The Wychford Murders

by Paula Gosling

  And he hated to be laughed at.

  ‘You work at the photo-processing plant.’

  ‘Yeah. I’m in Machine Maintenance there.’

  ‘Did you know Beryl Tompkins?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Beryl Tompkins.’

  ‘Never heard of her.’ From his tone, he’d never heard of anyone.

  ‘Then I take it you don’t read the papers or watch television?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘And Mrs Taubman? You worked for her, I believe? Weekends. Gardening and odd-jobbing up at the manor.’

  ‘Yeah, I . . . ’ Suddenly Baldwin’s face went blank. ‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘Oh, no, you don’t. You’ve got it all wrong. That Beryl woman – she the one that got killed up by the plant?’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘Oh no . . . not me. Not me. Never me, never. Never!’ Panic was setting in, and he was beginning to sweat. ‘You got it wrong again. You got it all wrong!’

  ‘Suppose you put me right, then.’ Abbott’s voice was calm and even, his gaze unwavering. Could it really be that Baldwin had not, until this moment, realised why they were questioning him? Or was this all part of the edifice of defence he was building around himself? ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘About the trousers, you mean.’ Baldwin was feeling his way through the quicksand. ‘About the blood on the trousers?’

  ‘If you like. Start with the blood on the trousers.’

  ‘Start and finish, you mean. There’s nothing else but that – believe me.’

  ‘I’ll try to. Come along – let’s have it all.’ Abbott kept his voice steady. Baldwin had already been given the cautions, and Paddy glanced at the stenographer, who caught his look and nodded. It was all going down, every word.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Baldwin seemed a little calmer now. It was as if, by realizing his true position, he’d focused himself – the attitude of a man accustomed to dealing with emergencies. Whether he would be as successful with people as with machinery remained to be seen. He eyed Abbott, and was not encouraged.

  ‘She called me at home, that night. She’d never done that before. Never. She sounded upset, angry, scared, all kinds of things. Maybe drunk, too. It was hard to tell, because I was so afraid Trish would come and ask who was on the phone. Fortunately, I always answer the phone at our house at night because sometimes it’s the plant with a problem, or whatever. Anyway, she called. Scared the hell out of me, thinking maybe Trish would pick up the extension or listen from the next room or whatever. I guess she didn’t. Anyway, Win said she was in trouble and needed me to help her. I got the feeling she wanted me to duff someone up or something. It was funny, nothing she said exactly, except “You’re strong, I need somebody strong” – something like that, anyway. She asked me to meet her at our usual place. That was the towpath – the old boathouse, like you said.’ He glanced at Abbott’s bland expression, and flushed slightly.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, it was late, but I told Trish it was the plant, and that one of the chemical tanks had begun to leak, so they wanted me out there right away. She didn’t argue – she’s good that way.’

  ‘She trusts you.’

  Baldwin met Abbott’s eyes. ‘No reason why she shouldn’t. I told you, there was nothing wrong between Win and me.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I started down to the towpath, like always. It was later than usual, so there wasn’t much light from the houses. I fell twice, cursed like a good ‘un. Third time I fell . . . ’ He paused, swallowed.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Third time I fell, it was over Win. She was lying there in the path, her head over the edge . . . she was . . . Oh, Jesus.’ Baldwin faltered, recovered himself. ‘I been trying to forget,’ he said, as earnestly as a child.

  ‘Please go on.’ It took all Abbott’s self-control to keep his voice level, unhurried.

  ‘She was . . . gurgling, whooshing, sort of, and twitching like some kind of puppet. I could see her face in the moonlight – and her neck. She died right there, right then, while I was getting up.’

  ‘There. On the path. By the river’s edge?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Abbott allowed himself a glance at Paddy, who in turn permitted himself a raised eyebrow. ‘Go on,’ Abbott said.

  ‘I didn’t know what to do. But I couldn’t just leave her there. I knew there was no hope, that she was dead. I tried to stop the blood, but – it just kept coming. I – I picked her up and carried her over under a bush, so nobody could see her like that. I didn’t want anyone – anyone – to see her like that . . . Oh, God – God –’ Baldwin broke down at last, sobbing into his hands.

  Abbott leaned back in his chair and looked across at Paddy. He spoke soundlessly. That was it, his lips said. That was one part that didn’t fit. Paddy nodded.

  ‘Mr Baldwin.’ Abbott’s voice was gentle, now. ‘Mr Baldwin, as you were coming along the path to meet her, did you see anyone else?’

  ‘No.’ It was half choked.

  ‘Did you hear anything?’

  ‘I told you, I fell over twice – I heard me, that’s all.’ He looked up at Abbott. ‘Christ, don’t you think I wish I heard something or saw something? Or got there maybe one minute sooner? Don’t you think –’

  ‘Try,’ Abbott urged.

  Baldwin shook his head. ‘No. Nothing. I looked around, I listened – just cars going over the bridge—’ He stopped. ‘A car starting up,’ he said, suddenly. ‘I heard a car starting up.’

  Abbott drew an invisible circle on the table with his index finger, spoke without looking up. ‘You’re a mechanically minded man. Anything special about it?’

  ‘Yeah. It was missing badly. Sounded like a sports car. He heeded a lot of choke.’

  ‘He? What makes you say “he”, exactly?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention – I was looking at her. I touched her face, but it was cold. Cold so quickly, as if . . . as if . . . ’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘As if she’d gone back into the water. As if she’d flowed back into the water with her blood. Had become one with the river again, and left behind the body she’d been using.’

  It was probably the closest to poetry Fred Baldwin would ever come.

  Two hours later, they put him in a cell.

  ‘I’m just not certain, one way or another,’ Luke said, angrily. ‘He’s had plenty of time to make up a cover story.’

  ‘He has no alibi for the other nights either,’ Paddy said. ‘Out walking. Out with her. Hardly verifiable. And he’s connected with both places – the plant, and Peacock Manor.’

  ‘Yes. You’d better chat to the Personnel Manager up at the plant again. I’ll head over to the manor later on this morning.’ He glanced out of the window. To the east the horizon was lightening. Soon the sky would pale and start to glow pinkly over the frosted fields. Already the shapes of the distant hills could be seen. ‘A couple of hours’ sleep would be welcome, I think, Paddy.’

  ‘Amen. Baldwin went out like a light the minute they put him in the cell. Poor moon-struck sod.’

  ‘Yes. It was unsettling, the way he altered so completely when he talked about her.’ Abbott rubbed his ear. ‘A psychiatrist might be able to make something of that kind of obsession, I suppose. If Baldwin is psychotic at all, having his obsession disturbed in any way might push him over the edge. But that doesn’t add up when it comes to the other murders.’ He sighed. ‘At least he’s cleared up one aspect of it for me.’

  ‘Hiding the body, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. That was what bothered me, why it seemed her death didn’t match the other two. Both the Tompkins woman and Mrs Taubman were dropped, literally dropped, where they were killed. But Win Frenholm’s body was hidden out of sight. And, if he’s telling the truth, it answers that little nigg
le Cyril had about there being less blood than he’d normally expect from a wound like that. Her first blood went into the river – that would have been blood under pressure, the greatest flow. Then Baldwin scooped her up and carried her over gravel for a yard or two, and she bled on to him. The rest just drained out over the grass under the bush.’

  ‘What about the wound, though?’ Paddy asked. ‘The same, all three times.’

  ‘I know, dammit. Let’s sleep on it, for God’s sake. Baldwin will sleep as well in the cell as anywhere else – we’ll have another think over breakfast.’

  ‘What about his wife? She’ll be fretting.’

  Luke scowled. ‘She’ll fret a lot more when he starts explaining our interest in him. If I remember anything about babies, they reflect their parents’ moods. Little Darren will be giving her merry hell – that will keep her busy. I know our boys used to drive us up the wall when I was on a rough case and started to snap around the house.’ He smiled, fleetingly. ‘Now they just ask me for extra pocket money and promise to stay out of my way, clever little beggars.’

  ‘They miss her too, Luke.’

  Luke’s smile hardened. ‘Yes. Well, let’s get over to the hotel or we’ll never get our heads down. I can’t think straight at the moment. There’s still something wrong, Paddy. Dammit, there’s still something I can’t quite work out.’

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Wychford woke up to a fresh autumn morning, true autumn, with the smell of woodsmoke carried on the breeze, trees dressed in glowing colours, and the sky as clear and blue as a baby’s eyes. Shoppers were out early, stimulated by the brightness of the day. The High Street was all a-bustle when Luke and Paddy left their hotel several hours later.

  ‘Pretty little town,’ Paddy observed. ‘Must have been nice, growing up here. Not a bad place to grow old, either.’

  Luke glanced sideways at him. ‘Thinking along those lines already, are you?’

  ‘A man has to take hold of his life some time,’ Paddy observed. ‘If my promotion comes through . . . ’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then . . . I’ll know where I am, financially and – so on.’

  ‘Thinking of taking a wife, Paddy?’

  ‘Doesn’t hurt to think,’ Paddy said, calmly. ‘Doesn’t hurt to plan, either.’

  ‘No,’ Luke agreed. They concentrated on the attractive prospect of Wychford High Street at ten in the morning of a lovely day.

  Sleep had come hard to both of them. Each had lain awake, staring at the ceiling, waiting for some secret message from someone to say it was all right formally to charge Fred Baldwin, or release him.

  ‘Not yet,’ Luke had said, over breakfast. ‘We need to know a lot more before I’d feel right about letting Baldwin go. We can hold him another day – and I think we should. If he is our man, let’s find more evidence to back it up. The blood on his trousers puts him in at the death, but not necessarily at the kill. His explanation could be the true one. If he isn’t the killer, maybe holding him will cause the real murderer to make a mistake.’

  ‘The real murderer?’ Paddy echoed. ‘One murderer?’

  Luke sighed. ‘I don’t think I can fight it much longer, now that we’ve cleared up that point about the position of the body. Yes – it looks more and more like one murderer.’

  When they reached the Incident Room, they found Bennett and the other local people assigned to the investigation in a state of some excitement.

  ‘You’ve cracked it, sir. Well done!’ Bennett enthused.

  ‘Not I,’ Luke said, reprovingly. ‘And not exactly cracked, either. Perhaps only dented. I am by no means convinced Baldwin is our man. We’ll hang on to him for a bit, but I want no heavy questioning until we can have him interviewed by a psychiatrist.’

  Bennett looked dumbfounded. ‘A shrink? But . . . he seems pretty straightforward to me . . . ’

  ‘Not at all straightforward,’ Luke said. ‘I presume you’ve all had copies of his statement?’ Nods all round. ‘Well, then, you’ll see that at the very least he’s a man who’s undergone a most unusual experience . . . ’ There was a snort from the corner of the room. ‘Yes, Jagger, you have something to say?’

  ‘It’s all codswallop, sir,’ said the broad-shouldered young constable. ‘He was just having a bit on the side, that’s all. Dressing it up don’t make it no different. Water sprite, my arse, sir.’

  Luke looked at him for a long time without speaking. Then he glanced around at the others. ‘Perhaps, when you are more experienced – and I mean no disrespect – you will come to understand that occasionally there are more than just facts to a case, and that people can sometimes appear rational and still be extremely strange. If you had heard and seen that statement given, you would not be so sure of yourself, Jagger. The old wives’ tales of men bewitched by fairies and goblins grew from something, some time. Caught at the right moment, in the right way, I dare say any of us could claim to have seen a flying saucer and believe it totally. Baldwin’s blood type already indicates he could not have been the father of Frenholm’s unborn child. I do believe the man was enchanted, to put it in the old way: obsessed, to put it in the new jargon. Obsessed with a kind of possessive, awed madness about a beautiful woman who reached some secret place inside him no one suspected was there. They say everyone has at least one song in them. Is that so damned hard to believe? Haven’t you been in love yet, Jagger?’

  ‘No, sir. Not me, sir.’ There was a kind of smirk on his face.

  So the story had gotten around already of the kiss under the bridge. Luke ignored the smirk and went on. ‘Then I pity you. This is a man as vulnerable and tender as a child in one area, but in one area only. For the rest he is tough, practical, sane and defensive. Going at him head on is not going to get information. Now that it’s over, now she’s no longer here to cast her spell on the poor bastard, he’s become embarrassed by the whole thing. He hears himself talking and it’s like listening to another man. In some ways, a silly man. That makes him want to crawl away from his memories, and that’s the last thing we want. He will only close down completely and lose for us any chance of a lead concerning the Frenholm woman, and what really happened that night. I don’t want him touched, spoken to, bothered in any way, until the psychiatrist I’ve sent for has had a chance to talk to him. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Bennett spoke smartly, and sent a glare towards the offending Constable Jagger.

  ‘In the meantime, I want his house searched for a weapon or anything else that might help us. I do not want the garden dug up or a swarm of uniforms pouring through his doors. Bennett, see to the necessary paperwork, would you? Two of you in plainclothes, one a woman, will be sufficient. His wife is young and has a new baby. I don’t want any allegations of intimidation or any stories about harassment in the press. In fact, I don’t want the press notified about Baldwin in any way.’ He glanced at Bennett, who began to flush bright red. ‘You’ve already done it?’

  ‘I’ve said we have a suspect in custody, sir. Sorry, sir.’

  ‘You’re a horse’s ass, Bennett,’ Abbott said, easily. ‘Did you give a name?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Only half-assed, then. Very well, but say nothing more to anyone, is that clear? All of you? I will make the announcement, if there is to be an announcement, myself. Now then, reports. You first, Jagger, as you’re so bright and eager this morning. What news on the Rialto?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘The questioning of the Tompkins woman’s associates, lad,’ Paddy said. ‘Have you come up with anything?’

  ‘No, sir. I’ve spoken to several of her closest friends, and there was no hint of anything out of the way concerning a man friend or anything of the kind. Quiet woman, they said. Good neighbour, good wife and mother, wanted the best for her kids and all. That’s why she was working at the plant, as well as her other jobs.’

&
nbsp; ‘I see. Thank you. Who was checking on Basil Taubman’s alibi?’

  Constable Sinclair stirred. ‘That was me, sir.’

  ‘And?’

  Sinclair consulted his notebook. ‘Constable Kinsale of the Met called round to Mr Taubman’s club on our behalf. The porter rang through to Mr Taubman’s room and there was no reply, so he and the constable went upstairs and found Mr Taubman asleep in bed.’

  ‘And what time was this?’

  Sinclair cleared his throat. ‘Just after eight in the morning.’

  ‘Left it a bit late, didn’t they?’

  ‘Some confusion about the message,’ Sinclair mumbled, red-faced.

  ‘And Taubman was definitely asleep?’

  ‘So Kinsale says, sir. Snoring like a pig, was his words.’ Sinclair’s chin came up, defensively.

  ‘I see.’ Luke stifled his annoyance. ‘Thank you. Who was looking into Frenholm’s known sexual contacts?’ Bennett raised his hand, reluctantly. ‘How many are we up to now?’

  ‘Fifteen, sir.’ There was a murmur and a few suppressed sniggers in the room.

  ‘And at this party, the night she died?’

  Bennett flushed, slightly. ‘Three.’

  ‘Tight knickers, must have slowed her down,’ somebody muttered, and there was a general laugh.

  ‘All right, all right, that will be enough of that,’ Luke said, impatiently. ‘Go on, Bennett.’

  The reports continued, and it was some time before Paddy and Luke could go their separate ways – Paddy back to the photo-processing plant to re-question Grimes the Personnel Manager, and Luke to the manor.

  ‘Chief Inspector Abbott to see you, sir.’

  Mark Peacock looked across at Basil Taubman, who sat in a chair before the fire. ‘Here he is then, Basil. The dreaded “man from the Yard”.’