The Wychford Murders

by Paula Gosling

  And then this afternoon she’d heard that he’d come to talk to David in the surgery and hadn’t even looked in on her. Talked to David, even intimidated David. Suggested that perhaps there was a connection between the practice and the murders.

  Leading her to wonder whether the night before had been a night off for Luke after all? They’d talked about her life here in Wychford, her practice, her patients – although about her work only in general terms. She tried hard to think back, to remember whether she had mentioned names, but was reasonably secure in her own mind that she had not. Luke was trained to question. Had he been questioning her, using an opening and an opportunity that were uniquely available to him and no other?

  He wasn’t the Luke she had grown up with. Had adored. Had often thought about in the intervening years. Had kissed and kissed last night.

  He was a stranger.

  A dangerous stranger.

  As if on cue, there was a sudden flicker of lightning and a distant roll of thunder from beyond the open casement. ‘My goodness, sound effects and everything,’ she said, aloud, and got up to close the window. Beyond the glass the garden was lit, momentarily, by more lightning. Below her window was the drive, and, as she looked into the returning darkness, light came again. Not from the sky, this time, but from the opening of the front door. David, with his case in his hand, standing on the step to do up his mackintosh, glancing up at the now-invisible sky. The light from the hallway caught his high cheekbones, the straight line of his nose, the top edge of his firm mouth, and his strong, mobile hands catching at the buttons of the flapping coat.

  And what about David? she asked herself. Contrary to Paddy’s guess, she was very aware of David’s mixed feelings about her. She was not a fool. Nor was she unkind. He was in a vulnerable state, rejected by his wife, alone, working hard in a profession that needs all the support it can get while it supports others. He was lonely, and he was hungry for love and sympathy. This made him feel weak and ashamed, so his automatic reaction was to reject loudly and thoroughly she who would seem to offer it most naturally. They had never spoken about it, but they both knew it was there.

  She turned her back to the window and heard his car start, then drive away through the hedge and down the street. She forced herself across the room to the mirror. After a moment’s regard, she smiled.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, softly. ‘Can you honestly think you’re such a femme fatale that three different men are falling all over you?’ Her hair was standing on end from where she had lain on the bed, her grey eyes were bleary, her full mouth looked bruised and discontented. A prize for no man. She hadn’t looked closely at herself, lately. She saw, now, that new lines had appeared around her eyes and on her throat. Many of the curves that used to go up now went down. There was even some grey in her brown hair. Time to buy one of those cover-up shampoos. She was too thin – how odd to be too thin, when for years she had battled extra pounds. ‘You look your age, girl,’ she murmured. ‘Maybe it’s time you started acting it, too.’

  Behind her, the lightning flickered, and the thunder was louder. A few spits and spats of rain struck the window, which rattled at the touch of the wind. The phone by her bed rang, suddenly, making her jump. ‘Nerves are shot, too,’ she told herself, ruefully. She went over to answer it, sat on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ said a male voice in her ear. ‘How about having a drink with me?’

  It was Mark.

  She was downstairs in the hall, reaching for her coat, when the doorbell rang. She opened it, and found Luke on the step.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, gravely. ‘I’d like to talk to you.’

  ‘I was just going out,’ she stammered, backing away from the open door. He looked so big, standing there, his coat flapping around his long, lean body.

  ‘Oh.’ He considered her, the wind from the open door pressing her sweater and skirt against her. ‘It won’t take all that long.’

  ‘Well, come in, then,’ she said.

  ‘Who is it, Jenny?’ came her uncle’s voice from the sitting room. Jennifer looked up at Luke.

  ‘Just the paper-boy, Uncle Wally,’ she called, and then whispered, ‘he’s cross with you – no sense getting into an argument now. Come on in here.’ She went through into the darkened reception room, and Luke followed, closing the door behind them. She could feel his presence in the dark, like an unanswered question, and quickly found the light switch.

  ‘Were you going out on a call?’ Luke asked.

  ‘No, David’s doing all the night calls until . . . for the moment. I was going to meet Mark for a drink.’

  ‘Oh.’ He glowered at her for a moment, then turned away. ‘I wouldn’t want to keep you from your fiancé, of course.’

  ‘My what?’ She couldn’t have heard him correctly.

  He turned to face her again. ‘Your fiancé. He told me very firmly that you and he were engaged to be married, but would wait a decent interval until the actual wedding.’

  ‘Oh? And when did he tell you that?’ She felt rage and something else welling up in her. Something that felt very much like claustrophobia seasoned with resentment. She considered, fleetingly, the possibility of becoming a card-carrying lesbian. Out in the hall, the front door opened and closed, the brief intrusion of the wind in the hall rattling the surgery door in turn.

  ‘This morning. I saw him this morning.’

  ‘I see. Was that before or after you saw David Gregson?’

  ‘Before.’ He regarded her for a moment. ‘Jenny, what’s happened?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘There’s a classic evasion for you,’ he said, wryly. ‘What I mean is, last night and tonight. Not exactly similar, are they?’

  ‘I don’t know. Are they?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t you here to ask me questions? Wasn’t that what you were doing last night? Being a good policeman, doing your job?’

  There was a long silence. Then his voice came, and despite her anger she could hear real pain in it. ‘I don’t generally make love to the people I question.’

  ‘Fred Baldwin, for example?’

  Another silence. ‘We released Mr Baldwin an hour ago, Jenny, I wasn’t a policeman last night. I was me. Luke. Just me. And I was very, very happy. I thought you were too. Then, this morning, I’m told you’re engaged . . . ’

  ‘I’m not engaged. I don’t know what Mark was on about, but he’s mistaken. I saw quite a bit of him when I first came back here, yes, but it certainly hadn’t got to that stage as far as I was concerned.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s why he wants to see you now.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘Are you going to marry him?’

  ‘No. I don’t know. What does it matter? Why do I have to marry anyone? I’m quite happy as I am, thank you.’

  ‘I see.’

  She turned to face him. ‘Look, Luke, I don’t . . . ’ She stopped. ‘What was that?’

  He looked tired, distracted. ‘What was what? I didn’t hear anything.’ He listened for a moment.

  ‘It sounded like . . . I suppose it’s one of the cats, asking to be let in from the storm.’ She looked at him, tried to find the words she wanted. ‘Are you here to talk about your case, or . . . ’

  ‘Or,’ he said. ‘It concerns the case only because I can’t think very straight at the moment. No, that’s not true. Dammit, it does concern the case, but . . . frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. About the bloody case, that is. Something’s happening to me. Is it happening to you? That’s all I want to know, Jen. One way or the other.’

  ‘I wish I knew, Luke. It’s very sudden.’

  He smiled. ‘The hell it is. It’s . . . ’ He paused, considered. ‘It’s twenty-two years late. You should have let me kiss you again in the woods that day, Jen. Then
we might know where we are now – at the end of one thing or the beginning of another.’

  ‘Which do you want it to be?’ Her voice faltered.

  After a moment, he spoke, softly. ‘Oh, Jenny – you sound so tired.’

  To her dismay, she began weep. ‘I am,’ she said, the tears overflowing her eyes and rolling down her cheeks. She wiped them away with the back of her hand. ‘I’m tired of having to be strong for everyone else, of being expected to supply answers for everything, tired of being afraid I’ll overlook a vital symptom, of fighting with David, of lying to Uncle Wally about his coming back to work . . . of simply having to stand up straight all the time. I want to go home again, Luke, and I can’t. It isn’t here any more. It isn’t anywhere. I’m all grown up now, and I don’t want to be. Not all the time. Damn – what a stupid time to start crying.’

  He took her into his arms as if she were a child, petted her, soothed her. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Nobody told us there’d be years and years and years like this, did they? I go through life being unprepared for most of it, caught one day too early, one day too late, and thinking I’m safe when I’m not. Wrong foot, Jen, we’re always on the wrong foot. That’s why people work better in two’s, didn’t you know?’ He kissed her, but lightly, even impersonally. ‘In about one minute I am going to turn into a policeman again. Meanwhile, what I’m about to ask you I’m asking as Luke Abbott, the boy who waited under that damned oak tree all afternoon. What are you going to say to Mark Peacock?’

  She rubbed her face on the harsh tweed of his jacket, blotting her eyes. ‘I’m going to say yes to a Campari and tonic, and no to anything else. All right?’

  ‘All right. That’s enough for the moment.’ He let her go. ‘And now, before your very pink eyes, I’m going to turn into Detective Chief Inspector Abbott of the Regional Crime Squad, intent upon his case. What kind of car does Mark Peacock drive?’

  She frowned. ‘An MG, I think. Some old sports car, anyway.’

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Nothing. Come on – you’re late for your Campari.’

  He refused to answer any more questions, and they went out into the hall, tiptoeing past the sitting-room door, past the sound of the television set and the murmur of voices.

  ‘That’s funny,’ Jenny said, looking at the coat rack. ‘I could have sworn my mac was here. Oh, never mind, I’ll wear my jacket and run for it.’ She took it down and put it on, then called towards the sitting room. ‘I’m just going out to see Mark. I won’t be late.’

  Luke grinned down at her. ‘Thank you for that,’ he whispered.

  ‘Thank you for not pushing me any further,’ she whispered back.

  ‘I’m biding my time,’ he said, and opened the front door. The storm had begun in earnest, and a slashing curtain of rain blew at them. The light from the hallway showed each drop as a line of silver falling past the eaves, and spattering the front of Jenny’s much-loved new Maestro, purchased only a few months ago, which was pulled up near the door.

  Just beyond the gleaming red slope of the front wing, it also showed Frances Murphy, lying on the ground, arms outflung, face up to the storm, head back and twisted to one side. A spreading crimson stain flowed down her chest, over her shoulder and into the creamy-white gravel of the drive.

  It matched the colour of the Maestro perfectly.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  ‘On the table, there,’ Jennifer directed, shrugging off her jacket one-armed as she held the folded scarf against Frances’ face, then switching hands to keep up the pressure on the wound.

  Luke gently lowered Frances’ limp body on to the examination couch, then stepped back and nearly fell over Uncle Wally’s wheelchair. ‘Out of the way, boy, let us work,’ the old man commanded, his face and eyes sharper than Luke had seen them since his return. ‘I’ll hold the sponge, Jenny, get what you need from your bag.’ Rolling the wheelchair closer, Wally took over when Jenny moved away.

  ‘The surgical collar saved her life,’ Luke said. Uncle Wally glanced sideways at him, but said nothing.

  ‘She went out to get something from Jenny’s car,’ Clodie said, from the door, where she stood wringing her hands. ‘It was only for a minute – her cigarettes or something had fallen out of her handbag in the car.

  ‘I’ll call this in,’ Luke said, and went out into the reception room to phone in private.

  Jennifer brought towels and draped Frances’ head and shoulders, offering gauze to replace the blood-soaked headscarf they’d been using to staunch the flow from the vicious cut that ran from in front of Frances’ left ear to the top of the surgical collar that had been hidden beneath her polo-necked jumper. The jumper was slashed and gaped raggedly. As she scrubbed up, Jennifer ran over what she had in her bag, and what was available in the office. She decided she could manage.

  Frances’ eyes fluttered open. ‘Ouch!’ she said, her breath blowing the towel that was over her face face half-off. ‘Damn!’

  ‘Lie still, you’re all right,’ Uncle Wally snapped. ‘Thanks be to no one in particular, especially the police.’ This last was directed towards Luke, who had returned. Clodie had gone for strong coffee.

  ‘Did you see anyone, Frances?’ Luke asked.

  Frances shook her head, resulting in a fresh outpouring of blood from the wound. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I just grabbed a mac and went out to get my purse and cigarettes. I was opening the car door when somebody grabbed me from behind, cursed me, and did something to my . . . ’ She paused, full realisation coming to her. ‘I heard the thing scrape across my neck,’ she croaked. ‘Was it . . . was it . . . ’

  Jennifer put down a tray and told her to shut up. ‘I’m going to close up this wound, Frances. I’ll give you something to dull the pain, okay?’

  ‘Oh, saints be,’ Frances said. ‘A needle, is it?’

  ‘You know it is. Just close your eyes and go away for a while, and thank God it’s no worse.’ Deftly, she injected a local anaesthetic.

  ‘What did he . . . it was a man?’ Luke asked, from beyond Jenny’s shoulder. Frances said it had been, definitely, a man. ‘You said he cursed you. What did he say, exactly?’

  ‘Luke, please,’ Jennifer protested. ‘Every time she talks, she loses more blood.’

  ‘It’s important, just this and one question more,’ Luke insisted. ‘What did he say, Frances?’

  ‘He . . . called me a bitch. Said “There, you bitch, that will put an end to your trouble-making.” That was all.’

  ‘And did you recognise the voice?’

  ‘No. It was all – strained.’

  ‘Luke, please,’ Jenny said.

  ‘All right, all right, that’s all for the moment. Ah, there they are now.’ Luke went out through reception and the patients’ entrance. Paddy came across the rain-swept drive on the run, his face white with fury and fear.

  ‘She’s all right, calm down,’ Luke told him, and outlined what had happened. ‘Jenny’s stitching her up now. She’s lost some blood and had a shock, but she’s fine.’

  ‘Goddammit, Luke!’ Paddy said. ‘I want to see her.’

  Luke surrendered. ‘One look from the door and then get back here. We need to move fast.’ He looked around as Paddy went past him. ‘Bennett. Come here!’

  Bennett came over at a run, and Luke gave his instructions. ‘Just have someone see if he’s there. Don’t say anything to him or anyone else. I also want someone to check on the craft centre.’ He went on for some time, Bennett writing everything down, when it became obvious he couldn’t hold it all in his head. Paddy returned as Bennett was turning away.

  ‘I never saw so many stitches in one wound. Little tiny damn things. She says she doesn’t want the scar to show. She’s one hell of a doctor, Luke.’ Paddy’s relief ran out on a flood of words. ‘Frances says to tell you he also called her something like “an evil
meddler”.’

  ‘Or was it “evil traveller”?’ Luke asked, grimly.

  Paddy looked astonished. ‘You think it was Baldwin?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think,’ Luke said, angrily. ‘I’m thinking about twenty things at once. All I know for certain is that Frances was wearing Jennifer’s mac and opening the door of Jennifer’s car in front of Jennifer’s home when she was attacked.’

  Jennifer straightened up and sighed. ‘There. All done.’

  Frances looked at her reproachfully over the top of the gauze and adhesive that strapped one side of her face. ‘I’m getting a little tired of all this reality, Jennifer. It’s a bit nobler on the page than in the face. That’s why I’ve never put in about the snivelling and yelping.’ She spoke with some difficulty, using only half her mouth.

  ‘Yes.’ Jennifer went across to wash up, while Uncle Wally, working quite efficiently from his wheelchair, set about cleaning up the scene of the surgery. ‘When did you have your last tetanus injection?’

  Frances sighed and glared at the ceiling. ‘A long time ago, wouldn’t you know it? Go ahead, puncture me again, I’m growing to like it. Aerates the brain.’

  ‘Frances . . . are you certain you didn’t recognise the voice of the man who attacked you?’ Jennifer asked, preparing the syringe.

  ‘No.’ Frances sounded surprised. ‘Do you think I should have?’

  ‘Of course not. It just might have helped, that’s all.’ She looked down at the blood-soaked scarf she had removed from over the wound. The overhead light glinted briefly on a tiny piece of metal lying there. ‘When you’ve had a bit of a rest, I’ll get Luke or Paddy to help you upstairs. You lost a fair amount of blood. Are you warm enough?’

  ‘Yes. Fine, thanks.’

  ‘I’ll just sit here with her,’ Wally said. ‘Clodie’s arranging coffee or tea or something. You go off and see what the police are doing out there. I can hear them stomping around like a herd of grampuses, probably smashing up the rhododendrons.’