicious?’
‘No. I think he thinks they might have quarrelled over me.’
‘My goodness, a real femme fatale in my own midst, as it were. Literally fatale, in fact.’ David shook his head in disgust. ‘He’s just casting around in the dark, trying to avoid the obvious explanation, because he’s afraid of starting a media riot. Or worse, having the media make him look bad because he can’t catch the bastard. I don’t think much of your Detective Chief Inspector Abbott.’
‘You made that abundantly clear the other evening,’ Jennifer said.
‘Well, for goodness’ sake, it’s so obvious. It has to be random killings. What possible connection could there be between a nice, ordinary cleaning lady, a highly sexed bitch, and now a wealthy matron?’ He was walking back and forth, in agitation. ‘None, none at all.’
‘There is one,’ Jennifer said, after a moment’s reflection.
He whirled around and glared at her. ‘What, for God’s sake?’
Jennifer’s eyes were wide and dark. ‘The towpath. All the killings happened along the same path.’
‘The first woman was killed in Woodbury.’
‘Yes, but the same path leads down to the river and joins the towpath. I know it well, we used to go along it all the time to get up to the woods that used to be where the processing plant is now. The main road was only a side road then. They widened it when the motorway came near, to make a better connection. The best blackberries in Wychford used to grow there, the bushes would be bent double with them.’
‘Have you mentioned this to Abbott?’ David asked.
Jennifer smiled, momentarily full of memories. ‘Oh, he knows. We used to go up there together sometimes. He’d remember that, all right.’
‘I see.’ David looked at her expression, then looked away and marched back to the window to glare at his own reflection. ‘And did you go up there with Mark Peacock, too?’
‘Good heavens, no. Mark Peacock was a bit out of my reach then. Anyway, he went away to school, he was never part of our crowd. We were town kids, Luke and I.’
‘So you and Abbott are “old friends”, are you? I thought I was wading through a few undercurrents the other night, but I couldn’t figure out what they were. I see now why he was invited to dinner so quickly – Clodie encouraging the rekindling of old flames, no doubt. And in my innocence I thought it was so Wally could find out more about the killings.’
‘It was. You know how insatiable he is when it comes to gossip. He loves knowing all the inside details. I sometimes think that was why he became a doctor. He’s perfectly discreet, he just likes knowing, that’s all.’
‘Rather a dangerous hobby, I should have thought,’ David said, reflectively. ‘People don’t like their secrets known.’
‘Well, he’s safe enough now,’ Jennifer said, standing up. ‘I’m going to make some hot chocolate. Would you like some?’
‘Thanks.’ David’s voice was distant, as he stared out over the lawn to the hedge that hid them from the road beyond. ‘What was Abbott doing when you left?’
She stopped at the door. ‘Glaring at everyone,’ she said. ‘Especially me.’
Chapter Fifteen
There was a local stringer for one of the national newspapers who kept a close eye on his patch, which included Wychford and environs. He had duly sent in a report on the killing of Beryl Tompkins, cleaner at the photo-processing plant, spicing it with conjectures concerning the work the plant did and what she might have seen that she shouldn’t have. The story received four lines at the bottom of a column. The story above it concerned a pop star’s marital problems. The local reporter’s follow-up story wasn’t even printed, but at least he had the consolation of knowing he’d done a bang-up job for the local rag.
When Win Frenholm was killed, he sent in another story to the nationals, this time with conjectures concerning the nature and motivations of the killer and hints that the two deaths could somehow be connected, noting the similarity of the method used. Unfortunately a government scandal had broken the night before, and there was little room for his skilful milking of the story. This time his linage reached two paragraphs, but was placed well to the back of the paper. None of the other dailies picked it up.
Mabel Peacock Taubman’s death occurred before one o’clock in the morning. In journalistic terms, the evening had been dull. No film stars had been thrown out of nightclubs or flaunted a new affair, the Government was silent – licking its wounds and deciding on strategy – the pound was steady, and the skies were clear. Alerted by a contact at the local police station, the stringer was at the gates of Peacock Manor less than ten minutes after the coroner arrived at the scene of the crime. He was too late for the morning nationals, but he got through to the local television night news editors, both of whom he knew well. And the local paper took everything he had.
As Wychford awoke to a new day, bags were being packed in London. The stringer, a cynical and cadaverous victim of Fleet Street Fallout, prepared to defend his territory. He was on top of a big story and intended to stay there.
Mable Peacock Taubman was Society (minor county), she was wealthy (she had an account at Fortnum’s), and she was the latest victim of (wait for it) the Cotswold Butcher.
Luke Abbott listened to the local radio report, audible through the hotel kitchen doors, and gazed bleakly across the table at Paddy Smith. ‘Remind me to have someone clean the fan,’ he said.
Kay Hall stood beside Jennifer’s desk scowling. ‘They want to know Mark Peacock’s blood type. Should I tell them?’
Jennifer looked up, startled. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘The police. They’re on the phone now. What should I say?’
‘Do we have a record of it?’
‘Yes. It’s A-negative.’
Jennifer looked at her and sighed resignedly. ‘Whet
her we tell them or not won’t make any difference in the long run. They’ll simply go to some other source with a court order and get it. Hospital, blood bank, whatever. One presumes Mark refused to give the police the information, or a sample.’
‘One does presume that, yes,’ Kay said, in an ironic tone. ‘One does not give one’s blood to just anyone, does one? They could wait around and hope to catch him on suspicion of drunk driving – but the chances are he’d be only too willing to blow into their bag or even pee on them, and that wouldn’t help, would it? It’s blood they’re after. As usual.’
‘Are you anti-police, too?’ Jennifer asked.
‘Only when it suits me,’ Kay said, grimly. There was a strange glint in her eye, seen only rarely. Someone had got too big for their boots, and was in real trouble, if they did but know it. ‘This morning it suits me, because of some snotty little git on the other end of the phone demanding that I tell her about this blood business. When they finally get that little creep that stole Raymond’s motorbike behind bars, I’ll be back on their side again.’
‘I see,’ Jennifer smiled. ‘Logic, as usual, prevails.’
‘Of course. What shall I tell this kiss-my-socks madam on the phone?’
‘Apologise and say—’ Jennifer began.
‘Damn,’ Kay said. ‘Do I have to?’
‘Yes. Tell her it’s a matter of patient confidentiality.’
‘Well, I’ll leave her on Hold for a while, and then I’ll cut her off “accidentally”,’ Kay said. She smiled. ‘That way she’ll have to call back.’
‘And you will apologise, of course.’
‘Not my fault British Telecom slips a cog now and again, is it?’ Kay said, blithely, and went out, leaving Mark Peacock’s records folder on the corner of Jennifer’s desk.
Jennifer sighed. She was within her rights to refuse, of course. Luke and his people were just doing their job. She’d been foolish to make him suspicious, but no harm could have been done because Mark was completely innocent. This request for Mark’s blood type was just a necessary part of the investigation. She knew what it was for – to see whether he could have been the father of Win Frenholm’s unborn child. That, and the thought that he had killed his own mother, were equally ridiculous, of course.
Weren’t they?
Idly she opened the file. Her eye was instantly arrested by a red inner folder under some letters. She slid it out, and opened it, already knowing something of what she would find. They used red inner folders for psychiatric reports. And this one was quite thick.
Reluctantly, she began to read.
Luke put the telephone down and gazed across the small cluttered room at Paddy. ‘Cyril says he can’t eliminate Mark Peacock as the father of the unborn child if he’s A-negative, but he needs a full sample for anything more specific.’
‘Damn. How do we get that?’
‘We don’t. Not for the moment, anyway.’ Luke sighed and leaned back in his borrowed swivel chair. It clicked, and for a moment there was a question of whether he would remain in it or end up on the floor, but eventually he steadied. ‘I wish I knew why I mistrust Peacock,’ he said, ruminatively. ‘I just can’t get away from the feeling that all the time he was ranting, raving, sobbing and all the rest of it he was watching us through his fingers.’
‘Hunches are inadmissible evidence,’ Paddy said, phlegmatically. He thought he knew why Luke disliked Peacock. It had something to do with the past, but even more to do with the present – and Jennifer Eames. It was Luke’s jealousy she had sensed when she leapt to Mark Peacock’s defence the night before.
Paddy was surprised to discover Luke had developed tender feelings towards Jennifer after so short a re-acquaintance, and he suspected that Luke himself would be even more surprised. Nevertheless, all the signs were there. Paddy didn’t know whether to be pleased or not. Luke had been terribly lonely since his wife had died. There had been women enough, but never the right ones. The boys didn’t fill the gap, for although Luke was a loving and devoted father, he needed more immediate support than children could give. Paddy liked to think that his friendship had helped Luke through the bad time – but now, if his promotion came through, he’d be leaving Luke to a stranger. He had his eye on several promising young sergeants who would be a good counterbalance to Luke’s rather eccentric approach to detection, but none of them was likely to become Luke’s friend.
Their own partnership, forged over more than ten years of working together, was a good one, on both a professional and personal level. The friendship would never end, but it would change when he himself was put in charge of other investigations. Contact would become a matter of arranged dinners, formal meetings – reunions. Not the same. Not the same, at all.
‘Three women,’ Luke finally said. ‘One in her twenties, one in her forties, one in her sixties – or near enough. One poor, one middle-income professional, one of a wealthy county family. One plain but honest, one beautiful and bitchy, one well preserved and demanding. Two married and apparently faithful, one single and promiscuous. All of medium height and weight. One brunette, one blonde, one greying. One a mother of young children, one pregnant, one beyond child-bearing – although the mother of a grown son.’
‘Those are the differences,’ Paddy said. ‘What similarities do we have?’
‘They’re all dead,’ Luke said, tersely.
‘And?’
Luke sighed. ‘All had their throats cut around midnight. All were attacked from behind. No sexual molestation. No mutilation beyond the single wound. No weapon found. No claims for responsibility made by person or persons unknown. All killed along or opposite the path that runs from the photo-processing plant down to and along the river.’
‘You left one out,’ Paddy said. Luke raised an interrogative eyebrow, and Paddy went on. ‘All three were patients on the medical list of Dr David Gregson.’
Luke brought his feet down from the desk and stared at him. ‘How did you find that out?’
‘I asked,’ Paddy said, quietly. ‘We knew Frenholm was, although she saw Jennifer that last time for some reason, and we know Mrs Peacock was, too. I woke up thinking about it this morning. So I rang Mr Tompkins over in Woodbury and asked who his wife’s doctor had been. He told me she used to go to old Dr Mayberry, but when he got ill she started seeing young Dr Gregson. So there was a connection.’ He eyed Luke warily. ‘What do you think?’
Luke stood up and walked to the window. The small office they’d been assigned overlooked the parking lot, and he gazed down at the colourful collection of cars below. Black and white for the marked cars, dark blue for the unmarked cars, and just about every bright contrast for the personal cars of the local constabulary. His own car was scarlet, and stood in a far corner. He was using one of theirs, so that the local police and traffic wardens would recognise it. On his last case he’d collected four citations, through a habit of parking where he damn well felt like it. Bad habit. He had a lot of bad habits, he thought. Not least of which was allowing his personal feelings to interfere with his professional instincts. He turned back to the room and met Paddy’s eye.
‘I think we ought to walk that path,’ he said, firmly.
Chapter Sixteen
The first true frost of the autumn had descended in the pre-dawn hours of the morning, coupled with a heavy dew. In the shadows there were still traces of the silvery result, like secret spangles left from a night’s illicit revel. Luke and Paddy left their car in the parking lot of the photo-processing plant and headed towards the gap in the fence that marked the beginning of the path. Luke paused there, and surveyed the land below.
‘It was the road that stole it, Paddy,’ he said, quietly. ‘Or all the roads, put together. There used to be a wood here, and the path followed a stream down to the river, where it joined the towpath. I guess the stream fled underground when they cut down the forest and built this damn factory. It wa
sn’t really a forest – it just seemed that way to us. We could look down on the adults below and have our secrets and games to ourselves. I’m glad I left before the big roads came.’
‘I thought it was only the elderly that talked about how things used to be,’ Paddy said, briskly. ‘You’re adding years on before your time, Luke.’ It wasn’t often he called his superior by his first name, and then only when they were alone. He thought Abbott was very alone in that moment, and needed calling back to the present.
Luke flashed an amused glance his way. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not becoming morbid. It’s a simple fact – I’m glad I left before the changes began. This Wychford is one place. The Wychford I grew up in is another. I keep it over here.’ He tapped a spot behind his left temple. ‘Right in front of my university years, and just behind my first year on the strength.’ His eyes left Paddy’s face and quickly flicked across the parking lot of the photo-processing plant to where the hedge was pushed aside. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
They went through the ragged gap and began the descent towards the main road which followed the curve of the hill below them, breaking the angle of the land as it sloped towards the river. At one point the path skirted a stand of bushes, and it was here that the murder of Beryl Tompkins had taken place. Abbott paused and looked back up the hill. ‘The lights in the factory parking lot were on, but wouldn’t have been sufficient to reach this far. The main road is lit below, but those lights wouldn’t have reached up enough either. A natural black hole. I bet the women run when they get to this point.’
‘Why the hell don’t they go down the drive leading up to the factory?’ Paddy grumbled. ‘There’s a nice wide pavement there, it’s well lit . . . ’
‘And it takes them four hundred yards out of their way, as the bus stop is directly below this bush. They’d have to back-track to it,’ Luke said. ‘Like water, people take the easiest way.’ He continued past the bush and on down towards the main road, Paddy stepping carefully behind him, as the path was treacherous with hidden pockets of frost. One caught him as he was nearly down and he skidded into Abbott’s back. Only Abbott’s quick reflexes stopped him from being precipitated under the wheels of a juggernaut that was thundering past at that moment.
The Wychford Murders Page 13